"townsfolk" poems
seductive decay
on summer days we
rode down the river in our ripe age,
careless if the rapids swept us
into their deadly dustpans,
the black hole of water,
the possibility aroused us,
perhaps because it seemed so far away.
and next to the river,
the appalachian townsfolk wandered the deep grass, they
gathered here to see the circling folding-tables,
buy the spread of goods,
the goods are masks.
the masks are of old folks’ faces,
cartoon-like, goofy comic characters in the funny pages.
masks of rubbered wrinkles, permanent,
bulging eyes, whiskered ears that never stop growing, with
an elastic band, you can become an elder.
old age attracts the crowds,
i have a fascination with it myself,
picturing all the stories that have
taken elders to the present,
it’s hard to fake being wise
when you’re forced to think for years.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 11:36 PM UTC
Open bramble gate, morning lets itself in,
eyes open in welcome. Water stirs – a
glance outside. A jade tiger rises,
blue herons fly to South Mountain.
~~~
Forage through herb abundance on South
Mountain sunlight pooled in cassia leaves.
It’s why you reclused here, hermitage entwined
in viridian mists. I find your footprints
headed to the clouds, so I leave this
poem on your wall and on a whim
ascend South Mountain ridges. Sticks
snap underfoot – blue herons startle away.
~~~
Boundless and empty to townsfolk,
South Mountain peaks. But here
immortals dance among indomitable pines.
Above the sun blue herons fly into
paper crumpled clouds – clouds the body,
clouds the wings. Sonorous bird song -
radiant clarity – makes mountain forests
sing, each beat moves the clouds, red
dust cleared from rivers and peaks,
ochre streams flood forests and fields,
canyons and gorges, jades and emeralds rise.
Petals scatter on crystalline swells, night
lengthens slowly – coldness wanders by
but I will linger here, a little longer.
Version 2
South Mountain peaks, boundless and empty to townsfolk.
But here immortals dance among indomitable pines.
Above the sun blue herons fly into paper folded clouds
- azure heaven change – clouds the body, clouds the wings.
Sonorous bird song radiant clarity – makes mountain forest sing,
each beat moves the clouds, red dust cleared from rivers
and peaks, ochre streams flood forests and fields,
canyons and gorges, jade and emerald rises.
Petals scatter on crystalline swells – night lengthens slowly -
coldness wanders by but I believe I will linger here, a little longer.
Version 3
South Mountain peaks, boundless and empty to townsfolk.
But here immortals dance among indomitable pines.
Above the sun blue herons fly into paper folded clouds
- azure heaven change – clouds the body, clouds the wings.
Sonorous bird songs radiant clarity – makes mountain forests sing,
each beat moves the clouds, red dust clears from rivers
and peaks. Streams of ochre flood forests and fields,
canyons and gorges, jades and emeralds rise.
Scattered petals on crystalline swells – night slowly lengthens -
coldness wanders by but I believe I will linger here, a little longer.
Jan 24, 2012
Jan 24, 2012 at 8:02 PM UTC
Hocus Pocus,
Tattered and out of focus,
You must keep hold of a crocus,
Grab a ***
In with the lot,
There's a witch that's deep in thought,
Find her cat,
And her hat,
Or get hit with her bat,
Don't touch her broom,
Or you'll end up in a dead room,
Make a boom,
Let the town hear,
For the witch is here,
And the townsfolk cry in fear,
"The witch, the witch",
The townsfolk don't finish a stitch,
Instead they jump in a ditch,
You're her slave,
You better behave,
Or she'll stick you in a dangerous cave,
Hocus Pocus,
Tattered and out of focus,
You must keep hold of a crocus.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 5:23 PM UTC
I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better
Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan, years ago,
He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him,
Just "on spec", addressed as follows, "Clancy, of The Overflow".
And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected,
(And I think the same was written with a thumb-nail dipped in tar)
Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it:
"Clancy's gone to Queensland droving, and we don't know where he are."
