"grocer" poems
ARTICHOKES are very nice roasted with pine nuts
Who likes BANANA cream pie?
They say that eating CARROTS improves your eye sight
Along the river Nile there are many DATE palms
ELDERBERRIES make a flavorsome wine
Piths from a FIG can easily get stuck between your teeth
Nape tape and shape all rhyme with GRAPE
HORSERADISH has a hot tangy taste
ICE-PLANT is a much used vegetable in Chinese cookery
The oil extract from JUNIPER BERRIES produces quine
My sister likes KALE steamed with lemon rind
It is so nice to munch on a LETTUCE leaf
MANDARINS are presently plentiful at the green grocer's
NEEPS can be mashed or left whole
On a hot summer day chilled ORANGE juice goes down well
Has anyone got a good PUMPKIN scone recipe?
Lashings of QUINCE jam were spread on my toast
The lady next door grows RHUBARB
SPINACH gave Popeye much strength
Smothering sausages in TOMATO sauce is sensational
UGLI is a member of the citrus family
In New Orleans you'll find fresh VELVET BEANS
WATERCRESS salad is so easy to prepare
XIGUA is a type of WATERMELON
YAMS are a staple of the New Guinean diet
ZUCCHINI bread is delicious fair
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 2:32 AM UTC
That day, something got into me.
Approaching the corner of 155th
and Broadway on the Upper West Side,
my friend and I were only a block from home.
Either we'd been on a mission for candy necklaces
or bubble gum cigars, from the place where the guy
was always grumpy, never actually scary,
and the sawdust on the floor, the real cigars
in fancy boxes, were something to wonder about.
Or we had just scored our first fresh sugar canes,
one each, and much taller than either of us.
The kindly Puerto Rican green grocer, proud
of his new shop, hoped we'd try the plantains
too, getting a kick out of our delight
in what he'd always known.
The light was red, and we weren't in a hurry.
I just got curious about this trap door on the side
of the old cast iron signal post,
and decided to see
if it would open... and it did.
Smiling to myself, an uncommon, delicious
sense of mischief lighting me up inside,
I calmly flipped a switch.
Instantly, all four lanes of traffic, heading north
and south on Broadway came to a screeching halt.
The feeling of power was intoxicating.
And unforgettable.
Had I been an older kid, had the policeman
who happened by been less lenient, had anyone, God forbid,
been injured, I could have been in some serious trouble.
Injury never entered my mind, and maybe the officer saw that.
All in all, I got away with the only really naughty thing
I did as a child, and still get to smile.
And remember.
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 5:05 PM UTC
I don't think I'm a very nice person.
Dead people can have *******
The weirdest part of this morning was the tropical bird that was road **** but I thought was a bag of salt and vinegar crisps, in London.
Always ******* up, ******* up all ways.
I'm your green grocer.
Mental collapse is quite close.
**** my ****
A gale of wind.
Sitting by a canal in the sun with a coffee at 7am.
My time is now.
That isn't sarcastic, it's brilliant.
I saw a werewolf drinking a Piña Colada .
Need an adventure.
like peas in a pub.
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 7:16 PM UTC
11-11-11- past 11a.m.
I missed it.
I wanted for me what happened to my friend
in Australia
She was walking down the street and at
11-11-11- 11a.m.
almost everyone around her
took a bow to such powerful numbers
11-11-11-11a.m.
(Perhaps we shall be saved she said)
Today, my 11-11-11, I was shopping for my lovers feast;
Hummus and crispy organic veggies
Fresh beets and pure ****** olive oil
Local goat cheese to die for
My phone alarm rang letting me know it was 11:10
(I did not hear it) as I was talking to Max my grocer
About:
Just picked Arugula and sweet Irish butter
(To mound a top San Francisco sour dough)
He hinted to me not to miss out
On:
Butternut squash and meaty pomegranates
"A lucky omen" he said, "on a day like today."
“What do you mean A day like today?” I said
“Well it’s 11-11-11” he smiled
“Oh my goodness” I faintly cried (almost too loud),
“I missed it!” (I saw the time on the wall where I was shopping)
“Missed what?” he said
"Missed out on experiencing 11-11-11-11.a.m."
