"pumpernickel" poems
Punk Sandwich
there he is walking down the street
slicked back hair and a thin mustache
high rise collar on his button down shirt
sparkle in his eye and always talkin trash
he loved his Italian beef on pumpernickel rye
he loved his mama and his brothers too
he wasn't your ordinary everyday punk
there was more and you knew he knew
fear for him does not exist or so he claims
quicker than a bolting flash of light
behind you with a jagged edge of blade
he is no one to challenge to a fight
he has connections to all the right ones
the ones you need to know for security
or to make some annoyance disappear
his word is golden shinning with a purety
a perfect friend intelligent curteous and brave
but these can all change to weapons of death
if you are so disposed to challange his way
it just might be your very last breath
after dropping you in a pool of disguise
he will tip his fadora with playful grace
back on his brow and cigarella between his lips
and that same old smirk upon his face
Gomer LePoet...
Sep 3, 2011
Sep 3, 2011 at 8:23 AM UTC
I woke from the deepest of daydreams,
my eyes focusing after being long glazed over.
It’s late in the afternoon-- the light pours through the window—
it draws across above my left shoulder.
The tea kettle whistles
like a freight train in the background.
She’s in the kitchen, but I can easily see
her veiny hands dropping the Earl Grey tea ball
into the scolding water.
—her hands, like old softly crumpled white paper.
The same routine, every day since
great granddad passed in 1961.
Rock forward, rock backward.
What time could it be? Was I out for long?
Fresh cut grass, the familiar smell of lawn and moth ball
I so readily identify with this old Victorian house built by my family.
Evermore, the scent of kerosene dances
with the freshness of bologna and tomato sandwiches
on lightly toasted pumpernickel bread.
Where’s that 1000 piece puzzle with kittens in a basket?
Long gone?
I guess it’s been over a decade since me and my sister
last conquered that puzzle and strategically placed
connected and sectioned chunks
back in the box for easy assemblage on future rainy days.
Rock forward, rock backward.
Her first step from kitchen tile to wood planks
sets off a chain reaction of creeks and moans
that only wood of this age and wear can produce.
She enters the sitting room, puts the tea tray atop
the white baby grand piano: “tea time, honey,”
she whispers with a crooked smile and sad eyes.
Rock forward, rock backward.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 11:55 PM UTC
1) help endures even the worst pumpernickel shortbread ***** but understanding outweighs that of the pessimistic drug lords squatting in **** ridden sandlots.
2) compassion is for the virtuistic harlequins.
3) underestimating the estimatable is the idea, even under a load of unsettling emotions. just hoard them in your fannypack.
4)the *** next door may make your head spin, and the typewriter might make your nails crack. but, beyond all of that, there lies an undisclosed truth. one that neither the walls nor the space bar underneath your thumb will ever know:
I am here, and this is now.
Jul 1, 2012
Jul 1, 2012 at 10:20 AM UTC
I'm so bored with winter
Waiting for the thaw
That I spread mayonnaise on the ceiling
And Parkay on the walls
Chicken salad on the chandelier
Tuna on the couch
A sprinkle of some bacon bits
Straight out of the pouch
Grape jelly on the door jams
Peanut butter in the locks
We'll have them eating out of our hands
Like a Canadian Mayor smoking rock
(but only when he's drunk)
Pickle relish in the picture frames
Nutella smeared into the floor
A half a pound of hard salami
Nailed onto the door
A call down to the bakery
Order up some pumpernickel
Slap it on the outside
With the house fixins in the middle
Here you have our special
What you taste you'll soon find out
Welcome to Mike & Savannah's
Famous Sandwich House
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 5:28 PM UTC
Punk Sandwich
there he is walking down the street
slicked back hair and a thin mustache
high rise collar on his button down shirt
sparkle in his eye and always talkin trash
he loved his Italian beef on pumpernickel rye
he loved his mama and his brothers too
he wasn't your ordinary everyday punk
there was so much more and you knew he knew
fear for him does not exist or so he claims
quicker than a bolting flash of light
behind you with a jagged edge of blade
he is no one to challenge to a fight
he has connections to all the right ones
the ones you need to know for security
or to make some annoyance disappear
his word is golden shinning with a purity
a perfect friend intelligent courteous and brave
but these can all change to weapons of death
if you are so disposed to challenge his way
it just might be your very last breath
after dropping you in a pool of disguise
he will tip his fedora with playful grace
back on his brow and cigarillo between his lips
and that same old smirk upon his face
Gomer LePoet...
