Best Blazers Poems
Fear The Walking Dead
Moaning groaning growling too
they stumble in the night.
Looking for someone like you
so they can grab a bite.
Bumping up against the door
and peeking through the crack.
They no longer know the time
but want a midnight snack.
Heed the warnings that I give
listen to the words I said.
Lock your windows and your doors
and fear the walking dead.
Wearing clothes for every day
like night gowns ties or blazers.
Eyes are glowing in the night
and teeth as sharp as razors.
Scratching clawing at the glass
their back broken in two.
Just another day undead
they want a taste of you.
Running gunning fear inside
they gather in a bunch.
Today you're guest of honor
and they're having you for lunch.
Not safe in a school or church
not safe beneath your bed.
Lock your windows and your doors
and fear the walking dead
Edwin C Hofert
RELATED BY CHOICE
For my adopted grandmother Nancy Enloe
I met you at a friend’s house,
standing stately on your cane,
tall and rosy-cheeked like me.
In your smile, I basked and thought,
“Long-lost cousin, could you be?”
Like my great aunt long ago,
when you learned I love to write,
you gave me three r’s of verse:
Robert Wash, Service, and Frost,
and asked to read my own work.
Like my aunt in my childhood,
you invited me for swims.
In your pool, I splashed and laughed.
Like her, you asked to hear me play
my organ -the whole grand staff!
On a ten-day Rockies trip,
Jasper, Banff, and Lake Louise,
friends asked if you were my mom.
We smiled at that pleasing word
like Gilead’s healing balm.
One day, as we drove along,
you said just out of the blue,
that you’d be Grandma to me.
As if you spoke my own thoughts,
I grinned as wide as you could see.
Oh, once we got to be twins
in blazers you bought for us.
You knitted us two rainbow scarves
for walking in wintry air
or through the winds on the wharves.
You’ve been family to me,
all six relations in one.
How fun it would be to find
on genealogy sites
if we’re related for real.
No matter! It feels just right!
A man's lot is not for a woman to bear,
A man's lot is not for a woman to replace,
A man's lot is not for a woman to excuse,
A man's lot is not for a woman to direct,
A man's lot is not for a woman to belittle,
A man's lot is not for a woman to cling to,
A man's lot is not for a woman to pigeonhole.
A woman's lot is not for a man to own,
A woman's lot is not for a man to decide,
A woman's lot is not for a man to discourage,
A woman's lot is not for a man to define,
A woman's lot is not for a man to pity,
A woman's lot is not for a man to despise,
A woman's lot is not for a man to fear.
Nor is it a man or a woman's job to to dictate,
What these lots mean to any one man or woman.
The only thing that should define either role,
Is respect for a choice made freely and willingly,
Without coercion or lack of opportunity,
With passion and love the driving force.
Will making fifty/fifty calls,
For women and Men without passion,
Or love of the choice made in their name,
That makes men ashamed to be men,
And women ashamed to be women,
Really be the path to a just society.
Can we not look to the great women of the past,
Who let passion and love,
Be their guide when mountains had to be climbed,
Men had to be convinced,
And social norms ignored.
These trail blazers who were not ashamed of their sex,
Who fought not to take over but to stand alongside on equal footing.
Will we ever understand that equality equals opportunity?
Opportunity equals progress,
Progress equals commitment,
Commitment equals Love, respect, passion, understanding,
Understanding equals lack of shame or guilt about a choice,
We should all be free to make by and for ourselves.
Only when we have learned the meaning of these words can we
Hope to one day reach the top of the mountain,
And see what grows where Love and Passion alone,
Are the driving force.
Two Scavengers in a Truck,
Two Beautiful People in a Mercedes
At the stoplight waiting for the light
nine a.m. downtown San Francisco
a bright yellow garbage truck
with two garbage men in red plastic blazers
standing on the back stop
one on each side hanging on
and looking down into
an elegant open Mercedes
with an elegant couple in it
The man
in a hip three-piece linen suit
with shoulder-length blond hair & sunglasses
The young blond woman so casually coiffed
with a short skirt and colored stockings
on the way to his architect's office
And the two scavengers up since four a.m.
grungy from their route
on the way home
the older of the two with grey iron hair
and hunched back
looking down like some
gargoyle Quasimodo
And the younger of the two
also with sunglasses & long hair
about the same age as the Mercedes driver
And both scavengers gazing down
as from a great distance
at the cool couple
as if they were watching some odorless TV ad
in which everything is always possible
And the very red light for an instant
holding all four close together
as if anything at all were possible
between them
across that small gulf
in the high seas
of this democracy
The old guard is having a gala at the Omni tonight
They are shooting off fireworks
And scaring the dogs
Cowing in the corner thinking only the worst could come of this
I am drinking whiskey with beer backs and playing my guitar
I wonder in amazement at what all this means?
For whom or what is this celebration?
A wedding perhaps…
I know not
It all seems so trivial
As I slip into the darkness of the bourbon
It will grow on me through the night
And strengthen my resolve to never give up
The morning will come and I won’t remember a damn thing
But tonight I am omnipotent. The world is my nut.
