"sinclair" poems
Some people have a jungle mentality.
They say if we lived in the jungle
the strong would dominate the weak.
But this isn’t a jungle
it’s so far from the jungle it’s impossible to say
exactly who the strong and the weak are
when there are so many variables
and the society we live in
dictates the skills and attributes we acquire.
Yet some people try to turn society into the jungle
because they think they’d thrive there
but their jungle doesn’t have trees
it has chimpanzees cut off at the knees
nor does it have a sustainable ecosystem
it has concrete walls and steel bars
where they beat the small and leach the large.
The ape beating its chest the hardest
hoards all the bananas
while its shrewdness starves.
The only jungle it resembles is Upton Sinclair’s
but before that jungle can be realized
they have to plant the jungle mentality in our minds.
Jul 9, 2020
Jul 9, 2020 at 8:55 AM UTC
I remember Buffalo-
Amherst actually, but the suburb not the college town
My nephew lives in Amherst
But the college town not the suburb
My grandmother lived in Buffalo
Amherst really
and my dad too
My grandfather died there, before I was born
We never said we were going to Amherst
We said Buffalo
Like someone from Los Alamitos might say
they were from Los Angeles
But Buffalo was where grandmother was
But not the fun one
The fun one lived in Gloversville
Which is near Amsterdam, my mom used to tell us it was Amstergosh
Still, Amherst had soft boiled eggs for breakfast
a giant oriental rug on which a small boy could play
but just with his Matchbox cars
and a blow-up Sinclair dinosaur
There was the garage with doors at both ends
Perfect for hiding a car
From brothers-in-law
On a wedding day
There was the giant Chrysler
light green as I recall
In the driveway past which the neighbors lived
with their iced tea with mint and lemon
There were Uncle John and aunt Mimi
Who were like my great uncle and aunt
Except they weren't
Just really close family friends
Uncle John was the one who told me at the age of five
"Always tell a woman you need to leave an hour before you actually have to leave"
We were waiting for Mimi to "get ready" so we could go somewhere
She was taking forever
I do remember Buffalo
Amherst really
But I know there is so much more
that I've forgotten
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 11:17 AM UTC
I rode to the cemetery,
this Sunday morning.
I chained my bike to
the last log of the labyrinth.
I danced softly in the
center.
I walked up that hill,
while cars passed for
a burial service.
I wondered if I was rude,
not dressed like everyone
else, dressed in black.
I was afraid they could
tell, that I was looking
for names.
I hated feeling watched.
Even earlier when
I sat at the bar
of a diner for breakfast.
I kept to myself,
smiled to strangers,
so they knew that I
was friendly.
Could they tell that
I was hurting?
Could they sense
my quench of
thirst?
As I look too see,
and raise my head,
the corn rows are
to the right.
To the left,
a distant barn pillar.
The last time I felt
this way was six months
ago, or so.
In the month of April,
the Spring breeze
was there the ease my head.
I slept in the sunshine at
the top of the graveyard hill.
There next to me, a gentle,
wandering soul.
As I look to my right again,
barbed-wires keep
me from the corn.
This bench that I rest my body on,
engraved where my langley-legs
drape the edge,
"KEEP SEARCHING FOR A HEART OF GOLD."
In a handwriting that was too
familiar.
This shoots my compass magnet
North, South, East, and West.
19 years later, an Autumn
Breeze sways my way.
Sometimes the sun sets
when I am restless.
Other times, I will not rest
until the sun rises.
When I saw the name Ripley,
to the right was Bliss.
Behind the bush of pink flowers,
a rose bush I could only hope,
I did see the name Shannon.
I saw Melvin near Cahill.
I saw Hutchins, Tobin, and
Soloman.
I saw Thomas, Owen, Jones,
Donahue, and Roberts.
I searched for the names
that called to me.
They thanked me, they
apologized, and I did
likewise.
I searched for a name
like mine, and then
fell in love with the name I
was given.
As the burial service continued,
I followed the bits of grass-path
and gravel road, back towards
the labyrinth.
I am fire,
here to shine,
here to give warmth
to those who need it.
And one day, I too,
shall burn to ashes.
If they must, they might
try to simmer the flame.
Colorado forest fires
are a natural way to give
the Rockies a chance
to resurface.
And yes, my eyes have traveled
from stars to soil,
and now my eyes are set towards the
Himalayan, East.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 3:50 PM UTC
The floor is cracked and faded,
The map is nearly gone.
The stained glass roof has shattered
Now, fifty years gone down.
The fountains at the Unisphere,
spray glowing in the dark.
Remembering the Flushing fair
in Flushing meadow park.
In the Vatican Pavilion
The Pieta was on display.
