Best Clamoured Poems
A girl gleams in her ink dreams
sittin against barn wall sqeakin like a soul freakin,
voices from an unpopulated country
dancin and rockin on her soul's farmland stage,
lyrics and long hair wavin one day in "big city lights" ,
famous without frontin, rebellious without shoutin,
grafetti on those nails like she's writin forbidden Art,
gotta Bible in her back pocket and a tongue like a rocket,
climbin trees catchin river breeze
square stompin around daisies and dust,
magazines, studios, clamoured for contracts,
the sunrise came with pay checks,
jealousy raged from people rivited in righteousness,
tickets got ripped, a kid got gipped
but that peacock quill never left her hip -
J.A.B.
Sitting on a park bench
and taking in the sights,
she's always got an eye out
for the children, running
back and forth till they are wired,
then pestering their parents -
"Come on, Mom, we're not tired!"
They cluster all around her,
they call her 'Auntie Pearl,'
to listen to her stories of
when she was just a girl;
tales of pinafores and mittens,
lovely hats for Sunday best,
patent leather shoes and stockings,
turning out so smartly dressed!
There were picnics and fun times
out by the river when they'd walk
two miles or more learning their rhymes.
Riding in a carriage pulled by
horses up and down the street,
calling at a neighbour's house -
there'd always be a treat!
Taking presents to the homeless
the day after Christmas Day,
helping those who didn't have much
food to eat, or games to play.
She told them, "Listen to your folks,
try to grow up big and strong,
help others when you have the chance,
your lives will be full and long!"
One Saturday she didn't come to take
her usual seat. The kids all clamoured:
"Where's Aunt Pearl?" she made their day
complete. Moms said: "She's telling stories
to the angels now, it's true. She loves you all,
remember, she is watching over you."
Sitting on a park bench
and taking in the view,
she's always got an eye out
for the children, me and you,
pestering our parents
with a grumble or a pout.
We cluster all around her,
we call her 'Auntie Pearl,'
to listen to her stories of
when she was just a girl;
tales of pinafores and mittens,
lovely hats for Sunday best,
patent leather shoes and stockings,
turning out so smartly dressed!
There were picnics and fun times
down by the river when they'd walk
two miles or more learning their rhymes.
Riding in a carriage pulled by
horses up and down the street,
calling at a neighbour's house -
there'd always be a treat!
Taking presents to the homeless
the day after Christmas Day,
helping those who didn't have much
food to eat, or games to play.
She told us, "Listen to your folks
and grow up big and strong,
help others when you have the chance,
and greet them with a song."
One Saturday she didn't come to take her usual seat.
We kids all clamoured:"Where's Aunt Pearl?"
she made our day complete. Moms said:
"She's telling stories to the angels now, it's true.
She loves you all and she is watching over you."
On a warm, dew-weakened day,
Watching the grey void of a lost
Sense, anxious moments recline
On whiffs of ancestral propitiations
When rafters regain possession of
Filched roast fish, balanced with
The fumes of a wild dance heckled
By chokes of a chagrined weekend.
Who rises faster than smokes of a
Low tar, ascending
Gently,
Whimsically,
Lazily,
With rings of white life
Extinguished through banalities,
Through clamoured waste? . . .
Such rise — gay, sensuous rise
Of the thin beam,
Goes with every thread of meaning
Long since posted on the banner of
Meaningful dreams.
Once was a folk singer back in the sixties
It was surely my time to shine
Along with the great Peter Paul and Mary
They seemed like good friends of mine
A group of six, The Canadiana Folksingers
Appeared on Canadian TV
A couple of albums and two or three shows
Played banjo, sure looked geeky
Hi Jolly was our biggest success
Wherever we went they clamoured for it
Did I tell you Bruce played a one string bass
It added some charm I'll admit
Wife Linda was one of the two girl singers
Sure prettied up the group I'll say
Didn't make much money but that didn't matter
The joy hasn't left to this day
Not everyone can say they were part of a group
Twas a very special time in my life
Wish I could go back and relive it again
A great time for me and my wife
© Jack Ellison 2015
Sitting on a park bench
and taking in the view,
she's always got an eye out
for the children, me and you,
when we're pestering our parents
with a grumble or a pout.
We cluster all around her,
we call her 'Aunty Pearl,'
to listen to her stories of
when she was just a girl;
tales of pinafores and mittens,
smashing hats for Sunday best,
patent leather shoes, and stockings,
turning out so smartly dressed!
There were picnics and fun times
by the river where they'd walk
two miles or more, learning to talk.
Riding in a carriage pulled by
horses up and down the street,
calling at a neighbour's house -
there'd always be a treat!
Taking presents to the homeless
the day after Christmas Day,
helping those who didn't have
much food to eat, or games to play.
She told us, "Listen to your folks
and grow up big and strong,
help others when you have the chance,
and greet them with a song!"
