Best Brick Poems
I remember living quietly inside these red brick walls,
a soul, wandering alone through those dark, empty halls,
this is the place where I used to rest my weary head,
now you, another poetic heart, are dreaming here instead.
I was just a poet, a soul like you, so do not be afraid,
this is where I once lived, and this is where I stayed,
I want to whisper my secrets to you, late after midnight,
just hear my faded words, and I will remain out of sight.
There was a lonesome time when I wrote poetry, too,
now I am here, to be your muse and inspire you,
100 years ago, I lived on the other side, only now,
I dwell just behind these red brick walls, somehow.
(A sequel to my poem, "These Red Brick Walls")
Mighty proud was I
with me lumber in one hand
my brick me carried in the other
I placed the brick in the barn yard
tall side for gained height
balanced the lumber board on top
I am silent and of Scottish temperament
You see folks
my feathered pet cock
was cock a doodle do-ing all day long
yapping and yelling
ranting and raving
the other farm animals had all had enough
action demanded
I place the ol koileach
at the end of one side of the board
all while smiling at the brainless duine beag
immediately I jumped on the other end
sending that whiny ol cock mid air
into the sea
he drowned
Ah what a wonderful day ladies
I shall meander onwards
among the heather and moor
my brick magically transformed
to fine woody scotch
oh what tales I shall tell
if tomorrow ever comes
These red brick walls have stood for nearly 100 years,
they have seen and absorbed happiness and tears,
if these walls could talk, just imagine what they could say,
a lifetime of cherished memories have not faded away.
I wonder, if 100 years from now, will I still be around,
maybe a part of my secrets will be waiting to be found,
my written words are embedded in the room where I slept,
all of those midnight thoughts and dreams will be here kept.
The window that brought new inspirations into my soul,
and the closed door that opened to my heart's empty hole,
from the wooden boards of the floor and up to the ceiling,
these walls of red bricks hold secrets that need revealing.
graffiti stares
and retro drips
beneath the
shoreditch sky
like those who watch
- between their sips
the world and
us go by.
It must have felt like love at first,
The clinging of the ivy vines,
Until his rich red heart had burst.
Her tendrils slaked an ancient thirst,
The tender touch for which he pined.
It must have felt like love at first.
Too guileless to suspect the worst,
She speared him with her soft green tines.
Until his rich red heart had burst.
Her coils so patiently she pursed,
He never guessed at her design.
It must have felt like love at first.
Crazed with cracks, its strength dispersed,
From end to end the wall declines
Until his rich red heart had burst.
So new to love, so poorly versed
In joy, so baffled by her signs,
It must have felt like love at first.
Until his rich red heart had burst.
Loyalty
is love
brick by brick
in every instant
but is only admiration
as a tower
to the distant.
April 20, 2016
for Loyalty Contest
Graffiti fades from the wall,
Alike the alley after dark.
"I was here!", screams the
Wrecking ball, leaving your mark.
One by one through the years
A wall was built with pain and fears
Brick by brick it was laid
On solid ground where it stayed
I tried to listen as you spoke to me
Words of wisdom and prophecy
Yet, I could not hear through the wall
Built with strength as not to fall
Then one day from the sky
I thought I heard an angel cry
Weeping softly teardrops fell
Gathered from life's wishing well
Two more angels joined her side
And hand in hand all three cried
Thunder bellowed, rain did fall
Tearing down my sturdy wall
Yet, through the fog I found my way
So brick by brick I build today
" (Two roads) diverged in a yellow wood and I choose the
the one less traveled by and that has made
all the difference. "
Quote by - Robert Frost
YELLOW BRICK
Unintentionally urgent,
to choose or refuse,
to flee, to fly
possibly to die.
Excuse: just a child…
The clickety clack
attack of the narrow.
The meeting of strangers
along the way -
both good and evil.
Badly, she wanted to go home.
Bravely, she’d have to pursue
fear, fire, the witching hour.
Apples, red, near the yellow brick -
temptation, thirst, famishment.
Off the path, into dark woods…
Tricks are well-travelled - reveal
weaknesses - coveting, weary, greed…
One could endure the orbs, slapping,
soliciting, addicting; fall asleep, dream…
She’d not a brain in her head, her father said.
Her sister thought her a coward.
Her brother thought her heartless.
Would she listen to the talking heads…
She sighed, did not succumb to temptation…
It was only a bit farther, just around the corner.
This path, though fraught with anxiety
and danger, with pratfalls - dousing
a witch with water, missing her ride…
When she’d suffered, and died to self,
she’d unselfishly cherish her kin ‘til death.
She’s smarter than her years, her dad would say.
How brave you must have been, her sister would praise.
her brother sees, she’s all heart…
The crossroads came
in a most unexpected way -
a whirlwind adventure!
This poem was originally written in 2012 and now I have a special couple to dedicate it to: George & Dolores Reyna. They are the perfect retired couple who brightens their own path, no matter what gloom may be around. They are following the yellow brick road….