“Oh my dear you missed nothing”, he said as he reached toward me with
A huge ripe pomegranate. I felt flush from wanting something
that now seemed so gone.
“No”, Max pointed out, “you have more than feeling a set of numbers
In the movement of the day”,
“You were here planning a feast for a loved one
(yes I told him it was a lovers dinner)
What could be more in acknowledging the power of life
Than love?”
I said nothing as I beamed and took that pomegranate and
Ohhhh
I felt so good.
Linaji 2011
(an almost true story)
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 6:05 PM UTC
On the days I hate music,
I entertain silence,
in a sense.
I stifle one music and greet another:
Silence accompanied by the soundscape.
In my car, windows rolled up.
The world outside my vessel becomes dulled.
The silence I sing ain't so quiet;
tempo'd to the turn signal's metronome,
the droning hum of the engine,
the screaming world seeping through cracks and crevices
within the assemblymen's exquisite craftsmanship.
I hear these songs.
I roll down the window;
I hear the staccato shrieks of impatient cars.
I hear the bombinations of the road worker and his jackhammer.
I hear the droll of the cement truck drudging down the highway.
I hear the light treading of the jogger
making her way down the eternal sidewalk.
I hear coffee poured and pondered over in the coffee shops.
I hear grocer boys bag absentmindedly in the supermarket
(where Allen and Walt linger).
I hear silverware jingle in the busboy's bustling trays.
I hear dog's elation leaning out their master's passenger window.
I hear tires groaning over the hot sticky pavement.
I hear the wind carry the sunny tune like the steady conductor
guiding their orchestra across the threshold to the enthralled audience.
The wind carries the tune to me,
and I hum along.
The days I hate music
are the days I remember
why we make it in the first place.
I escape to and from the soundscape.
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 1:13 AM UTC
My fluttering heart gives me away
in the awkward silence that followed
the electricty of a forbidden touch.
Look into my eyes and tell me
that you love her enough
to cash in your best years
to change diapers and work too many hours
for overpriced formula at your local grocer.
You truly are an extrovert turned introvert,
giving up on your dreams to change lives
with your soul induced chords
intrically written with stories of your past.
Sep 7, 2010
Sep 7, 2010 at 3:28 PM UTC
I
I took a walk in La Goulette yesterday,
From the “Bridge of the Casino” to the port.
The things I beheld on my shiny way
So simple they were, here is a report:
II
Sea snakes under a blue bridge did frolic
As hardware stores displayed paint in their windows.
The water snakes performed some dance symbolic
And the paint braved the dark rust from a distance.
III
At a green grocer’s cart a lady in jeans
Sought peas, artichokes, & broccoflower;
Two lovers, each tried to explain,
As a cat miaoed, what love was to the other.
VI
And I, hastening to my liquid address,
Shooting a side look at a man in a dress,
Was hoping the glazing port in the White Sea*
Would wash the bleeding wound in my memory.
© LazharBouazzi, Nov.16, 2016, revised Nov. 17, 2016, elongated July 8, 2017
Jul 8, 2017
Jul 8, 2017 at 6:16 PM UTC
Ingrid sports a black eye;
she looks like a panda.
She said she walked
into a door;
she doesn't lie
convincingly.
I know her old man;
I passed him
on the stairs of the flats;
his beady eyes
drinking me in,
giving me the cold glare,
the cold shoulder.
We walk through the Square,
off to the shops.
What happened to your eye?
I ask again,
studying the black
and slightly green;
walking beside her,
passing the milkman
and his horse drawn cart,
the horse wearing
a nosebag of food,
ignoring us.
I walked into
the bedroom door,
she says,
knowing I don't
believe her,
looking sheepish,
knowing
I guess the truth.
What have you got
to get at the shops?
I ask.
She shows me a list
on a scrap of paper,
pencil scribbled,
in her small right hand
a handful of coins.
I passed your old man
on the stairs yesterday,
I tell her,
gave him my
Wyatt Earp stare,
I say, he didn't care.
I note her hair
is unbrushed,
her green patterned dress
unwashed.
