Best Estate Poems
Squirrel agent showed him thousands of trees
this particular client being very picky
how about this one she'd plead
no he'd say not enough leaves
She'd say this one is nice but he'd disagree
saying too many squirrels means no privacy
after weeks of driving around they got into a rut
basically the squirrel agent about to give up
As a last resort she showed him a human beings attic
thinking this will teach him not to give me anymore static
but her client loved it and moved in with his nuts
living there till the humans evicted him with their mutts
He finally said I'll have to stop being so picky
moving into a cell tower right by the city
saying this is great I now have a new home
picking up great signals on his cell phone.
And as for the real estate agent she turned in all her business cards
going back to her old job as a squirrel crossing guard.
10-25-17
My door is open
I welcome you
To my Highland lands
Off heathers and hue
Cross the bridge
Of centuries old
To my castle of grey
In it's regal fold
Stand with me
In the great hall of my past
Like generations
Us Fraser's will last
Climb spiral stairs
To a turreted tower
Look out on my lands
As the northern lights shower
Turn to the left
Look out to the fields
They stretch for miles
Many harvests they yield
The moat leads off
Into a river so pure
With it's salmon ladder
Caught to mature
Lets take to the horses
To forests of pine
They carpet the glens
In greenery fine
Centuries old
Camp fire and cheer
Weeks away
Chasing the deer
The welcome we received
When we reached home
Venison and pheasant
From our Highland roam
Off the great hall
To the room of the past
Where tartans and paintings
My ancestral past
Open great fireplace
Lights up the room
Claymores and armour
In past battles bloom
The evening draws
Arrival of guests
To feast on the roam
For the food we are blessed
Midnight approaches
Bedtime retire for all
As i look out my window
In awe at it all
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/scotland.php
Fingerprints on frozen windows
Night of wonder
Avenue of lost souls
She waits..maybe his shadow will play
the "game of shapes" on walls of skyscrapers
The street is as naked as her heart
She knows she's not so good looking on the outside
but what a rhapsody of soul...
even the marine layer cries with joy on balconies of roses.
I hold her tears in my little, pink jewelry box
I lost the key to wind up the spring of the little ballerina inside
I go and visit the place with windows
but there are no more fingerprints..
The place was sold...
They Riot.
They revel in frank spotlight,
getting drunk in a boozy blitz.
You can find them wrapped in the lush covers of pure linen on Sunday mornings,
their madness of headaches and chills covering their aching bodies as they skip the early mass.
They’re boys that play the cards of life,
gambling away any sane they have left.
If you’re a witness they’ll slip you a hundred,
and tell you to keep your champagne soaked, honey dripping lips shut.
While they sip
and throw away money,
and write what no man could ever imagine.
their celestial smiles draw you in,
and their crumbling hearts refuse to love.
they count their vices before they go to sleep,
hoping with vile smirks for just one more.
Wicked souls and radiant faces,
That’s what everyone says.
their pockets are full of blooming green trees,
That’s what everyone says.
Glass chalices filled to the brim with molten bronze.
That’s what everyone says.
Ten boys who blush at the sight of glimmering gold,
and shiver at the mere thought of dripping crystals wrapped around their necks in the thousands.
Ten boys who Rip Ruins out of each others throats,
Kissing the face of death with blackberry wine stained teeth and magnolia projected breath.
their once simple minds soak up wretched knowledge like sponges in the mediterranean sea, fathers teaching sons to trip the dance that life plays on realing repeat.
He teaches them to love one lady only, her worth is enough to buy them the world itself.
Their silk pants stretch with inherited stacks of green dye stained paper,
rendering their useless hands guilty as they count them,
slip for slip.
Have they let their hands become rough from labor?
What a silly question one might ask, they’ve never worked a sunset in their lives.
They wish on their four lucky stars that daddy won’t go bankrupt,
His money is the only thing keeping them in their right insane minds.
They scratch at their skulls in pandemonium,
searching for an oasis inside their hellish, bourbon soaked tears.
Yet they find nothing.
Screaming nothing,
ripping at their shredded vocal chords.
Wanting out,
But being trained to only go so far.
Yet they can still catch the kite that flows so far,
They are,
Empty Nothing.
?
My father died
or changed but I
think that's the same thing
Because the man he was
still sits on my shoulders like a bruise
Why did he do this to me?
Why did he hand it over like it was anything that a child should hold?
Why can't I put it down?
