Best Cadillacs Poems
AntiPoem 2
You know only one thing and that is:
Dying is not on the agenda.
Let us march now inside St. Mary’s,
March reverently through these green repentant doors,
These holy portals to grace and absolution,
Into a stain-glassed sanctuary of sinners kneeling in disguise,
These sullied souls coming in through the out door again,
Figuring death is furloughed from the crucifixion business,
Two thousand blurry years later.
Let us still march forward now to the glassed tabernacle,
Resting up there ensconced upon the marble altar,
Beyond human touch;
The host inside now transubstantiating as with earthen time,
From dry crusty oatmeal,
To omnipotent King of the Universe.
The boy holds his new Sunday missal,
As the family drives to ancient St. Joseph’s,
Up the asphalt hill, there on Gold Street,
Amidst the tentative Yuletide presentations,
Of tinsel-lit trees and blinking avenue abodes.
In the distance Lady Lassen wears a white bonnet,
As the Redding Christmas Tree stands exuberant,
Seventy-three feet into the icy air on Market Street,
A rainbow-glowing giant with a thousand staring eyes.
Brenda Lee is singing,
Rocking Around the Christmas Tree,
From blaring radios inside Oldsmobiles and Studebakers,
Cruising Placer Street to the Cascade showing Butterfield 8.
The boy is counting the neon cocktails,
While riding in the backseat on blue polyurethane,
His father is intently driving the blue ’58 impala,
Into a gravelly hilltop parking lot.
Blaring outward from the church there I heard voices,
A bubbling sacramental bouillabaisse of silent
Parishioners all genuflecting in pristine Latin confusion.
The girls choir wearing skirts of curious plaid, is
Singing loudly and softly their angelic vocal renderings:
“Gloria in excelsis Deo"
Father Elliot is extending his arms outward now,
Bestowing the final expectant blessing;
He is giving absolution to the captives driving Cadillacs.
You know only one thing and that is:
Dying is not on the agenda.
He broke into music
When he was just a kid
They sentenced him to trouble
For dancing like he did
How was he supposed to know
He'd sing Jailhouse Rock
When the boy hit the 50's
He stopped the clock
He rolled into Shreveport
In Louisiana Hay
Destination Vegas
Where stars were known to play
Girls got all shook up
When those hips began to sway
He was stealing hearts
And giving Cadillacs away
He was Guilty....
of Rock and Roll
He did time in Memphis
Down in Sun Studio
Check out the halls of Graceland
Where he stashed that solid gold
He was Guilty.....
Of Rock and Roll
His Rock and Roll crown sparkled
With Gold jump suits and capes
He had the girls all screaming
From the worlds center stage
He was Guilty......
Of Rock and Roll.....
If it's a sin to Rock
Who's gonna cast a Rolling stone
We're all guilty.......
Of Rock and roll!
Protected By Copyrights
"Dreamy Cadillacs"....COLOURFICATION
Decided one Sunday afternoon to indulge in something I love!
Being "Olde School" with an "e" and a Cadillac classic car buff.
I went to this show and was blown away by all the "Cads" I did see!
I'll describe some of them to you! Come take this journey with me!
The first to drop my jaw was a '50's turquoise El Dorado!
Just when I thought I'd seen it all there was a Brougham that was indigo!
By now I am reeling! These cars are quite the sight to be seen...
"Oh No!!!.... Are you kidding me?, that '60's Coupe De Ville is tangerine!"
Once again, I am in a daze by what just caught my sight...
a '77 Eldo Biarritz that is seashell and malachite!
Ok, I was in love and in Heaven and "OH WOW!"....don't you know,
there was a '68 Fleetwood De Ville that was platinum and fandango!
"Stick a fork in me! I'm done!", I said! I was ready to pack it in!
When I turned around, there it was!....Another Eldo that was aureolin!
"Ok get me a stretcher!"...I needed something to lie down on!
There was a '74 Cadillac hearse that was the beautiful color of fawn!
Now although this was not a classic, it was decked out and beautifully made-
the best for last at the end of this journey was a rosso corsa Escalade!
WTA-IV 3/12/2016
"Dreamy Cadillacs"
for COLOURFICATION Contest by Silent One
Turquoise, Indigo, Tangerine, Seashell, Malachite,
Platinum, Fandango, Aureolin, Fawn, Rosso Corsa
*With some of the truly eloquent winners already submitted,
this was a fun challenge*
There were warning signs proclaiming "DANGEROUS CURVE AHEAD!"
