Best Grids Poems
a city
hungover
wakes slowly
to silence
and lights that
keep watch
over night
the red
and red amber
the green
amber
red
on still streets with
no traffic in sight.
railings and
stone steps
lead down to a
basement
where graffiti
conceals a
locked door
and where bins
overflowing
with bottles
and chip trays
spew half eaten
food
to the floor.
a pigeon
whose body
attempts
as it struts
to try
to catch up
with its head
flaps and then
makes for
what looks like
the inside
of a sandwich
set free from
its bread.
as blocked grids
and clogged gutters
sip dregs
of drain water
left over
from midnight's
wild rain
there are blankets
in doorways
and the red
red and amber
and green
amber
red once again.
Clans, Ilks and Tartans
Woven into threads of red and black,
Girded by grids of white,
Distant plaintive bagpipe memories
Of sunset over Kilmaurs –
A crest that bears a unicorn
Touches royal roots
As a poet’s tribute to a patron lost
Watches neighbors Campbell and Montgomerie
Then looks out on the seas from tidal lands
Of Ayrshire in flings and reels with swirling kilts
When explorer’s feet recall on new world shores
The mew of seagulls soaring –
Politicians, engineers and entrepreneurs -
Over Fork Over – Cunningham, a clan of auld.
Blocks of green and wine
Stripped with blue
Look back into the heather
Covering highland hills of country dances
Where spring wanders in hunting kilts
Beneath clear cerulean heavens,
Boldly enduring;
A crest that bears a coronet
Of storied noble and knight
Whose melancholy legend
Whispers in glens and gloaming
Of standard bearers for a king
Watched by Ogilvy and Stewart
Lindsay, a clan of auld.
Like sunlight bouncing off of autumn leaves
In crimson, golden amber, umber greening hues -
A sword dance of squares and lines in twirling kilts -
Near the sparkling waters of Loch Lomond;
Clan neighbor Graham and cousins MacCammon
See the crest adorned by a coronet
Prize of battle;
The wind remembers
Tiny windswept island Clarinch -
A battle cry of Clar Innes -
Campaigns of kings and exiled queens –
Chieftain’s seat sees a president and prospector -
Hence the brighter honor – Buchanan, a clan of auld.
Cousins of the same ilk
Bear the names of families -
Of highland lands
And lowland memories -
Seaside and mountain territories -
Kilts wearing colors interwoven patterns
Born of clans with
Tartans telling legends and the stone of destiny,
Plaids dancing at the piper’s hand,
Ancient names, though maybe hidden, still live –
Cunnyngham, Lindsey and MacCammon
Of Buchanan –
In Celtic refrains like iridescent whispers
Woven through clans of auld.
This is the story of my Scottish heritage through the mottos, the tartans, the history and geographic references to the clan homes.
Detached - Even Circuits Hum
A Music Video
As twilight turns to tangled thought,
and truth tiptoes down trembling streets.
Once, wonder serenaded willowed winds
now shadows embrace muted retreats
Wary hearts weave walls so wide
against a faceless, coded tide,
while glowing grids in distant bays
bloom haunting weaves they won't embrace
Dualistic stars and digital dawns
Cinematic cradles human ache,
but some still long for candle flames,
and fingerprints the codes can't fake.
Dreading the hushed holograms,
the warmth that AI cannot wear.
Forgetting that even circuits hum
with aspirations hidden there
If only we could sense serenity
Pulsing between each quiet stream—
Machine or muse, to earnestly strive
for something more than just a dream
We could wildly dance on data plains,
where algorithms tap like rain.
let compassion code our names,
and poetic lines rewire the pain.
The muse may wear a mirrored face
But still, she sings with glowing grace.
When the talented digital artist AIMetamotion approached me to create a song that would complement her stunning artwork, I was immediately inspired. The result is 'Detached', a haunting track that tells the story of a robot grappling with the overwhelming flood of emotions brought on by a sensory chip—a concept not so far-fetched, given the rapid advancements in AI technology.
Though she sings her ironically titled anthem of detachment, the visuals tell a different story. Her struggle is evident, her resistance almost poetic, hinting at the complexity of emotion even in synthetic form.
