"tamping" poems - Hello Poetry

Who is this old man sitting in the tattered old chair, Yelling French at Mad Dog Vachon, Bragging about the Crusher's capacity for beer, Chortling at the desolation of the British Bull Dogs? Smoking his cigars to their very ends in his old pipe, Spitting plug tobacco juice Mostly in the can beside us as my Grandma gags.... The French they speak to each other Should include requests for pardon.... This raving lunatic is my Grandpa Charles, And I am five and six and seven, Sitting on his lap, Believing every word the Gospel truth: Seeing Vachon as the savior of French Canada, The Bulldogs for the evil nation they proclaim, Kegs of beer as quantities strong men crush. This old Frenchman whose horse days are done, Who barely knows to sit still Though he is a passenger now, Beside my father... Knows magical tricks to stun and spell me: Pushing his teeth out with his tongue, Leaking smoke from his ears, Tamping burning coals with his thumb... An old man who refuses to be old, Who sits and raves at wrestlers on TV.

0

Mar 28, 2013

Mar 28, 2013 at 12:35 PM UTC

don-bouchard

Life with Lunatics

Who is this old man sitting in the tattered old chair, Yelling French at Mad Dog Vachon, Bragging about the Crusher's capacity for beer, Chortling at the desolation of the British Bull Dogs? Smoking his cigars to their very ends in his old pipe, Spitting plug tobacco juice Mostly in the can beside us as my Grandma gags.... The French they speak to each other Should include requests for pardon.... This raving lunatic is my Grandpa Charles, And I am five and six and seven, Sitting on his lap, Believing every word the Gospel truth: Seeing Vachon as the savior of French Canada, The Bulldogs for the evil nation they proclaim, Kegs of beer as quantities strong men crush. This old Frenchman whose horse days are done, Who barely knows to sit still Though he is a passenger now, Beside my father... Knows magical tricks to stun and spell me: Pushing his teeth out with his tongue, Leaking smoke from his ears, Tamping burning coals with his thumb... An old man who refuses to be old, Who sits and raves at wrestlers on TV.

26

When I went to bed I was 17 – plumes of raven hair and cigarette smoke wreathed my head and I coughed, tamping the embered end before kissing him goodnight - soldier’s cap a tilt to one side muscled chin blemished by lipstick as the screen door flags between us, and summer makes its last sweet serenade to the dancing aspens while momma chided my lackadaisical entrance and fairy flight to bed. At ten o clock I wake now the aspens stand still, bare, black. I look down to see withered fingers writhing in tubes, ugly blue veins, a strange woman sponging my lady parts, calling me “sweetie” like I was a child. I scream for momma, I look for him - my love, my soldier - starved for familiar faces, as panic ropes its tendoned grip through my ribcage, around my trapped spasming-butterfly heart. What have you done to me? Strangers, monsters, ******** I groan...no words come out, but squeals and shrieks like a strangling rabbit, my neck caught in a wire. What’s wrong with me? Where are you, my soldier? Where are you, momma? Why are they keeping me from you? You see…when I went to bed I was 17. When I woke, I was on my deathbed. It’s not fair, momma. If I could do it over, I... I never would have left him on the porch, I never would have passed you in the kitchen, I never would have slept not one hour not one **** minute would I have willingly succumbed to slumber with the faint hush of summer’s overtures fading to the blank slate of a white, white winter.

0

Oct 24, 2013

Oct 24, 2013 at 8:19 PM UTC

alex-apples

Fugue in A Minor

When I went to bed I was 17 – plumes of raven hair and cigarette smoke wreathed my head and I coughed, tamping the embered end before kissing him goodnight - soldier’s cap a tilt to one side muscled chin blemished by lipstick as the screen door flags between us, and summer makes its last sweet serenade to the dancing aspens while momma chided my lackadaisical entrance and fairy flight to bed. At ten o clock I wake now the aspens stand still, bare, black. I look down to see withered fingers writhing in tubes, ugly blue veins, a strange woman sponging my lady parts, calling me “sweetie” like I was a child. I scream for momma, I look for him - my love, my soldier - starved for familiar faces, as panic ropes its tendoned grip through my ribcage, around my trapped spasming-butterfly heart. What have you done to me? Strangers, monsters, ******** I groan...no words come out, but squeals and shrieks like a strangling rabbit, my neck caught in a wire. What’s wrong with me? Where are you, my soldier? Where are you, momma? Why are they keeping me from you? You see…when I went to bed I was 17. When I woke, I was on my deathbed. It’s not fair, momma. If I could do it over, I... I never would have left him on the porch, I never would have passed you in the kitchen, I never would have slept not one hour not one **** minute would I have willingly succumbed to slumber with the faint hush of summer’s overtures fading to the blank slate of a white, white winter.

