"pension" poems
The head fuckery of societies rules.
The indoctrination in our schools
has led to the homeless on our streets while politicians count their seats.
The privileged few, too rich to mention
fail to reveal their true intention.
The NHS setup to break by psychopaths all on the take.
Big business stripped of all its gold,
no pension funds left for the old.
Big pharma, they don't miss a trick,
they're making you & I feel sick.
They push the pills that ring the tills
even though they know it kills.
With the best advice and greatest will
our kids are on **** & fentanyl.
While we're divided black & white,
we'd never stand up to their might
So take your neighbour, hold their hand and together we'll reclaim our land.
Poetry by Kaydee.
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 11:36 PM UTC
The Miner, Absolom
(a haibun)
green hill where sheep graze
white bones and coal, buried, held
seasons all the same
My grandfather worked in the mines from age thirteen to seventy. His life was closed in by mountains, the green one at the back, the dark looming one at the front and the pit head along the valley., winding the men in and out of the shaft, day after day, dawn until dusk when they came home singing
boots ring on the road
deep valley voices echo
backyard starlit smoke
.
They worked on their bellies or crouched, often in water for days, water that undermines rock. Shaft collapses where frequent. Life was cheap. He came home covered in coal dust to his wife and two sons, sons he was determined to keep out of the mines. Yet he loved that coal - coal that he always polished with care before lighting a fire, brushing dust off black diamond surfaces.
water breaks through rock
with wood and straining shoulders
man becomes the beam
He saved twenty lives that day, men he had known from boyhood. When his lungs were affected they laid him off, no pay, no pension, no life. He bought an insurance book with the money he had and every day he trudged over the mountains and valleys gathering pennies that would help to secure some livelihood to the widows who lost their men in the mines. He never told his wife that when a family couldn't pay he put the pennies in for them rather than leave them unprotected.
winter, summer, fall
the mountain hangs over all
tired to the backbone
When the mines were nationalised my grandfather went straight back to the coal face despite his age. He wasn't going to miss those days of glory. Safety was suddenly the watchword and changes were made very fast. Hot showers were installed at the pit head and the miners came home clean at last.
men stripped to the skin
hot water, steam, baptised
brothers singing hymns
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 9:25 PM UTC
I’ve O’D’d on Glucosamine Sulphate, so much I’m mentally scarred.
It’s escalated now I’m 70… I’ve mainlined on my Senior Railcard…
I bow down to the Norse God Voltarol… He eases all my pains…
and there’s Deep Heat, Germaloids, even Anusol for the other stresses and strains.
The wondrous Winter Fuel Allowance! That’s what lights our lamp these dark days - ahh, those twilight hours!
But after the logs, it’s not Leccy or Gas we crave? No! We buy ***** with ours…
the Whisky, Gin, ***** Wine, a drop of Brandy too. It all helps us numb the cold
whilst memories of happier times gone by - brighten up this ****** growing old.
Supplements, sterols, statins, aspirin, beta blockers… All the heart meds - life’s a battle.
In the 60s it was *** and Drugs and Rock ’n’ Roll… Now there’s less *** and a lot more rattle!
****** fails to make it now - “no more”, after the last time - she said!
These days the only thing it does is stop me rolling out of bed!
The bus pass lets me roam the world… from John O’Groats to Land’s End.
But these days I travel locally Southwick, Lancing, Steyning; oh yeh and a cousin in far Gravesend.
Further afield; abroad perhaps? Well no…Back then it was Newhaven for the Continent.
But now I’m over 70, well, it’ll just be Worthing for the INCONTINENT!
And… did I say? Not that I was ever in the habit of measuring it you understand - or straightening out the kinks
I’m pretty sure that these days - and ’no’ it’s NOT just the cold… but, your once adequate **** - it shrinks!
I'm sorry...Your ******* It ain't so long!
Dec 28, 2018
Dec 28, 2018 at 4:15 PM UTC
Rice cakes!