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 11:53 AM UTC
With nine iron rods
We held the gods
Balanced over jam jars
Then with nine iron bars
We broke those jars
And kissed the gleaming
Crystal knives left behind
Later we spead
Their essences on pumpernickel bread
We were glad when their folly
At last rested in our bellies
In the confusion
Of our purpled splintered mouths
We smiled
Jan 26, 2012
Jan 26, 2012 at 2:38 AM UTC
There was egg salad in the fridge,
half a container of that store bought,
neon-green guacamole that nobody else
likes but me,
tortilla chips too.
So, we sat together and ate
this hodgepodge lunch,
the dog and I.
She never once complained
that there were no crackers
or a few pieces of soft, white
or even dark, crusty
pumpernickel bread.
We thought about whatever
it was that we thought about
while we chewed thoughtfully.
I looked up the word: tincture
in the dictionary that I keep in my
office,
right off the kitchen.
A friend of mine had used the word
in correspondence, and I was rather
embarrassed that I’d not known what
it meant.
But,
I found that embarrassment wanes
when one is scraping the last few globs
of guacamole out of the container with
one’s finger and is saddened because
the accompanying tortilla chips have
been reduced to crumbs.
The dog wasn’t embarrassed of me.
She was busy cleaning the remnants
of egg salad from the inside of the
old butter dished I’d packed it away
in.
I’d already packed what had been enough
for a decent sandwich away in my guts
using tortilla-chip spoons,
doing my best not to ***** more
silverware than I had to.
The hour was almost up;
I had to be back at the office
in about 15 minutes.
We,
the dog and I,
took this small measure of time
as an opportunity to listen to a
couple of songs…
one by Iron Maiden.
the other by John Coltrane.
While the discs spun,
the dog wiped any excess
egg salad or tortilla chip crumbs
from her muzzle
onto
the living room carpet,
by sliding around
on her face.
It was funny to watch.
I’ll have to be sure and not
tell Angela about it.
Soon enough,
it’s once more around the yard
dear doggie,
a Marlboro for me,
another few hours at the office,
little friend,
and I’ll sail back home
to thee.
***
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2019
Mar 29, 2019
Mar 29, 2019 at 5:32 PM UTC
That sultry buttery edge of iron skillet toasted Pumpernickel toast
Lavished over the tongue
No words to fully explain how buttery bread taste just like a type of meat you've never experienced
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 11:14 PM UTC
oh, are you scared to be a little
pumpernickel buttocks readied to be baked?
mm, mm hmm, i bet you
are... i bet you have gingerbread legs
readied for a sprint, that will only
add the necessary crunch: like blueberry
jam in a muffin, toothpick blues
of disuse when the fingers are licked.
huh?! when was baking synonymous with horror?
should i send for the psychiatric paramedics?
you're talking spaghetti helter skelter!
will that be a salad entrée too? i know you're
sensitive, ask your daddy's daddy why he's
censoring right-wing politics and i'll just say this:
use the rhubarb and make the ******* crumble!
because we have psychiatric "specialists" running
around without censors, educated in something
else, resorting to feeding their self-esteem with
vague knowledge of psychology, and they're not
even considered mad... they're the mad ones...
they think all philosophical prose is a crossword
undecipherable jumble!
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 7:58 PM UTC
i am the king of insects,
he said, he says,
he continues
a conversation
he started but dropped
he starts, he stops
this conversation,
it’s ongoing,
it went, it goes on,
he goes on with it
to the fine veins of a tattered brown
leaf, he doesn't know
leaves, but he’d guess this one is
from an elm, he guessed it, he guesses
it became, it’s become
plastered to the window with a glue,
this glue called rainwater, he calls it
rainwater, and it was,
it is a glue, with the winter air,
stronger than paste,
much stronger,
it wouldn't,
it shouldn't
hasten anywhere, so he picks up
where he left off, he leaves off
after long pauses,
no,
no, not the king, per se,
but they flock to me,
not like they'd flock
to a living leaf, or a wayward crumb
of pumpernickel, but they come
seeking
something,
I said I was a king,
not a wise man,
though wise enough,
and he paused,
and he pauses,
but he can't continue,
he tries
but not with a glue that's dried
and a leaf that’s slipped,
it dries, the glue,
and the leaf slips,
it slips and floats down,
down to the gutters
filled with so many browns,
when it hears it,
it has heard it,
enough
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 9:15 AM UTC
A daily tradition , toasted pumpernickel bread and black coffee ...