And I am strong in my resolve to make sure those rodents
At the yacht club are done in for once and for all.
They have their topsiders and khaki pants with blue blazers and brass buttons
All covered in vomit. Those momma’s boys pretend that their orphans till the train pulls in and things are getting very small.
I’ll march over there in my Sunday pants and a mohair vest and set them straight
And they will stand up and listen
The bastards
After what they did to my kid sister
They’ll listen
And then they will bow their heads and ask forgiveness
For what they scratch on the wall
And the words that come from their mouths is foul
And a stench rises up imprisoned by their conceit.
They will learn how to love and to forgive.
I will teach them the only way I know how.
Through hard love, tough love, my fathers love.
And then and only then can they celebrate the pitfalls of humanity.
For I am the Black King
And my dark wing will fold over them and help them to understand
That charity does not start at home
It starts with me.
The Silent Village
In a silent, cool and quiet village I used to stay
Life was sweet, enjoyable and never in a hurry
Taking animals to graze, playing with other kids and swimming daily
Walking by clean and silent rivers where water was flowing freely
But if one doesn’t complete duties and chores, parents punished us dearly
Those days, life in that village was not only good, but also enjoyable
Schools were miles away, but we were never late
We wore no shoes, blazers and modern bags, but we looked great
In that village the dress code was simple but everybody was neat
Mothers bought cheap “mtumba” clothes in the nearest market
Men going to hunt and slaughter animals to balance the diet
Shopping list was a self-composed song to the shop when a child was sent
Those days life in that village was not only good, but also enjoyable
Everything was communal and batter trade was the affair
Cases of incitement, corruption and theft were not there
Discipline and correction of children was a community affair
To correct and punish any wrong child, every parent could dare
Scent of traditional food, honey and wild fruits used to fill the air
Those days life in that village was not only good, but also enjoyable
Sadly I sit today, I watch the world escalating
Skyscrapers mushrooming where the silent village used to be lying
Digital marketing replacing the sweet batter trading
Gated communities, where children do not know those neighboring
Good morals and behaviors in young ones diminishing
Pollution everywhere and Mother Nature wailing
Those days life in that village was not only good, but also enjoyable
(By Waweru Ngugi)
If I suffer from an affliction
If I stutter
If my grammar is gutteral
If the words I utter
Failed English at School
Sorry I am not cool
Pity me or the fool
Who uses education as tool
To dismiss what I write
Because it is not spelt or gramatically correct
As you supersede the common collective
Consciousness up for discussion
My feeble poem tried to address
Your disregarding says it best
Speaks volumes
Look at me
Mother Superior
Administrator of the Interior
Sub Editor for closed book's
That overlooks
And overseas
Conservative committees
In self righteous sicophantic indignation
No correlation can unearth
Or has no worth
For the meek
Who seek
To interject
Blazers and Ties
Ivy institutions for fear of exclusion
Poison classes wood trenches
Desks protect from xenophobic zeitgeists
That conform to questioning
Humanity is punctured with many breaks.
Different eyes through different holes
grasp its identity through different visions.
Openness, honesty and love to a few;
power, greed and domination to others
and to some, faith, faith, faith and just faith.
Love comes first before anything else
but while propagating others, it is fatally shot.
The so-called trail-blazers of democracy
makes it crazy in the domain of others;
feeding a Tiger until it is dangerously grown
then joining other hunters to bring it down.
Beliefs without tolerance and peace are poisons.
One is honoured with the privilege to be part of a society
so human friendly and development growing
but forgets his transition from a migrant to a citizen.
So much noise he begins to create
to turn such blessed lands to the one he escaped from;
threatening the beauty of these Nations’ civilization;
giving Australia such bile, the UK such thorn
and Russia such a devastating pill.
If life was suppose to be so,
the Emirate Kingdom wouldn’t be maintaining its identity
as it is heterogeneously mixed eleven to one portions
in favour of the accessory ingredients.
Scaling humanity through colours
is as bad as doing so through tribes.
Unity and networking never creates losers
but marginalization and oppression breed deadly tensions.
Names, ascents, appearances and gestures
are unfortunately yardsticks for interactions and mingling
then Justice becomes wounded for bias to prevail.
All these make poverty freely govern
even in an Ocean of abundance.
It is simple to keep life smiling
but impossible when love is homeless
while selfishness is rendered the most services
but under the disguise of other honourable clients.
When kindness is removed from the equation,
a habitat once peaceful becomes the hub of predators.
Stadacona
An ode to Quebec City
1
On the green bank of a mighty stream -
A lofty aerie - a fair city beam
With stately air a queen, she stands -
A gem - over these most forest lands.
An old city (first in Canada)
Formerly humble Stadacona.
2
Hardy Champlain, of proud heritage -
Geographer and scion of Brouage -
Envisioned her rocky shore
And armed with dreams, he did explore
Her woody crest - a verdant forest -
Aloft there on her virgin breast.