In the Carousel of Progress
The automatons sang and played.
I had a plastic brontosaur
From Sinclair, I recall.
Puppets used to dance and sing
“It’s a small world after all.”
The displays and the pavilions
Now are, mostly, gone.
Just the Stainless Unisphere
recalls that hopeful dawn.
We walked Tomorrow’s though fares
Whose horrors weren’t shown.
Then I was but a little child-
Now fifty years gone down.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 10:12 PM UTC
Take my hand
So I can show you my past
I was a trader
I traded people's desires
With the idea of feeling liked
My ego was stroked
Every time I would collect my clothes
I set sail to what it would feel like to love
Not have to stumble at sunrise
Looking for my shoe
The devil put his ear to the door
And I drove in.
Through the fire and ice
Gracing my face with the thought of leaving it behind
Yes you should do the trick
The way you pick your words
that lick off of my weak ability to keep a relationship
I wish she could know
She separates me with the wall she writes on her laptop
I wish she could just tell
Yet this wall separates me from the red eyes I created
The devil is looking through the keyhole
It's raining memories outside
I hope it doesn't scare you
Watch out if you don't have a coat
You will get the cold
From my cold cold heart
The bags which caresses my irises
Watch the memories run down the window
I hope she liked those flowers
I hope she can forget
The kisses that stain her from the Sinclair
Im sorry but I cannot dance with you anymore
My date would get jealous
And I have been exiled to this ballroom
The devil grabs my shoulder
We begin to dance to the mistakes echoed on the mic
The crying
The whaling
That similar tune
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 8:32 PM UTC
"Donald, you are learning fast.
Let's see what tomorrow brings.
Excuse me for a minute while
I adjust the puppet strings….
"Fooling the public is a must.
Listening to me will ease your fears.
I have been duping people
All over the world for many years.
"You are learning in leaps and bounds.
Sometimes I even think you're smart.
Calling the press the enemy
Is a wonderful way to start.
"Controlling the media is a must.
Your tweets are useful memoranda.
Your Sinclair Group and Fox News
Can help you spread your propaganda.
"It's very important to keep up the lies.
Let your admin team transmit them.
They will ride roughshod over
The people; they won't know what hit them.
"When your attacks on the FBI
And DOJ are intensified,
I can't help admitting that
I get all tingly inside.
"Of course, one thing that makes
It easy for you to break the rules
Is the fact that many of your
Republican members of Congress are fools.
"You also must remember that NATO
Countries are your REAL foes.
When you trash them, I say to myself,
'Donald's hit it on the nose.'
"Oh, about those deals you mentioned...
Well, we can discuss them later.
We appreciate all you're doing
To help us make Russia greater.
"Don't forget: When people mention
Subjects that for you are taboo,
Just stop and ask yourself,
'What would Vladimir Putin do?'"
-by Bob B (7-17-18)
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 9:45 AM UTC
I remember a time sincere
the bobs were out and a song would play, maybe by Sinclair
Our eyes were wide open, we could see clear
A time out of time when we were golden
hoping and folding our best until we were chosen
It was not money that charmed but genuine being which was the token
Many who wouldn't see and couldn't be their true identity felt broken
And then as at and of magic, the fake was spoken
many were left suffering and choking
Messages from the heart were the the only letters posted
Equal in being and of humanity conversations were potent and all were anointed
Soul was soul and not the image ego will have you know
Weavers so and so in solace did so sow and the renaissance of art was sworn
In deed and in might we proved to be forthright
but under tyranny and darkness we are forced to fight for rights
In a picture coloured with light and glamour, the sparks are inspected for brightness
and as such a defence is born for each one to defend their race
and in a fray for pace we erase the trace that signifies that we are of one face
But we are divided and chauvinism is the sad case
sad case as a box for holding sickening syrups of mission debase
Clustered and gathered in classrooms, we are made to debate
debate issues we all agree on so our fate becomes hate
and not an objective of soul relate
many will know you for your demeanour
some will know you for your humour
or lack of
some will know you for your friendliness
or lack of
others for your humility
or lack of
and others, for the most part, your personality
But very few, 'cherished if in view', will know you for your soul
Very few will know you for your heart
Very few will see and appreciate you as Divinity's work of art
The limited number will acknowledge your character
If you are blessed to meet these twin souls
embrace and do not let go
for many know the person as flashed by camera, few identify the purity so glamorous.
