"township" poems
awakened by the
offsprings cry,
baby powdered
morning dew
showers the room,
coffee stained smiles
shine about
cheerio blanketed
kitchens,
so worrisome
for office tardiness,
the carseat won't lock
into place,
tire marks on
fresh paved driveways,
to daycare tears dry not
she's on time,
fatigued she plants
her seed to the office seat
to grow even less
awaiting to see the smile
of her child and say
her prayers before
falling asleep
-
awaked by the
offsprings cry,
gun powered
morning dew
showeres the village,
rotted teeth smile
amongst the
body-blanketed township,
so worrisome of finding
a slain mother
sister
brother
just like father,
the gun won't lock
into place,
they never will,
tattered couches
paved with the
***** of
slaughtered buildings,
mother's dead
tears dry not,
fatigued,
hands of
grungy drainpipes
plant beside,
holding stagnant
a somber sibling,
tremors ripple
crimson tides,
planted to
grow even less
awaiting to see
the smile of
his mother
his father
his sister
and say his prayers
with brother
before laying down
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 8:29 PM UTC
Cowgirl boots cost her
just little pay
She knows to play it safe
Keepin them cowboys away
Wants soft black fur
To keep her warm at night...
they say
She murmurs by candlelight ...
Country bear soothing...
them Cowboys cause me fright
She doesn’t want a man
She’s lookin for a country bear
That’s her true fan
Cowboys want to make her purr
But a country bear is gona stretch his paws and groan
I finally found her
Big bear wont mind what she does with that hair
Cause he’s her country bear
She’s his woman
He’s her furry scare
Try not to stare
When they’re hittin the town fair
Kissin at the top of that ferris wheel
Ladies want to know
What’s that she feel
Township whispers..
there she goes
Smoochin that big bear
Maybe it ain’t no big deal
This is too surreal
Watching this
They eatin cotton candy
in complete bliss
Later in fright
Before the early light
All the ladies pray
Keep them cowboys at bay
Send me a country bear like Miss Fray
And we might promise to obey
Her secret
They want to know
She said forget it
Go to your rodeo
Bears ain’t something I’m about to share
That country woman
That country bear
It’s the perfect love affair
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 12:25 AM UTC
men and their egos (I turned twenty this summer) are
inseparable
insufferable
begrudgingly
they admit “guess you were right”
believing that will make them heroes,
by full on confessing they are ********
I turned twenty in the summer
my tan legs in cutoffs (it’s summer) drives them to madness,
accused, you are pitiless, for their dreams of you involve ransom
still, you
search and quiet plead like Abraham, to the heated air,
while listening to Whitney Houston and Ed Sheeran,
(on your earbuds just so nobody knows your weakness)
for just that one good man in the township of
***** and Gomorrah
my mother bitter sneers good luck with that,
forgetting I am now twenty years
so old, so advanced,
that my hopes and aspirations are no longer those
the ones in my high school yearbook
my poetry fills pages,
a human urban renewal,
laying out a city of hope
recalling that ***** and Gemorrah were destroyed
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 11:49 AM UTC
Bottom feeders flourish
When the economy's a bust
When bad times are the norm
And good times turn to dust
When neighborhoods go south it's sad
But a sign of their demise
Is when a bunch of pawn shops open up
Before your very eyes
When stores close down or move on out
After years in the same place
Their memory is a radar blip
They leave without a trace
But as fast as they lock up their doors
Another shop moves in
It's the local pawn shop dealer
He's a shark without a fin
Like dollar stores and boarded doors
The pawn shop shows the way
That business has moved on out
Or closed or moved away
They prey on peoples hardship
They broker deals without a care
