"margie" poems
A hymn to paired planethood: Venus hits Pluto
as death, in cold orbit, collides with biology
smashing to fragments: demonic astrology
(more a black hole than a love-star, it’s true though).
Cynical cure for Eve’s womanly grievance
Concupiscent consequence: lust’s bitter fruit –
ah the thought… changing Sin into mere inconvenience.
Margaret sang her seductive refrain
about weeding the garden and progress and light.
Her sisters should view her with scornful disdain
but instead have adopted her murderous rite.
With sang-froid she promoted her racist eugenics
(as if she had never herself been a fetus),
condemning her heirs to postmodern polemics
while nurturing ardent desires to defeat us.
Suppressing the lives that she flushed down the drain
she would liberate Death – and resistance was vain.
As a midwife to modern life (though on the “anti” side)
Old Matron Margie racked up quite a legacy
singing the praises of sanctioned infanticide
calling the shots for the coming sick century.
Planning, quite calmly, to “cleanse” certain races
her zeal was empowered by murderous graces.
She labored to bring us such pearls of subduction:
“dilation and curettage”, “women’s autonomy”
“viable fetus”, “procedure”, a “suction”
Hippocrates retches to hear the taxonomy;
words that turn Life into mere reproduction.
She enters the realms of the ****** and the motherless
roundly condemned by her feminine otherness.
Man’s first protection: the God-given womb
which no infant should have to regard as their tomb.
Dismembered dark cherubs, assembling, greet her
as demons (in scrubs) holding baby-parts meet her.
Long may she burn with the medical cynics
this mother of Moloch, this founder of clinics.
Convenience is king when abortion’s the Queen
and the profits swell big with each nubile teen…
yet the fruit of such carnage remains to be seen.
I send her this song as a funeral wreath
and a card inked in blood. You may read what is there:
“To the Matrix Supreme of our culture of death
from the souls of the infants you slew on the earth.
May your torment increase with the children you bear.”
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:09 PM UTC
The Milkman Cometh
It could be Margie or it could be Pearl
bringing us our refreshment we trust
though we are all old dead beat boozers
we still enjoy sweet cookies dunked in lust
we waited for Hickey for as long as we could
to get this party off with a bang
but we've waited long enough I say
time for a grand toast gosh dang
Rocky gave us the okay to get started
but he asked us to leave Cora alone
she was busy baking a surprise cake
for the captain who was finally coming home
Hickey finally shows but wont raise his glass
says he sees better now that he's sober
but he couldn't take the kiss from her lips
and quickly began to disrobe her
got milk they all yelled as the night wore on
the police finally shut it all down
the chocolate had been spilled everywhere
the news was all over the town
Gomer LePoet....
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 10:56 PM UTC
I don't dream of you either. Not at night. The occasional daydream occurs. You crawl into my mind in sentimental coffee shop conversations we never shared, love made in hotels we never went to, picking up naked dolls with frayed blonde hair that the daughter we'll never have left out. Sometimes it's lovely not to question the reality.
Usually the night drives keep me in Oklahoma. I don't know how many times I've stopped in Kingfisher to look at that terrible statue of Sam Walton. But he reminds me that no matter how successful a man becomes, in the end his legacy is depicted by his leftovers. There's a sadness in that. But also a freedom.
Wednesday's drive took me to Ulysses, Kansas. Light pollution gave up just outside of Woodward. Guiding me like a weary wise man who forgot his frankincense, stars beamed and made for suitable company. I love passing through small towns at night. I become a ghost. I'm above them. I'm not exactly there. Brief haunt. Then on my way again.
I parked about 100 feet from my grandmother's old house. Judging by the minivan, some young family's new house. They were in the process of adding to the east side. I wanted to tear at every fresh board. Instead I picked up a couple pieces of my grandmother's gravel. Put them in my pocket. Touched her old mailbox, and drove to the cemetery.
When I got to the headstone, which read Merle and Virgil Mawhirter, I thought back to the last thing my grandmother said to Karen and myself. We visited her in the hospital right before she found herself in the pangs of a ventilator and scattershot science. It was her birthday. I bought her a book she never read.
As Karen and I left, she stopped us. "Don't forget to bring me some ice cream. Good to see you, Floyd and Margie." Not sure who they were. Ice cream. Even at the end, she laughed in the face of diabetes.