We cross Rockingham Street
into Harper Road.
I talked too much,
Dad said,
she confesses,
he said I yak and yak.
We pass the paper shop
and go on
to the grocer shop.
I say,
if I had your old man
in the sights
of my six-shooter gun
I'd fire a cap
up his ***
she sniggers;
people stare at us
as we pass.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 1:06 AM UTC
you know
they say
just a short time ago
humanity entered
interstellar space
outside the bubble
of our shining sun
few seem to notice
really even care
there's no man or woman
hopping or plunging flags
on distant faraway lands
just a machine, gathering data
and things
intangible
to you or me
i guess that's no surprise
given the way we've treated
this place
crowding it with metals on rubber wheels
coal plants with giant top hats or
explosive mushroom hats made from
radio active rocks and things or
tons of knick knacks molded from
oily wells and burning stacks or
grocer shelves lined with seedless
fruits and other mutant creations or
chemical sandwiches for lunch
and dinner
all the while
marveling at
how far we've come
i hope we find nothing out there
no planet should be treated
like
this
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 4:06 AM UTC
From my new book, Poems of Ancient Rome and Greece, available in paperback on Amazon and Barnes & Noble, as well as eBook on Kindle, Nook, and Apple Books: https://www.amazon.com/Poems-Ancient-Greece-Christopher-Saitta/dp/B0DS6933HB?ref_=ast_author_dp
My mother the sea,
She woke my sandy eyes,
Just to tell me she had to leave,
Draw past the markets where the fish are sun-dried,
Snarled by the coral-rough hands of divers deep.
My mother the sea,
She left her running tab
Of the grocer’s choicest greens,
Thumbed the velamentous rinds and spiny scarola,
Her xylem and phloem are the slow moving cruciferousness of a breeze.
My mother the sea,
Charwoman of tides,
Who dips and delves upon her knees,
Who scrubs her brothel-coves with chamber lye,
Cyprian mistress of the salt-stained sheets.
I have looked for you, mother,
A scugnizzo amid the striped awnings of the marketplace
~ like sails to the sky ~
Where the fishmongers hawk their pride
Of conch, cavallo, and black sea bream.
I have looked for you, mother,
Walked sun-forged along the boardwalk,
Amid the neon-mascara of signs,
Hand-in-hand with only the ladyfingers of salt and vinegar fries,
Toward the crisp syllabub of pebbles and sand.
A beach is window-warmth spread free, cosmopolitan,
The longeur of eyes crushed in the glass-dust of cities.
And in the sputtering of the frosted spume of tides,
Held broken seashells in my hands like broken needles,
Heard the pump-click of the ventilator through your mask of sand.
My mother the sea,
A naked convalescent,
Whose ever-turnings have taken
A turn for the worse.
Who will know her by her death, who but me?
Jan 21, 2025
Jan 21, 2025 at 8:29 AM UTC
A selection of limericks
There was a young lass from the Bronx
Whose ******* make fearful honks
She sounds like a car
When she puts on a bra
And the geese gather round when she bonks
-----------------
Father Alexander McMackett
Ran a ruthless religious racket
When taking collection
He'd offer protection
Salvation could cost you a packet
-----------------
A carrot named Archibald Nation
Had feathers in high numeration
He was labelled as veg
By a grocer called Reg
With a dubious qualification
-----------------
A sculptor named Arnold Duprees
Carved a **** plug from parmesan cheese
He lamented his luck
When it melted and stuck
But he fired it out with a sneeze
-----------------
Knights in the armour of old
Have little to keep out the cold
For they dress as the Scots
In thier tenderest spots
Which encourages rust and then mould
-----------------
Oh ***** you make my knees quiver
You chemical lethargy giver
You tickle my tongue
And pickle my brain
Then you jump up and down on my liver
-----------------
A Fella named Ricky De Gaul
Had seventeen ******* in all
They called him De Chesty
But with only one *****
It should have been Ricky De Ball
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 8:15 AM UTC
Would could I exchange a peach for my heart fair lady ?
For both are juicy and picked today ?
My heart beats and my peach is ripe and tender is it not
You would tell me ?