They said poetry would help they said the art would be an outlet but it isn't an outlet this doesn't feel good anymore it feels like resurrection it feels like a fracture it feels like the longest suicide note anyone has ever written and I can't put the pen down i can't stop screaming I keep feeling all this rage well up in me and I don't want it anymore but I can't give it to someone else it isn't fair
Curl of smoky streaks
Joss stick messages;
Heaven bound
~~~~~~~~~
Temple visit
Feast day moments;
Talk to the dead
~~~~~~~~~
Bright Hill Temple
Where rites bring peace;
Family gathering
~~~~~~~~~
Temple verandah,
Spacious prayer courtyard;
Surreal this heaven
~~~~~~~~~
Closed eyes salute
An inner realm calls;
Spiritual insight
~~~~~~~~~
Here we gather
Offer our earthly harvests;
Poignant celebration
~~~~~~~~~
Briefly we come
Ply food offerings;
Gratitude tells
~~~~~~~~~
Columbarium niche
Earthly ashes laid;
Fond remembrance
~~~~~~~~~
All Souls Day
By parents' niche tomb;
Familiar voices speak
~~~~~~~~~
Echoes in hallway
Death talks in silence;
Life feels message
~~~~~~~~~
Poise in strange voice
Talking in my head;
Ecstatic insight
~~~~~~~~~
Brief is our time here
In-between eternities;
Grief comes too late
~~~~~~~~~
Songbirds sing
A rustic hymn;
Salute the dead
~~~~~~~~~
Flowers sparkle bright
Crimson, violet, orange hues;
Bourgainvillea vines
~~~~~~~~~
Hurl of midday sun
Casting odd silhouettes;
Deserted columbarium
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
22 October 2014
Singapore
The Student
As I strolled upon the green
and take in the breathtaking view of the front lawn
the onrush of winter geese take on the horizon,
waking me to my senses.
The silent roar of two lions guard the entrance
the entrance that now greets me from the summer sun as I
and my companion visit the house.
Beneath the opening arch,
the European marble beckons like wishing wells
In an open spring off in the distant countryside somewhere
and I am swaying to and fro in the
summer wind.
The sheer scale of the voyeur overwhelms the senses,
our eyes filled with sixteenth century tapestries and
seventeenth century bronze sculptures
paralleling Rome, Italy, and France.
At my right, the chess set of an imperial Frenchmen lay,
the pawns standing defiant for battle,
yet, unmoved they remain as I pass this way.
At my left, a library waits, and I--a deliberate reader--
stand in stupor at the sheer size of the Vanderbilt library
--my hands, restrained holding back, to read
every book the family ever read.
I am fascinated at the four-acre facade of American wealth, yet.
I can say not a word at this engaging portrait of nineteenth century life that now lays before
me.
But gone are the days
when you could sit and read all day
--as in the nineteenth century voyeur or library,
they say.
Gone are the days
when the outdoors beckoned the silent look
of two players at a game of chess.
Only the memory stands ready, as a friend,
just as the knight's of Vanderbilt's castle stand guard
at the foot of his staircase I climb
now trembling for words.
Only it can retrieve these lost fragments
of a poet's fragile mind, these books,
as I sit on a visit of its estate
composing a few lines.
Earth's death seems to be in our stars
End comes from the greed planet's scars
But the rich have reach
And will visit the beach
Near estates they've purchased on Mars
In the Sunday paper, I can't wait
To read the section "Real Estate."
From articles that do entail
Descriptions of the homes for sale
To stories of where folks have looked,
I'm riveted and really hooked.
I check the prices, note the taxes,
Find the parks where one relaxes;
Scan the photos for decor,
Observe each window, roof and door.
I try to picture living there
And how that lifestyle might compare.
You'd think I'm aiming for improving.
What's ironic? I'm not moving!
Get off this estate,
What for?
Because it's mine!
Where did you get it?
From my father.
Where did he get it?
From his father.
And where did he get it?
He fought for it.
Well,I will fight you for it!
This house of things, with all the people gone.
A mother’s tea set and a daughter’s shoe.
Out front the crabgrass wrestles with a lawn.
This house of things with all the people gone
imagines mildew, dust against the dawn.
See how mold and dryrot whisper to undo
this house of things with all the people gone.
A mother’s tea set and a daughter’s shoe.
Real Estate Jargon Explained
By Elton Camp
When a house is for sale there’s good reason why
Trouble can come to anyone who advertises a lie
If the sellers certain expressions carefully choose
It will become easy the careless buyer to confuse
“This house is simply loaded with charm.”
Means we hope old and ugly won’t alarm
If you see it’s a “Pet friendly neighborhood,”
Dog manure in your yard should be understood
The praising note, “Easy access to the freeway”
Means thousands will pass your house each day
Beware the notation of “Low maintenance lot.”