From my favorite view , looking South across the front yard , on a Maple rocker . My rightful place I wonder ? What gifts will today bring ? What role will I play and when ? Time is precious one day , painful the next ! Mornings filled with peace , contentment . Afternoons with fear , resentment ..Clocks are quite loud when alone ! My chair vibrates across the wooden floor , echoing down the hallway . A picturesque morning , Pileated woodpecker , familiar call of Bobwhite Quail . Looking for me ? I'm unable to meet anyone today ! The child is afraid to come out and play .. Maybe tomorrow or the next ! Sometime this Fall if able , Thanksgiving , Christmas or wait until Spring ! I never know what the next day might bring ! Pull venetian blinds closed , finish my cup of coffee , commit my morning to prose , music and song ? What does it take to belong ?
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC
It’s that time of year again...
When family and friends gather together..
To share and give thanks for all that they treasure..
The young and the old, the tall and the small..
The Vegans and the Carnivores, come one come all...
There are dishes of tradition, like Turkey and stuffing..
Mashed potatoes, gravy, and cranberry muffins..
Green Bean casserole, and corn soufflé...
Are just some of the dishes of the day....
And of course a relish tray to take off the edge...
With that awesome Spinach dip in Pumpernickel bread...
So many desserts at this time of year...
But the favorite of all , synonymous of the Fall..
Is that Jack’O ‘Lantern, Orange Gourd.....
known as Pumpkin Pie...
As the children play a game of touch football...
Something that is 24-7 on this day in Fall..
As Grandpa sits in the afternoon sun...
Remembering back ..when he was young...
Then the words of “ Let’s eat “ fills the air...
And everyone sits down in their chair..
Who wants the first slice ? Dark meat or White ?
Grandpa asks...then proceeds to take the first bite..
Everyone fills their plate, till it can’t hold no more...
Yet some still go back, for more and more....
Finally everyone is full...can’t eat another bite..
Till the smell of fresh coffee brings on a plight...
Aahh dessert ..and the best part of all....
“ PUMPKIN PIE “ !!!! ....It appears was a” Majority Call “...
This is “ MY “ favorite time of the year....
When you mention MY name, everyone gives a cheer
So without further adieu ...Grandpa picks up the knife...
As I am the “ MAJORITY CALL “ and received the first slice.....
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 4:10 PM UTC
*Cherry , huckleberry , and peach Indian summer bouquets
glide across honey- brown sugar loam
They rattle , crackle and dance at the cue of fragrant ambergris winds , gather in splendid sheltered havens , attending by cackling red-winged mavens
Sing to me airborne madrigals , Cooper angels , Pileated conductors of the oakwood , choreographed lapping lakesides , the scrub of White Pines
Land of the pumpernickel shadows , of cinnamon needle carpet
cast adrift in the very breath of artist , lover and songster* ..
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 4:20 PM UTC
(
•
)
~~~~~ ~~~~~
FREE
:::
Truth lingers
--
You can have it
If you want
•
•
Solitary
--
In sacred fields
--
You can be the one
••
ENOUGH !
