"walton" poems
On the west side of Starlite Dr.,
just inside of Kingfisher -- before the welcome sign,
stood a Wal-Mart.
Underneath dim lot lamps,
dry oil caked the cracked pavement.
Crickets hopped over cricket corpses.
Two employees took turns lighting new cigarettes
with the still-hot embers of old cigarettes.
There were six sedans, two pickups, and three semi-trucks
outside the store.
2 a.m.
Parked car.
I noticed an effulgent memorial on the fringe.
Subject unclear from a distance,
but statue certain;
gleam of bronze certain.
Followed the black chain-framed path
to a lemon brick-backed display:
Sam Walton
Hometown Kingfisher
And there you stood, Sam.
With a bobble of a bronze head,
gorilla arms, and some charcoal
canine frozen mid-pant to your side--
Beams of light shining into your carved eyes,
yellowed grass at your feet.
And I wonder,
Did you feel cruel?
Beginning as a Five and Dime,
then turning into the great killer of Five and Dimes.
Sitting at a table telling all your friends, they could watch you eat.
Too forward, too soon.
You being dead and all.
To be fair, I've got that ambition too, Sam.
The kind that leaves you lonely.
The kind that leaves you in the back booth of a diner.
The kind that makes the dunces conspire.
Yeah, there are very few differences between you and me.
Those being
I'm not a cartoon statue,
crickets aren't crawling on my face,
big-bellied tourists don't pose and snap photos at my place,
I'm mortal, and you're the other one.
Looked around.
Stood in front of you.
Stared in the direction your obsidian eyes stared.
You overlooked the traffic.
And though Target gets all the hot, middle-aged women
and fiery college kids,
you get the pleasure of watching real folks leave.
The tobacco chewers,
the moms of six,
the grease monkeys,
the third grade teachers;
the grandparents
all simmer and meld by traffic stop.
It seems fitting for you, Sam.
Watching over us,
your consumers.
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 10:18 PM UTC
Morning smells of Lilacs rapture me,
Taking me back to Kinderhooks Chatham Street….June 21st 1961……not a cloud in the sky.
Lying in bed I open my eyes to the hum of a window fan.
And in the distance I hear a Hudson River barge blast its horn.
This moment in time, well it brings tears to my eyes.
Eleven years old, brown hair, hazel eyes, a toothy smile,
Grins in the mirror, hoping to find a whisker or two…
My cat Oscar sits there on the sink purring out his contentment.
“Oscar” I say, “today I leave for the Freedom Farm”
The Freedom Farm is the one place where I’m free to be me
Without the fear of a negative comment or a boot in my ***
I climb aboard the Greyhound bus with suitcase in hand, And looking down at Mom and Dad....I wave…. So Long Suckers!!
Walton NY, June 22nd, Dunk Hill Road, the smell of cow ****
The land of Milk and Honey, Fields of four leaf clovers and 10’ corn stalks.
It was here that all my friends lived, Shorty the horse, Mrs Blue the Holstein,
And there was Uncle Ike, Aunt Minnie and 9 Cousins. I loved them all!
On this little dairy farm……my potential was unlimited,
Uncle Ike taught me to drive the Tractor, water the heifers,
Milk the cows, shovel **** spread manure and have some **** fun!
Hell Uncle Ike even let me try a piece of his plug tobacco... (Note to self…Just say No Thanks next time)
A summer filled with character building experiences and an eight year olds understanding of work ethic.
But we still had plenty of time for fun and cousin bonding.
My Cousin Tom taught me to ride the cows and honed my spitting skills.
And in my downtime I'd perfect the finer points of armpit farting,
Four weeks of heaven on earth where nothing was impossible.
*Once you work on a farm you get dirt in your shoes. And when you get dirt in your shoes, you can never get it out!"
Aug 8, 2016
Aug 8, 2016 at 4:50 PM UTC
I don't dream of you either. Not at night. The occasional daydream occurs. You crawl into my mind in sentimental coffee shop conversations we never shared, love made in hotels we never went to, picking up naked dolls with frayed blonde hair that the daughter we'll never have left out. Sometimes it's lovely not to question the reality.
Usually the night drives keep me in Oklahoma. I don't know how many times I've stopped in Kingfisher to look at that terrible statue of Sam Walton. But he reminds me that no matter how successful a man becomes, in the end his legacy is depicted by his leftovers. There's a sadness in that. But also a freedom.
Wednesday's drive took me to Ulysses, Kansas. Light pollution gave up just outside of Woodward. Guiding me like a weary wise man who forgot his frankincense, stars beamed and made for suitable company. I love passing through small towns at night. I become a ghost. I'm above them. I'm not exactly there. Brief haunt. Then on my way again.
I parked about 100 feet from my grandmother's old house. Judging by the minivan, some young family's new house. They were in the process of adding to the east side. I wanted to tear at every fresh board. Instead I picked up a couple pieces of my grandmother's gravel. Put them in my pocket. Touched her old mailbox, and drove to the cemetery.
When I got to the headstone, which read Merle and Virgil Mawhirter, I thought back to the last thing my grandmother said to Karen and myself. We visited her in the hospital right before she found herself in the pangs of a ventilator and scattershot science. It was her birthday. I bought her a book she never read.