Since neither front nor back yards have you got
“Historic house maintained in its original state”
It is a run-down old relic that you soon will hate
“It’s a doll house that you are going to adore.”
The house’s tiny rooms you’ll come to deplore
“The dwelling is located on a fine corner lot”
Then traffic both front and sides you have got
If the place is described as “Ready to move in,”
Then painted with the cheapest grade it has been
“A desirable neighborhood” means that its location
Has made it overpriced due to a snobbish reputation
If of “In-city living” the seller proudly does tell
Not safe to walk after dark it should say as well
If it is a “Handy-man special,” then better look out
The old place is ready to collapse without any doubt
If the advertisement should say, “Lots storage space,”
The basement is nothing but a dark, moldy disgrace
If the selling point is of “Seasonal water view,”
It means water was visible before the trees grew
If the seller says that “All your lot is usable land,”
You can know that not a single tree still does stand
If “Close to shopping” the advertisement does call
It means your backyard is adjacent to the big mall
When the imperative is that you must “See inside,”
It has a horrid exterior that is impossible to hide
If it is happily described as “Cozy, it should be read
That no room is big enough to contain a full-size bed
This is how “Make an offer” you actually should take:
It’s been long on the market so don’t make a mistake
The inviting phrase is “Watch wildlife from your patio”
You can expect to get ticks and fleas if outside you go
So if your house purchase in a year you will praise,
Watch carefully for the real meaning of each phrase
I procured this entire planet
For you, the world was never enough
A honeymoon real estate
Somewhere to relax and have a laugh
I wanted something private
Private islands are a dime-a-dozen
This is a great future investment
On Mars, you'd be the first citizen
Girl, our love is a hot red iron
Spreading on the red planet like wildfire
You know I'm not just a businessman
But a spaceman...rockets burning with desire
Thabang Jan Ngoma
06-21-2015
Sponsor: Joe Maverick
Contest: Subject Mars
THE FAIRYTALE ESTATE.
These wooden slate of grace
Written inside the Egyptian
Cave,
The symbols of every
Name,
Is a stranger to decide
His faith.
The fairytale estate,
Cuts across delicate
River Benue,
Opposite the rain
Wearing a blind
Concave,
Lack of weaves has
Subtracted the phrase
Elevate.
Come along to my
Magistrate,
His sited among
The cunny frame.
Calculated dreams I
Have to create,
In sudden shake
Of this stagnant taste,
See the harvested maize
Filled this gaijantic pale
It’s the lane where
Rats play,
Am so entertained like
Watching a wrestling game.
What is man
Without a name?
Laid in delicious
Plate,
Name with attribute
Of faith.
You sit in high
Place,
Were ordinary can not
Trace,
Stampede is all you
Aim.
I cannot deceive my
Name,
She has been proclaimed
Deep into the vain.
It’s time to standout
Great,
My stage is fairytale,
I must flip
This wrong page.
AKEWUSOLA HABIB.
Somewhere in the dungeon of my soul
was a memory I supressed,
and a song, a scent
reignited the place and time long forgot.
And I remember leaving the cocoon we called home
I remember moving to city estate
A communist Block of dingey brick hopelessness
Four stories of balconied flats
Assaulting the horizon with their oppressive ugliness.
I remember unwrapping cotton striped sheets
Claiming a new bed and a corner
In one of four bedrooms
Floors concrete with grey linoleum
the coldness hurt my feet
I remember the pink woolen blankets and the hard grey blankets from council.
Upon opening an obtuse door,
a boxy toilet with an exterior exhaust spinning,
and chain hanging down behind the toilet bowl
The room was always unspeakably cold,
always had to strain to use it.
A kitchen with two windows onto balcony
And a meter for adding coins to buy gas, for bath and cooking
I remember the bathroom separate from toilet
a rectangle room with a bath tub and face basin.
With a noisey point of use gas furnace for hot water. From any part of the miserable flat you can hear the flames heating up water,
And also always unspeakably cold.
I remember the massive parifin heaters that burned all through the night, the soot and the glare
Only the living room had central heating, a one buyer gas grate that heated the living room
I shed many tears on the concrete balcony staring at countless hapless pensioners and dolers alike
Faces stamped on hard with one expresion, hopeless resolve.
Our flat was on the third floor
Past ground, one was fine, two thighs burning,
three, always the stench of stale piss in puddles
Not on the wall like men do,
No these depositors stooped to render their rank fluids on the middle bank of the flight of steps,
a little privacy there.
I would never call this place home
Like a prison I would merely bide my time and fly away.