They don't need to know your history
They just know that you're there
The street has three new pawn shops
Palaces of buy back stuff
It's bad when there is one around
But, three...well that's enough
One opened by the Jeweller
Two doors down across the street
Now he's buying up possessions
Of everyone he meets
Folks who purchased jewellery
From Old Cy at his old store
For each twenty of it's value
The pawn shop gives you four
Cy can't afford to buy back
He doesn't have much money left
And besides his store insurance
Doesn't cover much for theft
The people at the Pawn shops
Took jobs and live in town
They trained two counties over
They succeed when times are down
It's a sign of the recession
Downtown dies and fades away
And then the bottom feeders surface
Their the ones who're gonna stay
You can look in the shop windows
Know who bought what and from where
You know the candlesticks were bought at Cy's
And you know who bought them there
The guitar that hangs beside them
That was pawned by Emma Rose
She needed money for the bills
When the fresh fish plant had closed
There's a snapshot of the township
Sitting inside on their walls
They pawn shop is successful
While the economy still falls
You can see a piece and start to cry
For you know just why it's there
There's no one here to help them
There's no jobs and it's not fair
They open up each morning
While the nights dregs still sleep outside
They have done two hours business
Before lights on at Cy's
It's a sad and constant story
Of just what a town's become
But when asked if they've been in there
The inhabitants go "mumb"
They never seem to close up
The town's never make it back
While most places lose money
Pawn shops make it by the sack
The bluesman has some stuff there
The bartender has some too
Even though her bar's still going
She did what she had to do
The street, it is it's own world
Jewelly shops, banks and bars
But inside the local pawn shops
Are hidden all the scars.
May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012 at 7:54 PM UTC
Bang! Bang!
The sounds of gun shots mid-day on Thursday,
Sirens getting closer to the crime scene,
Just two weeks ago a man's life was terminated for a cellphone,
More thugs and more gun fires,
the tragedy so bad it even appeared in the news.
But today i can feel fear creeping in my vains,
Another man shot dead today,
why do i have to live in this community?
For i am afraid.
Few months ago
it was just like an action movie,
people running and rolling
while the loud sounds from the police guns aiming over my
roof top kept on going
Bang! Bang!
I see the police patroling the streets by day,
having picnics in the park
while they watch their horses eroid away the soil.
They feast to some take away outlets
filling their sagging bellies by night.
While they letting the just go unpunished all year long,
Oh! It hurts.
I feel a bullet on my chest,
Oh! It hurts
for i cannot look through the dark
night anymore.
I sit on the side of this wide classroom window,
And i wonder,
What if one bullet comes straight to me. (God forbid)
Oh this township that i loved,
you are not safe anymore.
Where can i run to for i called you home?
There is no distance further gone without any loud sounds;
Bang! Bang!
Oh mam' ngiyalil'
ngililel' labo abangasek'
ikakhulukaz' imphil' yam'
umphefumul' ongenacal'
kungab' sewabayin' wena dolobh' lami.
I called your name,
with so much pride and bragging,
but now i cannot even say your name
for you have groomed thugs,
gangsters,
vindals,
drug addicts and drug dealers,
harlots... And what else that we do not know?
Could it be blood sacrificies,
are these the 'EndTimes' proclaimed in the book of Revelations,
Why should i bother trying to think when all i hear in my head are ecoing sounds
Bang! Bang!
All i need to do is to find a way out,
Nyawozam' ngibeleth' !
Ngob' inhliziy' ayisahlalisekang'
qobo
when will that day be,
when crime will be stopped for good,
and police do justice to the community?
