Best Filched Poems
Summer is over and the farmer now rests from his toil,
Having labored hard to wrest his crops from the fruitful soil.
Fall has arrived and all the crops have been gathered in.
The corn, wheat and soy beans lie dormant in the granary bin.
It was a good year - his farm was favored with abundant rain.
Thankfully, there was no wind or hail, an anxious farmers' bane!
Pecks of onions, pertaters and carrots are preserved in the cellar,
Along with bushels of resplendent apples - golden, red and yeller!
The hogs are ready for market but he'll keep a pair for meat,
And he'll butcher a steer or so to ensure there's enough to eat.
His wife jammed mason jars full of beets, termaters and peas,
And there are a few honeycombs filched from the gullible bees!
He and the boys used crosscut saws to hew cords of wood for heating,
To warm their Victorian home from the winter's snows and sleeting.
There are jugs of cider to sip and ears of popping corn to pop,
As the family enjoys a roaring fire to reminisce with lore to swap!
The humble farmer was so grateful that on his knees he knelt,
To offer his gratitude to the Lord, a simple prayer most heartfelt.
A benevolent harvest moon smiled on the pastoral scene below,
Seemingly to bless the peaceful panorama with its mellow glow!
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.
COLD WAR ARTIST
The art of such intention is fatigue
At living lies outside the scope of death,
To wear in the last blitzkrieg
A shroud meaning artist, a wreath
Of columbine in the hair, but the kitchen eyes,
Carbuncled knees betray the giver’s art.
Down on the doorstep, she’ll scrub your lies:
To her gift of total self she’ll add a part -
Your own tongue sliced and severed on her plate
Of 20th century design – taste
The dust of pointillism, the cubist fate
Of newspaper and cello here embraced –
The emptiness filched from the master’s past:
Mankind’s death wishes, home to roost at last.
1964-1987
published IN MEMORY OF HER, Dublin, 2008
GOING BACK
It was not an endearing place, a storybook place
With little cottages and
Loaded fruit trees from which apples could be casually filched,
Nor were there sparkling streams for pushing hot feet into in July,
Or even grassy parks where the dog and the kids could romp
And old men sit and smoke pipes.
My childhood England was industrial, dark and dirty,
And instead of the skirl of bagpipes or the weeping of a fiddle,
There were the round-the-clock sirens and
Whistle-changes of factory shifts
And the clash of steel loads being trucked to the docks.
It threatened to suffocate me,
To imprison my mind between slabs of coal and pints of brown ale,
And when I walked the streets in search of meaning I found nothing
Except a weekly cycle of movies showing how real people lived.
I emerged from it and never returned -
And quickly forgot its worthless heritage of coal-dust, and
Found real places and lived a real life far beyond the horizons
Drawn by the schools of Gateshead.
Now, however, in the silent moments of creeping age and grown children,
The steep streets pitching down to the teeth of the Tyne
Gnaw into my fattened mind and reach to the bones of my brain
Where the smell of coaldust still lingers -
And always will.
And I feel again the empty places, the dark places, the places calling
My name in a strange dialect I have long abandoned.
Somehow they seem less cold and uninviting:
Their song is not off-key;
And the horizons drawn by my own hand
Seem to merge together in that blackened townscape.
God forbid I should ever end up there for good;
But I hear its siren song and cannot shake its
Foundation stones free of my structured life.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
NOTES
Gateshead is an industrial city in northern England.... imagine Akron, Youngstown, Toledo, Essen, Chemnitz, or similar towns, and it will give an idea of Gateshead.
River Tyne is the river on which Gateshead stands, now a pleasant waterway , then more like an open sewer.
My grandparents’ home was both tiny and plain,
Quite lacking in places to play,
But my brothers and I and my cousins, at times,
Still had fun when we went for the day.
From the bowl of mixed nuts, we filched filberts so we
Could play skelly across the wood floor
And a deck of Hoyle’s cards kept us busy enough
So the grown-ups we got to ignore.
When the dinner was served, we all gathered around
And attention was naturally paid
To the meal – nothing fancy, but tasty enough,
That my grandma had lovingly made.
All those visits were weekends or holiday times;
Since they ended, it’s been a long while,
But the mem’ries are sweet and suffused with such joy
That I think of them now with a smile.
