"neilson" poems
The Miss, Misters and Mrs.,
And the St. Joseph's Sisters,
Made me a Bluejay,
Jay- jaying and soaring
Over Wrens and Robins
Below in five rows.
Teeth marks on Ticondarogas,
Initialed pink rubbers,
Toothpicks and fingers
Solved all those problems.
Sister Lucille showed me Sarnia
On the Neilson Wall Map,
With the Malted Milk,
Crispy Crunch bars staring back.
They looked too delicious,
Her reprimand was contritious,
I'm doing time during recess,
Ninety minutes til lunch.
We stood in a crooked line,
Like a snake, to get marked,
With her drawer a crack open
We'd get a peek at her strap.
Black or red, correctively cold;
Sister Roseangela, we'd heard,
Cried, Quid Pro Quo.
We had football baseball,
And hockey dreams,
Volleyball, basketball,
And funeral teams;
Field Days, Holy Days,
Days needed at home;
Teachers were coaches,
With little time to complain;
But the kids back then
Just weren't the same.
There were skirmishes, fouls,
Strike outs and time outs;
We were sliced white bread,
No rye or whole grain.
We'd march double file
Once a week to the Church,
To genuflect and reflect
At the Stations and Cross.
To confess, get redress,
Display penitent remorse,
Though keeping a secret
From the Confessional box,
A comfort and curse.
Their objective succeeded,
The lessons went deep;
Using the three Rs,
The ABCs, 1, 2, 3s,
To impart and ingraine
How to carry one's cross.
I remember by name
The Miss, Misters and Mrs.
And St. Joseph's Sisters
Who gave their all,
Each day, and always.
They've gone or retired,
But recalled in tranquility
For the life-lessons I admire.
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 12:06 PM UTC
I love Neilson he is my heart.
Without him we would be apart.
Even though he's moving to Aussie,
I will still call him my best buddy.
Deenah and Ana are my bestest
sisters that i never had.Even Charvorne
my bestest FRAAND.I could never let them
go, even if i died they will still be in mind.
All my kisses and hugs to my bestest sisters.
xoxoxox mwaah
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 4:52 PM UTC
I love Neilson from the very day i met him.
He is awesome he's the one who keeps me on my feet.
If i had lost him my heart will be at beat.
From the day we met i was falling for him.
I asked him out he said yes and my heart pound.
Without him i would'nt be alive.
Now that we are together forever i will survive.
xoxo ILY :3
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 4:45 PM UTC
February 28th, 1968 marked the date
Boyce Brandon Harris
(my octogenarian widower father)
purchased a small tract of land
constituting shadowed sliver
once hailing, hallmarking, harkening,
glorious vast "Glen Elm" estate,
which circa 1910 encompassed
a hundred plus acres of woodland
Pooh would Winnie
(including a pond frequented
by migrating Canadian Geese)
eventually zoned for commercial,
industrial, and residential development
(all in the name of productive land use)
particularly put into motion
courtesy Donald J. Neilson,
who transformed expansive woodland
rivaling shutterfly
sprouting like mushrooms towed stools
booming explosively
after ample precipitation
little houses on the hillside
little houses made of ticky tacky...
popped up overnight
transforming landscape
displacing flora and fauna with vinyl city
(minus spit of property papa bought)
manicured bumped uglies with wild wisp
reduced pristine niche leftover jot haven
squawking disoriented geese instincts
thwarted, where drained wetlands
a Arcadian past suburbanization
overlaying (palimpsest like) rural setting
trademark bucolic print Currier And Ives
stock in trade signature prints
landscape sparse human population
country aire sprinkled with family farms
fresh dairy, produce, vegetables
butchered animals free ranging
without synthetic injections
nostalgia faintly recreated here
Highland Manor Apartments
Schwenksville, Pennsylvania
a slip of country revered
against a Paul Ling urbanization
nothing appears familiar
retracing roadways now major highways
frequent moments breeds alienation
familiar ground confusing, frightening, and perplexing.
May 17, 2018
May 17, 2018 at 8:57 PM UTC
nothing drags a frame of reference out of bed
like a fresh start on a pike.
you strap your business-end to a playful lark
and stave off the broken moons
as you Tetris the Possible
like an unknown god.
I hoist my genre by rote;
my tropes charmed and dangerous…
for the pen is mightier than the fjord
of our most opulent shadows.
My Etch-a-Sketch memories diverge
like Christmas geese
flocking to a pagan potluck
as cellular as a private moment with
a Neilson rating of zero.
I tune in when a gadfly lands on the nose of a spite,
and make a poet’s face.
I sleep like a baby on
the Titanic-
but my average epiphany
bobs for apples
in a bucket
of Northern Stars
too keen on wisdom
for a dullard’s
petard.
at first glance, every blank stare
like a horde of eyes
with pitchforks
and torch songs
made of
why?
Jan 24, 2021
Jan 24, 2021 at 8:07 AM UTC
To write is to feel the world
in its essence
every fibre of meaning extracted
to dance across the page,
enveloping the reader
in a languid embrace.
To write is to find oneself
at the core of each word
jostled in turn
by swathes of meaning,
tumbling thought-streams,
sweet rhetoric of wonder.
To write is to walk naked
in the imagination
while closeted unseen,
revealing all for those
who perceive
in lines of poetry
sprouting seedlings of wisdom
disgorged to take flight.
May 24, 2019
May 24, 2019 at 10:50 AM UTC