This is just the beginning. A sequel is already in the works, diving deeper into her journey. The question remains: will she finally succumb to the surge of feelings she desperately tries to reject, or will she find a way to break free?
Stay tuned...
Cityscape
The artist’s hand reshapes yesterday
In straight lines
Of hard edges -
Peaks of
Right angles perfected
Missing oblique or obtuse –
Claiming the horizon
In full frontal
Silhouette
Cut from ebony shades,
When daylight sinks into the shadows
And twilight goes down meeting midnight
One dimension pyramids,
Floors layered by steel reinforced
Triangulated honeycombs,
Octagonal rounds
Gather cotton clouds
Topping off their naked crowns,
Lofty spires
Scrape the midnight
To gather far flung stars
Flat rectangles with jute box tops
Soar with arches -
Lines leaping up and sliding down -
Squares low and squat,
Took up their space,
Yanked from the line,
Openings left
Like toothless
Grinning;
Concealed within the cityscape unblinking
The murmurings of urban sighs,
No rise and fall of breathing,
Foundation’s feet bound in stone
Swaying only when magnum cores
Tremble moving plates east to west, north to south;
Unseen
The doorway cradle songs
Of shivering dreams,
Desperation
Pacing
On the nineteenth floor
Fauna’s night perfume
Floating up behind dark floral gates
Of swirling iron
Grids of neighbors – blocks of neighborhoods -
Graphs of boulevards winding round,
Absent from the cityscape.
Inspirational verse – “When the lights go down in the city and the sun shines on the bay; do I want to be there in my city….I want to be there in my city.” Journey
Above: Wystan in fancy dress
as a beetle -1912
Photographs of Wystan
One of the world's
greatest poets
in a pose, similar
to an Anne Gedde's baby
Balancing beetle antennae
his head at an angle
a satin suit padded to
emulate the chest
of a beetle's,
Spare legs of black velvet
dangling while
he stands upright
feet together, his
expression, militant
Certain in this moment
of his current
resemblance to
a beetle
At five years old,
to think he held
potential for such poetry
A black and white photo,
frontspiece for "The Life of a Poet"
It appears to have been
snapped just before an
exhalation of his cigarrette.
At 65
his face is wrinkled
eye bags reminiscent of
a sharpei puppy
but it is the forehead
that so amazes
with grids as square as graphic paper
as if the poetry
had been mapped out
on his face
I've seen mud, cracking
like that, on a dried up river bed
His fingers are long, chiselled
and in relaxed contact
with that cigarette as
he holds back a chuckle
with the smoke
His air is of a casual formality- a waistcoat
teamed with with a plaid sports coat
In retrospect, here, he had
reached his full potential
I wonder if someone
uttered at his funeral
"Stop all the clocks."
Turning over in a ruffled bed,
stark red numbers sear 4 a.m. into bloodshot corneas.
Nothing but darkness creeps through threadbare curtains, frozen in place.
A desolate silence becomes deafening, as birdsong no longer crescendos—
what would have been the breaking of dawn.
It's been six years now since our brightest star was thrown out of orbit,
exposing the frozen side of the sun.
No longer does our planet experience the warmth of its radiation,
nor the glow of its solar flares.
Within a fraction of a second, humanity was plunged into an everlasting night.
Temperatures plummeted; mass hysteria was at its peak.
Crops perished within hours to days,
as the new icy tundra eclipsed once-thriving farmlands.
The birth of a perpetual Ice Age was at hand.
Power grids crystallized and snapped.
Cities crumbled; small towns were blotted out,
disappearing off the map, never to be seen again.
Death's gelid hand spared but a few souls—
holed up in a scientific research bunker in the Arctic.
We are but the unlucky few who get to “live” in this glacial purgatory,
wandering aimlessly forevermore.
Within my breast I carry ancient death;
Its face is pale and white as marbled clay.
Consumed with guilt, I struggle for each breath
Still sour with napalm death of yesterday.
The fractured colors formed behind my lids
Are monumental rainbows round a pit
Where hues of crimson-reds crisscross the grids
Profuse in bloody lines and squares to fit.
Profanely perfect patterned memories
Of riddled bodies huddled on the ground,
Where bloated skin slips off fatalities
As ragged maggots slither-squirm around.