Of all the grocers fruit I could have picked did I choose at least one for you no fly had landed just for one second ?
As for my heart did I not rip it out of my chest and serve it to you
rich in the finest Claret
likened only to a plum ?
Do you remember the warm ,
Beating ***** I gave you when we first met ?
How it dripped with my blood ,
and you gathered it to your breast. and said “ now you are mine “
I died that day ,
If I could have given you my lungs I could have told you !
and my ears so you might have listened ?
How I wished you had ears to hear ?
Please if you read this come quick for I am alone sweeping up in
The potters room for what we tried to Mould ,
together was always you’re Moore to my Swayze ,
now a ghost to our dreams shattered into a thousand pieces .
Yet if you just say the word ,
just pick up one piece could we not start again ?
Then meet me at the grocer , plum , pear , heart ?
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 11:20 AM UTC
The lonely little girl in me
Wants to hug the scared little boy in you
Until you stop being scared and I stop being lonely.
But this is a grocery store.
And you are a stranger buying cauliflower.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 6:06 AM UTC
Love Sonnet
This afternoon at the local grocer I had bought a bottle of beer
and a tin of tuna fish and I meet the daughter of the woman
I had been in love with, I had never seen her before and said
halloo like she knew me and she was as lovely as her mother
was. Her mother came and I said something flattering, they both
smiled knowingly, you can't fool a woman about love. I'm sure
her mother had told her daughter of my trips to the post office
where she worked t the time. And they have been laughing, not of
derision, but by my inability to express my love openly.
I'm telling this because when I came from hospital in December
after collapsing and had been given a pacemaker and the onset of
the shingles I was in despair both physically and mentally and
I said if I had died I would have no knowledge about this tristesse
My wife cried and I promised not to speak thus again and I would
not met the daughter of the woman I loved
Jul 25, 2015
Jul 25, 2015 at 2:54 AM UTC
The morning after I killed myself, I woke up
I walked up the creaky stairs and made myself coffee
My favorite Dunkin Donuts cup, filled to the top with ice, coffee left out from the night before, and chocolate milk
I wiped the coffee off the counter and filled the dishwasher
I added salt to my avocado with eggs and toast
I sluggishly made my bed
The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love
Not with the girl I talk to everyday on my phone
Or the grocer who always smiled extra long at me
I fell in love with my mother as she sat in my room,
Looking through each notebook, looking for all the signs
Dusting off the rainbow flag I never took out of it's packaging
I fell in love with my brother, who worked desperately at the construction site,
Making new things as he tried to forget I wasn’t there to say “How was work?"
When he comes home
I fell in love with my niece,
Texting my friends what happened,
Crying in the same room we laughed and had sleepovers in
I watched the family dogs,
Who pointed their nose when squirrels run past
I saw the empty space in Stella’s eyes
When she jumped on my bed to snuggle and there was nothing under the covers
I saw the coldness in Maple's heart as she searched and searched my room for me
How Mama cuddled into the blankets, waiting for me
I stood by as she protected my Mom during walks, just as she used to do for me
I picked the purple flowers and some dandelions on the side of the house
And put them where I used to sit in the woods
The morning after I killed myself, I stayed up all night to watch the sun come up
The morning after I killed myself, I went to the morgue and gazed at that body
Wondered if death was truly worth it
I carefully touched all the scars, all the markings no one ever saw but us
I told him about the avocado toast, the friends, the dogs, the woods, and his family
I told him about the sunsets and the brother and the warm blankets
The morning after I killed myself, I cried and cried
Nov 15, 2021
Nov 15, 2021 at 4:19 PM UTC
Ingrid sat on the brick wall
of the bomb site
her hands in her lap
her untidy hair
held in place
with wire grips
the plain grey
cardigan and dress
had food stains
here and there
you sat beside her
in jeans
and bought for you
cowboy shirt
the Saturday film
matinée
just seen
suppose I'd best be home
Ingrid said
before Dad gets back
he doesn't know
I went to the pictures
and he'll say
it's a waste of money
but it's only 6d
you said
surely he wouldn't
begrudge you that?