As Karen and I left, she stopped us. "Don't forget to bring me some ice cream. Good to see you, Floyd and Margie." Not sure who they were. Ice cream. Even at the end, she laughed in the face of diabetes.
Do you think Tim will be the name beside yours on your headstone?
I lied down by my grandparents' graves. Dim moonlight seeped through small breaks in the amethyst clouds. Dead leaves feathered to the ground beside me. I wanted to say some words of encouragement to her. For her, but mostly for myself.
All I said though -- My name is Joshua, Grandma.
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 12:38 PM UTC
A red crow came to visit today
He asked for which treasure I seek
I told him Walton's Gold, buried a few clicks past the creek
His eyes were void and he spoke real low: be careful for which you say
I scurried him away and proceeded down the worn out mountain path
An eagle landed on a tree stump and told me to turn back
While I appreciated the laugh, I continued along with his feathers on my back
When I reached the creek, only then did I understand the eagles wrath
A man stood tall with a suit of white
He said "I'll give you all the gold in this clay, if you can answer one question for me today"
I asked for what he had to say
he said "how many times have you seen a crow and an eagle fight?"
A blue crow came to visit today
He asked for which treasure I seek
I told him Rudford's Gold, buried a few clicks past the creek
His eyes were void and he spoke real low: be careful for which you say
Oct 6, 2021
Oct 6, 2021 at 8:49 PM UTC
DECADENCE PERVERSE
July 9, 2003 – Walton on Thames, Surrey
Everyone talks
And experiences
And experiments
And gets confused
Depressed
And anxious
People fearful
With multiple ****** partners
While a baby is alone
Crying nowhere
As people smoke their drugs
And laugh
And they start to go
Nowhere
Some doing business
And living out empty lives
In a souless planet
Christ!
I am really surprised by all of you people
Asking and questioning the same questions
Again and again and more
“Is there life out there?”
“Is there life in this universe?”
“Are we all alone?”
You keep on repeating your questions
And I ask you:
“Is there any life here on earth?”
I see a young girl suffering from torment
And hearing sorrow
Being riddled throughout her fragile mind
Is this, then, your civilization?
People!
You gamblers and prostitutes
Fraudsters and women beaters
Compulsive liars and addicts
Rich criminals, poor criminals
Slithering through your pointless slimy days
That we all know where it’s all ending
Christ!
But one baby’s life
Is never pointless!
I tell you so..
Dec 23, 2009
Dec 23, 2009 at 6:55 AM UTC
The moon can make your eyes burn
from its brightness.
God's Canopy of Grace.
A lot of a good thing often makes you ache
for more.
We examine simplicity,
Utter awe, incurred by a moment:
Driving into the nothingnight
The wind touching everything
Two hands growing old and familiar
Staying warm together
Trying not to destroy the stillness.
Along with fragments of the sky,
We
Fall,
Golden.
How is it, that the world has not stopped shimmering
since we saw the moon drench the flatland?
Your hand still in my hand
Your eyes blink, often
slowly.
As they close, I yearn for them
to open up to me once more,
and glimmer with the warmth
you've stored away inside your soul
just for me.
*Don't look away,
even if it burns.*
You speak love into the shadows
Lights, again above our heads.
I'm always dazzled by light when you're around.
We pray for things like peace,
and discover that God's been giving it, all along.
J. Alfred Prufrock had it wrong:
*The universe begs to be disturbed
By love like this.*
Letting the wind and moon
and the stillness press upon us.
We are infinite.
And a little dizzy.
Hope expands in our chests
So many birds scatter the sky.
We are Walton, Nebraska:
A normal surprise,
God's whispered secret about beauty
covered in the moonlight,
heard only by the wind
that pushed us together.
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 5:39 AM UTC
Is it just imagination, or
Is Wal-Mart running out of
**** to put on their shelves?
I swear.
(And I intend on cee-ceeing
Elizabeth Warren with this.)
So, you want to do something
About inequality in America?
So, you want to give the working stiffs,
A Fighting Chance,
Is that the name of
Your book, Senator Liz?
I’ve heard it all before:
It’s Hope & Change Redux, Babaloo!
(And don’t get me started on Osama Obama.)
Here’s my plan:
You go aisle to aisle in any Superstore
With a little notepad and pencil.
Every time you see some
Large plastic piece of ****
Realizing they sell
15 million of ‘em every year,
All made by some Dink-Chink in China.
QUESTION: So, what do you do, Mr. Policy Wonk?
ANSWER: Federally-subsidize the
Building & Operation of a plant
Manufacturing that **** right here in Detroit.
Or Atlanta, or Hartford,
Cleveland or Fitchburg,
Or even Oakland,
Where San Francisco poor continue to squeeze.
(Don’t get me started on Urban Gentrification.)
Trust me on this:
AMERICAN JOBS
Will deodorize everything that
Stinks about The Economy.
“Capital Flight Gone Global:
Invest where Labor comes cheap.
Export those American jobs again & again.”
QUESTION: What’s the difference
Between a middle-class person
And a poor person in America?