In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy
Gone a-droving "down the Cooper" where the Western drovers go;
As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing,
For the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know.
And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him
In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars,
And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,
And at night the wond'rous glory of the everlasting stars.
I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy
Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall,
And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, ***** city
Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all
And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle
Of the tramways and the buses making hurry down the street,
And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting,
Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless ***** of feet.
And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me
As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste,
With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy,
For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste.
And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy,
Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go,
While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal —
But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of "The Overflow".
3.7k
~for Verlie Burroughs, a ‘fellow’ islander poet with a sense of human humor~
walking the reservoir on a warm spring day,
Central Park littered with tourists and pale face,
fellow islanders, all of non-Algonquin Indian descent
released from Rikers Island (of course) Prison,
six month sentence served
behind bars of winter grayscale skies
and snowy steel and grey prison everything
an out-of-townsfolk young lady passes me in a pink t-shirt,
where humans these lazy days declare their entire philosophy,
“I’d rather live on an island”
and thus a poem commissioned
well, rather brought forth from the chilled, deep waters surrounding the brain where winter vegetables rooted but cannot surface,
the iced ground frozen impermitting bodies to be buried,
no war and death monument foundations to be poured,
flower-powered poems unable to pierce as well,
even with the upwards ****** of cesarean birth
and or, one last push and me begging
breathe
winter strangled
but I walked today
the Central Park reservoir and
all I got was that stupid t-shirt provocation
with
tulips and daffodils, dogwood and magnolias, and
cherry blossoms confirming,
it’s okay today to write of
islands and shoreline once more,
of
boundaries now and again
though the idea had prior brief transversed
the thought canal, was struck into action
when realized suddenly a dawning -
a l l m y l i f e, I h a v e l i v e d o n a n i s l a n d
counting backwards seven decades with a
collegial exception, of living by a great lake,
which is but an island in reverse,
poet *** prophet had to always walk on water to get home
<•>
my poems are travelogues,
not pretty words and tonguing talk,
sorry not,
more tales than wagging tongue wordy tails
but dumbstruck by the ocean notion that I live by the
grace of an Ocean that waits patiently to reclaim my island,
stealing my unborn poem children and
tried with a Sandy haired girl a few years ago
hurry home to scribe, and imbibe,
write upon its streetscape
with colored chalk and
upon it once more,
the concrete paths and
a reservoir dirt path surrounding and shorelines
that are all the shaping of me
all my life, and Neverland realized
I am a seagull disguised as human*
Apr 16, 2018
Apr 16, 2018 at 11:25 PM UTC
She lived deep in the forest,
in a tiny little cottage,
she sold little hearbal remedies,
****** mary,
****** mary.
For she was kinda weird,
for she was called a witch,
none dared to go to her house,
****** mary,
****** mary.
She was accused for drying cows,
and for rotting stored food,
when children cought a cold,
****** mary,
****** mary.
Little girls in a village,
began to disappear,
one by one they all went,
****** mary,
****** mary.
No one found,
wheere the children went,
they simply just vanished,
****** mary,
****** mary.
A few brave souls,
went to the cottage,
to see what they could find,
****** mary,
****** mary.
Denied she told,
to those brave souls,
she now looked attractive,
****** mary,
****** mary.
Then came a night,
where a little girl,
walked away at night,
****** mary,
****** mary.
Her mother screamed,
her father worried,
but she kept on walking,
****** mary,
****** mary.
The townsmen saw,
a glowing light,
coming from the woods,
****** mary,
****** mary.
Then they say,
behind a tree,
standing the unseen,
****** mary,
****** mary.
It was mary,
being scary,
pointing at the girls house,
****** mary,
****** mary.
They shot,
and stabbed,
upon mary,
****** mary,
****** mary.
Mr miller shot her,
whith a silver bullet,
in the hip,
****** mary,
****** mary.
the townsfolk grabed her,
and burned her,
at the stake,
****** mary,
****** mary.
But as she died,
she scramed a curse,
at those who say her name,
****** mary,
****** mary.
She said if you,
say her name three times,
infront of a mirror,
****** mary,
****** mary.
You will die,
if you say those,
****** mary,
****** mary,
****** mary.
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 8:37 PM UTC
The dust will gather on beaten forge
which crafted hardened steel.