Do you think Tim will be the name beside yours on your headstone?
I lied down by my grandparents' graves. Dim moonlight seeped through small breaks in the amethyst clouds. Dead leaves feathered to the ground beside me. I wanted to say some words of encouragement to her. For her, but mostly for myself.
All I said though -- My name is Joshua, Grandma.
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 12:38 PM UTC
love what about love ? many people in the world try to find the real love thing every day ,and maybe they will waste the time by searching about something that not exist, my grandmother tell me once that the love is Margie but in the same time my grand father tell me that love is Patience and
sincerity , i agree with them and love doesn't change by time love still love what ever time change and people change . Who among us has not feel the love once maybe in the childhood we feel our heart beats by up-normal way and in the moment when we grow up we felt like we are running after Mirage .. i tell you my story about love but in the begging I want to tell you a little secret about love, love drives all our feelings of happiness and laughter sadness, anger, jealousy, longing and cry and regret and loss and emptiness and loneliness ،،And all that we grow up everything changed our ideas about true love. what ever lets get in the story ،،There was a boy at the age of 18 years old and it was calculated that he knows what love and has sufficient experience. which was very lucky because it is the first time enter into a relationship and found love, the girl was aged 17 years،and it was very beautiful in her laugh her words her character. and in his eyes she was so perfect .At first he was very happy and thank God for what he gave him because she was angel ،The relationship lasted for 3 years and they was talk to each other all the day long ، shearing something spacial،،They were dreaming a lot and they didn't know that the Destiny was hiding for them something very bad,,Although they can not live without each other Did not know that they will someday remember this love and passing in front of each other as if they were strangers As if that love was in another life،، to be contained ..
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 8:21 PM UTC
The road to the funeral home
was plagued by
brown Cadillacs stretched
out on overgrown lawns,
and cats lounging lazily
on splintered planks.
Eleven people sat scattered
around dozens of expectant
chairs laid out in long rows,
hairlines moistened by a
lackluster air unit wheezing
in the one window.
The Reverend approached
the pew and began his
assault of sentences--
they spewed from
his lips like careless
bullets, and they stung.
He shook his hands at us and
promised that she had
been delivered to God…
I wonder if he meant
delivered like her
neighborcare packages
containing the familiar numbing
glory of ****** that got her
through cancer after cancer,
limbs and eyesight failing,
decades old and stewing
in her stomach.
He sputtered out syllables
like bouts of fumes-
they filled the air and I
swear I could smell them,
the stench
of stale cologne
and stale culture.
I could taste the
disgust coming up from
my esophagus,
that bitterness the brain
dispenses when anger
can only be expressed in
a tapping foot and sourly
sagging lips.
I sat there, silent, as that
ancient man
with his West Virginia
draw clumsily
stumbled over a list of
relatives “Marge†would
meet in heaven.
He forgot my father,
skipped his name and
my heart began to pump
faster, my cheeks burning.
He did not know that she
was Margie and we would
remember her soft yellow curls
and infinite knowledge of
antique dolls,
hundreds of pristine replicas
beaming in glass cases.
He did not know that
her lips were electric;
she shocked our cheeks
with each hello
and goodbye.
I wish he knew her like I did,
the young woman who sat
stiffly in this plastic chair,
her little girl all grown up.
I wish I could have pushed
him off the stage and
made up for the seven years
I missed of kisses and
old stories and support.
But I sat there, silent
and stared at the cracked ceiling
tiles and fake flowers
on the front folding table,
yearning for the pounding in my
temples to stop.
Jul 13, 2010
Jul 13, 2010 at 9:43 AM UTC
Bill loaded the truck with hard red winter wheat
One night so as to beat the scales at morning light.
Before sun up, he kissed Margie on the cheek
And roared out of the yard,
Overload springs sagging,
Engine fierce, but groaning,
Toward the town.
Two miles out,
The scale light said "Open,"
Giving Bill a momentary chill.
Shifting down, he exited
Before arriving Scale Hill.
A gravel detour waited
To take him on the long way 'round
And bring him back the other side of town.
Most situations similar
Go from bad to worse.
The truck eased down into a swale.
Beneath the surface gravel,
A bed of soggy clay
****** down the wheels
And stopped the farmer's way.
The creaking truck began to settle,
Testing Bill and
Leaving him chagrined
As the Transportation Deputy
Drove up to see the mess.