****
Rice cakes for dinner, rice cakes for lunch!
Rice cakes for breakfast!
****
Don’t they have anything else in this house?
house after house we’ve lived in Nihon*
and all we get to steal from our honorable
but ignorant human hosts
is rice cake and more rice cake...
I hate living in Nihon!
You know, I hear the Dutch and the British
and the Americans give cheese to their mice
even on their ships -
but rats! - what do we mice get
in our honorable land of the rising sun?
Rice cakes!
****
Rice cakes for dinner, rice cakes for lunch!
Rice cakes for breakfast!
****
Look - I don’t know about you - but I’ve had it!
I’m leaving Nihon forever
and I’ll jump onto one of these ships
that now more commonly visit Nihon’s shores
and end up in Britain or Holland eating cheese
and live on a Mouse Cheese Pension maybe for the rest of my life,
O cheese! cheese! - rather that, you know
than rice cakes for dinner, rice cakes for lunch!
Rice cakes for breakfast!
And what are you so composed about?
Lying there on the floor, looking so pleased with yourself -
are you coming or no?
OK...you stay here and join some Zen temple
and eat vegetarian rice cakes all your complacent and placid life -
but I’m going this very night
to the West
to feast and dine on cheese,
like an English gentleman perhaps, all my life...
Nov 14, 2011
Nov 14, 2011 at 9:30 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldret, Kenya;[email protected])
Do you remember one era in Kenya?
During the dark days of dictatorship
When Daniel arap Moi
Was the tyrannical president of Kenya
And darkness of leadership
Loomed like the dark clouds of el Niño
When forty district commissioners
Out of the total of forty two were kalenjins?
Whose main work was to spy and terrorize
As the people forlornly groaned under the heavy
Yoke of state terror of tribal torment
When the president claims that
He was not aware of such tyranny,
When we used to sing a lame poem
Of jokoo! Jokoo! Jokoo! Jokoo!
On empty stomachs with no hope of food
No hope of jobs or even education
Street children swelling on the street
In total political nonchalance of arap Moi
As he only gave free milk to his own kalenjin youths
In Kabaraka schools, the Kabaraka school which was
Overfunded by the poor tax payers money,
Please President Uhuru Kenyatta as good as you are
With your dear humane heart of Bantu conscience
As you are armed to teeth with modern education
**** sapiens Gentility and polished diplomacy
Superb in quality of thought and supremacy of choices
The government of Kenya is yours and the people of Kenya
Are your political darlings, true bandwagons for ever
Kindly listen and buy my poemetics, my dear president
Remove Daniel Moi from the state house of Kenya,
Let not Daniel Moi be your adviser
Ignore him and embrace Kenyans
For common future happiness
Even if Daniel Moi is old, the truth is different
He is not a good man, he is full of Machiavelli
His full badness is measured in absurdity
Of terribly and horrendously crashed *** crushed
Testicles of poemcrats and political leaders
Of Kenya of yore and today,
Truth meted in When koigi wa wamwere became
A permanent staff of kamiti maximum prison without pension
Wangari Mathai beaten like an animal in a hunters trap
Ngugi wa Thiong’o jobless and detained without trial
Raila Amolo odinga’s testicles went missing
He looks for them on daily circadian
But once he nears their political pigeonhole
Then elections of the times flops, O! Poor Odinga!
President Uhuru Kenyatta with your suave intellect
You won’t get a pretext to say that
I was not aware or not informed
Please dear darling of the people
The people of Kenya in their 42 tribes
Novate Moi with the people
And your legacy will smile.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 8:59 AM UTC
From whips and chains
To whips and chains,
Earned by pigmentation.
Suffered through tribulation
Caused by the need for **********
Lead to the names of elders confusion
The game of deception
Lead to liberation.
A work for works sake,
Where all currency we make
Is born for the government to take.
A cycle of earnings and yearnings
Where earnings go to learnings,
And learnings go to younglings,
Younglings go to work,
And from work they live to buy things
And from these things come the taxings
Of all things to come.