she said nothing
but stood up
and brushed down
her dress
best go
she said
wait a while
you said
let's buy some chips
before you leave
I've no more money
she said
I have
you replied
patting your jean's pocket
*********
the 6 shooter
toy gun
hanging
at your waist
best not
she said
if Dad sees me
he'll go off
the deep end
she stood there
half undecided
chips with salt
and vinegar
and maybe
an onion or two
you added
giving her a look
your head to one side
she bit her lip
as she fingered
her cardigan
but Mum said
not to be late
Ingrid said
sometimes
they throw in
a slice of bread
and butter
you said
especially for kids
if you give them
I'm starved look
she smiled
her hands going
into the cardigan pockets
what if he sees me
go in there?
she said
he won't
you said
he couldn't see
the end of his nose
without getting dizzy
you said
anyway he might not
be back until later
she shrugged
and then said
ok if we're quick
and so you stood up
and walked her
up Meadow Row
and across the road
to the fish and chip shop
and bought
2 bags of chips
and onions
and 2 slices
of bread and butter
because you both gave
that we're starved gaze
you walked her back
down Meadow Row
eating in silence
she eating ravenously
her fingers busy
her mouth opening
and closing
once you'd finished
and you'd stuffed
the waste chip papers
into a bin
by the grocer's shop
she said
thank you
that was scrumptious
and she kissed your cheek
and walked off
and across
Rockingham Street
towards the Square
at the top
by the entrance
with arms crossed
grim face
Ingrid's father
stood scowling
standing there.
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 2:51 AM UTC
There's trouble growing in the garden
As the carrots make fun of those that are green
The potatoes are keeping their eyes out
Staring down those bleeding heart beets
Leaves of spinach are flexing their muscles
And of course the corn are all ears
Broccoli is green with envy
With the onions always in tears
The rhubarb has a thing for the strawberries
Can't seem to get along with anyone else
New to the winter garden which has the vegies talking
Not sure this frost will ever melt
The asparagus has been here forever
And the pole beans are always vaulting the fence
The lima's are out searching for the wisdom of the succotash
As the lettuce wonders where its head went
Yes there's trouble growing in the garden
Like we haven't all seen this before
The only time they get along is flash frozen and packaged
Chilling behind the grocer's freezer door
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 8:41 AM UTC
Now our Yesteryear
You can’t put your finger on it but a shift has occurred neighborhoods are different
A few clues lay in the losses delivery to the home what delivery thats just it
Doctor’s house calls milk delivery neighborhood grocer even the mail is indifferent
Anyone want to get close and peek in a nylon mail bag oh but those great leather ones
Milk delivery I don’t care if I whistle smile or sing carrying a bottle of store bought milk
Where is the feeling Phil’s dad use to float or blast out of the door and sweet clinking bottles
Sure you can drop plastic no breakage just an idiot plop who cares we all might as well drink silk
They called it progress change they forgot one more sad word that is so fitting empty
East end grocer barrel full of kites rolls of string or Cecil doing long addition on a paper sack
What about the Quonset hut on west third with a tree that’s wonder fingers touch to assure if real
Ever feel comfort in a giant store feel as you know any one if only there was a button to take us back
Oh to big of a hurry for all that let one materialize see the stampede and kindness would flourish again
We have more they never bothered to explain that with so much misery is part of the package
Front porch social gatherings it’s just what you race a cross in this quantum age
Do you remember those long summer days somehow it would draw from us the hidden sage
All can refuse with effort we can stop this insanity with more heart we can turn back the page
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 11:18 PM UTC
The yards are empty.
only dirt and other detritus
clutter the mid-morning landscape.
There are no children
outside laughing and playing
running red rover over
the black tops on Saturday morning.
There are no parents smiling,
leaning on the old siding,
while the funny false teeth
wearing grandfather
tells stories to the younglings
about the old days.
Silence is the norm.
The fish fries, family reunions,
fairs, carnivals, and circuses
no longer make this circuit.
The gas station, and grocer’s
are boarded up
leaving only a lonely trail of
house after house
sprouting weeds and vacancy signs.
