"lunched" poems
Bustopher Jones is not skin and bones—
In fact, he’s remarkably fat.
He doesn’t haunt pubs—he has eight or nine clubs,
For he’s the St. James’s Street Cat!
He’s the Cat we all greet as he walks down the street
In his coat of fastidious black:
No commonplace mousers have such well-cut trousers
Or such an impreccable back.
In the whole of St. James’s the smartest of names is
The name of this Brummell of Cats;
And we’re all of us proud to be nodded or bowed to
By Bustopher Jones in white spats!
His visits are occasional to the Senior Educational
And it is against the rules
For any one Cat to belong both to that
And the Joint Superior Schools.
For a similar reason, when game is in season
He is found, not at Fox’s, but Blimpy’s;
He is frequently seen at the gay Stage and Screen
Which is famous for winkles and shrimps.
In the season of venison he gives his ben’son
To the Pothunter’s succulent bones;
And just before noon’s not a moment too soon
To drop in for a drink at the Drones.
When he’s seen in a hurry there’s probably curry
At the Siamese—or at the Glutton;
If he looks full of gloom then he’s lunched at the Tomb
On cabbage, rice pudding and mutton.
So, much in this way, passes Bustopher’s day-
At one club or another he’s found.
It can be no surprise that under our eyes
He has grown unmistakably round.
He’s a twenty-five pounder, or I am a bounder,
And he’s putting on weight every day:
But he’s so well preserved because he’s observed
All his life a routine, so he’ll say.
Or, to put it in rhyme: “I shall last out my time”
Is the word of this stoutest of Cats.
It must and it shall be Spring in Pall Mall
While Bustopher Jones wears white spats!
3.3k
My palms are growing wet
Sweat has covered my trigger
Night and day in enemies nest
Operating like battalions of mere singers.
I fight 21st century with 20th century bullet
Blood on my face, wounds yielding deeper
In shattered body my brethren in uniform rest
Unjust funding makes our defence wall weaker.
Father, I am in a wilderness fighting a shapeless war
No back ups, no one is watching out for our fall
Like we are dying for those who don't care about us
Our enemies are in golden armor while we ride on horse.
Mother, did the demise of my gun brothers makes the headlines?
I heard the 'next level' was lunched on that day
And my superiors disown us to dine at the front line
Well, don't cry yet, I'm still alive at least for today.
Oh, my palms are wet and my hopes like a thread
My eyes shed more tears than the blood my gun sheds
We are too weak to keep pulling these triggers
Aso Rock, upgrade us now or take us home to our fathers.
Nov 25, 2018
Nov 25, 2018 at 6:53 AM UTC
come choked up bled up fed up folks
and drink my robust brew my sweet Catawba
no, my sauterene or rock and rye
brush that musty blue off your cog stained collar
and stay a while
pay a while
two beers later when your tongue seethes dry
try my salt savored fish, my baked bean surprise
tilt your nostrils and inhale my dried herring
my free lunched ties really please the eyes
I’ll saturate your wet drawn gobs
like sand slips through sieves
teasing you by my strategic arrayed feast
until dollars are quenched out
by watering tongues that then dry the eyes
so come stand social where men may be men
enter through my wood swinging shut
-tered realm
and slug down your ticking inhibitions
gobble up this wonderful enterprise
and leave with that coat savored
by the mixed smell of sawdust, alcohol and cigars
hell, there’s no manners here
and class only exists in tolerance
for it feeds a fine exchange for a parcel of wage
to forget that day you bonded your body to your lady’s gaze
to forget the rascals of tots that teeth at you feet
to forgot the boss that tills your knees
so lets play mirror medley choose your poison
and chose it quick
this may be the Poor Man’s Retreat
but pocket less men make me tick
Sep 23, 2010
Sep 23, 2010 at 3:02 PM UTC
The old ones that have been there
They have seen time,
Unmoving
Meditating
Still
But time does not wait
The insects devour are
Brethren
We feel there fear upon the wind
Branches never to have sprouts of green
There carcass,
Not even cold before
Stripped
Cut
Burnt
Now many pieces that were once a whole.
We will stand it never more
Nature is king
Those of flesh must learn there lesson
We feed them, nourished them,
And they repay
By senseless destruction,
My Brothers
Sisters uproot
Show them natures force,
So it was, they rose from the soil
Root now not nourished by mother earth,
Campers were their first call
Fires did burn
Mangled
Twisted
Hacked upon
Another brother for warmth
Branches lunched forth,
Flesh no match for Solid timber used in force,
Screams resonate through the air
But the leaves upon those grounded
Cover like a canopy not releasing sound
Faces froze in terror,
Seeing faces etched in ancient wood
Anger
Hatred
Disgust
All those years of anger
Reaped upon those weak and bone,
Like felled trees, they crumples upon the earth
Life for life,
Which was burnt upon the ground.
Tears of sap fell upon down below,
And so the old ones once again waited,
Rooted once again to mother earth,
Looking
Waiting
Never Still
For those who would follow,
And find nature isn't so kind,
For the woods have eyes,
Whispers do travel upon the wind
Ready for war, natures fight back begins..
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 5:24 PM UTC
I bit them off
chewed and chewed
and left with nothing
kept on chewing.
My teeth got crunched,
to destruction I lunched
and when finished
I noticed what had disappeared.
My fingers were shorter
and my face was pale.