With housing comes heating where water is needed.
These things to provide for the one to be marrying,
And a child she may be carrying which leads to more taxing,
And when this child grows and they don't need your waxing
So begins your pension and time for relaxing.
Living without fear of receiving the axing,
And your wrinkles now potent define all your moods
You may wish you had done what little other men could,
Stand tall where some other pioneer may have once stood,
But instead around the stump no room for a branch,
Locked in by the cycle
Left to pedal with no brakes.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 5:35 AM UTC
That day was brutally hot, and the cannon incessantly roared
It was the twenty eighth of June in the third year of the war.
Mary Hays was with her soldier, John, as he fought against the King.
Men would call out “Molly Pitcher” and she brought water from a spring.
The action began badly; Cornwallis pushing back Charles Lee.
Who’d have bet a continental that this would be a victory?
Then Washington brought up fresh troops and held Cornwallis back
Rebel cannon from Hays’ battery stalled Cornwallis’ attack.
John Hays , at his cannon, had succumbed to wounds and heat.
But his gun must not go silent or we would go down to defeat.
That was when Mary Hays decided she would take her husband’s place.
She ran to serve his cannon and kept up the firing pace.
She narrowly avoided death when the Redcoats returned fire
But bravely stood her ground and fought, and a legend was inspired.
Mary Hays survived the war and lived a ripe old age.
She was honored for her service and a State pension was paid.
That day at Monmouth Court House, we proved we could stand and fight.
The British army left the field in the darkness of that night.
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 7:51 AM UTC
House party no contact
No glasses no lenses
Isolation got no facts
Rich in hope like them benz's
Old as **** like a bold fax
Reminiscin past tenses
Action done by the fences
Have I come I to my senses?
Need to know, ask for a census
Need my own vote call for elections
Lowkey mind-broke, I need a pension
Need to think about all this affection
****
World cold stone cold
Was told It would be like this
Aint listened to them so I fold
Now I see myself down this own road.
The me everybody used to see, erode
The me anybody could be, be sold
Sadness pull up to my corners, be shown
The one who blew y'all away be blown
Everybody leavin faster than I can say hello
People in this world so shaky like a tremolo.
People don't come and go no more.
You just save up and they go forth.
At least that's my reality
Maybe I am insanity
No sleep till 2 am
You see it visually
Can't rest till these thoughts are at ease.
Life fallin faster than dominos
This time aint as good as pizza
Not even close rate negative 10 toes
No feelings like terminator hasta la vista.
Seen a lot like a barista
More people snakes than cheetah's
Venomous like cobras.
Sad **** I got into.
Me, myself and my sorry ***
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 10:34 PM UTC
There is a history, could be called their story,
But the clouds,
To the dirt beneath,
Their finger nails,
All were lined in silver,
Or other precious metals,
Smelted with treasured memories,
Weaving silver through all,
The storms, along every cloud,
Each raindrop and teardrop too,
They labored,
In veins of mineral mines,
They smelted iron ore,
Got more troy ounces then they
Bargained for, by the millions,
Gold and silver for those linings,
Precious and semi-precious metals,
From deep holes in the ground,
To a furnace that evaporated sweat,
Under the fireproof suits, they worked hard,
Honestly while wearing protective lenses and
Not rose coloured glasses, it was a good life,
Memories and faded glory days,
Until the Company, took it away, bit by bit,
Leaving,
Flame but little glory,
To those special days,
And bygone days,
There are still a few,
Who survived modernization,
There are many more,
Whose best memory,
Is the pension,
Crew mates are gone,
Spouses are gone,
Yet the special days,
Are celebrated anyways,
In the Silver City,
That joy is almost,
Tangible, to when,
Generations of men,
Went home to their women, children
Broke bread, drink vino and shots of grappa,
Sharing day shift or afternoons,
And graveyard shifts during the boom,
Today many years later, more than 100,
Now the fireworks light the night-sky,
While figments of the past, stand shoulder,
To shoulder, with those who remain,
Shared memories of silver linings.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 1:05 AM UTC
I'm tired of writing poetry for all the desolate disgraces I see in this world. Homeless hit a peak of 2.5 million children country wide in this land of opportunity. How are you supposed to survive with no role models or daily inspiration? The lessons you cherish are when your next meal arrives, not waiting on your pension. Suspended through the thicket of all this strife, and they are the ones who are grateful day and night. The smallest hospitality does not pass through their ears while comfortable in the heat you're deciding which brand of beer to choose. Intoxicate yourself like your problems will just vanish while a little girl no more than four begs strangers for a sandwich. Then blame the victims for stealing your bits of gold, when all they wanted was a blanket to keep out of the cold.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 11:50 PM UTC
A spiral galaxy of cream in my coffee dream
The dark caffeine universe my sunrise today
A bridge between waking and sleeping again
And the morning paper’s sadistic nightmare fun.