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 12:21 PM UTC
Last night
I picked up a self help book
I drank some "meditation tea" whatever the hell that is
I listened to an awful song
that wouldn't remind me of you
I tried yoga
I even prayed to God
God knows it's been awhile
since I felt existential
I went to my favorite grocer
and talked to the most inviting cashier
I thought it might help
I "channeled" my energy
I lifted weights
I flirted with my trainer
I put on red lipstick
I weeped.
I blogged
I analyzed myself
and my family
and mostly my dad
I "ate my feelings"
I googled "how to get over someone"
I ripped your love letter
in a million pieces
I reminded myself of all my "blessings"
I drove an extra time around my block
I stayed up way too late
watching infomercials about beauty
and vapid mind numbing consumerism
I tried to learn the guitar
I called my brother
just to hear his voice
before the beep
and just to hear mine
after it
I smiled and stared out the window
and pretended I was in a Hitchcock film
I went outside to smoke a cigarette
and I don't even smoke
I just wanted to feel the biting cold
against my hidden skin
I went shopping and bought an overly
expensive sweater
that won't fit me
unless I grew about ten inches
I read the Catcher in the Rye eight times
And I made this ******* list
that makes me feel so utterly hopeless
and chaotic catharticism
what a messy heart
staining my perfectly
neat life.
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 1:59 AM UTC
I've read the news, and it's red
with painted lip prints, and the stain
of stranger thumbprints. They're not
mine. Neither of them. They belong,
lip and thumb, paint and stranger,
singularly to those others who don't
read or write such things. They may
bleed, them, but the blood isn't red,
or crimson, or cardinal, or scarlet.
Pick a shade of red, and it isn't that,
at least not until it's too, too late
to stanch. The bully's standard is to take
it all, all of it except the fall crisp that led
into this strangely warmer winter. I took it,
and I saved it in my bones to prepare,
but the cold didn't come. Not like we
were used to. I'm told the bully wears
what he takes with a dashing style. See it,
that royal blue that outfits him? The flowing
robes? The gold. I've been robbed. We have
been. Not of things, but of a view. A view
with no room for us in its downside-up
very periscope-unlike perspective.
There's no upside to the up-down
and just around the corner trips
I take. To the grocer. To the bar. To
the five and dime. It's fattened up
to a dollar. And the slimming newsprint
costs more than what I get
without the paper. I don't
get it, not the print, not the paper, not
the red lip prints, not the thumbprints
left by strangers, not the news
I've read and I'm reading.
Jun 10, 2012
Jun 10, 2012 at 6:25 PM UTC
Shalom
you said
but Fay's father
ignored you
on the stairs
of the block of flats
you were only trying
to make peace with him
because of Fay
but he wasn't
buying into any Jewism
as he termed it
forgetting that
his Jesus said head
of his Catholic Church
was a Jew himself
but that was
another matter
so you let him go
on his way
up the stairs
humming some
Latin hymn to himself
later seeing Fay
on the way
to the grocer's shop
through the Square
she said her father
had forbidden her
to even talk with you
(the Jew Boy
he had said)
but she knew it was
impossible even
if she wanted to
which she didn't
despite the risk
she ran in seeing you
or talking with you
I only said shalom to him
you said
she frowned
it means peace
you said
I could have said
something else to him
less friendly
she smiled weakly
best say nothing
she said
o.k
you said
so you walked with her
to the grocer's shop
across the road
and along to the grocer's shop
by the newspaper shop
where they had
The Three Musketeers book
in the window
which you wanted
to buy at sometime
and you showed her
the book and the cover
with a picture
of three musketeers
sword fighting
and you walked on
to the grocers
and she bought
what was on her list
and you got
what your mother
had written
on a small scrap of paper
and afterwards you said
how about a penny drink
at the Penny shop?
and she looked anxious
and said
not sure Dad said
not to linger around
well don't linger
you said
but have a drink
and we can sit
by the wall outside
and see the world go by
and sip our drinks
she hesitated
but then said
o.k
so you took her
to the Penny shop
and bought two bottles
of penny pop
and sat outside
by the wall
your shopping bags
beside you
the morning sun
blessing your heads
and she talked
of the nuns
at her school
how strict they were
but one she said
was kind
and taught her
the Credo in Latin
word by word
and you sat
listening to her
and she sitting there
momentarily free
like an uncaged
song bird.
