Best Crammed Poems
William Bonny AKA Billy The Kid
A Tale Of Billy The Kid
By Robert Gorelick
“Quien esta?”
Bang! It’s over,
you’re a legend now,
Billy.
Born in Hell’s Kitchen in
ramshackle consumptive squalor,
New York’s crammed gang infected
rat-infested shacks
and alleys.
Amid the iniquitous stench
of rot and the soul’s decay,
in a nation at war,
pulling, stretching, ripping
to shreds the frayed fabric
of its precarious union.
An abused juvenile fleeing west
emerging from the muck
to where a soul and body
may heal, breathe deeply,
expand.
At last—life
New Mexico territory spreads open
and wide, easy to be seduced by cynical
range-war ranchers’ welcome greetings
they pay you well for
every cattle rustled,
then desert you as you flee the
sheriff’s posse.
“Quien esta?”
With a concealed knife
you stab a drunken gambler,
self-defense is no excuse
as the ruffian had
important friends.
You’re set to hang, Billy
in a daring display
you shoot your way out,
steal a horse and gallop
off to your woodland
shanty.
Midnight, your shack’s pitch dark,
there’s breathing nearby,
your Mexican novia?
Why doesn’t she speak?
“Quien esta?”
Bang. Pat Garrett guns
you down.
A throw away kid from big city squalor,
becomes a legend of the wild west.
You’re a legend, Billy
1/8/23
Metrical Tale Contest
Sponsor: Hilo Poet
the injustice of
the powder blue box
standing proudly
on the corner of
fifty-seventh and fifth
A symbol of division
extending the partition
between wealth and
everyone else
back around the way
the old shabby
half shingled house
was home to the
second hand charlie brown
size thirteen shoes
worn by
the size thirteen girl
sitting on the second
stair stoop
when she was just thirteen
no one heard her scream
no one saw her run
and hide in shame
under the rough wool
of poverty that had never
comforted or warmed her
her playgrounds were
clotheslines for volleyball
and cracked tarred side streets
for hopscotch
forced to scratch and climb each day
up through that
crammed and crowded pit
fighting to reach the light before
the trap was sealed shut on the door
there’s a quota, you see
only some will be allowed
a chance to be free
everyone knew
most will not make it through
the others doomed
to return and make do
forced to accept
false narratives and
live by corrupted rules
but just remember
the megaphone
fed down into the abyss
is an acoustic indoctrination
and it never ceases to play
“two plus two
equals four”
a deliberate
echo to trance
the suffocated poor
yet one percent
know the real truth
two plus two
equals anything
you want it to
entrenched in power
they refuse to let go
protecting the system
they must maintain
the status quo
so she stands in line
to make the climb
determined to reach
the top in time
she knows her freedom
is just beyond that light
as she hears the trap door
slam behind
she feels the warmth
of destiny on her face
knowing that countless others
are left behind
trapped in a sinkhole
of poverty and oppression
in a mental cage
that denies their rights
He kept a small room
he wasn’t in it very often
but it was there and he knew it
it was safe
for though life had opened roads
that needed to be trodden
and he was often far away
his room was
waiting for him
in it was his bookcase
teal blue stained wood
shelves of a life explored
childhood memories
books about dinosaurs and the moon
pictures and piggy banks
old record albums and
his Titanic collection
there were two hickory chairs
old world charm in light pink brocade
a gift of decades past
and his library desk, a rare find
and one to keep for its
mahogany leather embossed top
its drawers crammed with 50 years of
incidentals, papers and letters
and brochures
on its walls, his oils and watercolors
kept guard
his paintings from a long ceased dalliance
in art
he kept a small room
to visit
for though he believed that home
is where love is and can be anywhere
he also knew that a seed planted
can grow and grow
but its roots must survive
(Chorus)
You think you've got swagger but really you hobble,
you've got the jet lagger and you're drunk so you wobble,
don't start on me mate 'cus I will bring trouble,
to put it into slang words I'm Barney Rubble.
(Verse)
I will ruffle trouble
'cus I'm on another level
that bombs with the base
and stings with the treble,
I'll strut face to face with any ace rebel,
and put them in their place with their constant bull.