Follow the Yellow Brick Road
As I was walking
Along my chosen path
Where each step marks
A notch this world hath
I caught a glimpse of
A Yellow Brick Road
Like the one from Oz
Once long ago told
Now how the glimpse
Came my way
I chose a path to take
On a sunny day
Back to work from break
Strolling merrily along
Head held high with joy
Whistling a happy song
I jumped over a little crack
Just purposely out of my way
Being sure to be aware
Never matters which day
As I came up to my office
Tapping a rock with my heel
Then the feeling hit me
The vision seemed very real
A comparison factor in our minds
Creating obstacles out of fear
Or do we step over them
To prove we are there
It’s our choice to place sunshine
On the path we choose to go
Thus creating a happy path
To Follow the Yellow Brick Road
Florence McMillian (Flo)
line against the wall
fat birds too wrung out to drive
later, rooms' sweet ease
"All animals are equal. But some animals are more equal than others."
—George Orwell
A dozen of chickens and a number of horses, a cat and a raven, a few cows and other hoofed ones—all of which are perfectly silent. Poor wolfie. He can't even find a voice to growl. "Your Honor, if I may request for a short recess," I whisper, humiliatingly like a dying dragon. But my timid voice is drowned by a sly-looking pig's pouring of whisky into Dis Honor's gilded cup.
"Have you no respect or have you no eyes?" Squealing, he deafeningly squeals. He reminds me of that scaled wyvern whose head now sits in my living room. It roared deafeningly loud but breathed no fire. "His Honor is having his brief period of refreshment at the moment!"
With eyes too dry to cry and throat too hoarse to howl, the defendant meekly weeps. But only I hear it; the jury listens to only the silence, loud as a baby serpent's inaudible hiss, of two semi-digested pigs in his gut.
Who on earth build houses with flimsy hays or sticks nowadays anyway? And was it my client's fault that the third genius Doctor Porkchop got killed when some stray earthquake crushed his oh-so-unshakable fort built brick by bloody brick? Just whose brilliant proposal is it again to have Napoleon presiding the trial of the so-called Big Bad Wolf? If only he was a dragon—a pig-dragon at least— I would fain put the beauty that is my sword into good use right now.
Countless charges of premeditated murder, culpable animalicide, et cetera. Of course, do sentence us all to another life. I turn to look at the audience right behind me: a mare, a goat, a donkey. A soft motherly neigh followed by an intelligent baa, then by an astute silence.
"Please, Your Honor," Ridiculous. This stupid courtesy reminds me of tiptoeing past a mother Couatl guarding her eggs. "Shall we resume—"
Slams of gavel.
"Objection! Objection! Objection!" Dis Honor oinks vehemently, his mouth reeking of poorly brewed whisky—and I thought Tiamat's droppings were bad. The way he repeats the slamming of his gavel with every disgustingly pronounced objection gives me a headache as if it was my head he keeps hammering on. For the first time, being hit by the Basilisk's tail doesn't sound so bad at all. "Here you call me 'Your Honor Napoleon' in full," Oh, believe me, the honor is fully mine.
Thick as a brick.
Misunderstood.
Alas a teenage daughter
Got in the family way,
Such they are the times
What more can you say.
It was getting near her time
But still she wanted out,
To the pub or just the pictures
She didn"t mind being stout.
Then one night it happened
While she was all alone,
Nature took Her course
She fumbled for the phone.
The time was nearly midnight
It was dad who was awoken
'Can you come and get me,
I think my waters broken.'
'Okay' shouts her dad
'tell me where you are,
You just say the place
I"ll go get the car."
He jumped up out of bed
Put slippers on his feet
'Where are you ringing from?'
'From my knickers to my feet.'
One and two makes three, so four and five makes six
This guy's discovered all the mathematical tricks
The professors are all wrong
They really don't belong
Always knew theses guys were thick as a brick
© Jack Ellison 2015
I am a high school graduate and a former college student
I have no children
No drug or alcohol addiction
nor do I have a home
I am one of Brick City's homeless
Many of the faces I've seen downtown are the same faces I see at the soup kitchen or the shelter
The same quirky, ragged, foul-smelling, quiet homeless people
But these aren't the only homeless people
Many of the faces I've seen at the soup kitchen or at the shelter,
I've also seen downtown
The same outgoing, inconspicuous and "average" yet homeless people
I used to assume I'd pass up to 10 of the same homeless people downtown
Now that I'm one of them
and pretty much every homeless person knows every homeless person
You'd probably feel blessed and highly favored when I tell you that the majority of adult pedestrian traffic downtown are homeless United State citizens
The majority are homeless
We're at the library, McDonald's, Penn Station, 18 Rector, 50 South Clinton, all Essex County Parks, 990, Red Doors, St. Johns
or the sidewalk with our book bags, purses, suitcases and our will, however weak or strong, to live for right now
We get in where we fit in
The most thrilling part of my day is knowing what time the next soup kitchen serves and when I'm unconscious and dreaming
Most are not bums
Most are caught in a cyclical cycle of destitution because they have a record and can't qualify for anything other than a 9-5
Or don't have a job because there are no jobs and don't have anyone to take care of them without taking advantage of their situation, be it sexually or by an unfair criminal or immoral request
Most of us just can WAIT until!
. . . and there's no one here to help me right now
I understand though:
It's likewise
This homeless lifestyle encourages me to keep dreaming, faintly hope and never expect anything
My high hopes and expectations left me ____ out in the streets of Newark
It's 4 o'clock
. . . On to the next soup kitchen