One Saturday she didn't come to take her usual seat.
We kids all clamoured, "Where's Aunt Pearl?
she makes our day complete." Moms said:
"She's telling stories to the angels now, it's true.
She loves you all, believe me, she is watching over you."
Fee-On-Her Joy
The peril of the real epitome of African goddess,
Her gift packed neatness pouted love in her,
That has been brewed from Luo love pot,
Her lips lithe in the coat of spicy charm,
As she slough, the hot, sharp, and pleasant heart beating echoed voice,
In a mouth full of jibes from the blessed blossom balmed lips,
Arousing their loins at the joint of thigh,
As if it was fee-on-her, that gives birth to their joy,
She is real artistry of long lost African goddess,
Don’t ask me fee-on-her, because Fiona is she that joy.
A beau clamoured with joy to charm-hypnotized eyes,
Your enchantment leaves,
The mind free to ride,
An up and down undulating waves of dreams,
As a thin sleekly silver, chain adorns your tender neck,
And disappears into the deep ‘V’ cut,
Between, the budding bust thrust of your breast,
For those who do not know you,
Awes the bog of jealousy to your African knotted body,
Don’t ask me fee-on-her, because Fiona is she that joy.
Lived eight years in a retirement community
Best eight years, so thankful for the opportunity
Elderly ladies clamoured around me
Best looking oldster they ever did see
Had to beat them off with a stick to avoid a mutiny
Lived eight years in a retirement community
Best eight years, so thankful for the opportunity
Elderly ladies clamoured around me
Best looking oldster they ever did see
Had to beat them off with a stick to avoid a mutiny
Never too old!
When I was a little girl
My grandfather had a tin
With a sailor smoking a cigarette on the lid
It was what he kept his medals in
He called them Pip, Squeak and Wilfred
And I asked him what they were
He said the nineteen fourteen star, the British war medal and the Victory medal
From World War One, but they're not rare
He told me his war memories
Could fill many a page
Then said he’d been recruited
Even though he was underage
He told me he’d had a shock
When on the internet he'd seen
That a quarter of a million young men had signed up
All under the age of eighteen
He said recruits had a medical
To make sure they were fit to fight
They must have a minimum chest size of thirty-four inches
And five feet three was the minimum height
He told me he’d heard something
That had really filled him with rage
That recruitment officers got two shillings and sixpence
If they turned a blind eye to someone under-age
He added that he and some old army friends
Used to spend hours chatting on a bench
Recalling a soldier they’d known
Too short to see over the edge of the trench
My granda had asked his friend, a fourteen year old recruit
What on earth he’d signed up for
He reluctantly replied he had clamoured
For the excitement of fighting in a war
He told them of my father’s brother
Who had been the first born son
Blown to pieces at fifteen
Recruited by passing for twenty-one
He didn't survive to get medals
His parents thought of him as brave
Many times since then
I have visited his grave
No remains are buried
Just a plaque that bears his name
A list of lives that were lost
No bodies left to claim
He also told them about the time
That my late Grandma spent
Visiting her beloved Alexander
As he lay in a fever tent
He had typhoid fever
And he managed to survive
The doctors and nurses told her
He was very lucky to be alive
My grandfather would tell war stories
That would chill you to the core
Tales of the atrocities
And casualties of war
{For Nelson and Winnie Mandela}
You, me said I to my honey bitter
When like the windy aether,
Blows us hither and thither
Bursting bubbles on elevating air,
I shall sleep dreaming with one eye open
Set you and I free on a chilly rest,
Virtually recalling the immure moments
I shall tell you of inborn pain.
Hence, that in these moments, hours
Days running in weeks, months into years
And coming to these moments,
It's love I suppose so
That I should be waiting, waiting and waiting
For you on this thing that like the windy aether,
Has blown away, blown away till this moments.
I shall sleep through to another day
Because of you, I and the offspring
And watch you through, though my heart is spilling
Could it be my strength has withered?
Or my agility has disappeared?
So when the night comes to eyes
And the silence deafened ears
In those moments, hours, days, weeks and months
And the years, O the years!
Which I have slept through just remembering you.
I have looked your face through,
When you are slumbering, thinking silently
Of your vanity, tells of enchantment saliently.
Let us lay on the lawn
And make sweater nothing of love,
Let us float upwelling in delight for the ocean,
And make sea-wine sip among arteries rejecting behoove.
It is love I suppose so
That I should be waiting,waiting and waiting,
For you on this thing that like the windy aether
Has blown away, blown away till these moments,
And you insinuate without times, whether
That ours prophesy shakable love lust,
It has not gone through the last
Of consent; well, it's all sentimental
Even though, I have gone and mount the pedestal
Like the Baboon drumming
Out his chest so loud;
My head had gone white shouting so loud
And the children care clamoured for
My greater loftier ladder,
Aged head has gone white like cloud.