56

Eastern Montana Badlands 1930s.... Coal where one found it, Scoria hills, Layered lignite Waiting near the surface. Burning lignite beds, Smoldering centuries old, Scarring and turning clay to scoria, Crumbling rock, Testimony to lightning fires Beneath the hills. Crude mines backed into cliffs, Pick and shoveled coal Free for the risky taking Heated homes. Coal caves, Low and gaping, Horizontal shafts. Wagons first, then Trucks backed in. Crowbars and picks Brought lignite ceilings Crashing in rotten shatters Mounding, sometimes burying Trucks below. My father told me How he helped Chris Ginther, Deaf coal miner, Hammer holes, Insert charges, Long fuses, trailing. Old Chris packing holes, Tamping, Tamping, Tamping... Lighting fuses, Tamping, Tamping, Tamping. My father said he'd yell "We need to go!" Old Chris Seemed never to hear, Tamping, Tamping, Tamping, Until finally... Sauntering out Before the rumbling Thump. I can see the two, Chris and my father, Just a boy, Lost in lignite clouds, Coughing.

0

Jan 28, 2022

Jan 28, 2022 at 9:21 AM UTC

don-bouchard

Lignite

Eastern Montana Badlands 1930s.... Coal where one found it, Scoria hills, Layered lignite Waiting near the surface. Burning lignite beds, Smoldering centuries old, Scarring and turning clay to scoria, Crumbling rock, Testimony to lightning fires Beneath the hills. Crude mines backed into cliffs, Pick and shoveled coal Free for the risky taking Heated homes. Coal caves, Low and gaping, Horizontal shafts. Wagons first, then Trucks backed in. Crowbars and picks Brought lignite ceilings Crashing in rotten shatters Mounding, sometimes burying Trucks below. My father told me How he helped Chris Ginther, Deaf coal miner, Hammer holes, Insert charges, Long fuses, trailing. Old Chris packing holes, Tamping, Tamping, Tamping... Lighting fuses, Tamping, Tamping, Tamping. My father said he'd yell "We need to go!" Old Chris Seemed never to hear, Tamping, Tamping, Tamping, Until finally... Sauntering out Before the rumbling Thump. I can see the two, Chris and my father, Just a boy, Lost in lignite clouds, Coughing.

56

A Cafe is breathing heavily; attended By elven baristas, fully illustrated. Tamping espresso. Baguettes soften canary yellow berets - Worn at a rakish angle, like a fascinator At The Preakness. Ethiopian fumes barricade the open door Against the effluvium of the morning - Commute… like tying a kite To a black truffle. With a blade - of grass. My hands fold space into a sweat lodge Like the scaffolding of a forgotten prayer. My chin planted at the zenith Admiring the anatomy Of an abandoned Fist. On the outskirts of a mocha. She is ineffable. With gamine eyes - Churning sunlight into green coins shimmering In tandem. Like koi in a pond. Her summer dress, a diaphanous affair. Accentuating the curvature of her Natural mischief. Clinging to peaks and valleys As they sway in obedience To hidden music… poised. In a state of perpetual Goddess. She glides… as I covet. Preaching to the choir In my ribcage. My eyes caressing the parentheses Of her stride. She is ineffable. Words fail as they are want to do In the presence of effortless elan’. She is cloaked By her own reality. Like an undertow Stuck to the heel Of her shoe. With nothing to prove.