When I rhyme with my contortionist wrist
it expels a mist that sits around my fist,
I spell magic out on paper,
I'm playing with danger,
Mr. Wizardry the word selectionist,
squiggling fiction at speeds that feed friction
into rhymes that are non stop hot and cool,
so flames don't flame on the table top,
journey with me to witness the plot,
the earth shaker creator of perfected hip hop,
starting revolutions so that mumble is forgot,
dislodging the rust and rot it coughs that clots
and instating my Barney Rubble at the top.
(Chorus x2)
(Verse)
That last verse was just a small handful,
a sample of something that you cannot handle,
a scan like a bar code,
so lets open up the road and I'll unload these words,
I can't conceal this skill that rolls like wheels,
a Rolls Royce wearing heels,
in fancy halls doing dancing drills,
with golden walls
to an old skool beat treat.
I wont get signed up by any record label,
but I'm still rhyming better than mumble's able,
just admit you're tapping your feet to the beat
while my rhyme sits on top solid like concrete,
with the dancefloor crammed full,
they're pulling at all angles,
making the memories
that'll last 'til they're O A P's,
they think they've got swagger
and they're like Mick Jagger,
they're more like Sepp Blatter
but a little bit fatter.
(Chorus x2)
(Verse)
You can call me Trimendous and true,
you thought I'd flew crashed and was screwed,
but I took it back to what inspired my act,
an old skool hip hop sick rhyme attack,
I rhymed in flight with this write
and its smile's wild with sublime delight,
there are no poetic rare words
and I don't need swear words
in this dictionary spared verse
with airstream rhythm you can't burst,
I'm wearing this deserved set of words
that pilots and surges to my re-emergence,
a certainty that was never urgent
and not an encore from behind the curtains.
(Chorus x2)
Ah, to this land of the monsoons
or should it have been the sunsoons?
Yet for frozen land tourists, a tropical hot boon.
Where bullock carts, stray dogs, horse carriages and cows
pedestrians, goats, bikes and rickshaws
scooters, trucks, motorbikes and cabs
all compete together in quirky medley of traffic jams
On crammed roads you could ram into bulls and rams
So brakes forever screeching, the cars forever honking, hooting
while beggers begged and pickpockets could go a' looting on a footing
But where else you'd see, ducks and ponds in the city
buffaloes wallowing in mud without fear or pity!
Urban jungle eh, you'd think with a wink
and in many's esteem this land shan't ever sink.
Then pass the huge expanses of paddy fields and the rice farmers
and next come face to face with those Indian snake charmers!
Ah and the imposing edifice, Tajmahal, one of the seven wonders of the world
is no where else found, nor are the epic himalayas on any map unfurled
except for India, and a whole ocean with her name
The Indian ocean knows and salutes her fame!
As for me, meeting relatives there, is the best best part
then shopping too in each and every crowded mart
shopping like crazy, filling my spree's shopping cart!
It was really a simple thing
Four chains holding a large plank
Suspended from the ceiling
A big blue swing
Summer at its peak
Heat touching 45 degrees
Cousins all crammed up
On a large blue swing
Listening to granny’s stories
The distant fan slowly whirring
Laughing and giggling at nothing
On a large blue swing
Plate in hand my brother would sit at its end
Pretending to drive an airplane
Never knew planes did not have steering
On the large blue swing
Sometimes when no one was around
I’d sit on it with outstretched hands
Barely touching both its ends yet feeling like a queen
On a large blue swing
With my favourite cousin sometimes I’d sit
Munching hot salted peanuts
Pouring out our deepest secrets
On a large blue swing
At noon in granny’s lap I’d lie
And listen to her lullaby
Soon asleep, without a worry in life
On a large blue swing
Like the swing her hopes never ran high
She spoke to me of days gone by
Looking beautiful, despite a toothless smile
On a large blue swing.
Today it is no more there
With grandma it slowly passed away
But memories still remain
On the large blue swing.
