Chucko Is Dead
It was on Columbus Day, 1962
When Chucko the Birthday Clown
Sang in tones most glorious and free.
“I’m Chucko, I’m Chucko
I’m Chucko the Birthday Clown!”
I was comfortably ensconced on the couch.
A feigning 10 year old with a pseudo fever,
Sister Mary Daniel was probably making the sign of the cross,
Up the street at St. Mary’s,
When Chucko the Birthday Clown
Stared into the camera and saw me,
Just a freckled punk kid;
Hater of sadistic nuns and boring dry lessons
Of crowded sweaty stinky catholic classrooms
With crucifixes of a dead bloody Jesus.
And the sweet salvation of the universe was not yet apparent.
But Chucko knew all about that.
He knew the future and the past.
He knew about Kennedy and Kent State
He knew what was coming so imminently,
He looked into that camera at Channel 7
And saw the children of the 50’s
Coming home in body bags from
The jungles of hell,
From the other side of the world,
From the bloody backside
Where all things are vile and evil.
He saw fear, and an ocean of tears.
He saw ten thousand sunsets
And 50 thousand funerals of the crazy brave.
Even in 1962
When the country was still a damn good country,
He rode the highways and byways with a pockmarked grin.
But he knew he could never tell of what was coming,
Of the madness and corruption and the greed,
“I’m Chucko, I’m Chucko,
I’m Chucko the birthday clown!”
Mother! Please! Take my hand.
Chucko the Birthday Clown is dead.
Copyright © stark hunter | Year Posted 2013
It was just a day, and
I felt, I was snowing
In the great lagoon of fear and fantasy,
I publish my words...
They would represent
Me, beyond the measure of life;
And, into the cavity of truth --
Where my pulse ticks clocking.
Copyright © Sadat Khan | Year Posted 2013
Within a flicker your life sailed away like the rushing tide upon a purple sea
it carrying you along to be placed by God's side setting your soul free
If only your eyes could tell me of the splendor you now see
and emit your light of purple brilliance so as to ease my sad heart of agony
In silence I lite a purple candle for you knowing forever you are near
my arms reach out to hold your shadow while my eyes are covered and veiled
Your candle starts to dim the melting wax dripping into the shapes of a thousand
consuming my heart of the sadness and deprivation that you are not here
In paradise you now belong as the Angels sing your warrior song
today is your birthday and I know the greatest gift was God calling you home
But as your Mother my heart continues to suffer with grief
as I lay upon my bed with your blanket and savor your lasting scent
Watching your purple candle flicker and glow as it vibrates my lost heart
my love for you Son forever ablaze knowing for only a short while we are apart
Speak softly to me in my dreams while giving me visions of a young child at play
the purple candle continues to burn my sweet child, 'Happy Birthday'.
We miss you Caleb. Happy Birthday
copyright 2016 From Aunt Tammy Reams- to my Sister
Copyright © TAMMY REAMS | Year Posted 2016
Good morning Steph, today's the twentieth.
It's Syd's birthday and I've been thinking of you.
I bought her a cake yesterday, chocolate and vanilla swirled.
I thought of calling your mom,
but she always disappears this time of year.
She wants to be alone with you.
Instead I bought another cake
just for you,
like I always do.
A red velvet, I think you'd like it.
I woke up this morning all alone and went to the frig,
pulled out your cake and cut a slice.
My eyes filled with tears but you know I don't cry
so I closed my eyes and wished you a happy birthday
and let just one slip by,
just for you.
It's been a while since we shared your last birthday together.
Yours on the nineteenth and Sydney's on the twentieth,
eighteen years apart.
Sydney was just one.
Just the family,
the four of us
and you and your mom.
We joked and laughed.
Who knew in a few months you'd be gone.
We all felt so helpless after the accident,
but there was nothing we could do,
just be there for your mom.
She stayed with us for days afterward.
Then there was Granddaddy, you were like his own daughter.
One of the last things he said to me before he passed away
was, "I know my times over
but I'll surely be happy to see Stephanie again."
I hope your together.
Sydney's fourteen now.
Funny thing, when she was two,
three times she was looking over her moms shoulder, entranced.
Her mom asked, "What are you looking at?"
Her response was, "Nina."
Heather made up that name for you
when she was only three. I remember,
out of the blue, she looked at you and said "Nina."
You looked at her quizzically and said, "My name's Stephanie."
She said, "No, it's Nina."
You said, "OK," and she called you that from then on.
We found out years later that she blamed herself for your death,
and she was the most hurt by it.
She loved you so much.
She didn't understand.
She was only six.
Stephanie, such a beautiful,
You were the first to leave us
and by far the hardest.
I would have taken your place in a moment
if only to keep the tears from you mom's eyes.