A milky way of latte mixes with banking binge
The espresso speed of the incredulous ******
Front-page stupefied, newly poor church-mice
Await another failed pension rescue bid today.
A drip, drip, drip of freshly brewed Colombian
Aroma comfort a promise for work-less workers
Catastrophe curious seriously seeking employ
Vladimirs and Estragons still waiting for Godot.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 8:59 AM UTC
Career versus Motherhood
We live in a strange world when someone decides
our priorities that benefit the mysterious THEM, but
not what we want but told to aspire for.
In Europe the population is shrinking because
women of the middle classes want a career and that
is fine only when they realise they have been putting
off the child- bearing too long it is often late they must seek
medical help or adopt from an exotic African state.
We have got our priority wrong and we have been
conned, motherhood is more important than being
a vice president of a financial company.
Alas, the world is not like that being a housewife is
not what she get a great pension for- she should- not
risking living in poverty when old.
Housewife a title to be proud of because she carries
our common future in her womb.
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 10:43 AM UTC
When is the final round?
Conception Semesters Birth
Sit Crawl First step
Crèche Primary Secondary
Bachelors Honours Masters
Junior Senior Manager
Lust Love Family
Unemployed Gainful Pension
Plan Experience Memory
∞
When is the final round?
Field Farm Fort
Tack Gravel Tar road
Rural Remote Urban
Wood Rock Concrete jungle
Developing Established Revitalization
White Multi racial Black
Conservative Liberal Decadent
Pretoria Tshwane Tshwane Metro
∞
When is the final round?
Bushmen Dutch British
Colony Union Republic
Native Settlers Previously disadvantaged
Undiscovered Developed Commercial
Subsistence Commercial Corporation
Oppressed Equal Masters
Apartheid Democracy Socialistic rule
Logical Confused Insane
Oct 23, 2010
Oct 23, 2010 at 1:48 AM UTC
Like sugar from a shaker, snow falls on Saul the baker
delivering steamy biscuits from the shop he calls his home
to a drafty run down mansion where the princess on her pension
can be testy with her tension, hence she's living on her own.
Today he took her order, "One fresh bagel, for a quarter
'cause I haven't seen the likes of one since I left my childhood home".
Well he'd never baked a bagel, but he's not one to finagle
and wanting just to please her, finds a recipe from Rome.
And he's thinking to himself, "I must be way out of mind~
no woman's gonna want a baker's life"
but he carries deep inside his heart, the will to be a friend
hoping someday she will come around and one day be his wife.
So to win her deep affection he packs up his best confection
takes his chances on the back roads, now iced over in the storm.
Finds her waiting in the foyer with her thrifty 5 cent lawyer
complaining 'bout the day old bread and... "this bagel isn't warm!"
So..... he heats it on the fire, 'cause her heart is his desire
but she won't accept the bagel for it's not quite the right form
And he's thinking to himself, "I must be way out of mind
no woman gonna want a baker's life"
but he carries deep inside his heart, the will to be a friend
hoping someday she will come around and one day be his wife.