The jungle flora breathes forth mystic sighs
As soldiers wander through symbology.
They see suspended phantoms' floating eyes;
A catapult to horrid memory.
No temple of communion colonnades!
No transubstantiation in the heat!
No priestly servants hidden in the glades!
No promises of paradise wrapped neat!
brush in hand, he breathes life to paper ...
columns ... bejeweled and sparkling
like blades of shimmering grass
piercing the night as star-flecked stalagmites
fingers of phosphorescent proficiency
flickering with the finest of human accomplishment
and twirling through the ether like fairies
darting and dancing to the throb of frantic grids below
glowing girders and gangling spires, agleam
trembling with the concerns of life
and dressed in the temperate weight of wonder
a thousand stories born each elegant instant
countless dramas and conundrums
spinning to their inexorable ends
numberless breaths gasped and giggled
heart-upon-heart pumping ire and exasperation
thrumming with passions, proved and pondered
or the typic pulse of the prosaic
a glistening garden of "la condition humaine"
a beast born of concrete and light ...
its urbane and provocative heart, beating ...
the canvas has come ... to LIFE!
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Something Bigger Than Myself" Poetry Contest,
Line Gauthier, Judge & Sponsor.
N/A'd in the "Cityscape" Poetry Contest.
World at our fingers
Generations of wish,
Bring moments of bliss.
A new to the world of waiting
We have the world at our fingers.
Great minds worked hard,
Laboring for the fruit of pleasure
Testing and failing then failing to test,
They had the world at their fingers.
The ads went up,
Preparing us for the better life
Still waiting to come
Would we have the world at our fingers?
Date stored on numbered grids,
Talk of the future, talk of the town,
Doubts quickly fleeing our mind,
We would have the world at our fingers.
The day is here
Lines miles and miles long
No cutting the line allowed
Waiting to get the world at our fingers.
Today,
Fingers aren’t needed to reach the world,
Just speak to it,
And you have the world at your fingers.
With the world at our fingers,
We do nothing but fun
After hours we aren’t even done.
All of the knowledge of mankind is one touch away,
Yet we do nothing all day.
With the world at our fingers,
Cat videos prevail,
Over knowledge from lives so frail,
Curiosity crushed with electronic plans,
Engulfed by the screen, blinded by scams
Even with the world at our fingers
We still hold tight to immediate pleasures
No matter the measures
Bringing us to our fall
Will you choose to break your own thrall?
With intention, I walk into the laundry room to get what was it now,
Let’s see, looking around ~ I know it will come to me somehow.
I’ll resolve this, so back to the kitchen, I carefully retrace my path,
It strikes me, I need some bleach, its like solving a problem in math.
Every morning I gather the newspaper and sit down to have a read,
Eagerly I open the paper, now where are the reading glasses I need.
After searching countertops, tables and finally deep inside my purse
I find my multi-coloured magnifying glasses as I give out a quiet curse.
I seem to be tired all the time but when I hit the bed I just can’t sleep,
Finally I drift off after a soothing bath, sipping hot milk and counting sheep.
No sooner I’m asleep when the pain becomes so intense, again I’m awake,
My hip hurts, my shoulder aches ~ oh someone shoot me for pity’s sake.
My conversations don’t include the word old any more because that’s me,
Feeling young but according to Denny’s I am a senior, in the upper category!
Caught in limbo with age, it seems somewhere between heaven and hell,
Pay full price for the bus and a movie, but I can eat for less at Taco Bell.
My knowledge and skills lose their relevance to my ever independent kids,
Along the way we’ve switched from teacher to student, we’ve changed grids.
Now retired I have time to walk and exercise but my joints limit the amount,
My metabolism has really changed, seems all food has a triple caloric count.
Are there benefits to being a senior, having to take drugs, I don’t condone,
Maybe being able to watch my family grow and mature with lives of their own
Because now, I am the storyteller, keeping the traditions of our family alive,
The elder who outlines what we stand for, guiding our history as we thrive.
Written July 28, 2012
For Nancy Jones’ contest
This is how life feels when you get to be my age
She sat alone
behind a closed window,
secured by iron grids,
on the top floor
of an ugly old black building
that some dared call
an orphanage.