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 3:03 AM UTC
There once was a boy who loved fire,
He kept matches in hand and sang in choir,
The church burned days after that,
Only matches they found inside a dead rat,
The boy went missing a few days later,
But no one cared, other worries were greater,
So the boy got away with less matches in hand,
Singing dogmatic songs of a fiery land.
One day in black sun a demon will come,
He’ll save us in the blaze hoheehohum
The next town he settled in was quite small,
But it had an orphanage where he could stall,
Living as an orphan was less than fun,
He dreamed of fires, up walls they’d run,
Nuns gave him chores like scrubbing floors,
But living this life was an absolute bore,
Weeks in he again found his little box of fire,
And snuck away at night as his heart desired.
One day in black sun a demon will come,
He’ll save us in the blaze hoheehohum
He started anew in a town called Old Haven,
Teenaged he was and very well-behaven,
He worked for a grocer, handling cash,
But one day, the store’s walls turned to ash,
No one suspected the teen and his matches,
Until he disappeared in a bat of your lashes,
He continued on, without a worry for the world,
Knowing eventually in fire it’d be hurled.
One day in black sun a demon will come,
He’ll save us in the blaze hoheehohum
Eventually he settled in a place with no fire,
Except in the first job where he was no liar,
A crematorium he settled to live,
Bodies he burns, then ashes he gives,
A match started every body-fueled flame,
A box in hand singing the devil finally came.
Then, one summer, the now-man threw himself in,
Mad with laughter, hell accepted him.
One day in black sun a demon will come,
He’ll save us in the blaze hoheehohum
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC
Across the road
from the underground station
next to the Christian tabernacle
you sat with Helen
on the standing wall
of a bombed out house
she clutched her doll
Battered Betty
looking around her
I've never been
on this bomb site before
she said
the people who lived here
must have been really scared
if they heard the siren in time
they may have got out
but some didn't of course
you said
trying to imagine
what the houses looked like
before the bombing
how the gardens
may have been well kept
may have had vegetables
and flowers growing
in the small beds
at the back of the house
a lady my mum knew
got blown up
and all they found
was her hand
with her wedding ring
still there
Helen said
******** up her nose
making her thick lens glasses
move on her nose
my mum said
she and her stepfather
used to hide
under the large oak table
in the kitchen
if they got caught out
by the bombing
you said
and Mum said her stepfather's bottom
was sticking out
at one end of the table
Helen laughed
you liked it when she laughed
it made dimples in her cheeks
and her eyes lit up
behind her glasses
best not tell Mum
I've been on the bomb site
Helen said
she said they're dangerous places
they are
you said
but hell what would life be
without a bit of danger?
what does your dad say
when you tell him
you've been on the bomb sites?
she asked
rocking Battered Betty
in her arms
nothing much
except not to wear
my best clothes on there
is that all?
she said
yes pretty much
you said
what about your mum?
you looked at her
her hair tied in two pigtails
her eyes large
beyond the lens
she says be careful
not to climb
you said
but you do
Helen said
you did it just now
to get up here
yes I know that
and you know that
but my mum needn't
you said
banging the back
of your shoes
on the wall gently
don't you tell
your mum everything
you do?
she asked
I do
you frowned
I try not to worry her
you said
doesn't she asked
what you've done or been?
yes but I needn't
tell her everything
you said
she has enough worries
without me adding to them
I think it best
I imagine other places
or things done
to keep her
from worrying
Helen shook her head
you have a strange
sense of truth
she said
holding Betty tight
to her chest
her chin resting
on the doll's head
how about an ice cream
at Baldy's?
you said
Baldy's?
she said
where is Baldy's?
the grocer shop
before you get
to the railway bridge
down Rockingham Street
you said
the owner is as bald as a coot
she laughed
ok
she said
and so you both
climbed down
from the wall
and walked down
and along
to the subway
and on to the shop
to get ice creams
she smiling
with her battered doll
you with your cowboy
shooting dreams.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 3:33 AM UTC