So he runs back to his bagel board and pounds the dough and rolls a cord
and shapes the perfect circle to a bagel lovers dream,
He boils and then he bakes it and to her mansion then he takes it
piping hot but now she wants it with churned butter from fresh cream!
Well he's starting to get antsy but he knows the farmer, Clancy
whose butter is fresh-churned and known by counties far and wide.
He heads out to the pasture and he buys what he is after
and returns to find, 'tis so unkind, the princess, she had died.
The baker in his stricken state swallows the bagel off the plate
he calls the cops, pulls out the stops and serves the day old bread.
He gives the details more than once of how he ate the evidence
and though he thought his story bought, they arrested him instead.
"Tis a likely story", was the only thing he heard
although they'd bought his baked goods, they could not buy his word.
"The Baker is a Butcher", is what the tabloid said,
"better to take your bagel cold than take it in the head."
But all was not as it appears, she owed the butcher in arrears
and when they went to check her craw they found a hunk of mutton.
It ended all without a trial, the butcher he did reconcile
and posted "Pay the butcher now and do not to be a glutton."
And Saul was thinking to himself, " I must be way out of mind",
no woman's gonna want a baker's life",
but he carried deep inside his heart the will to be a friend
and it turned rather nicely as she willed him in the end.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 8:55 PM UTC
I live in a shoe
And before you ask me any questions
Or if this a metaphor
Or try to sell me a spot in the latest **** development
Let me assure you, I most definitely live in a shoe
It is the left shoe to be exact
Worn down and some spots extra layers of duct tape
To keep out the winter cold
And when it gets icy, I have to be careful
For if I jostle it just right, the shoe can slide a couple feet
You may ask me why, when, what and how
And this is what I will say
I used to work at a school, a crossing guard in the morning
Lunch lady in the afternoon, and chaperone seeing the children off in the afternoon
And with budget cuts, my job was the first to hit the floor
And so was my pension
My retirement was limited and with no health care
It was impossible to see a doctor for my growing aches and pain
And I was left with nothing, until I came across this shoe
Abandoned and tattered, I took to fancying it up
Scrubbing it out, making it into a home
It took me a winter or two to get the insulation right
And the city has all but forgotten this area
So for now, I am safe
Before the corporate giants clamor over the countryside
Pulling up homes like weeds so they can plant their boxed in communities
I am okay in my little spot
Not long the runaways found me
In school the children always ran to me for safety, and now
Their children have found me, these lost children
We are a little family of misfits, foraging off the land
Keeping each other safe
In a world that doesn’t even care if we are alive
Mar 11, 2021
Mar 11, 2021 at 2:28 AM UTC
The green handbag,
Clutched close,
Constant companion,
Matching clothes?
Not always.
Where did you go today?
The green handbag,
Loose change,
And pension book.
Made up?
Take a look!
Where did you go today?
The green handbag,
Memory sac of
Nooks and crannies,
Papa, Grandkids,
Aunts and Grannies.
Where did you go today?
The green handbag,
Held to heart,
Perched on knees,
A medicine chest,
With pain to ease.
Where did you go today?
The green handbag,
Where did you go today?
Pointless question, Usual answer.
As ever ‘Up the Toon!’
Too soon,
Not today.
The green handbag,
Not clutched,
Nor held,
But at the foot of your bed,
A reminder of hope,
Where did you go?
Today,
The Green Handbag,
Sits at my Dad’s feet.
A monument to love,
In fading verdigris.
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 6:45 AM UTC
The best way to forget the truth is to celebrate the lie
Poppies poppies poppies POPPIES and a big brass band
sea cadets in my home town forty miles inland.
Please dont be swayed to get your feet wet dont be fodder for a war
And you will if you forget.
