Best Elliot Poems
The flamboyant Pierre Elliot Trudeau,
Canada’s 15th Prime Minister, known for saying fuddle-duddle you know.
Also established the Charter of Rights and Freedom,
Wish he was still alive, we surely need him.
Written October 9, 2012
For Andrea Dietrich’s contest
“a fresh batch of Clerihews”
Pierre Elliot Trudeau,
prime minister of Canada for 15 years, now this is a man to know;
a colorful personality mobbed by throngs of cameras and adoring female youth,
yet it is his many political decisions that haunt us still- oh, that is our truth !
________________________________
January 22, 2019
Poetry/Clerihew/Pierre Elliot Trudeau
Copyright Protected, ID 19-1107-191-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, Educate Me With Humor, Leader Clerihew
Sponsor, Andrea Dietrich
Third Place
Encouraging
life
like
its
outspokenly
thoughtfull
This is the news
about a fox in a box,
a hare so slim so short and thin
on the prowl
the fox lets out a howl his tummy starts to growl
he begins his hunt
with a big grunt
he started to stare
with a big glare
So scarce so scared
that the fox makes a huff
the hair makes a puff
After a fight
so tight
the fox has won
The hair is dead
the fox goes to bed
I leave no footprint
and cast no shadow
the water won't ripple
when I dive in-
but wherever I go,
I feel it all
because all is within me,
as it always has been.
Darwin's animal is writing poetry,
Nietzsche's Ubermensch is learning idolatry.
Cockroach won't leave early,
He will wait for the bread crumbs dearly.
The embezzler is talking riches,
His nightmares are all about witches.
"THE GRADIENT" decides, "THE GRADIENT" presides,
"THE GRADIENT" is the tradeoff which can suffice.
Come as you may, come as you will,
Come to the wrongdoer and make him pay the bill.
Yates , Elliot & Ezra Pound are in talks with the devil,
Crawly has arranged rendezvous up the hill.
Poems have started rhyming,
But there is still no silver lining.
I want to go up the hill,
But the master won't agree to my will.
Mr. Frost is talking to me, he is asking me to tie the net,
And not to play tennis without a bet.
By barren sands, the weary streets do sprawl,
Where voices rattle in the iron dusk,
And hollow laughter rises, wan and thin.
The city groans beneath a leaden sky,
Where smoke and sorrow mingle, thick and gray,
A wasteland woven close with wire and sin.
We shuffle on, led by the shuffling feet,
The broken rhythm of the heartless heart,
As neon blinks and chokes with dying light.
Desire whispers in the crowded dark,
Promises drift in currents cold and stale,
And hope clings tight to shadows out of sight.
Here memory fades like water down the drain,
Filtered through grates of time and rusted hate.
The children play, the elders stare, alone,
Each captive in a glassy cage of bones.
Yet still, I trace faint roots of hidden springs,
In ruins, soft as moths, a life begins.
Because of it, we laughed as grass is green—there is she not common.
Realizing how it is I became, such implied in her with favor.
--
And, being left off distant of, but near to her, I thus became—
whose teeth, white, flashed: the sun as she was now to smile and show them.
--
I was drawn inside by her sweet, minty breath she made as was it.
I inhaled with each profound look; I rediscovered.
--
Lost, then finally found within dark caves of sound, so deep
and smooth, so rich and throaty, singing music all the time—
--
never ravaged but by scotch and time and filtered cigarettes.
--
Though detached, always above, I look again there down below.
Such is an undulation, a visitation—
invisible muscles moving up and down.
--
A young woman on the beach, she hurries past us, saying,
drawing briefly it aside: a red and white bandana.
--
“Made,” she said, “in China.”
Hot, a sweating mask, I looked far out beyond it.
Bronzed her body was. I think of her with violet posies,
confusing she with her.
--
“Does your Lady and the Mister wish to take it to the ocean?
Does the Lady and the Mister wish to wash it lightly off?”
--
One day, in time, each grain of sand and foam, she did—politely—ask.
--
I decided that, if it comes when I, and if I must,
that this next verbal jolt—when it hit—could fly a kite without a tail.
Certain repercussions of those acute remarks left me thinking:
as hearts are won, then thoughts be lost.
--
She with her, and I—this afternoon—could still maybe be; the sun is hot.
--
I concentrated on both. By my seat a well of deep emotions.
With a careful, deeper why, I trust my mind to find it wanders.
Kept thus safe in time, inside I've grown to know and ponder as to why.
--
Wistful—he for she, her much, and subtle—
this my love could be her double.
Once was I of kind, like mind—
a person drifts at times so far away.
--
When life, like that, just walks away, or simply floats right past us,
then washed amongst the rocks and foam, the wind—it blows away.
--
Today I’m grateful that to be on the same page as Elliot Page
and wish more people could see the world through his/their eyes…
“Everyone deserves to feel love” he/they says
“Equally
without shame
and without compromise”