Even hardest blade it gorged,
but all forget the Blacksmith.
Rooted deep in township’s yore
with a trade of kings and conquest.
Upon him once relied your lore,
but all forget the Blacksmith.
Leathered hands, up night and day
with visage of steel and focus.
Sparks will reign and fly and spray,
but all forget the Blacksmith.
But when your steed wears down his hooves
or your gate-posts starts to splinter,
you’ll be found needing hardened grooves;
you won’t forget the Blacksmith.
For it is he who works all day
And keep the townsfolk working.
If you need hardship kept at bay,
Don’t forget the Blacksmith.
Jan 5, 2018
Jan 5, 2018 at 6:21 AM UTC
The boy who cried wolf was not believed
All the townsfolk thought the boy was a tease
In reality his mind was diseased
The boy thought the townsfolks' eyes were deceived because they couldn't see the wolf
Indeed the wolf was there but indeed the wolf was not
The wolf was the deepest part of the boys sorrow
The boy cried wolf because the wolf was everywhere
The townsfolk thought the boy was insane because they couldn't see the wolf
The wolf is the boy's pain
The wolf is the boy's darkness
The boy is crying wolf
The townsfolk don't care
They don't see the wolf anywhere
The boy doesn't cry wolf anymore
The wolf devoured him after tearing him to shreds
To the townsfolk eyes being deceiving
couldnt save the boy from the wolf
Because they believed seeing Is believeing
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 12:25 AM UTC
You forget there's a sky above
Birds don't chirp trees are few
Gone is the hamlet that shaped your love
For a blade of grass cries the morn dew.
Mesh of wires runs over the sky
Air is thick with the reek of petrol
Scare you the trucks heavily passing by
Dazedly you search for the village of the ole.
Here was the home your soul's green abode
Where winter was cold March sprightly Spring
Your feet ran the soil not dusty metaled road
Dreams soared high on boundless wide wing.
Now all around are the townsfolk on race
Ruthless pace crushing ole hamlet's peace
But so is fated by the wheels of progress
That shows the gain more than all that you miss.
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 9:47 AM UTC
Standing by the soup kitchen,
Wrapped up in freezing cold.
Not very old in numbers,
but feeling rather old.
The townsfolk snub him,
They ignore his missus.
His fingers sparkle blue and red,
No magic lurks within.
His blanket's rather itchy.
the people passing by,
are either numb or ******
get a job, they shout for sport.
their coffee cup, their only support.
It beggars belief that the poor souls get grief.
There for the grace of God go I.
(c) Livvi
Dec 18, 2016
Dec 18, 2016 at 5:03 PM UTC
No matter how much times
I wish upon that star
It won’t change the fact that you’re still his puppet
Which is unfortunate because I want to see who you really are
I’ll try to be brave
Brave like a little tailor
But no matter how much I help out
It’s because of the lies, that I’ll always fail her
I’d play you a special song, in a strange little town
And all of the townsfolk would gather round
And you’d think their joy would make me happy
But no matter how hard I look there’s just one face that can’t be found
I’d flee from that town; I can’t swim across the river
But don’t worry the fox will give me a ride
But still I’m afraid I won’t make it
Because the feelings are eating me up inside
And just like prince charming
I’ll wake you with a kiss
I just want you to be happy
Because I hate seeing you like this...
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC
Nebulous and Refined
The castle is a chain-smoker.
The king wears a three piece suit.
And in the air, most everywhere
that scent just does not dilute.