But no one paid much attention to them as on they recklessly sped!
On that treacherous stretch was a bend known as "Dead Man's Curve,"
Where many souls began their eternal bourne because they failed to swerve!
Other signs along that mountain road had more profound things to say,
That should have alerted folks to slow down ere there'd be a price to pay!
"PREPARE TO MEET THY GOD!" was erected by the Presbyterian Church,
But speeders ignored that sermon and met their doom for failing to lurch!
"ARE YOU PREPARED TO MEET JESUS?" admonished another sign.
This one was sponsored by the Baptist Church and was nailed to a pine.
But this homily went unheeded and many guys crashed through the railing,
Sailing o'er the thousand foot cliff, their auto, the desert floor impaling!
"THE WAGES OF SPEEDING IS DEATH!" read this creative message!
The Happy Valley Church of God had posted this not so subtle presage!
The Pentecostal Church's warning sign read "REPENT ERE 'TIS TOO LATE!"
'Twill ne'er be known how many ignored that hint, rushing to their fate!
The valley floor below was strewn with wrecked Buicks, Cadillacs and Fords,
Dodge pickup trucks, Happy Times motor homes and four Honda Accords!
On that winding stretch 'tis best to heed signs regarding "Dead Man's Curve"
Ere you join those hapless souls who met their doom 'cause they failed to swerve!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
As the sun sets
and the twilight comes out,
as the birds and squrriels are no where in sight.
As the whores and pimps sit on street corners,
waiting for street lights to turn from green to red.
As cadillacs stop and roll their windows down.
I can her the faint cry deep in the darkness,
of dirty gutters and dark, dead end alleyways,
I hear the faint tears fall and hit concrete pavement.
I feel the faint cries of whores,
I hear the sound of backhand hitting face
and brused tissue and broken noses are everywhere.
And the somber tears fall onto pillow cases,
and white motel bedsheets run red with blood
and cheap Italian wine.
And you can her the poet over the radio,
reading his own work for the one millionth time
and you can hear his soul slowly wanting to die.
He drowns himself in smoke and alcohol
the whore takes her pay, or spends a night in a jail cell,
the pimp nowhere to be found,
with a shiny blade stuck deep in his gut.
And the somber tears fall gently on the concrete pavement,
the floors of a jail cell,
tears on the pillow case and tears on a lonesome stage.
Tears never present, but are seen by many,
pain aches and pain takes away,
and I pour one more drink for the whore.
She takes me away,
and I caught her salty, somber tear,
and she crawled into my warm embrace.
I was the one who stuck the blade in the gut of that pimp,
who broke her nose and made her bleed,
with a cowardess and souless backhand.
I walk into the moonlight,
hearing the somber tears all around me,
crash violently to the concrete pavement.
The Earth rumbles and erupts with these tears,
that are shead for fellow Men, and Women and Children,
but we all look at ourselves and smile.
Happy we don't pay rent,
happy we don't have cancer,
happy we aren't six feet under;
But we still all cry,
Why?
Somber tears all fall in one big wave
crashing violently on the concrete pavement.
Now the red light turns green,
and the traffic moves along,
the whore is still at her corner,
the pimp still with the blade in his gut.
SUPERIOR – not the lake
To me there are no persons drearier
Than those who think themselves superior,
Think everything in life that they do
Is a little, no, MUCH better than you (do)
She didn’t come right out and make a claim
Not sophisticate was to give it name
As example – I mentioned my dentist
Hers, compared to others by far the best
Sadly, my doctor’s name, somehow, came up
Hers had won the Johns Hopkins world class cup
When I mentioned housing she had a ball
When compared to hers, the Taj Mahal was small
Dare I mention our Jeep parked in the back?