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 8:32 AM UTC
Love saved my life
It wasn’t long ago
when I received the call
I remember it like yesterday
It was bed time
ready to crashed when the
township called
expressing my brother had expired
someone had took his life
shot him in the head
At that very moment
my entire life shattered
into a million pieces
nowhere to be found
Quickly I rushed to
the hospital in the
hope maybe he was
still breathing, still moving
but the outcome
was everything but that
Few days after
we’ve put him to rest
in his last resting place
he was only nineteen
Felt like a dream
refused to believed
i prayed to God
to not allowed it be true
when I awake
day dreaming
But sooner and later
you always always
have to wake up
Hatred strengthened
to a point
I was ready for war
with whomever involved
Strapped ready to fight
when I realized because
of my faith this wasn’t
the way for I’ll rot in hell
Not long after
depression kicked in
started hearing voices
all through my head
Voices
I didn’t recognized
whispering to me
It was time to joined him
meaning
my brother to a better place
I remember
I sat in my car
with my glock clacked back
against my temple
ready to pulled
the trigger
when my phone
vibrated and said
It was from love
I decided to answered
and told her my story
had no more desire
to live This was
my good bye
Then I started crying
and she cried along with me
and prayed with me
tell me to come home
she’ll make this better
she didn’t want to lose me
in a word
she was carrying my son
which I’ve heard
for the first time ever
It was at that moment
when my life started over
a clean slate at a new life
and still today
our love has
grown stronger
she showed me the
love I always needed
this woman is the
reason I did not drown
In my depression
In my sorrow
In my anger
Everyday she came
looking for me
I knew how blessed
I am to have her
in my life today
This is my reason
I care for those
Who haven’t find
love and have no one
to call their own
Because truly I truly
don’t know what
would I do today
without my wife
in my life for
She is my treasure
and the reason
this is my reason
I’ll always choose
Love
Jun 26, 2018
Jun 26, 2018 at 9:57 AM UTC
Trophies for last place,
And a Holiday for every weekend.
A taste of this and that...
OF Italy and Ireland and Asia and Germany
and every township in the county,
and 3 collective Miles of
Portable Toilets,
Strategically Positioned
throughout each event.
cause there is going to be a Lot of ****
Hooray for whatever we are celebrating this weekend.
Whichever one of the 30 different Woodstocks
Or week long Music Festivals
That exist only so
the Hippest of Hipsters
can congratulate each other
on how Indie they are.
Ya know, it's happy hour somewhere...
Why not party
All Day, Everyday?
Devalue the weekend
Like we have thanksgiving
And New Years.
A Five Kay For the Common Cold,
And We'll even give trophies for last place.
Cause we're all winners here.
and we're all hungry.
And What represents your heritage better than
Pizza or sauerkraut or General Tso's
And endless flowing barrels of refreshing, Ice cold, Domestically brewed and Nationally brand recognized Alcoholic Beverages?
IT's The Great Dumb Down, Charlie Brown!!!
A symptom of the Universe
If there ever was one.
Mass anesthesia to keep us all content
With our collective mediocrities,
our Forfeit Potential,
Our Day Job that doesn't pay very well,
But kind has benefits.
So we stay on.
In fear of nothing better.
It makes feel important.
Like Wheel of Fortune makes us feel smart.
(Wow, you can spell?!)...
Dwindling returns in a world of Beige and Pastels
And the Muted Grays of limestone concrete.
We Accept less and we Get less and we accept less and we Get less
And On And on and on,
till we hit that lowest common cultural denominator,
where your race is what food you eat,
And we all qualify for the special Olympics.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 9:52 AM 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
Let the poetry of others repose in majestic halls:
My poems are filler for paper shredders,
For packing in shipping boxes,
And backing for flypaper sticky strips;
To wipe the muddy soles of shoes
That have seen too much of springtime
In the garden.
Others poetry fills the airwaves, and sits between the covers of books;
My poetry is for grocery lists,
And sudden messages you need to scribble while on the telephone,
And maps to undiscovered geneological treasures
That are only a township away-
To trace the faces of cool tombstones
Under a mid-day sun.
You won't find my poetry near any other kind of list
That doesn't say get bleach, dog food, and toilet paper.
Still, my poetry is from a well lettered life-
I have written all my heartbeats, and most of my sighs
Into sibylline hieroglyphics, from midnight initiations
In the secret brotherhood, of my own soul:
And I will die a freeman, because nobody
Will ever feel the need to own any of these words.