-
A car lot filled with scribes and serfs
that assemble to deliver their willing tax.
They bump and argue for the closest view
of their Man-God on high: Glycine max.
-
Employment is down! Crime is up!
What if the factories all move away?
This town will surely shrivel and die!
That's what the soiled townsfolk say.
-
They humbly bow to their master's whim
but behind him they say much more.
Another Dead Man found Stale Lee in the vents.
Carcinoma galore.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 3:50 PM UTC
I would like to be the girl in white,
with rosy cheeks, and porcelain skin.
Plump and pale-freckled like a hen’s egg,
with a laugh like peals of golden bells,
and a jar of lavender on my windowsill.
~
In the dark and silent night,
I’d shine a lamp over the water
so fleets of sailors long starved of beauty
could glimpse the outline of my chest,
Hugged tight by ghostly silk, and flushed with warmth.
~
To wander along the sand dunes, barefoot with basket in arm,
To sing a long-lost melody so pure that cherubs think me their mother.
Meanwhile, greyish waves idly lull the townsfolk to bed.
In their sugared, posied dreams,
An angel walks quietly along a shore,
The girl that lives in the lighthouse on a hill.
~
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 4:29 PM UTC
A foul wind blows off the wastes
Across a border set in stone
A land caught in winter's embrace
A fortress stands,
Stark and steadfast against the dark
Walls that have broken sword and tooth
Helmeted sentries
Alert and ready upon the ramparts
Never knowing peace
Wed only to death
Within the walls, life goes on
The chatter of townsfolk,
Hawkers shouting their wares,
The stomp of armoured feet
Marching to the city's heart
The keep
The citadel at the heart
Firm and steadfast
Held by men of valour,
Peace favour their swords.
Aug 11, 2010
Aug 11, 2010 at 9:33 PM UTC
The admiral of the U.S. fleet
was staring towards the shore.
A mob of people jammed the wharf.
He thought we were at war.
The good Mayor Paulo, of Monterrey
was waving with the rest.
He saw our large Pacific fleet
And, doubtless, was impressed.
The commodore made cannons roar
The impact shook the ground
By miracle no townsfolk died
And not one sailor drowned.
“Perhaps they are saluting us!”
The puzzled mayor said.
But when we put marines ashore
Such thoughts soon left his head.
That day we captured Monterrey
It was quite the feat of arms
We lost just one or two marines
to some Senorita’s charms.
The State Department soon put an end
To the splendid little war
And erstwhile foes departed friends
from the Mexicali shore.
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 9:08 PM UTC
leather skinned harlots
in their pre-washed jeans
and make with sticky fingers the shiny jewels
and the keys to proverbial kingdoms
but nobody notices
everybody is too busy celebrating the
return of the same old same old
and her ten trick pony
shes a fire in the ***** of many a man
good thing most of them take medications for it
but she is as hard to cure as her burning desires
the happy girls are neatly dressed
perfumed and powdered in evening dresses
nothing it would seem can get in the way
of tonight's entertainment
song and dance numbers performed with zeal
and more than a touch of class by some famous actor
who name has faded away
but his dreams are still alive
up there in bright lights on the marquee
all he wants is that second chance
like lightening striking a third time
the townsfolk all gather there at the edge of the stage
to see the show and cheer on his rise to stardom
everyone except the girl with the rose tattoo
she was still at the bar trying to drowned her sorrows
in whiskey and spilled tears
her and her pony had enough of this town
but they had no place else to go
aint much room in the world for someone like her
the same old same old is hard way to live
she tries to smile but it comes out shouts of misery
her pony nudges her arm and looks to the east and the rising sun
time to go but she dosn't care
shes got a few tricks of her own
shes gonna marry the actor
squeeze out a few ankle-biters and get the picket fence
to put around the little brats
keep em in check
seems like every time you turn around
there is somebody trying to one up you
the new girl in town has a mechanical pony
