"stovepipe" poems
Two folded sheets of paper
were hidden in his stovepipe hat.
He mouthed the phrases with his lips
on the platform where they sat.
The air was cool and tolerable
on that remembered day.
The stench of death hung in the air
from heroes Blue and Gray.
A Doctor of Divinity intoned a simple prayer.
A local band then played.
Doctor Everett spoke two hours
In his solemn practiced way.
Only then did Lincoln rise.
His face seemed aged and somber.
I was then a child of five
standing fifteen feet yonder.
There upon the Field of battle
amidst the legion of the dead.
He did honor to their sacrifice
And the sacred cause he led.
He spoke about equality
He promised a rebirth.
Government of the people
would not perish from the earth.
That is all that I remember.
of the consecration day.
I was then a child of five,
Now I am old and Grey.
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 12:54 PM UTC
A mere illusion.
Mosaic shadowland in black and grey;
Yet in this silent world
Cottages stand, sunwashed,
Long after their demise.
Lured by the past
I wish to enter cool dark doorways;
To draw back faded curtains
And scent the wood-smoke
Within those secret walls.
Forgotten dandies
Watch from under crow-black stovepipe hats;
Memories of Waterloo
As fresh as Vietnam.
The Mutiny still unborn.
Moments after this
Stolen faded second, they turned away
Down Sheep Street to the 'Dog Inn';
For Porter and cold beef.
A clay pipe and cider.
Silent halted streets
****** back to vanished life and rural din,
The reek of horse and men
Now past recall. Lost
Moments. Gone forever.
While in her ghost garden,
Close by the gate and vanished red brick wall.
Anne Wheler, dressed in crinoline
And broad silk ribbons, keeps her
Rendezvous with my gaze.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 4:09 PM UTC
all day the weather men play at meteorology
it is about the science of change, a morphology,
where weather patterns are now living
things and their habits are hard at clue giving,
the rain drops that are fired from cannons aimed at Earth,
make the sound of soldiers charging for everything its worth,
Peace,
after the storm as night falls with thunder
and lightning flashes, steals and plunders
the shadows that ,soaked the trees, fell in pieces they dove from the sky
and those loudest of wet pellets that pop, and ricochet off metal stovepipe
chimneys,
and the wind lashes out and drags wet fingers on every window pane
and why, why
do I now crave the sound of popcorn hoping the melted butter will keep me sane!
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 11:22 PM UTC
I've seen the sky turn orange.
Last Christmas.
Going to a party
(that's all Christmas is, a party)
it was grey and purple
and all of a sudden
orange.
Brent was in the car with me
I don't remember who was driving
or if we were coming from
or going too.
But we both remember
orange.
We talk about it
its one of those odd things that we both remember and we don't know why
but every few months
I'll mention the orange fog
or he will
we were drunk
(that's what Christmas is at home)
The sky in town is always orange.
Every night
Orange sky at home.
That was special.
Oct 21, 2010
Oct 21, 2010 at 7:01 AM UTC
Two folded sheets of paper
were secreted in his stovepipe hat.
He rehearsed the phrases in his mind
on the platform where they sat.
The air was cool and tolerable
on that remembered day.
The smell of death hung in the air
from heroes Blue and Gray.
A Doctor of Divinity intoned a simple prayer.
A local band then played.
Doctor Everett spoke two hours
In his solemn practiced way.
Only then did Lincoln rise.
His face seemed sad and grey.
I was then a child of five
standing fifteen feet away.
There upon the Field of battle
amidst the legion of the death.
He did honor to their sacrifice
And the sacred cause he led.
He spoke about equality
He promised a rebirth.
Government of the people
would not perish from the earth.
That is all that I remember.
of the consecration day.
His words will live forever
Like the deeds of Blue and Gray.
Apr 20, 2013
Apr 20, 2013 at 10:08 PM UTC
The tall man placed his hat on the table by the backdoor. Rubbed his hands together to warm them from the
cold, turned the kettle into a cup that was left on the counter - sipped it and felt the warm coffee flow down his throat.
In walked Bill with his notepad in hand and pen behind his ear. He smiled at Abe and sat by the table.
"Love this hat Abraham." He chuckled.
"Well thank you kindly." Abe replied as he swept it away suspiciously. "Don't think I have disposed of the memory of the last time you complimented my stovepipe."
In came Jack laughing, "How can anyone forget that!"
"Oh great here he is 'three initial man.' Hey Jack, how are the crops shaping up?"