Bastogne 1944
It was cold, so cold because they hadn’t given
us warm clothes for the winter, or to die in:
Germans and SS surrounded us and
the aroma of their hot food and Heil Hitler!
warm fur coats drifted by us
as the freezer closed in, my Thompson was
a cold block of ash and black metal but
working well, so well, so very well
and the drum magazine (music to my ears )had
a hundred rounds and I started naming each
bullet Fritz, or Franz, or Helmut, or Adolf
then stopped at eight when I ran out of names
and when they attacked we took them away,
from their mothers and lovers and their pastors
and brothers, made widows of their wives and
whores of their sisters
but all this was a long time ago and I remember
the cold and the wind as they charged at us screaming
“ AAAGGGHH!” which sounds the same in Hindi or
Belgian or Yiddish or Scottish, as their warm chests exploded
and bearded faces imploded and their meat and their teeth
spread like confetti in the loud Thompson flashes ,
(like a party strobe)
which was kind of unsettling to see them die like men
for what they believed in:
and the SS came out and shot all the wounded so they
danced like devils to the tune of my Thompson gun
(oh what fun)
we caught one in braces with Lieber standarte
sewn on his arm and we kicked him in rage and in pain
then spat in his eye, until the Captain said,
” information!...enough, we don’t want him to die!”
and the SS man let out a sigh as long as the sky
then the morning came and I blew up my nose and blew up a tank
then collected the dog tags from the blood soaked soil
(watches from their dead and a dagger or two)
then it hit me, the cold, like a spike in the dawn,
so I put on a German coat of leather and fur
not caring if the owner was dead or alive,
(I had become a monster)
but now I’m old with hands of paper and veins,
when it’s warm in the womb of my den, I hold
the things, I filched from the dead and remember
the flash of the warm Thompson gun:
and I’m cold inside ( will it ever be gone?)
Balmy by the looks so beguiling
A sudden feeling aroused by the essence so quest,
You simply smile by the au jus of your lips -
A solitaire awaited by the presence so lest,
Whoso you deserve – a solemnity within shone;
A panorama of thoughts, a swain to be, yours
A secret admirer.
Yenned for the day so longed
A fortune behold by the ephemeral so cadged,
You simply versed by the espy of your eyes -
A moribund velleity now braced by the apathy of days,
Whoso you deserve – a solemnity within shone;
A panorama of enamors, an amigo to be, yours
A secret admirer.
Faith for the beguile so au fait
A hollo minced by the depth so pulsated
You simply filched thy heart by the ires so true
A nascence of juvenile by the paroles of numb
Whoso you deserve – a solemnity within shone;
A panorama of wordses, a promise to be, yours
A secret admirer.
Thrusting against the wall erect from my youthful womb
I alone must go from the tree that shelters the grave
of her umbilicus, and the place of Ma Puddy’s tomb;
the woman whose foretelling is come to pass in me.
I went down, and up the fleeting crags
garnering memoirs, yarns stilled
in passing notions; that’s what was wished-for
but I misplaced details while going downhill
I took her beautiful eyes that laugh when crying my tears,
the ones I no longer spill on satin and fine silk;
they went when bottles brought fists to my face
She was to flee, and by no means continue my days
For her it is to reach and grasp opulence,
and look at nuisance fleeting, the sudden that came
with rapture evoking youthful musing
she is called to make this climb.
She came and spread
like honeysuckle, arresting the sun
and calling birds to feast. She took my shell,
forfeiting me, and lives in novelty and wonder
I found my youth in sparkling eyes
that do thoughtful things (things done boldly).
I cuddle me in the life I filched
and lived her life a thousand times with my little girl.
There was once a rotten scoundrel named Reid
Who filched a horse in a moment of greed
As the noose was secured
His final words were heard
I'd rather be fishin' today, indeed
GOLDEN DAYS
CHILDHOOD DAYS ARE LONG GONE
BUT THE MEMORIES LINGER ON
HAPPY TIMES, SOMETIMES SAD
FRIENDS REMAIN, BEST WE HAD
HOPSCOTCH ON THE NEXTDOORS PATH
ENDURING THIER RAGE AND RATHE
KNOCK! KNOCK! GINGER. THAT WAS FUN
HIDING FROM EVERYONE’S MUM
PLAYING DOLLIES, PRAMS FROM OLD
SOME WE FILCHED, OTHERS SOLD
SKIPPING IN THE DOUBLE ROWS
STEPPING ONTO PEOPLES TOES
ELASTICS, STRUNG LIKE HUGE BALLS
BOUNCING NOISILY ONTHE NEIGHBOURS WALLS
CARE FREE DAYS, PICNICS, WALKS
LISTENING TO MUMS ‘CAREFUL’ TALKS
OUT FROM EARLY DAWN TILL TEA
NEVER HAD TO WORRY ABOUT ‘ME’
CHILDHOOD MEMORIES WILL REMAIN
HAPPY DAYS, HAPPY GAMES.
Filched fabulous February cover,
And I have but seen you scantily dressed,
I see the buds & flowers all over,
By the wild wily winter camouflaged.
Cool breeze sends messages to my senses,
Not to be blamed if March may madden me,
Sure I shall be in April amorous,
Adoring you till Midsummer Day glee.