Now and Then
I’m writing you in cursive script
Despite computer minded folk
And cell phones where you always spoke
You’re looking at a clock instead
All other sites are just as dead
But with my plume I let you know
So you can feel the silken flow
My passion with my written word
That you may cherish and be stirred
As in a poem you never heard
The generations have evolved
Millennials cannot recall
The time we dipped our pen in ink
and crammed our mind to send a link
To hope my words connect our troth
And love you as my solemn oath
©Ralph Sergi August 29, 2016
life has been renewed
eggs and the fluffy chickens ~
crammed with happiness
War Heroes
Between black wheel tarmac
the crossing reflects a figure in polished paint
at the stagger of his old loose feet
crosses the barrier of traffic
with the beacons conversation meaning nothing
its flashing occupation signals his lolled neck stumbling
sucks the bottle for one last time
and forgets
Sighting on blurred reactions
sipping the spit of his dribble he stares at his daughter mannequin
wincing past his performance
begging her to listen
while her attention is fixed ahead
the traffic rolls slick full of monoxide toxic
breathes the waste of her distress
she ignores the principal wave of his bottle
releasing her breath with the clutch
the zebra smells like a mouse trap
the white ladder bars and black adder cars
bump pristine edges on his boots
he sways across
The market trolleys squeak echoes the ache
she steps on tender ankles
swollen while he eases her past the cardboard
the plastic bags of her life crammed to full
the tatters of memories
she thinks of china cups and lost children
on blazing streets that lived on rations
Some where in her mind he is a hero
medals adorning his battered uniform
the traffic roars as loud as the blitz
some where in his mind he sees her yellow skin
the gunpowder struggle and the munitions factory
have worn away her beauty but still her eyes are sweet and lovely
and the traffic blasts like the blitz
on the people they were before
To the wild overgrown garden
of my age crammed mind
I keep returning, thirsting for
the nectar of neglected nights,
when moonlight shone in vain,
searching for scattered words
among the shadows of silence
urging myself to catch a whiff
of her fragrant sensual scent
where distant memories linger
dripping from dew laden boughs.
Clinging to false illusionary hope
I sift through densely mingled weeds
with wrinkled trembling hands…
frenzied feeble efforts, as aridness
suffocates the last breaths of existence.
--------------------------------------------
[Pub. PS: It’s Poetry: An anthology of contemporary poetry from around the world 2020]
Contest: Where Bumbles Bounce
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
Placed 3rd
© 15th September 2019
(It was 1860 when the English poet Robert Browning
stumbled upon an interesting artefact as he walked
through the city of Florence. It was a file of documents
from an old Italian criminal trial, and he would turn
this material into his masterpiece, "The Ring and the
Book".)
The Old Square Yellow Book
It was the kind of day they call a "stallion"
in Florence, with white sun, surpassing strong.
And it was noon. (In June, to be precise.)
The Englishman came strolling aimlessly
(or was it?) through Piazza San Lorenzo.
And, just as now, a market crammed the square
and foamed around the statue's marble plinth.
Here, plaster busts, there, flaking picture-frames,
and Garibaldi portraits (way back then,
in eighteen-sixty, they were giving birth:
Italian nationhood was in the air).
The tall "inglese", drawn towards the stall
which offered prints and books, picked something up.
He shouted "shop", and put one lira down.
The book was his. He managed to ignore
the girls, a-squabbling over tasseled shawls,
those burly porters, drenching head and neck
in Giovanni's fountain, braying mules,
cacophony and chaos all around,
to read his book. His blood knew, right away.
At last, he'd found the raw material
from which he'd quarry one great masterpiece.
One foot propped on the railing, near the step
which leads down to the fountain by the church,
he read, engrossed. Then, with a sudden laugh,
he threw it in the air, and caught it, safe.
What was it? Well, a book - but more than that.
It was the record of some long-dead trial,
some murder case of many years before,
with statements, pleadings, longhand notes. In this
authentic tangle lay a human tale
of fierce emotion, rich psychology,
if he could tease it out. So off he set,
re-reading as he walked, feeling his way,
along the narrow Giglio, then the broad
Panzani. Via Tornabuoni next,
so long and straight, down to the river.
