It’s a boy thing
the clickety-clack, clickety-clack
of a train along its tracks
all manner of boys
from diapered toddler
to arthritic codger
from suited gent
to aproned chef
the clickety-clack, clickety-clack
ignites within them
the feeling of freedom
and faraway places
the clickety-clack, clickety-clack
fills their hearts
with a special joy
enlivening their faces
with an apple-cheeked grin
and when there is
a head of steam
and that whistle blows
they all know
that the clickety-clack, clickety-clack
pulses and echoes
just for them.
Painter paints with a brush and hooded mind.
Dentist extracts, injects with a pointed mind.
Mind of cacophony is what a singer has.
Orator hails, evading a faux pas.
Chef cooks with an aproned mind.
Scientist invents, minded with formulas.
Cartoonist strokes, gifted with artistry
Dubber voices over to cover up travesty.
A wrestler can break anybody with a ranting mind.
Audience can just watch and listen with a calming mind.
If a dancer prances with a swirling mind
then a choreographer can relax to unwind.
So many other occupations with distinct minds,
Instructive of vocations and interests
descriptive of master minds.
What is your job?
In my old age
I thought I’d have such yarns to tell,
of derring-do when I was hale and hearty.
Looking back, I wonder now just what befell
me in those years
and did I miss the party?
Distant echoes further fade
as all the days slip by.
An aproned lady combs my hair
and tells me I should try
once more to do the jigsaw,
but I really don’t know why.
They tell me I have new friends now,
sitting in a circle, wiggling toes,
or neatly slipper-clad, arranged in rows,
we sing “We”ll meet again”
at bedtime with our cocoa,
smoothing out the pain.
But well we know, when it’s time to go,
it’s our “au revoir” refrain.
There it stands, desolate and alone
That roofless shell where the winds
Still whisper of the past
When scampering children's squeals
And wheeling seabirds' cries
Rose thinly through the air.
A thatched croft from which a healthy living was scraped
A shirt-sleeved man, braces showing,
Bald pate bunneted against the sun,
Bent over to tend his plot
An aproned woman cheerfully shooing away the hens
To collect the eggs for the evening meal
Beside a silvery sea stretching
To the horizon
Hiding the city lights and its imagined pleasures
Until those dreams drew the young away
Watched sadly by the elderly pair
Their exodus damning
The island to its desolation
Where still the birds' cries squeal
And the wind through the grass softly whispers
Surrounding the now silent croft
In the salt sharp air
What homely pleasures such a life once offered
Now the graveyard of fading memories
While the once busy city streets
Stand empty drained of life
As the virus continues to take its toll
the beast detests the prince of pomposity.
the chin upturned. each blackened strand of hair
in place with grease. his too white smile released
to aproned maids — the town with hordes of them.
his shoulders straight, his swagger thrills his mates.
they clink the loving cup — the weight of gold.
the prince delivers speech, to kill the beast.
the mirror grins and chases him outside.
she holds the hand of Belle - who breaks the spell,
preferring horn-y beasts to boastful toads.
as castle servants change into their skin,
they dance in conga line and imitate
the swaggering and pompous prince who splits.
now he’s the village idiot you see.
8/28/2019
SWAGGER Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Line Gauthier
Blank verse with 10 syllables except
for first line with 11 and feminine ending
What are you looking for?
he asked me.
He was sweet.
Concerned.
Wearing a red apron,
amused when he caught
me staring at him.
I am looking for life, I said,
And I saw it a minute ago,
in your smile.
Aw!Another red-aproned person
said from the next aisle. She ran
over, and took a peek at me.
"Why thank you!" the young man
said.
He had no idea I am crying inside.
My smile really hides that.
I was loud and proud for fifteen minutes
after this, announcing to the checkers, the man
who mixed my paint, the red apron who
helped me find the windmills for my
garden. "I'm having a great day! A wonderful
Day!"
I had never gifted myself a ME day before.
It was always a them day, or a they day, or a she
day, or a wee day.
I went home and crashed, running into the wall
at last.
Forbears,Edie,Kate and Ann furnished apiece with brush and pan.Each
Victorian 'Miss' tied in service's abyss.Far off days,now long gone,their toil each
day was lengthy and long.With fires to light,floors to scrub,and carpets to brush
and drub.Mops forbidden,as they smeared the dirt and begrimed their prim
alpaca aproned skirt.They cleaned 'his' tub,emptied 'her' commode,a regular
chore in a housemaid's daily load.Must rise at six but never to mix and no matter
what,keep a stiff upper lip.Never lose your cool,a formal curtsey the perpetual
rule.Half day off once per month,so free to roam and catch the omnibus home.No
other opportunities in store except a marriage at eighteen or before.Upstairs and
down stairs ,no in between,starting out at just thirteen and just there to please as Master and his Lady take their ease.
The “Smithy”
Written: By Tom Wright
4/28/04
The anvil’s peal breaches the mid day air,
and his four pound hammer fettles the shoe.
At the forge’s cinders in thought I stare,
and listen to the wheezing bellows spew.
The portrait of a bygone period in time,
when the aproned “Smithy” was still king.
Massive arms, covered with carbon grime,
powering out tunes with a hammers ring.
The livery and spreading chestnut tree,
like the buggy whip, their time is past.
If solely for the sentimental like me,
“Smithy’s” memory will for evermore last.
RETURN TO NEIGHBORHOOD III
Where kids had the run-o’-the-place
Noisy
Dirty
Smelly brats
In-and-out
Everywhere!
Like a shot!
There was imagination.
Games ad lib
A terrible wonderful use of neighborhood
An awful rollicking use of the day
Where a poor aproned mom must scrub and scrub
The tub on Saturday nights
No begging a child to go to bed
Hell! He fell asleep at the dinner table
There were bed-wetters
Nose pickers
Clothesline-tent revealings
All secret explorations not even the adult will
admit to
I blush in shame for just a minute or two
Oh I fit so furtively so sweaty red-faced young
Once in Home Depot
I was in the lighting aisle,
when a horde of aproned workers
descended down from a quarter mile
With hundreds of cartons of bulbs,
They were very bright I guess
I had to jump out of the way,
My bundles now a mess
So now you know how
It got the name, but one
thing more I must say,
They would not take cash,
I had to charge it all that day.
Forbears,Edie,Kate and Ann furnished apiece with brush and pan.Each
Victorian 'Miss' tied in service's abyss.Far off days,now long gone,their toil each
day was lengthy and long.With fires to light,floors to scrub,and carpets to brush
and drub.Mops forbidden,as they smeared the dirt and begrimed their prim
alpaca aproned skirt.They cleaned 'his' tub,emptied 'her' commode,a regular
chore in a housemaid's daily load.Must rise at six but never to mix and no matter
what,keep a stiff upper lip.Never lose your cool,a formal curtsey the perpetual
rule.Half day off once per month,so free to roam and catch the omnibus home.No
other opportunities in store except a marriage at eighteen or before.Upstairs and
down stairs ,no in between,starting out at just thirteen and just there to please as
Master and his Lady take their ease.