and comes with a text book on std's of the soul
she will make alot of men happy someday
but not today
today they all have leather skinned harlots
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 10:14 PM UTC
they danced as one
under the candles and mirrors
his dark gunslingers boots perfectly matching her steps
her hair flowing in the hot air round his face
entangled in emotion and motion
enduring in passion
they danced deep into the night as one
this was joy
the day a furnace of desert sun
the street a wander path for hardy soul
he sat in thin shadow
and breathed slow thick air
watching the slice of horizon
that he could perceive
he knew that someday his brother would come
from out of the wild country south of the borders
knew his brother would come seeking revenge
for the betrayal
the gunslinger and his lover rose
were the talk of the town
how she had tamed the wild man from the southlands
how he had saved her from a life of disgrace
everybody loved them
everybody wanted to be them
modern day romeo and juilet
but romance is no suit of armor
and danger was at the door
the lawman rode all night
and camped on a hill above the town
there by his campfire looked down on his brothers happy new home
saw the light in his brothers window
and plotted his move
last call at the saloon
and the townsfolk drifted out into the darkness
by one's and two
calling out their goodnights in voices
tinged by beer and wine
the gunslinger and his beloved rose
fell to their bed embraced in love
morning slipped over the horizon
the lawman walked slowly down the hill into the town
reckoning had come
his brother would have to face the gallows
for his betrayal
calling out the gunslingers name
calling out like a voice of doom
calling his brother out to face justice
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 8:59 AM UTC
The bells of a million bicycles fill the air, townsfolk amble without even a care.
Atmosphere of dozy dreams.
Tulips on the bank side pout, kissing away at the pure ****** air.
No traffic, or trafficking.
They sit, enjoying their trip.
Toking on the hookah, or toking on a ****** that choice is yours.
They roll a spliff, oh sweet Mary Joanna.
A dingy back room in a dismal dark corner.
Don't ever say that nobody warned yer.
Oppressive atmosphere of sullen death.
Addiction takes control of the lonely soul, who needs to escape.
Who may never get old.
Found slumped, laid out ,cold.
Torniquet locked up tight.
The buzz of the day, that ended the life.
Of the poor soul.
Had nothing better to do.
Attached to the end of the body that's fixed, shot up, sky high.
The world ended, not in that passion filled cafe.
(c) Livvi
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 5:03 AM UTC
In the German town of Shtuping
Something clearly was amiss:
Town name signs were disappearing,
The good townsfolk were nonplussed!
“For years tourists have sniggered
At our name when driving by
As its Yiddish for activity
A girl does with a guy”.
Some people want to keep the name
That makes the tourists come.
Others are ashamed to say
That Shtuping’s where they’re from.
When the townsfolk vote to change the name
It will cost a pretty penny
To change the signs from "Shtuping"
To the new: "Notgettingany".
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 8:20 PM UTC
the cowboy slowly enters town riding high on his horse
the town had no name, he just knew he would find what he was after
townsfolk seemed to stop in time and stare at his rugged face
the desert had stolen his youth and good looks
he was a renegade cowboy looking for what seemed, a friendly face
not sure this town had such a person
this town was not real
this town was a ghost
these folks were in the wind waiting for departure into the next
he had found Middletown
was he real, was his horse real, where is he
he thought he knew
Brian Hill - 2020 # 281
Oct 12, 2020
Oct 12, 2020 at 3:03 PM UTC
at ease, hideous you
with blood o'prey
dribbling down
your well-crafted
dimples.
eager ears surround,
live to make meaning
off your rehashed
sentiment you *****
from some recent-dead
and righteous boy.
and i admire you.
yes, yes, yes i do.
oh, enemy
playing us all for fools,
eating us all alive,
we townsfolk don't
give you the torch or pitchfork,
just our unending applause.