Maybe June can make me unsteadier,
Dear me, July keep me quiet joyous
I’m not sure of sensual September,
Lest I may be way-out but courteous.
Whatever is conceived in March fever,
Gestation starts from sober October.
===========================
Third place win in:
Contest: March Madness sponsored by Carolyn Devonshire
Freddy filched Frankie’s fav’rit fudge,
fearless Frankie flattened Freddy to the floor.
Father Fletcher fearing fratricide
fastened Frankie’s feet
firmly to the farmyard fence while friends
fixed Freddy’s fractious frame
fast to the family Ford.
December 8, 2020
contest: Alliteration
sponsor: Eve Roper
outrageous constituent rare
lee if never seen before, though still insured,
a novel boot nada so critical freak of nature ma lord
hirsute component part in a triple tier moored
substantial pressure upon the head,
entwining, looping, spilling somehow
interweaving umbilical cord
into a mass of whirled wide webbed wear suitable for
four seasons, which bamboozled,
grew like Kudzu into an immense globular mass galore
('bout the size of Rhose Island) after one year hoar
more, and wove in part from stem cell threads, nor
ceased proliferating after birth placenta
accrued intact and immediately put in cold store
room, a by very peculiar product
tinged with strands of blond hair
evoking how lioness would roar
coccooning, contriving, and conveying this tiny dude
into a self concocted hermetically sealed giant spore
miniature mummy, who without doubt
looked like a lady bug hide entombment
able to survive thermonuclear war
as a minor subsequent repercussion
the downy side understood, impeterable forest
filched countless growing years, without jest
ting, when figurative messed
hair em scare em bedlam reigned as a supreme nest
sans shrieking obsessed invisible hoodlums
broke free their electric kool aid acid test
from maximum security solitary confinement in vest
ment for naught (busting andirons weighing down
with reinforced steel trapdoor cladding
didst not bar compulsive banshee like imps of thee pervert,
but merely slow down
miniscule limbs emulated a hitch hiker thumb
upon will could assume the Alaska Bull Worm sized
Albatross shaped achorage)
unsinkable (short term) screaming, rebelling, quaking,
atomic sized banshee beastie boys et cetera with fiery zest.
The day of reckoning
A bird with an enormous wingspan darkened the sky
it was a night of horror in the Middle East.
A new country born in sin and filched land arose
blood ran in ancient, narrow cobblestoned roads.
The people fled over a broken bridge, now live far
from the homeland, the dream of returning is alive.
Young men living in squalor are attracted to Islamists
the grim head cutting people, who know no mercy
know they will win one day, and more blood will flow
Into sand and time.
When everything is forgotten, walls erased, the losers
will flock back to Europa, whence they came.
Filched Physiognomy - Mine!
Absolute zero escape
velocity guts dance
sing days (contra and square),
cuz metabolic full abundance
abdominal adipose tissue acceptance
not in accordance
with light as a feather
miss lost acquaintance
the boy within forced admittance
as sure man tanks of fat did advance
shotgun marriage demanded allegiance
to pledge lifetime alliance
no room for allowance
crushing lightness of being ambiance
nor allies to help me combat
battle fatigue require
ring superman endurance
to muster strength
to stand erect else ambulance
will whisk away husky
embarrassing appearance
loose fitting clothing
jelly roll appurtenance
overnight digital readout,
asper body mass index
scaled quick ascendance,
thus when showering,
I look askance
fearing bulging balloon
will necessitate assistance
else... diet of worms
as only assurance
safeguarding body electric
against hecklers at open casket
no matter, a small perchance
crowd in attendance
yea... eventual cremation
after life only fat chance
to alleviate present circumstance
heavy matter fails security clearance
the price for astute cognizance
weak willpower alighting countenance
esse pie ying sweet treats
now measures taken to counterbalance
to fight temptation and dalliance
overruling feasting craving delectation
to restore trim deliverance
love handles around equator
no magician can render disappearance
yes the discontinuance
of just dessert must maintain distance
without being weighed
down with disturbance
by heaviest haunch
ain't no elegance
lugging extra encumbrance
when throughout my early life,
skinny, yet able to steel glance
mirrored reflection now grievance,
where wistful memory
ha...ironic insouciance
more so than
today finds intolerance,
thus woebegone issuance
thorn in muss hide
to experience jubilance
hmm...maybe a strong
arm can lance
excess flab quite a nuisance
to defy gravity, why penance
sans unsightly paunch
yours truly laments skin
tight fit, thus petulance
lame excuse unwanted protuberance
necessitates dedicated pursuance
recollection of washboard
abdomen impossible, yes
nothing accomplished by remonstrance!