Love you Nina,
Copyright © James Inman | Year Posted 2016
Shana Aubrey Harris –
whose existence begat by dada and da mama; aye
revel your bursting at figurative seams viz maturation, and know by
chatting over telephone, your aura, charisma,
and persona finds me blinking back tear ducts
ready to loose water works i.e. cry
at how fate gifted this papa, whose existence
would be devoid without you, and
purposefulness undermined if loss of such a daughter as thee
(one young lady more valuable than words can spell),
a reason to live shipwrecked
with psyche marooned to die
never quashed even mouthed or uttered fee fie
Foe fum – jack (of Beanstalk storybook fame) would also lack will to live,
(yes as would the giant), thence,
this grunting, groveling, and grieving guy
forced to traverse firmament like a zombie – hi
King over boulevard of broken dreams, cuz I
(re: this humdrum Harris heir), his soul asylum inconsolably reign
if irrevocably punctured akin to mortally wounded crane
willpower to defeat death, could not be staved, stanched, nor stopped,
tis fool hardy to allow
darksome, irksome, or unwholesome thoughts, whence best for brain
to rejoice your awesome, lithesome and winsome transformation
into a beauty, a non-biased commentary I cannot resist to exclaim
an angelic, beloved charming progeny frolicking thru
the meandering time stream, perhaps stopping at brooks edge
where flora and fauna frame
thee, (infinitesimal instant doth camera cap cha) if game
to pose as a gamine hipster inspiring a jazzy mosaic – type meme
before resuming dipping back
into waters of life, whereby experiential arcade
beheld like courtly table
adorned with a fancyfeast to BuzzFeed,
the sights and smells before yar senses appear as a charade
boot upon scrutiny, ye exhibit hesitancy
to inch closer; comfort food beckons so ye haint a frayed
to take steps into ever glade
puzzled at cornucopia cob bulled together and laid
without presence of maid
in America, this pastiche of quality eats,
and thoughts circulate sans who paid
for resplendent sustenance,
whence Edenic garden ye strayed
until, a life size topiary chain saw creation
(a hedgerow carved in likeness of – Shana Aubrey Harris)
all of a sudden burst of doting, and fawning family and friends
salute touching vote wondrous young lady
no amount of riches would anybody trade
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, a shout rings out
glory and scale of your worthiness no mass out weighed!
Copyright © matthew harris | Year Posted 2017
wE ARE ALL 1
jESUS IS NO FAKE
Heaven and earth
" I AM "
the god poet
for my dear friend
June 17 2015
Copyright © gary dye | Year Posted 2015
Another year gone by,
time certainly does fly.
Hoping that it would be another year together,
instead dwelling on fears of loosing you forever.
Today is my birthday, a joyous occasion,
but instead I mourn in silence, living in damnation.
Is this to be the norm forever?
Wishing day by day things will get better.
I dream of this day being at the boardwalk with you
and our daughter,
but instead today I will be alone, the fear of any
mother or father.
Today is my birthday, and there will be a tomorrow,
but for now I must live it in sorrow.
Copyright © Jon B. Rangel | Year Posted 2006
I saw him on that last Sunday
I gave him a hug and a kiss
I told him he works to hard
and on Sunday's of him I did miss
he told me today was his birthday
I told him that was wrong
for not giving the church congregation
a chance to sing him a birthday song
as we're standing near the pulpit
I turned to the remaining crowd
I said, "today is Darryl's birthday "
in a voice clear and loud
so we gathered together
and we all started to sing
the birthday song to let Darryl know
to us what he means
we said we love you and
we wish you all the best
as a fellow child of God
we know that you are blessed
I was unaware that that would be the very last time
that I would see my dear friend Darryl Baskins alive
but I'm glad I got that chance to give him
my last hug and my last kiss
because he was my dear friend
and of him I will truly miss
Copyright © louise nelson | Year Posted 2007
and intuitive paramour, whence swooning swain first experienced anew
an alien emotional lightness of being within mine hardened carapace did brew
a propensity to surmise, intuit, and detect a romantic joyful dew
drop similar to lovers in dustbin of historical annals dipped ‘ere farewell flew
common as the air we breathe, this new found muse sic cull passion grew
yet handled with kid gloves, which lacked the means to nurture and hue
a novel interpersonal ecstasy, which with fits and starts knew
tony yen physics manifested into a mutual attraction
despite any self-admission new
to this chap, whose skills sans intimacy infantile
and as a result inadvertently caused grief
to a gal (who valiantly christened her vehicle Ruby)
hoping to stride down the pew
which outcome thwarted, now tis much more sands of mine life time
funneled down the hourglass shaped queue
without any rhyme nor reason find this bard arse to rue
how a golden opportunity indiscriminately
lost a flickr and sentiments now akin to culinary Michelin patshke stew
rather futile to ruminate the long lapsed travails that tripped a true
lee darling dame, whose take on the matter, this poet would cherish a view
yet….nary a clue exists if any possibility to revisit that denouement recalling
the awkward fits and starts before embers of warm reciprocity kindled
reciprocal an ambition to court, jest and indubitably woo
to flip and shutterfly at greased lightening speed
back to that contra dance at Summit Presbyterian Church
at the cross roads of Green and Westview Avenues.
Copyright © matthew harris | Year Posted 2017