My mates grandads wife never got his war pension
he got shot on the wrong day
I think there was an R in the month or was it a why (Y)
there's a statue on top of our cenotaph the Angel of the Somme
thee sea cadets parade around it tiddley um pum pum
Tiddley um pum pum
Pum pum pupum
The best way to forget the truth is to forget the lie.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 6:24 AM UTC
Desire.
was, after all, the kind knife
That I used to cut you out
From your life And stick you in mine.
and
Was all I needed to take you away
To hotels and rooms only for lovers
With Secrets like ours
And
Fantasy
Tied you in ropes and allowed
Me the vicious satisfaction of quenched need.
but
Love, was never needed,
Nor wanted, while I lay apon
The beats of your breaking heart
But
It was always running down.
Allowing time in was our mistake.
Matrimony
Called you home to your husband and left me alone
Now, shivering and tangled
Low and lonely in a pension
near Vienna.
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 6:08 AM UTC
This is about my Grandparents. They got married in the 1920's . . When one didn't get divorced.
My Grandfather kept a diary, though he didn't know my Grandmother read it most days.
He believed he'd been trapped into marriage, for much of their time together and was very bitter . . He failed to see what she was all about for a very long time . . Not the easiest marriage . . This is about that.
Eiderdown Diary
In previous prose
The pages of my days
Payed homage to my . .
Crucified vows.
What I thought love .
Meant Ambition . . sold for scrap . .
Traded for a shotgun wife's,
Wed . locked . Bed . . .
White lies in kisses
A Mans need
******* two more souls
From that sanitary bed before
Work withdrew me . . .
Fridays drank frustration dry
Saturday screamed . . for Sundays relief . .
My respite found in working weeks
I drank her tears for years
Bound by habitual responses
Through disabled conversations . .
Through polite goodnights I . .
Sought Belief . . .
Yet still washed Sundays Cars
Then Pension planned retirement . .
Though Circumstance a change
My never mind Lady
Beckoned . . Persuading
The Cancer Degrading my Days away
My shadow sipped her sun
Became perfume in pages
My Eiderdown Diary
Morphine removed me
Soothed me to Bed
Time instead she said
To understand . . Then
Kissed my forehead . .
Held me dead
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 12:33 PM UTC
All the world's a *********
And all the lads and ladettes mere defecators,
Gratifying oozing exits and entrances;
And one man perforce enacts too many roles,
His acts being seven deaths. D'abord, the baby,
******** and ******* on his mummy's frock.
Then, the errant truant with his rucksack
And pock-marked wanker's face, creeping like death
Foul-trouser'dly to school. Next a teenager,
Panting like mad dog, with an oozing pustule
Dripping oe'r his girlfriend's pubics. Then a hoodie,
Full of strange oaths, and dressed up like a freak,
Lacking in honour, decency, and up for aggro,
Seeking the respect of loathsome peers
Even on the street corner. And then the adult
With bulging beer belly, and ample burgers stuff'd,
With eyes dulled by unfulfilled promises,
Mortgaged to the hilt, and indebted to Visa,
And so he wastes his life. The sixth age dawns
Before he knows it, bald futility,
With ****** in pocket, five quid a pill,
His youthful hopes well fuck'd, the world too much
For his ignorance, and his vain butch rantings
Reverting soon to teenage curses, coughs
And tobacco'd wheezings. Last we see him,
Ending a pointless and useless existence,
Clutching to his piss-stained Zimmer frame,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans pension fund.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 4:54 PM UTC
April is retirement time
Triple hot memory stream
Of months that March close behind
Febru and Janu very kind
Not far still to remember
The days of cool December
The long talks in your chamber
The sweet eves of November
Not to mention the embers
Of love that warm up members
May be rain or hay day noon
July finds an all wet June
But days come like August guests
And busy with just inquests
Time turns September Rians
forget-me not, you asters
Full of morning glory stares
You Octogenarians
All contain within a span
Of sweet memory expanse
You too collecting pension
After superannuation.