--
**** stinks
///
AMERICA
••
We go here
We go there
We go to work
We come home
••
FREE
:::
The little child crying
•
Hey here comes
The PROZAC dealer
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 3:15 PM UTC
At two sixty three on a union street
They ain't afraid of no killer
They'll just shove 'em in their pipe
and smoke him up like backy
They break the neck of a pup/pussycat
Just to try to scare you
They're mendacious mothers/mendicants
You can't ignore their ignorance
Even a sponge has a right to think
The pumpernickel president Hooligans
of the world unite, inherit the wind tonight
Lethal teenagers spread their aids
Interstate Highway Poet off of exit 16A
Here yee Hear ye
Step right up to the minstrel show
We've got your medicine right here
Whatever you need we're giving away
Whatever you want just don't be greedy
Take all you want but, it won't be free
Just say you need be ten thousand, a million
A trillion or more, who could put a limit on this
Go 'head now take a sip
Ain't that good fer ya/ ain't that swell
Mighty fine medicine
Mighty fine medicine
Don't forget your change
Moonlit Minstrel Dancing madness at the
New Millennium Medicine Show
You can't be on the Redding when you drive the B&O;
Heart and run away/Forget
I guess it's not your fault you're you
Look back but, the label stays
the one that I esquired to you
Cops in Vegas teaching drugs to children, 1963
Accuse me of blame with their askance
le seul inform'e! Here I am
I saw white poppies grow at SHAPE
War is used to make debt e. pound
To hate what people love is to offend human nature
The villion shot 'em down Francois
Piero Mazda has no fear his Kumrad
Koba's over here Now fix
John Adams, Jeff., and Lincoln
These men are a really awfully stinking
They won't take gifts/ They want to earn it
Take what they steal; pretend it has value
They drink their way into a bible
Did that one line make me enviable?
Come on someone try to fix it
Malia needs her tap, tax dances
The suffering has got to end
For EVERYONE my lonely friend
WE/ALL have got the power
Here, in seventeenth century France
I always try to give you choices dear mao tse
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 9:46 AM UTC
*Good black coffee , toasted pumpernickel bread and mushroom soup
have stoked the imagination of this writer on many afternoons*
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 9:41 PM UTC
I went out sailing on Sandwich Sea
With my motley crew of make beliefs
In a boat of pumpernickel with masts of cheese
Mustarding our courage in a spreadable breeze
We watched peanut butter jelly fish swimming by
Along with a school of tuna fish on rye
But it was the salmon egg salad that caught my eye
When a storm of salt and pepper rained from the sky
Waves of mayonnaise tossed us to and fro
Thinking we might sink in our breaded boat
Saved by a 12 inch sub that surfaced on that note
Helping the boys and me to stay afloat
As they lettuce out of danger and set us free
No one spreading joy was happier than me
With my motley crew of misfit make beliefs
Sailing the high cheese out on Sandwich Sea
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 9:17 AM UTC
Lima beans.
Canned asparagus.
Polished stones.
Lint I've collected from the dryer in my home for the last month or so.
Wheat pennies.
Buffalo nickels.
Loaves of pumpernickel bread.
Bone-handled pocket knives.
Names of those whom my family have loved,
buried,
long dead.
Most of these things,
I’ve no problem with.
Some I remember fondly,
some I collect,
some I eat,
others don’t really matter at all.
We enjoy the things that we enjoy.
While we’re here,
we do our best.
Most everything else is insignificant,
of little consequence in our lives.
Certainly less so, than our children,
ourselves, neighbors,
our friends,
our husbands,
or
our wives.
Why then, dear ones,
do we natter and fret so much?
We hem and haw,
wring our hands
stressing over things like
lunch,
a mask,
or
inequality in society,
usually blaming
The Orangutan currently occupying
The Oval Office;
certainly occupying more
than his fair share of our
collective consciousness.
We’ve forgotten how to forget,
how to let it go, doing the best
that we are able,
where we are,
with what we have.
We must remember
ourselves,
our values,
our votes.
Because,
apathy
or laziness
lost 2016
for all of us,
whether we believe it
or not.
So,
I plan to remember,
emphatically,
unequivocally,
unimpeachably,
who I am,
where I come from,
what matters to me more
than anything else.
One
One
Zero
Three
The year,
two-thousand
twenty.
You are you.
I am I.
We are we.
History,
our legacy,
our democracy,
our liberty
is at stake.
These reside
in our hands always,
being more important than
canned asparagus,
polished stones,
or
a pocketful of wheat pennies.
Specifically,
especially so,
on
eleven-three-twenty-twenty.
***
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2020
Nov 2, 2020
Nov 2, 2020 at 5:56 PM UTC