Jun 21, 2010
Jun 21, 2010 at 5:17 PM UTC
*1975 30Th April
the end of the Vietnam War
The flight back from Vietnam was crowded and long.
The offensive has failed the war was over for some.
It took four days to get to the small hospital
In the old New England town.
The endless war far behind him.
He was at last a minute away
from his beloved Catherine.
He met the Nurse in the hallway.
How is she he asked?
Her seasoned eyes looked at the floor
she shook her head.
And the baby he whispered?
Again her head shook.
The words just too sad to speak.
Catherine was pale and weak.
Upon seeing him she managed
a smile upon his arrival.
Her beautiful smile
That had stolen his heart
So long ago now..
Oh darling, I am going to die.
Don’t let me die.
Hold me in your arms!
Hold me tight.
Don’t let me go.
When you hold me
we cannot be parted
If you stay with me
I shall not be afraid.
As she left him
The bells tolled from the
old white clapboard tower
of the church.
To celebrate the end of the war
for some.
He carried her lifeless body
to the window.
It was a beautiful spring day.
Overlooking the square
The townsfolk had gathered
And we’re singing Amazing grace.
Someone released two white doves
The glided past the window
As if to take her soul to heaven.
He kissed her still lips
For one last time.
And whispered to her.
Peace at last my love.*
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 5:00 AM UTC
two men sat fishing
by a village stream
one short
one tall...
Short Man:
I think he's wrong
to chat to kids
leave them alone
there is no need
Tall Man:
What have you there
your venal mind
has lost the plot
there is no deed
Short Man:
No man has kids
who like him so
it must be bad
let's cast our vote
Tall Man:
No issue here
we're always there
he's not alone
I'll have you note
Short Man:
They tell him stuff
we never hear
why don't they talk
to us instead
Tall Man:
You're busy mate
you shut them up
and all you do
is keep them fed
Short Man:
It's just not done
the kids all flock
they see a saint
could be a threat
Tall Man:
The Lord himself
had kids mill 'round
for he was good
no need to fret
Short Man:
It's true I s'pose
that's different though
a Son of God
can do it right
Tall Man:
So all of us
imperfect souls
can only lose
the moral fight?
Short Man:
Of course it's not
as clear as that
just can't abide
if kids get hurt
Tall Man:
Well that's okay
but blacken not
a decent man
by throwing dirt
Short Man:
I'll flog him to
an inch of life
if we would hear
he's crossed the line
Tall Man:
You know I loathe
all deviant ways
be careful though
for he's benign
Short Man:
I hear you man
my thoughts run wild
we mustn't see
it black and white
Tall Man:
Imagine if
he's told this sh-t
to slander hear
how would that bite
Short Man:
You have a point
not all are bad
some have more time
than most townsfolk
Tall Man:
I've heard he steers
them to the good
he's simply not
a usual bloke
Short Man:
You're right my friend
you've pulled me up
an honest man
we should defend
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 7:54 PM UTC
A dust storm blows through Kansas
Stinging, lashing shrieks
The sand blows holes through a Canvas
Who collects the words, and sleeks
The gunfire of their sound, for weeks
His brows steeled and heavy
The whirlwind quits its wails
And leaves, lily-livered in its belly
A tsunami bellows over Mastushima bay
Body slamming into townsfolk
A long-time build up lead astray
One sun-browned girl is left to choke
But then spits out the damage, in half broke
And the colossal wave recedes
Quietened, calm and apologetic
Anger fleeing as it bleeds
Snow drifts and crawls its way past Moscow
Gentle, almost alluring in its ways
Children present their tongues, and the sow
Charges, squealing, into guts and begins frays
Which twist their ears burnt, lasting for a thousand days
And eventually a conscience melts the qualm
And the damage rectified on-surface
But frostbite clings to fingers; done already is the harm
Weather will hound and scorch and spit
And eventually untether
And though people bite and kick and hit
No emotion lasts forever
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 8:44 AM UTC