Mar 29, 2010
Mar 29, 2010 at 12:51 PM UTC
There once was a woman named Mrs O'Dell
Who had a fine collection of sea shells
She put them on display
In the township of Byron Bay
Mrs O'Dell's shell display was a hit in Byron Bay
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 5:36 AM UTC
down the main drag of our town
the thundering sound of motor bikes did resound
folks in our town rushed out doors
to see what was making such an almighty roar
the bikers were on their monthly charity rally
they stopped at the local pub owned by John O'Malley
they partook of a ration of ale
whilst filling their donation pails
after an interlude in our small township
they straddled their chrome plated Harley ships
to ride along the country byways
on this most magnificent autumn day
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 8:10 PM UTC
the vastness of an empty soul
demystifies the Grand Canyon
and shrinks the universe
to microscopic molecules
barely able to manipulate energy
matter that doesn’t matter
madder than a hare in March
balance skewed
undue pressure
seasonal disfunction disorder
ordering medication
naturalization
seeking citizenship
in an isolation township
serving only self-pity
to the self-destructive –
squatting, gargoyle
surveyor on the job
soaking in the loathing
basking in the glow
caused by the discontent of others
opioid android locked in the void
unemployed
laughing at misery
in mercy centers
meticulously mimicking the miscreants
impersonating pain
seeking to blend –
ostracized miser in designer jeans
obscene in drag queen regalia
“whiskers from under his pancake make-up”
wake-up Godiva, locate the paraphernalia
mammalian musculature
hide the heart of a snake
as she slithers across the floor
searching for the perfect surfactant
….her scaly skin itches, uncomfortably
tearing my lip skin
in the din
of her poorly lit closet –
together in terror, the admission seems worth the cost
lost in the sweet melody
of sobbing children
and clattering dishes
shattered visions
misgivings
estrangement entangled with commitment
obligations
oblivion and orange peals
appealing to a higher power
unanswered questions hover inconsequential
adding to the ozone depletion
and altered climate
owning blame
for all the world and her problems
I sit with shoulders slumped –
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 12:23 PM UTC
Stop the traffic, halt the cars!
Close the local schools and bars!
Hush your children, lower your head!
Don't you know that he is Dead?
Dim the Sun! Silence the birds!
Share with them these tragic words!
He's Dead! He's Dead! He's passed away! God took his soul this very day!
Draw the curtains, stay inside!
Don't come out, your time to bide!
The whole wide world is now in mourning,
Tell the sun, delay the dawning!
Life can never be the same,
From smiles and laughing, we now refrain.
The Undertaker's here to take
The only man who could truly bake.
He's Dead! he's Dead! He's passed away! God took his soul this very day!
The women wept, the children scared,
the men just held their heads and stared.
The dogs lay quiet, the horses still,
as though they knew of poor Ole Bill.
The Township lost it's heart that day and now that he was dead,
the people walked around a-daze,
their guts a-fill with dread...
... their Baker was forever gone and with him, all the bread.