"Looks like you need a pull!"
What could Bill say?
And so he took the offer,
Then followed flashing lights
Back to the scale, and paid
A hefty fee to compensate
For being cheap too early
And learning much too late.
Jan 28, 2012
Jan 28, 2012 at 3:25 PM UTC
1
Susan visits May
and May gasps,
looking out the window:
*Hey! Oh no – that’s my husband
walking here with my lover!*
Oh my God, exclaims Susan
that’s exactly what I’m thinking!
2
Little Tommy is outside
crying in the street
and Old Margie walks by
and she says to the crying boy:
Hey, why the tears?
And little Tommy says:
*My parents are inside the house
and they are fighting.*
Old Margie scratches her head
looks close
and asks: Who’s your Dad?
Oh, says Little Tommy,
that’s what they are fighting about
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 6:21 AM UTC
She,
Who's perceives,
Your deepest mystery.
She,
Who adores nature,
Just more, more than me.
She,
Who's a fresh air,
That can so well heal.
She,
Who listens,
But will never judge you
To be silly.
She,
Who can smile,
In her greatest miseries.
She,
Who loves,
And sees all as a good being.
She
Who's sans, sans a family,
But blessed and pampered
By her pets daily,
She,
Who'll prove,
'Age is just a number,
In intimacy.'
She,
Who's heart, is so,so lively
A heart, that Pours love pious, incessantly.
She,
Who dwells in a heaven on earth,
Nests in her alluring heavenly hearth,
Amidst the birds, plants and beasts.
And is so, so fond of nature's mirth
She,
Who's fond of nature and tree.
She,
Who so loves writing poetry.
And Is a pro,
At this proficient artistry
She,
Who'll spread happiness,
Wherever she'll be.
Is my sweet,
sweet aunt-friend
My dear aunt and friend
Called 'Margie'!
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 4:23 PM UTC
Night raids on Salt End
were legendary… It were a
giant chemical works with ship docks,
silos, storage tanks, fuel dumps,
an ideal 'drop off point' for Gerry…
But Salt End plant’s night raids
on Hedon Road
weren’t gonna daunt our lot,
they lived a mile or so down the lane to Preston
and seemed unafraid of gerri’n shot.
But they built a shelter across’t main road
in a field… On the outside It were a haystack
within the walls, six foot thick… proper beds
on hay bails to the front and back... cosy.
Down the middle was a ‘lounge’ with chairs,
lights, a radio - electric run from’t big ‘ouse
It’s better than being at’ome our Charlie used to say
For the eldest (and the architect) he’d not much nowse.
Me mam (then 19) told me she bussed it into Hull
****** the Doodlebugs” She needed Jitterbugs…
and they still danced at City Hall.
******** to Gerry and his mates.
Margie & her pal René,
dauntless, they had a right ball!
Last Bus to ‘Withernsea’ from town
dropped her off at the junction
by the Speedway on Hedon Road.
Just as her way was lit by fire bombs - all about
when Gerry dropped his final unaimed load
Maybe ack-ack’d sort him out.
She was 2 miles from home… every few seconds another blast.
Scuttling …dodging whistling incendiaries,
running fast, whippet like…
any second could’ve been her last
anything too close she’d have to jump in't ****
She couldn’t mek it t’t shelter or house so picked
the coal shed - instead… threw herself down
on coals…noise lifted - silence dawned… all clear
heavy breathing - not hers - she wan’t alone
What if it’s one of them - a downed ***** airman.
Nervous, terrified more like she let out a little shudder
a gentle cough… to test her nerve
“Is that you Margie?… You daft ******
It were brother Tom… He’d been t’t Nags Head
and he’d run the opposite way from the village instead.
Sep 7, 2021
Sep 7, 2021 at 12:25 PM UTC
Daddy got drunk
and wet in the well
Oh, poor daddy
Daddy got drunk
and wet in the well
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor daddy
Daddy got drunk
and wet in the well
Oh, poor daddy
He told little Margie
Not to tell
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor daddy
Daddy had Edie
on his knee
Oh, poor Edie
What he did to her
When she was three
Oh, poor Edie
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor Edie
Oh, poor daddy
Daddy got drunk
and wet in the well
Oh, poor daddy
Mama bit her lip
and got beat to hell
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor daddy
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 10:32 AM UTC