0

Jun 3, 2018

Jun 3, 2018 at 7:52 PM UTC

third-eye-candy

She Is Ineffable

A Cafe is breathing heavily; attended By elven baristas, fully illustrated. Tamping espresso. Baguettes soften canary yellow berets - Worn at a rakish angle, like a fascinator At The Preakness. Ethiopian fumes barricade the open door Against the effluvium of the morning - Commute… like tying a kite To a black truffle. With a blade - of grass. My hands fold space into a sweat lodge Like the scaffolding of a forgotten prayer. My chin planted at the zenith Admiring the anatomy Of an abandoned Fist. On the outskirts of a mocha. She is ineffable. With gamine eyes - Churning sunlight into green coins shimmering In tandem. Like koi in a pond. Her summer dress, a diaphanous affair. Accentuating the curvature of her Natural mischief. Clinging to peaks and valleys As they sway in obedience To hidden music… poised. In a state of perpetual Goddess. She glides… as I covet. Preaching to the choir In my ribcage. My eyes caressing the parentheses Of her stride. She is ineffable. Words fail as they are want to do In the presence of effortless elan’. She is cloaked By her own reality. Like an undertow Stuck to the heel Of her shoe. With nothing to prove.

37

Veiled by Michael R. Burch She has belief without comprehension and in her crutchwork shack she is much like us ... tamping the bread into edible forms, regarding her children at play with something akin to relief ... ignoring the towers ablaze in the distance because they are not revelations but things of glass, easily shattered ... and if you were to ask her, she might say— sometimes God visits his wrath upon an impious nation for its leaders’ sins, and we might agree: seeing her mutilations. Originally published by Poetry SuperHighway. Keywords/Tags: veil, veiled, religion, faith, belief, mothers, children, war, God, wrath, destruction, violence, Armageddon, Apocalypse, end times, last days, judgment day

0

Apr 16, 2020

Apr 16, 2020 at 1:00 AM UTC

michael-r-burch

Veiled

Veiled by Michael R. Burch She has belief without comprehension and in her crutchwork shack she is much like us ... tamping the bread into edible forms, regarding her children at play with something akin to relief ... ignoring the towers ablaze in the distance because they are not revelations but things of glass, easily shattered ... and if you were to ask her, she might say— sometimes God visits his wrath upon an impious nation for its leaders’ sins, and we might agree: seeing her mutilations. Originally published by Poetry SuperHighway. Keywords/Tags: veil, veiled, religion, faith, belief, mothers, children, war, God, wrath, destruction, violence, Armageddon, Apocalypse, end times, last days, judgment day

25

Cold blue steel lying all alone in the dark. Begging and pleading, pleading and begging to help. Staring at the lonely soul. Unrelenting gazes, silently screaming, calling out by pain. Promising peace and serenity. A single thought of calmness overtakes the dungeon. Closing eyes, visions of days gone by. Thunderous hooves tamping out a rhythmic thump thump, thump thump. Silence mocked by staggering, pulsated breaths. Cheeks washed clean by the salty flow. Bitter taste, unforgettable memories linger on. The cold indentation sends a chill down the spine. Storms echo in the distance warmth overtakes. Once, stoic chimney now toppling to the earth below. Curtains fluffing, dust scattered with the breeze. How will they remember the gentle heart? If only they had been a part. Empty chair, multitude of flowers despair. Did love die or get scattered across the sky? How will they remember the gentle heart? What a glorious symbol of art.

0

Feb 26, 2018

Feb 26, 2018 at 9:59 PM UTC

marty-2

Cold Blue Steel

Cold blue steel lying all alone in the dark. Begging and pleading, pleading and begging to help. Staring at the lonely soul. Unrelenting gazes, silently screaming, calling out by pain. Promising peace and serenity. A single thought of calmness overtakes the dungeon. Closing eyes, visions of days gone by. Thunderous hooves tamping out a rhythmic thump thump, thump thump. Silence mocked by staggering, pulsated breaths. Cheeks washed clean by the salty flow. Bitter taste, unforgettable memories linger on. The cold indentation sends a chill down the spine. Storms echo in the distance warmth overtakes. Once, stoic chimney now toppling to the earth below. Curtains fluffing, dust scattered with the breeze. How will they remember the gentle heart? If only they had been a part. Empty chair, multitude of flowers despair. Did love die or get scattered across the sky? How will they remember the gentle heart? What a glorious symbol of art.

1