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 9:54 AM UTC
the township's roosters
crowed this morn
they crowed
well before dawn
their crowing rang
in the air
like a noisy
county fair
the township arose
from its rest
at the rooster's
crowing behest
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 7:09 PM UTC
choices
embrace things
that sickens
enslaves
maims
kills
unbound
yourself
loose
your chains
turn away from
the dungeon
that has
become
your death
chamber
you
alone
crafted
with such
deft skill
you exiled
yourself
hid away
from the living
inhabiting a
convenient
confinement
relishing
the deceitful
pleasures of an
addled mind
a twisted
portrait
of a
shackled
self
living
inside
the
dark abode
of your head
bumping
about in
unmapped
caves
dwelling
in a place
that no one
could find
nor dare
explore
you heap
stones
at the door
providing
your only
means
of escape
safely
entombed
in your
vapid
delusions
a decrepit
graveyard
an abandoned
township
of lonely
sarcophagi
long forgotten
by the
moldering
bodies
of the city's
ghostly
citizens
you reek
with the
stench
of death
you
murdered
yourself
and
became
dead
to us
But
Jesus
wept
over
your
self
denigration
never
forsaking
your favored
condition
The
Good Friend
lifted
you
from
Edens
dust
and
showered
you
with
fine
things
yet
you
found
no joy
in
the gift
of solace
the might
of grace
the balm
of love
the rest
of peace
all
only
heaped
torments
upon
you
your
sisters
wailed
in grief
imploring
The
Resurrector
to make you
whole
he only
shrugs
and
extends
a palm
unloose
the rags
of your
swaddled
grief
unbound
yourself
Lazarus
come out
and walk
amongst
the living
again
put
down your
stones
the hand
is nigh
choose well
my friend
St. Alban's
Bible Study
7/09
jbm
Nov 7, 2011
Nov 7, 2011 at 10:45 AM UTC
I stood before the town folk, who were all revved up, in gear,
" I'm laying claim to 'Yonder Road', which leads to my lot there".
And as I spoke, I found my voice~ "And I, G Clair, it is my choice
to take it back" and dared the few, who looked me in the eye, and knew
they'd met their match but here's the catch,
I took it straight, right down the hatch...
The road's not mine to take.
"We must decline. It's on the line, the Powell Township County Line"
~So half of it is theirs to sell? And so I'm thinking "What the hell?"
I never planned to buy the land, which leads up to my pile of sand,
and half a road? That's just a load of cock-a-mamey crap and toad!
Not one spoke on my behalf, that half-a-road was just a laugh,
but secretly I knew their game, to share the road, and to their shame,
I'd have to buy the township out, if private is, what it's about.
And so I kept my peace of mind. "I'll pay for Yonder, rob me blind!"
"And all in favor, just say 'Aye'" The room went silent. Then a cry~
from down behind the furthest row, an "Aye" and then the rest in tow
and everyone you would have thought, would die before the road was bought
and on that day, the vote was wrought, and ALL for one road to my lot.
the road was mine to take!
And as I drove on down my road, I wondered, if it ever snowed,
if they'd still plow a private road, or leave it to the one who owed
the price of owning graveled lane, which cut in two, by grassy mane
and wondered if I'd have to mow the place which pulled like undertow~
which drew the settlers through the plain, where nothing grows in fitful rain
yet wagons, traveling there in vain, would lose a wheel, and what a pain
and one last thought to keep me sane:
Those drivers who had lots to gain
whose hearts were heavy, just the same
from weary rolling over rocks
in untilled pastures, void of flocks
who held the reigns in calloused hands
and prayed while sweat dripped from their glands
to make it to their promised lands,
would LOVE... a road... like mine.
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 9:30 AM UTC
My mind drifts
As I swiftly move my palms
To the rythm of my beating heart
Township beats
And Beasts smoking tik
Life blows and age ticks
We need some soul donors
Odors in th air
The dogs compete
Everyday we repeat
When shall we retreat
I'm incomplete
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 3:42 PM UTC
I am prepared to caravan our
Cargo across the country into
New times zones.
Carpool with our college friends
Through rush hour traffic and back roads
Without street lights or deer crossing signs.
Pledge my allegiance to the
Fraternity of road trippers who
Believe all homes are mobile.
Measure myself by interstate
Mile markers—every township line
We cross is an invisible stamp
On the passport of my soul.
Spend bathroom breaks between pilgrimages
Gluing Polaroid pictures of our expedition
Next to city names in our road atlas.
Learn how to **** into coke
Bottles in bumper to bumper
Traffic between rest stops.
Discover new reasons to live
As the glow of brake lights guides
Me toward the next exit.
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 12:12 PM UTC
She was an old Mid-western woman.
She was a distinct type.