She’d boast of her three bran new Cadillacs
Fed her dog ‘Vet’s Laboratory Test’
Even claimed her Fido’s droppings were best
Then, one day –
Joy! When they had to call an ambulance -
Her chronic case of painful flatulence
© Ben Burton 2-8-2015
When sunrise broke, expected clouds
Were nowhere to be seen
Yet, rain was falling in the crowd
Halfway to Beale Street
Across the well-kept, mourning lawn
Inside the noted gates
A million tears for every song
Sprang forth to venerate
The kid who crossed a hundred miles
To reach that flaming star
Gave Cadillacs to catch a smile
Still rode the bumper cars
I sang my way on up the line
And reached the mansion's door
With him inside I knew I'd cry
Returning to the hordes
I cried, anyway
It's rare indeed when poverty
The kind that tests the soul
Gives birth to future royalty
The King of rock and roll
Well, he's gone, gone, gone
Yes, he's gone, gone, gone
In his Graceland home
One last time
Though we still feel love
Sad what he'd become
But despite those drugs
He'll always shine
The story became too heavy
I did went on to empty it
But I was timid
That the outcome could be negative
Which could undermine my dignity
A few days down the line
I did shake heaven and earth
And thought it was fine
But I invoked your wrath!
And heard you wanted to slap me!
Principled Ladies, right?
But it was my desire
To work day and night
To lift those principles higher!
Self denying ordinances
Mom loved daughter and needed no silliness
Lest the wedding feast be omitted?
Okay! I get it !
And then, where is this coming from?
Wait… I hear a whisper about classes
Do I belong to the third estate
And you? First estate?
Oh Lord! But Muhammad married Khadija.
So if I earned a billion dollars a week
And you earned half a billion
Was it gonna be okay?
But such that its vice versa
I look stupid, right?
Is it about the Ferraris, Cadillacs and Jaguars?
Of love & intimacy dashed away
Cancel the obsession, the infatuation, the crush, the love.
Cancel the combination of these
And usher generality?
Too blind to see?
Too bleak to understand?
Cast your glance at my heart
Hope you see the real me
But you won’t understand anything!
Lord….
So I gotta shut me trap?Huh?
Lest you snap(mbama)?
Then I feel stupid.
I’m hurt, hurt, hurt!
Hurt, hurt!
Hurt!
(For Miss Natasha-who is principled)
Dat gal done gone an lef me? '?lone
went t'town wit huh red shoes on.
Hi' ole heels,dress on tight
Powda and paint,sum'in ain't right
They's som kine of problum I caint explain
I believes sum main done turnt her hed
stayin out late,alw ays rais'in sayin
gotta take uh baf, fo' she get in bed
So I follered huh one night to see
Lemme tell ya I seent real good
Dat woman spose'd to be lovin me,
Sportin ah nuthah main, in yonder wood
ME, I tries to be uh good main
work ever day; try t' serve da lord
My woman wanna ride in Cadillacs
Alls I own is uh beat down Ford
Ever night she cum home sweatin
ev'n tho the weather been steady cool
I'll make a flea uh wrestlin jacket
fo I let huh make me uh fool.
Bag packed, gwine to da railroad track
catch me uh train to eny'where good
If'n ya wanna fine dat woman I lef behine
Dig down deep, in yonder wood.
i never dreamed i would miss
my first haven.
the dusty little room
filled with a misty smell.
windows covered with
dusty soot, outdoors a
little hell.
the abandon flats with shadowy
visitors at night. the empty liquor bottles
left covering the street.
it was a haven of being
on my own, being alone.
the ragged kids playing ball
with winos refuge from nights ago,
the shiny cadillacs parked
in front of the ragged flats.
the corner liquor store
always a busy place.
stray dogs wander
like the children,
just as stray, just as stray.
the daily belles sitting
on porches waiting for
sunset to hit.
pretty themselves up
to report to their
nightly post.
the liquor store closes
long before night.
whites might not
see daylight if the
store stays open late.
the children retreat,
the dogs stray on,
cadillacs cruise,
and the belles walk on.
and i, i got married,
we moved, i miss
delaware and poe,
just another corner of detroit.
Sunlight paints your blush with ruby highlights,
inking you in stunning cinibar tints.
And romantic thoughts glow in your aura,
inspiring both artists and troubadours.
With wafts of romantic inclinations,
your fragrant aroma summons a kiss.
And oft fills sultry souls with thoughts of bliss,
imagining a world built on a wish.
Laid in a book, you await tomorrow,
your crimson color crumbling into dust.
But happy thoughts wash all that's sad away;
as your charming disposition blossoms.
Your buds bloom into a symbol of class,
along with caviar and Cadillacs.
And fuchsia adds glamor to your array;
in a phantasmagorical display.
You accompany faith through dark shadows;
as you ward off scary, sorrowful thoughts.
And mourn with all who cry, clutching your thorns;
comforting, distraught souls without a word.