The person of the soul
not the image many are quick to steal and conceal beneath all things dark and useless and then use to deal
*the one thing they would try to eradicate but cannot: the sole of the soul, the center of the heart, the link to eternity.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 8:24 AM UTC
harvest song
for early pebbles
on talons of bloom
Feb 3, 2021
Feb 3, 2021 at 7:30 AM UTC
Let me tell you a story that’s told, a place that’s dark and filled with brimstone
A place that can feel hot or cold, a place where brightness can unfold
Where men abroad are worn thin, some seem to think about little else, but skin
And as they walk their walk and talk their talk what they truly want passes like a gust of wind
The body and mind are acutely fixed, they lose their footing, they’re crossed and tricked
Head strong yet clumsy, tempered like an iron bar, these men will tell you what they think from afar
No real who’s, what’s, where’s or know how, their tongue trebles, it declares, without care or clarity, it cracks like a snare
Preaching strong and wide and broad like the big churches of St. Sinclair singing songs throughout outdated speakers, oh god
The opinions of shepherds are often the rumors of sheep, trapped in gossip like the bonds of viral news excused for tweets
They wear it on their arms and nationalize their pride all while being humble, they claim, but knows not who it harms
They make a point to point fingers for points overwhelmed with the poignant denial they pass off as practical
Cracking irony with their minds white washed from the wash and their thumbs I mistake for calloused ******
This human condition we oft’ know well, is dying right under our nose
Medicine won’t help those who are only concerned with what happens above or below
Jul 16, 2019
Jul 16, 2019 at 1:01 PM UTC
cuando en Toledo Ohio andrew sinclair
empezó a caminar sobre el mundo
dijo "esto es así" y no lloró
pensó lo verde de la época
acostó la cabeza en los pechos maternos como fatigado de pronto
por tanta comprobación
los pechos daban flores de leche que caían al piso
y calentaban la memoria
ahora que andrew sinclair es grande
andrew sinclair es grande o es triste
con candelas encendidas pasó lo bajo de la noche
¡oh corazón ardiente hecho pedazos!
los fue sembrando como fieras o furias
¿pero andrew sinclair está aquí?
¿todavía hace sonar su tristeza como un terrible cañón?
¿no caza pajaritos?
¿anda por ahí andrew sinclair?
en la mitad de su memoria la mamá está de pie
dándole de comer a las gallinas o lavando los platos
con manos lentas bellas grises
que daban brillo como el sol
y abrigaban al andrew sinclair ¡ah caminante!
los demonios del valle le comieron los pies
pero él se inclinaba bajo el sol
brillando como madre
los demonios tiene dos cuernos en la cabeza y pelos en los pies
y echan llamas por la boca y el culo
se comen los ratones sin pelar
bailan como gitanos se beben de un trago medio balde de agua
pero andrew sinclair no
él tiene un joven corazón
lleno de islas con tigres y garzas
bellísimo bellísimo
abajo de andrew sinclair había un río
y más abajo un sol
y debajo la noche
para nosotros dos
468
Beware the Sinclair Broadcast Group,
Where needed attention to truth is skipped.
Anchors from all across the country
Have to read the very same script.
Harmless? Well, that's what you think.
The trouble is problems arise
When the news stations are forced
To spread to millions the president's lies.
What should be an anathema to
A free society happens to be
A broadcasting system that is
The next best thing to state-run TV.
Here's the major emphasis:
Coordinate presentations.
The Group cunningly sets out
To brainwash viewers of local stations.
The wise, of course, see through all
The blatant deception, but many don't
See through the crafty propaganda
Machine--either they CAN'T or WON'T.
Woe is us if our news system
Imitates Putin's, and so
Beware the Sinclair Broadcast Group.
Reject the dangerous puppet show.
-by Bob B (2-12-19)
Feb 12, 2019
Feb 12, 2019 at 12:45 PM UTC
You make me feel unwanted.
I wonder if maybe it’s my fault::
Did my silence make you leave?
Did I bore you with my wrongly
timed lack of energy?
I question my value.
Am I just not good enough for you?
You send signals I perceived as mixed.
You’re too kind to be a random passerby
Your blueberry eyes lock with mine for too long to be a courteous habit of life.
You don’t really compliment that often do you?
The hardest to dismiss is the week we met.
The proximity for prolonged time,
The warmth from how close our bodies were set.
Maybe I’m just mad of cabin fever,
Too long to distinguish hopefully wishing from an interested soul.
Sep 22, 2019
Sep 22, 2019 at 6:32 AM UTC
her tapes wouldn't play
but nonetheless
i love her
of time, when our souls
touched at that sinclair
gas station
blue airhead
cheeto socks
and while i daydream
she pays close observance
to me and my taste
and blows balloons
and
tapes green, orange streamers
to the ceiling
while i, distracted
**** on strawberries
i am 22 today
Jan 20, 2021
Jan 20, 2021 at 12:03 AM UTC