A stock-staple character,
Sort of half Beverly Hillbillies Granny,
Throw in a skosh Betty White,
Mixed in with a lot of that old lady
In Driving Miss Daisy.
Southern Indiana:
The Confederacy’s best kept secret.
But I digress.
She was my neighbor in Buckeye, Arizona,
A quaint agrarian township, way out
At the west end of Maricopa County, which is
An hour from the Phoenix airport, the so-called
Sky Harbor International Airport,
Which surely must be near the list’s top:
All-time most pretentious,
Hyperbolic Chamber of Commerce,
Municipal Boosterisms.
Wikipedia English - The Free Encyclopedia
Boosterism: the act of "boosting" (or promoting) a town, city, or organization, with the goal of improving public perception of it. Boosting can be as simple as "talking up" the entity at a party or as elaborate as establishing a visitors' bureau. It has been somewhat associated with American small towns. Boosting is also done in political settings, especially in regard to disputed policies or controversial events.
So, without thinking,
Walking down the driveway
To pick up the morning paper,
I let it slip:
“How are you?”
She’s leaning over the hedge,
As I bend down,
Picking up the local Pravda.
35 minutes later she sums up:
“I had to go to the doctor last night.
Gave me some cream for my pud.”
A twinkle in her eye—
She, my lascivious,
Old lady neighbor
In Buckeye, Arizona.
She had that sweet Mid-western thing
Working for her, her regional mojo.
And I’m right there on her wavelength:
The apple not falling far from my tree,
Or something like that . . .
I am losing my train of thought, here.
Last poem of the day, I guess.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 8:50 PM UTC
drab low hanging clouds
encircle our township to-day
with their raining drear
Oct 11, 2021
Oct 11, 2021 at 7:41 PM UTC
Kathleen
Crowley Born on December 26, 1929,
in the Green Bank section
of Washington Township, ( ),
[ , ], [ ]
Burlington County, New Jersey,
Crowley graduated from Egg Harbor
City High School in 1946.
On August 7, 1949, the 19-year-old
won the title Miss New Jersey
at a contest held at Asbury Park;
As Miss New Jersey, she entered
the Miss America pageant
in Atlantic City, New Jersey,
on September 10, 1949,
finishing seventh; [ ]
At the time she was a bookkeeper
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 2:14 PM UTC
slowly the fog creeps
in our township's sleeping streets
dense is its heavy shroud
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 9:16 AM UTC
He chokes
paper and
inhibits law
there in
habitual way
as he
lumped this
load on
my community
with popular
dogma still
ministry of
the house
though the
township nigh
but a
hospital standard
Aug 7, 2019
Aug 7, 2019 at 8:35 AM UTC
When I was little
The township we called home was the centre of my world
Our mud and zinc house was a Palace
My father it’s King
And we were his little princesses
My mother was just my mother
She wasn’t regal enough to be a queen
When I was little
We vacationed at centre of the universe
Nevermind that my grandparents farm lacked running water or electricity
And stood at the bottom of the valley
Surrounded on all sides by majestic hills
In comparison, it was just a stepping stone to the heavens
Even so, it was my heaven
When I was little
I looked to the heavens and I saw God
He wore a threadbare, leathery moonless night sky for skin
And had a cloudy facade with fallen stars for eyes
But when My God smiled
Sunlight shone through the cracks
And we all wanted to busk in his radiance
When I was little
My grandfather seemed a God
On cold winter nights, huddled around the fireplace
Stories of youthful escapades and adventures in the big city Spilled from his ambrosia loosened lips
Mesmerised by this linguistic wizardry
We hung onto every word as he switched from English to Afrikaans to Sesotho to Xhosa and back
When I was little
I was happiest lying in the sun
But than I grew up and the shadows were more inviting
Kingdoms fell and Gods became mere mortals
When I was little
The women in my family were merely extras to their male leads
But as I grew up they evolved into pillars
Holding up the roof their male counterparts have left to disrepair
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 12:41 PM UTC