I Can’t Believe I Keep Saying Stuff Like That
By Elton Camp
I won’t have any trouble relating to the regular Joe
After all, I only have two hundred fifty million or so
Among the filthy rich, I am not even close to there
I’m only about one-fourth way to being a billionaire
NASCAR doesn’t really hold a lot of interest to me
But of couple of my friends own whole teams you see
Sometimes I forget & make some rather unwise cracks
Like saying that my wife drives a couple of Cadillacs
And when I said that it’s people that I like to fire
Looking back, I wish had, instead, substituted hire
But probably the worst that I have messed up yet
Was in offering to make a ten thousand buck bet
I mean not to speak of wealth, but can’t stick to it
Sometimes I wonder if it’s the devil made me do it
I surely do wish that to nobody it had occurred
That I am as rich as Thurston Howell the Third
Herd-mongers, schoolmarms and glorious twats
Piloting leased arks through drenched parking lots
Cadillacs cleansed of a fine week’s debris
Just in time for the polish of sanctimony
A river of swine, like the Jordan, it crosses
Over deserts of disheartened workers and bosses
The fracas of worshippers, beanied and veiled –
In the Third World, could pass for a fish market sale
There are loaves, there are nets – there’s nothing to eat
There’s so little legroom; there are beads on my seat!
There’s a mountain of missals, there’s a tower of babblers
And a nice hidden room for perpetual hagglers
There’s prime VIP seating, a great view of a tomb
Completely adjacent to the activities room
There’s most anything anyone could need or want,
So long as it comes from a baptismal font
When in walks a figure, so stiff and ordained,
You know in a moment he must be a saint
He’ll heal a few cripples, a Lazarus or two
And distribute those wafers that keep us renewed
Then we offer up thanks to some white-beard in the ether
With all of the joy of a rheumatic fever
And spill from the pews, lemmings on marble tile
And back onto the ark for brunches-du-style
‘cause the deluge has cornered-down many a mile
And sacrificed many a kind word and smile
Tolerance chiseled, evolution defiled –
Maybe let’s keep its hooks off the last decent child
Tolerance chiseled, evolution defiled –
Maybe let’s keep its hooks off the last decent child.
I walked down jazz alleys with stingy cigarettes
and a head filled with typewriter dreams,
silently praying to sidewalk gods
for the inhaling of coconut rum,
Chicago and Havana,
minds heavy with thoughts of steel and uranium
in the years before cold war, red missiles,
and the rusting sickle of Russian terror,
seeing dusty men gathered outside newspaper stands
waiting and plotting, in quiet conversations about Che Guevara,
and in America, small bankers with obscene moustaches
fingered money with a capitalist fix, primarily
out of the silk lined jackets of a charading middle class,
that got stuck in first, like early model Cadillacs, blooming
in the 60's like early spring lilacs, violent purple, pink,
and the blue of acid blotter fractal brothers and Grey's
later paintings of cross-sectioned life, where Jesus was spread out
and examined in new eyes of a public embracing science and
the sub-atomic nuclear buzz, in the years before computers
and solitary confinement of plastic and lamplight, in the years
before the war on multicolored terror and human entropy,
here, the rising fist was a message, not a punchline.
I
Tis the season -
of loss or of change?
I was told both.
But first I drove from home to sleepless couches.
From quiet to frightening neighbors.
I drove on a warm December’s sheet of ice
and passed mile after mile of backed up traffic.
I drove carefully,
painting mundane trails of dark asphalt.
Trying and failing to paint within the given lines.
What of interest happens inside a coloring book’s lines, anyways?
So - now my car is drowning -
it cannot swim.
Muddy and grass-stained,
flipped and sinking.
Ah - no surprise
Twisted metal to be more beautiful than flawless Cadillacs.
II
Now, I sit and wait.
Hanging crosses and tying scarves.
A wearable noose for a lipstick smile.
I wait - counting silver - of bent doors, tires, and roofs.
A reflection skittering by to frighten me.
A recurring image of the distant family friend.
He who died all alone.
He who shocked us all with a faulty heart.
None were shocked to feel their eyes turn to salt -
as nostalgia floods over the chests of people ready to trade him places.
So, I sit and wait.
Wearing a tasteful noose.
Salting my counted silver and coloring outside the lines.
No degree of bad habit can erase the face I expect to see.
No small piece of advice can change the weathered countenance
that will walk in with salted eyes.