Once she had hope,
Once she had dreams
that some kindly couple
might perceive,
wish her for themselves,
take her to a cosy house,
where food was savoury to taste.
She dreamt she would
achieve normality,
attend a proper school,
read books and play
with happy children,
receive toys occasionally,
and live in harmony.
The dream remained a dream.
days turned forlorn.
All hope was lost.
She was too old now.
Couples wanted small children,
Unsuitable ones came for her
but were refused.
Little did she know
that soon she would
develop another dream,
that someone would finally notice her,
and carry her off
on a romantic spree.
From the closed barred window
She looked at the moon.
Will she find happiness?
Drunk with the ecstasy of Divine Love
Dears emerge in union to sing praises
For victories as burdens lift and fall
Lift and fall
Drums rolling, trumpets toppling
Showing the way
All is blue, soft and sapphire
Waterfalls flow through our veins
Connecting strings and strands
As the Star of Dimash
Fill spring flowers in our lands
Dears ! Leap up to where
Ancestors gaze in silent wonder
Sitting in unspeakable joy of
Visions of light on the hills of our Globe
No expectations or judgement
As we take the notes of Dimash
Locking open our hearts to embrace
Ancient grids connecting
In exuberance
Run, dance, leap
Melt your luminous beauty
Listening to songs of wonder
Knowing deep in our own central suns
That the time is here
In an unfathomable fountain of
Powerful Peace
the talking heads are also comics
these economic geniuses after years
are spouting praises of Misernomics
quick study concluded we're in arrears
and need to decapitalize life today
don't spend anything you ain't got
to forestall our tomorrow going away
good advice founding fathers caught
and don't pay for what you don't need
so therefore we'll cut back education
sound advice in sane person might heed
to better manage our bankrupt nation
and health and vitality merely frills
no need to waste our coins on want
when trying to cover economic ills
monetary mismanagement returns to haunt
what we want is to address our need
to count ourselves and sum our greed
those roads, bridges, electrical grids
mattered back when the things we did
were more important than take home pay
we'll keep it all and count it up
what you knew then, has now gone astray
soon Spend-it-omics could again erupt
our future, our kids, our progeny all
"This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want"
matters minor, in our countless pall
our poorest desire, the possible, too daunt
in the mean time we say "thanks a bunch"
We'll save our lives for better times
food for thought on societies free lunch
We'll save our monied economic crimes
as Silas Marner tabled reclusive coins
no weighty matters outweigh the economy
these fearful economic times purloined
might priorities reflect our tragicomedy?
© Goode Guy 2011-07-06
we're counting...on you
Mark n Cecil
Mark worked for old Cecil,
Outside old Dirranbandi town,
Mark was a 14 year old boy,
It was puzzling made him frown,
The Brown Snakes and the Rabbits,
Lived under the Bark Hut floor,
You could hear the babies squeaking,
When the snakes they asked for more,
Peanut shells were one foot deep,
Behind ole Cecil's door,
The thunder box exploded as the gas ignited sure,
(No smoking in the thunder box toilet)
Farm tractor had breathed its last,
Cecil dragged it to town once more,
Forgot Mark was steering it ,
At 50 miles or more,
Mark he was a yelling at Cecil, "bloody stop, "
The tractor it got flying,
Did the Grids and gullies hop,
Old 7 foot Cunningham waved to Cecil,
Not wanting him to stop,
But Cecil jammed the anchors on,
And the Tractor couldn't stop,
An almighty crash like thunder,
As the Tractor came ashore,
And Cecil frowned in wonder,
When Mark landed at his door,
Ole Cunningham just shook his head,
As off they went off again,
Those silly bloody Lousey Jacks ,
Just Wouldn't come outa the rain.
Don Johnson
invite a flower in your mist
it won't do the mischief of miss
for a drop of water to do the mischief
of you my dear with an agenda
to clean the carpet of rule with spill
of scotch to pretend it was vodka
to soil my carpet until you disappear
the wash out of my eyes for good
for the renew of you out in a dream
scot looking in the mirror
hardly a celt to protect in a closet
of pretend the repair of grids.
and so my dear you are out
of my space as of in thirty day or so
will deal with the damaged