You would say then, I have waited for ages,
I have trimmed the lamp for ages
I have fumbled with the candle for long;
But then flop;
Fell out of one uniting rope
I went so far flung,
Even though thinking of you then
As I now thinking of you so,
And you have on, on and on thinking then
I would wait for you so.
They stood there by the shadows
Two vagabonds should you call,
One was a man of honour
The other a mongrel small;
The winter sun was setting
Twilight had crawled overall,
The north wind clamoured and howled
Dark clouds had suffused their shawl;
Few townsfolk shuffled about
Hurrying with chores of their day,
But none caring to glance at
The two who stood by their way;
Horse-drawn carriages laboured by
As did porters to the quay,
None had the time to stand by
Caught up in their worldly fray;
Ignored stood the wanderers
Who once had home and hearth,
Their lives blessed with plentiful
For it had both joy and mirth;
But destiny had beguiled
Now they were ever in dearth;
They needed food and shelter
But could barter not its worth;
The two sought caring glances
They sought for a helping hand,
Pleadings a gentle flourish
Like sea-shells upon the sand;
Yet, dusk felt their suffering
Bats feted them to their land,
Stars cajoled from a distance
That Venus would wield its wand.
Huddled upon a doorway
They made a grievous sight,
They stood for heaven's mercy
Their state a piteous plight;
The north wind seemed relentless
It rumbled with all its might,
Snow-flakes heeded their pallor
And left them shrouded in white;
A snow-owl spied them at dawn
Hunched at the doorway below,
Their reverie lay frozen
With desires none would know;
The mortal world had cared not
With compassion's running low,
But nature had been kindly
Having buried them in snow.
The owl mourned their tragedy
Sadly hooting at the sun,
It resounded like a dirge
Alas to hear, there was none!
***********
SHE SHOWN UP
AS BRIGHTER AS DAYS
SEARCHING FOR MEANS
TO CALL IT A DAY
FOR HER FAMILY
FAULTLESSLY ENCOUNTERED
THE BIG ASPECT OF LIFE
HEREAFTER SHE WAS GAOLED
FOR AN OFFENCE NOT COMMITED
JUSTICE CLAMOURED FOR
THE AFFLUENCE
THEIR HANDS ARE THERE
WHO HELD UP THE CAUSE
SHE SCREAMED UP FOR LIBERTY
AS CRESCENDO AS VOLUME OF VUVUZELA
IT WAS HEARD
ALAS THE EARS ARE DEAF
THE JUDGEMENT WAS PROCLAIMED
IN THE FAVOUR OF THEY
AN INNOCENT WAS PROXIMALLY CAGED
From inside myself I feel in humility
That wondrous sense of awe within my mind,
A special transcendence into tranquillity.
My memories rise to the surface to remind,
I’ve lost reality in the silence.
Travel through recollections of the past to find
My childhood, that distant, sweet time of innocence
Never alone, imagination led
Me to fantasy lands where truth made no sense.
I did not have to dream tucked snugly in a bed,
I could journey anywhere in the world
Solitude, for me, never has held any dread
For I was happiest when I sat small and curled
Safe, while in my head adventures swirled.
Years later, solitude became a welcome friend,
As children clamoured hungry for their tea.
Mind frazzled by the day, I’d stand at my wits end
Then find a solution, distract them with TV.
Find solace in the kitchen, meal in pan,
Stare out at the garden with eyes that did not see.
Drift away to the whirring of extractor fan,
Not see jumbled toys piled beside the shed.
There was no direction for wilful my mind ran
Until a noise reminded me, kids to be fed,
Interrupted dreaming, no time to brood;
Children’s teas, husband’s dinner, bath then up to bed.
Oh what luxury the chance of solitude
Snatched moments in busy days, a short interlude.
Now solitude stretches from morning until night,
And in early hours of creeping morning
In the peace of darkness I like best to write.
Inspiration often comes as day is dawning
Shining brightly, golden as the sky,
The birth of a new day often ideas spawning.
Now I can be alone I do not have to try
Sitting in a crowded room, walking in a field,
I’ve learned to view with outer and inner eye.
Solitude, that place to chaos never yields
For it is the essence of blissful life,
Often I find that my sanity it shields.
It keeps me safe from all the daily strife,
And brings to me peace of mind when evil runs rife.
Old Jackster's been bad, so what is new
Been naughty since way back when
Really not ashamed to admit it though
Kinda proud how I did it back then
Girls all clamoured for more, more, more
Was only too happy to oblige
Not long after the preliminaries were over
I immediately hit my stride
Ride 'em cowboy screaming like a banshee
Those were the days of my youth
Now all I can do is scream like a banshee
The sexual part has gone poof
Still works okay when I dream at night
Been a while since I was a cub
They say the seventies are the golden years
I'd rather be that handsome young stud
© Jack Ellison 2014