Its nice to see you colleagues
Always glad without fatigue
Chatting and pat the other
Cracking jokes on your attire
The young baby look you wear
And the nursery kid's fire.
Its all fare and just affair
One more phase to maneuver
In the course of your orbit
On face of earth to be fit
To gain and do maximal
Service to its proximal
April too is time to thank
For the net balance in bank
And set your mind on the crank
And care for fitness and fun
To re-register and run
The vehicle with new paint
Not to shuttle and to taint
Nor to settle in confine
But to scuttle along nature
To look and learn and nurture
And listen to the pristine
Wisdom from the Lord divine.
Thanks to you all who retire
And wish you keep up the fire!
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 2:17 PM UTC
Every moment, we are wasting away-
Our poor, dejected ambitions
Float empty
Atop a sea of partially sane intentions
Kept by a god
With a pension for deceit.
Tick tock,
Crazy never comes on time-
And three sneezes mean an unsuspected
Guest. Dilapidated hours
Wear thin
As they desperately reach to cover
The long, convoluted skeleton
Of youth.
Remnants of the past prevail,
Buried deep beneath
Cedar floors and $50 graveyard slots,
In all it's half attainable glory,
Strewn out across
A marble coffin,
Like heavy dice
Waiting to tumble down
Into reality.
The old bell tower,
Cracks and screeches
Her unrequited laments
To the indifferent sky-
Every evening at 5:01.
With each hollow ring,
Age seeps through our pores,
Mixing in and diluting our dreams,
Sinking down into the deepest crevice of our
Contorted being. Tick
Tock, time can only dance if there's a rhythm:
The beating of our hearts
Sounds on, vibrating off
The hollow cavity
Which should hold something
Living. Nothing's real here,
As our insignificant lives
Race each other down the dim and slippery
Hallway that is life.
Until sooner or later,
One by one,
We all lose our footing
And fall down the rabbits hole
To meet something like
Death- the only evidence that we were ever
Alive.
Hour hands reach out from their miniature sphere:
A cyclical world full of half past ten
And white empty spaces between
Vacant numbers,
Grasping our warm
Pulsing bodies,
And pulling us closer
Towards something almost like The End-
Tick tock,
Russian Roulette is only lucky
Until it's over.
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 3:27 AM UTC
I was down at the legion
Knocking back one or two
When in walked an old member
Who fought in World War Two
I got in line behind him
And when he ordered his brew
I made a signal to the barkeep
I paid for his too
He turned and said thank you
I'm on a pension as a vet
1100 dollars monthly
Is all the cash I get
I said to him "no, thank you"
I'm happy to buy your beer
I owe a lot to you
I owe you all that I hold dear
He said to me "t'was nothing"
"you would do the same"
"And I'd do it again"
"If the call ever came"
He looked round the room
And he sipped at his beer
Then he leaned in real close
So just I could hear
"Son, I'll be honest"
"And I don't make no bones'
"The kids of today"
"They just ain't got the stones"
"The stones to step forward"
"To get up and fight"
"To defend flag and country"
"To do what is right"
I said, in most cases
He'd hit the nail on the head
It's a battle at worst
To get a kid out of bed
The times are a'changing
It was different back then
It took a lot less
To turn boys into men
"A soldier's a cowboy
He's one for the books
There's not many in here
I can tell with one look"
"I just did my duty
No less and no more
War isn't a game
Where someone keeps score"
He sat back and his eyes closed
Said "the next one's on me"
"I don't drink that much
But, at most I have three"
I accepted his offer
And we talked a bit more
We talked baseball, and race cars
But not of the war
That was the past
And the past is long dead
Except for the pictures
He has in his head
I went up to the bar
And I set up an account
I would cover his tab
To a certain amount
What he did for our country
And what he did for me
Is worth a couple of beer
Or at least, each day....three
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 1:34 PM UTC
The Pension Debt of New York City rivals
the Gross Domestic Product of Bangladesh, at #59
in the world of Nations!
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 4:38 PM UTC