I woke up to the sounds of tapping
imagined it were crowds of people clapping.
Imagined I was as magnificent as a two dollar meal.
The brown lettuce returned me to what was real.
Cardboard walls and clicking teeth, drops falling
on my worn out rags. If only I had had a calling.
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 4:39 PM UTC
Where sunset copperplates the sea
With flecks of gold and Verdigris
And down below, the ghosts of ships do battle in the bay
Where in the morning, rising scents of sea salt and of sage
Drift up the hill on gifted wings to greet the kids that come of age
On dry stone walls in olive groves
Beneath the strident sun
Sharp shadows cast by old scrub oaks
Where once young shepherds flung their cloaks
Resist the timeless tug of war of brash Etesian winds
Where goats' bells bounce off whitewashed walls, with each staccato leap
And black-wrapped widows spin their webs to catch what precious dream-filled sleep
They might ‘neath watch of leaning, still
Centurions of stone
To soothe the white heat of the sun
We dived and left our limbs undone
In ocean coolness, born again - and flushed, we struck for shore
With towels held high above our heads
we tiptoed onto land
And broke from canvas rare delights to share upon the sand
The day we lunched on Ithaca
Two thousand orbits turned
Content, we hung in listless sleep
As painted ladies traced our shape
Until the lure of barefoot expeditions brought me round
I picked my steps with casual ease through shade of salt-dried driftwood trees
And swore I’d found the very glade where hung the Golden Fleece
I turned to share my thrill with you
But chose instead to spare your peace
Soon after came the faithful sound
Of bells that haul the Earth around
Each chime remarking loud and clear its moment’s fading grace
And deep within you as you slept, inaudible at first,
The beating of a second drum began to be rehearsed
The day we lunched on Ithaca
Life’s liquor quenched our thirst
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 3:41 PM UTC
My sister’s a mister. She cares for her plants,
Her orchids from Cuba, Tahiti, or France.
She grows lovely children entirely from scratch
In homemade production runs, two to the batch.
She teaches the women of her little town
To belly, to yoga, to boogie on down.
She’s always found living alone such a bore;
A harvest of husbands – she’s on number four.
She drives a Miata with careless aplomb,
The very ideal of a hot soccer mom.
But me, I was thinking of how to invent
A Booker prize novel to cover my rent,
Or lysergic rhapsodies for the guitar
Or finally learning to drive in a car.
The hours spurted onward in skips and in bounds,
Years twirling away down a hole in the ground;
How gently appalling my ultimate fate,
To grow wispy white whiskers, and sit on a gate.
She spins on the dance floor like wind on the wing,
To Western and Latin and Manhattan Swing;
Her elegant limbs grace the South Jersey beaches,
And people go mad for her raspberry quiches.
Her daughter (my niece) with her blue eyes so dear
Sets the upper crust of Baltimore on its ear,
While her brother my nephew is cutting a swath, (um)
Through the au courant circles of fashionable Gotham.
That’s my sister, triumphing wherever she goes,
And she never had anything done to her nose.
But me, I was dreaming up world-shifting rubrics,
Or imagining screenplays to shame all the Kubricks;
My ****** could make you explode in your jammies,
And my song lyrics won theoretical Grammys.
Of invisible kingdoms I was the past master,
I walked with Elijah, I lunched Zoroaster.
Yet somehow I find myself at this late date
With my brain in the clouds, and my *** on a gate.
Mar 12, 2020
Mar 12, 2020 at 1:37 PM UTC
My new winter
coat is black.
It is as black
as a starless
night sky.
Yet, now there
are smudges of
dirt on the ends
of my sleeves.
My coat has hung
on the back of a
chair today.
As I lunched
at a small counter,
eating fried eggs and
hash browns,
someone must’ve stepped
on the sleeves of my coat
and left bits of their own
day behind.
The other day,
I’d asked my wife
to wash my coat
because it had gotten
dusty.
So, she did.
And, out it came
from the dryer,
thick and warm
obsidian.
Now,
I see those smudges
and I think of them
as clouds that race
across a midnight sky.
Like me,
like The Earth,
spinning,
always on the move.
***
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications
Dec 29, 2017
Dec 29, 2017 at 3:46 PM UTC
And now, my weigh-ins near;
Weight watchers makes a big production.
I've cheated, had a few beers
then gotten quotes for liposuction
I've eaten way past full
and then had one more for the highway
I've gotten old, I've gotten fat
don't diet my way!
Baguettes, I've had a few, but then again, too few to mention
I love my salty snacks
but that's what gave me hypertension
I planned each 3 course meal
at greasy spoons along the highway
Ive gotten old
I've gotten fat
don't diet my way
Yes there were times when I was blue
Ice cream in quarts, I would go through
but through it all, despite the gout
I'd eat it in, or take it out
I ate it all, - and I'm not tall
don't diet my way
I've lunched, I've wined and dined
I've had my failed attempts at losing
but now my jeans just split
and it no longer seems amusing.
To think I ate it all
and may I say not in a shy way
I've gotten old, I've gotten fat
don't diet my way
For what is a meal without cake for desert
and JOGGING IS DANGEROUS - a guy could get hurt
I ate the foods I truly craved
and never once was fashion's slave
The weight-in shows, I need new clothes
don't diet my way!
Jun 21, 2017
Jun 21, 2017 at 7:32 AM UTC