He passed the Strozzi Palace, crossed the bridge
they call the Trinita. When he reached home,
the cool Felice, there was not a doubt.
His whole life's labour lay there, in his hands.
Around that table, picture the scene
Self appointed leaders if you know what I mean
What were the topics on the Agenda that day
The Jewish race is about to pay
Who gave the right for this decision that's made
Who has the right to cleanse and degrade
To decide who lived, to decide who dies
Another chapter, I still wonder why
They came in the day they came in the night
Women and children pulled out of sight
Herded aboard like cattle and sheep
Many a family awoke from their sleep
Dazed and confused as they are taken away
Where will they be at the end of the day
From their warm houses and their warm beds
What must be going through their heads
As they travel through days and through the night
Up ahead, they see lots of lights
They depart the trucks and board the train
Their faces scared under the strain
Asking questions from family and others
Generations, sisters and brothers
Why are we here, where are we going
Windowless carriages with no way of knowing
We come to a stop, soldiers aplenty
Towers and wire, topped with sentries
What can this place be they have taken us to
As we head to large gates as they shuffle us through
Families separated, herded in file
Women and children, not one did smile
Taken to rooms where our heads were shaved
Is this the way humans behaved
Clothes discarded, as we enter the shower
No signs of water no signs of power
Doors slammed as we are all crammed in
History will recall this evil of sins
As we stand in the dark, chanting Jewish faith
Can hear the voices can't see the face
Noises above, do the showers start
The event has begun that tells us Humans apart
Questions and sighs, as walled vents show daylight
Some thing is falling then their slammed tight
A strange aroma starts to fill the air
As all around are screams of despair
Twenty minutes have passed and the quietness is rife
Two thousand people, two thousand lives
Pellets called HCN, or Hydrogen Cyanide
Contribute to this Genocide
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/war-2.php
He lived a simple life
He was a simple man
He never had a wife
He had a different plan
He wore the priestly collar
He lived a life of service
You never heard him holler
Nothing made him nervous
Several pulpits did he refuse
Summoned by a worldly muse
Radical students would he infuse
With old-fashioned values and views
At an East-coast college he did teach
Engaging students with humble manner
Principled, rational; he never preached
Didn't wave religion on a banner
I took his course; so glad I did
He personified what was kind and good
Though I was steeped in sin, God forbid
He treated me as a father would
Invited me into his home
Holy books crammed into every nook
We talked and dreamed, together roamed
Beyond dry lessons and textbooks
I'll never forget this gentle saint
As long as I do live
With humanity did he (me) acquaint
Taught me from my heart to give
July 16, 2019
Favorite Poem in Rhyme from July, 2019 Contest
Sponsor: Julia Ward
In the dead of night, he comes a laying
up against my side
When a witches’s brew has chilled the air
with a frigid tide
He comes in stealth, a quiet pace
in a tip-toed creep
With me in dreams he finds his place
a way into my sleep
I wake to find there is no room
i’m inches from the edge
I see a fluffy monster
has crammed me to a wedge
Though numb from lack of motion
my heart just overflows
with love for my sweet puppy
despite his cold, wet nose
The warmth that he possesses
and brings into my bed
will stay with me forever
no monster here to dread
Earth's crammed with heaven, and every common bush afire with God. And only he who sees
takes off his shoes, the rest sit round and pluck blackberries.
-- Elizabeth Barrett Browning
The more time I share with you
I find me like a wave crashing a distant shore.
Insatiable thirst to drink from your
living pools of water.
Bathed in your furnace fires
in this latter time.
Let me not be the one to pluck
blackberries from the bushes,
But a small flame joined in
your blazing fires.
I am in awe to stunned
to move from your presence.
So close, I can feel a wind called
Jehovah wrapped around me.
I remove my sandals on this
earthly ground.
Knowing I am standing in your presence,
the true essence of Holy Ground.
I have seen and witnessed your
Majestic Power, Love, and Salvation.
This poem is featured at Sword n Light with music and art feel free to visit.
http://www.swordnlight.com/sandals.html