"Oh you should come out with me for dinner Abe, I am having dinner with three shapely crops tonight at Maxwell's Plum."
"I am fine, take this bard with you so that he can stop writing and live a bit."
"Come on Abe you act as if you are scared of the women or maybe you are just scared of the possibility of feeling a sense of that strange and alien emotion you seem to be allergic to - happiness."
"I am not a coward, gentlemen."
“A most notable coward, an infinite and endless liar, an hourly promise breaker, the owner of no one good quality.”
"Here he goes again quoting himself."
"The whole world, for over 500 years have been misquoting me or quoting me at the most inappropriate moments. Scenes of stupidity being played on stages at every second of the day. I, dear sir, have an unlimited license to quote myself at any moment."
"Always bear in mind that your own resolution to succeed, is more important than any other one thing." Lincoln responded.
"I know that...you said that in some letter to another. So now you are quoting yourself?"
"As Bill over here stated - I have been quoted, misquoted and my words contorted in order to rationalize acts of evil, acts of stupidity or acts of callousness. I may as well quote myself even if it is permissible by you three initial man."
"Jack, I don't feel like going tonight and I feel it is my choice to make."
"A man does what he must - in spite of personal consequences, in spite of obstacles and dangers and pressures - and that is the basis of all human morality."
Silence.
"What, I can't quote myself?"
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 4:13 PM UTC
He only appears in the pouring rain
When all the gutters are clogged,
I asked if anyone knew his name
They said, but my ears were blocked.
There wasn’t a thing you could hear out there
For the water, bubbling through,
The rain’s refrain in a noisy drain,
The thunder and lightning too.
You’d see his shadow on distant walls
Thrown there by a gaslight flare,
And catch the shape of his stovepipe hat
Flitting both here and there,
They say he’s waiting for dollymops
Just as they’re starting to run,
As night is chasing the day away
And rain’s blotting out the sun.
Then rumour has it, the Ripper’s back
We’re waiting for blood and gore,
We’re tense, awaiting the first attack,
For that’s what the Ripper’s for.
They say he chews on his victim’s bones
Then eats their liver and all,
The streets will fill with their awful groans
As blood will spatter a wall.
And then the sound of a horses hooves
Pulling a Landau coach,
Its wheels a-rattle on cobblestones
Just as he cuts their throats,
Perhaps he’ll lure them to take a ride
In that black, square box on wheels,
Then all that slashing goes on inside,
God knows how a razor feels.
We sit and muse in the Hemlock Inn
A dollymop on our laps,
And feed the terror they feel within
Filling in most of the gaps.
They turn to us for protection then
So we gain their favours cheap,
And keep on telling those same old tales
Til the bawds curl up, and weep.
Whenever the fog and the mist are thick
And the lamplight’s just a glow,
We make our way to the Hemlock Inn
Where the skirts are raised, you know,
Then say his shadow’s been seen again
Just to make the bawds all shriek,
‘He’s getting ready to pounce, and then…’
He’ll be there again, next week.
David Lewis Paget
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 10:23 PM UTC
Nope reforming hardened criminal donning
scarred face, manacles jailhouse stripe, et cetera
nor taming screwish incorrigible guttersnipe
ain't most difficult enterprises
entailing me to wipe
dripping sweat from my hoary brow,
neither primary tsoris,
(i.e. Yiddish, asper in woeful gripe),
but reading tome thick as stovepipe
hat, I declare constitutes most grueling task
paging thru compendium of words A thru Z
may rank less purposeful than bovine tripe.
not surprisingly causing mine gray matter
(more'n fifty shades), to wanna up and scatter
fist size shot thru unnecessarily subjected
to feel like oversaturated blatter
vehemently aggrieved mad as a hatter
to appease, boost and flatter
ever shrinking fanbase blithely bandying
faux poetic pitter patter
trumpeting expansive vocabulary
enlivened, leavened, seasoned... smatter
ring poem to expressive affinity
how bajillion combinations
twenty six letters one can splatter
casually incorporating multisyllabic
word such as sesquipedalian
less to boast more so to chatter
up food for thought perhaps...
infect reader to accrue fatter
vocabulary than mine
actually rather paltry yoke cant argue
yukon (albeit figuratively) tatter
with little effort hen even
offer as hors d'oeuvres
to this storied scribbling wildcatter.
May 23, 2019
May 23, 2019 at 3:52 PM UTC