A middle-class job,
********
But I digress.
I was sharing an observation:
Wal-Mart’s shelves are
Not as luscious, as they once were.
Gaps left for
PINEAPPLE CHUNKS,
With only CRUSHED PINEAPPLE
Cans in stock, e.g.
So much for that On-line,
Real-time,
Instant supply-chain,
Super-duper
Inventory system, Mr. Walton.
Arkansas wasn’t such a good idea, after all.
Was it Mr. Sam?
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 4:39 PM UTC
along the well travelled road by the side of hwy 92
in Alabama , I took the long way getting here,
most mysterious days I spent on hallucinogenics
back in Michigan a long ways from here
many years ago spent liquor fueled nights
with all the Tourist girls in Ft. Walton Beach,
Andalusia is where I thought I had
settled down, with wife and kids.
gave Denver a whirl back in the
Disco days,
Then I found Clayhatchee, sort of a resting place,
for my Endorphin lacking mind to rest. Found there,
I did, a sort of calm, no shortages of drama.
Everyone knowing you, talking , I heard so much
of every other person living here, all their ***** laundry,
how could I not fit in?
As soon as I unpacked I was involved with everyone's ex,
at least in the rumors, had all the old hardlegs jealous.
Hell, I may move again, to New Mexico. Or just stay here,
and call them all loco as I dial my phone, for some
more endorphins.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 11:33 PM UTC
DYSFUNCTIONING LIFE
Ayad Gharbawi
December 13, 2003 – Walton On Thames, Surrey
Passing by groaning graves
Stillness hushes now!
What once was Furious party
Lives of splendour and decadence
Now lie solemnly dead
Think, of your minds, I feel
Think, of your emotions, I feel
Where they been?
And so, think now, of where they now stand?
The severely sad
Are struggling now to cope
Fearing suicide
And yet,
Fearing life itself more
What a planet!
What a world!
Beauties of models, clubs, yachts, parties, mansions
Cripples of despised ones, hated ones, dry ones
Listening to me;
Where is all going, where is all being?
Where is it all, your civilization, you sick Humanity?
I wonder?
When we listen
To nothing
And no one
In our rage, shares our emotions raw
What then are the ‘rules’ for your life?
What are the ‘guidelines’ for your principles?
Is anyone there to tell me?
Or are we born naked here
And are we to live without reason?
Where are the Blessed ones?
Where are the just, Loving ones?
Where are the faithful, Compassionate ones?
Where are the dedicated, Faithful ones?
I’m still searching for you
Trustworthy ones
But from the rest of you all
I’m going to do one thing;
I am
Seeking to disentangle myself from you
From this filth
From myself
From my dysfunctional existences.
Dec 25, 2009
Dec 25, 2009 at 8:40 AM UTC
In the laptop of the gods.where canaries sing.
..then you leave me no option,
some will get hurt.
Look in on this and make as you will,
I still need peace,
but
not at any price.
ding ding,
seconds out.
Exit your hiding place.
(Kent Walton laughs in the background)
Jul 23, 2015
Jul 23, 2015 at 5:04 AM UTC
On my Father's death last night.
Death of a father. Night of nothing. Morning of less.
Anhedonia. A family like the Walton's on crack.
Drama looms. Not a human feeling in the bunch.
Death a hyena at camp fire's edge. Light goes out.
Step up to the grave. Now you are first in line.
Mortality worm gnaws. No exemptions. Gnaw back.
We are but a moment's sunlight. Some not even.
Only lesson. World goes on. Without us. An instant.
Good morning blues. Blues how do you do.
~mce
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 7:34 AM UTC
Isolation and addiction
Lost in an ocean of asphalt
Yearning for this to end
Salvation is a lifetime away
Aug 12, 2010
Aug 12, 2010 at 7:16 AM UTC
I'll take you to all the places you ever been
Because you wana see the planet with me again
Yea I'm sucessful
I'm richer then reuplicans
More sucessfule the the Walton's and..
I can make life begin again
Time is fast and you need to slowdown and live again. Quit your job and let me give you happy sin
***** relegion we can climb laws with out Moses.
Let's be ourselves and let the mansions build
I can make you the women who never gives
Reality hardship.
I can show you what love us.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 12:31 AM UTC
I was still a child when the urge to build settled in my little brain.
"A project, what's that?" I would have asked, wearing my customary frown. "Does it bite?" My first "thing" is to build a secret camp! that took a lot of digging! I toiled all summer. When winter winds blew from The North my secret camp was complete, roofed with, branches, bracken covered, it was truly snug, deep enough so I could stand, wide enough to seat all my friends, I was popular all winter and warm in my snug. Disaster came out of the blue, in the form of the farmers tractor, it was blue! I came home from school to find it in my snug, where it stayed for two weeks, before it could be got out with a crane! My lovely snug was filled in and the ground ploughed and put to growing corn! Then I discovered fishing! Izac Walton was to blame. I discovered his book The Compleat Angler in the school library, it was dog eared and had no cover,
Seeing my interest, teacher gave it to me, not realizing that it would have a profound effect upon my life and family! More anon.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 4:08 PM UTC