3
Her sons were gallant progenity -
Seeds of Brittany; roots of Normady -
Of France. The served with honor,
With bravery and staunchless valor.
All faithful, all trustful habitants,
Artisans, voyageurs and peasants.
4
Her daughter came with chaste dignity
Brave heart and robust vitality;
The cradle to rock, the flax to spin,
The hearth to brighten, the wild to win.
Must dutiful, most fruitful maidens!
Lights of home! Makers of edens!
5
Stalwart pioneers - hence from a rampart
Aery they went to conquer and to chart
Untold regions, where but stealthy feet
E’er dared the wilderness to defeat.
Trail blazers - hence to give name
To the unknown - faith the untame.
6
Here a new world and a new nation
Was conceived - a dauntless bastion
Tempered with faith and loyally blue -
Which kept the pledge, centuries three.
O gentle city! “Guard well thy crown
Of charm; thy quaintness and they renown.”
Envoi:
Royal “flour de lis” no longer remain
O’er citadel proud, yon wide domain;
But memories sacred of past heroes, sleep
On bosom tender ever fresh ever deep.
Written the 15th of May, 1947
by Wilfred J. Bouthillet
Heartbreak for England
Three Lions fight to the end-
Belgium play-off next.
Cinderella Croatia
Blazers' first World Cup Final
Whenever Adriana Jones went down the mall,
We fellas on the streets lasciviously ogled at her:
She was a lady in and beyond and about all,
Calm, adroit and her breed was fairly rare.
She was different from all of us, with a sophisticated pride,
That came from deep her wealthy life; and the blazers
She wore were couture. She was voluptuous from side
To side: and she had all the money to spend on extravaganzas.
And she was always sensationally attired,
And she was always kind when she spoke;
And her lips looked too smooth to be real, desired
By every man of family and every young bloke.
And she was ravishing –yup, most ravishing than a queen –
And majestically studied at a fancy finishing school:
In all, we people thought that she was a lady to preen
To make us wish we were also that beautiful and that cool.
Hence on we wished, and awaited her nuptial day;
For she was aesthetic –a perfect exhibition of God’s art.
And so Adriana Jones, one impeccable Valentine’s Day,
Went home and pierced the blade of a knife through her heart.
He’s a natural actor of mental shortening,
reasoning is covered in shame when viewing the mirror.
Insanity, his behaviour’s ancestor
with imagination more abhorred to logic.
In his world,
every accurate procedure seems to be an annoying error,
a corridor is placed at the roof top of every building,
film casts are censored in a movie’s end;
Italian made blazers are worn and tightly tucked in
and a nation borrows armory from its own enemy of war.
The posterior side of his thoughts is the anterior side of foolishness,
he may bring amusement,
but his doings are capable of springing up human disasters
Corporate men in blazers portrayed by boys
empty hands but constantly in a boast
life in real goes opposite in each choice
a desert’s wretch, flaunts so big on the coast
acts so different, a real life disguise
stories with second chapters right from birth
even in death, the grave won’t play the dice
as this life is made and covered in dirt
cheat and deceit are character parents
more falsehood to overcome more sorrow
such victories stay as a short term rent
in the end, consequences will burrow
empty stones stick to form a rearguard
then becomes corrupted in this regard.
Hellacious howls tickle and titillate
the trompeleil scene
in the pastel Court of Kings.
Flamboyancy rings as the
fluttering coo of a rapiers dance in the hands of fops,
through the high ceilinged corriders of castle in the chill air
buzzing past the ears
of the mischievous lillipitians, yearning,
egging on yearlings with antiquated filigreed foils.
Ludicrousity runs riot
trolloping in fandango-clicks of hooker-red
across the quilt-stitched batten puffed blazers
of Dukes and Pimpernels pompously prancing
before beatific, porcelain, wig-topped dolls
rouged and hollow-eyed.
Chroniclers cavort in the manner of angry bees
on spindle-pins, their stocking encased legs
pawing at pedagogs who gawk slack jawed.
Only the puncture of flesh-framed torsos
brings an end to the melee.
*Melee, generally refers to disorganized close combat
involving a group of fighters.
IMAGES OF THE PAST AND PRESENT
Old men like Phil, Howard, Kenny, Walter, and Gaines are forerunners of the past.
They walk with canes now and are in blazers and slacks.
They still talk game about equity.
They state they will die in their identity.
Gaines is the one I know the best.
He lives via mediums for political success.
Does he achieve as he is?
Gaines is an orphan, a Catholic, a bar attorney in Mississippi.
Older women like Dora, Bobby, and Jenny V. are Honey's strength.
They walk without assistance.
They are not like the men.
Their smiles are sugar pudding and they take on younger women.
These images are real life formed.
They manifested their destiny in socio-political and socio-religious forums.
They come from Baptist, Catholics, and Methodist faiths.
They are heroines and heroes and they have failed.
These are images of the past and present.
Eccentricity is their essence.
Exposed is their depth.
Their identity is within all of that.