Best Imported Poems
Listen Up, all good citizens of Milton Creek
If it's a night on the town and good food you seek
Come over to Aces
With your smilin' faces
The Grand Reopening's tonight. Come, take a peek!
Milt left his Aces Hotel to the entire town
No better place for a steak house, so come on down
It's got a new name, "Hank's"
In advance I'll say, "Thanks"
It serves the finest T-bones anywhere around
Restaurant and hotel are managed by Lin Lane
The town council swears it won't be part of a chain
Come early; take a seat
The steaks cannot be beat
Tonight there's free whiskey and imported champagne
Now, Lin is from way down yonder in New Orleans
She makes good chicken gumbo like most Cajun queens
It's good down home cookin
You don't need a bookin
Heard she's servin' jambalaya and collard greens
Right here tonight, in Milton Creek, as a surprise
Hanks will be introducing burgers and french fries
A dish loved in the South
It'll taste good in your mouth
But save room for pralines, and bourbon pecan pies
Mosey on over to Aces and have a bite
Tell all your friends and bring a hearty appetite
Get on your horse and ride
No guns allowed inside
There's a big party goin' on at Hanks tonight!
3 polished oak fans,
Swirling in robotic unison
High maintenance socialites,
Sipping on Merlot fallacies
Lemon yellow coated walls,
Flat,
Like their smiles
Comparisons of dangling Porsche & Bentley keys
A glorified day care center,
Pacifiers included
The muted virtuosos speak softly in hymn dialects.
Courtesy laughter in snob’s octave
Their heads twitching side to side,
Left to right to left
An equilibrium facing assault charges against self
They slow dance to cello dreams
And E minor dividends
Two-step monotone, sway
Against platinum lacquer foundations
…
But, it was then.
These same socialites,
Made of recycled candle wax
And rubberized, hedge-fund confidence,
Began to stare longingly at the party host’s 70 inch plasma TV
Proudly imported from China
“Attention uptight snobs of Mecca!
The city zoo has imploded!
The monkeys revolted!
The zebras were tired of being racially profiled!
Run for your LIV…!”
(SMASH!)
And before the reporter’s frightened inner child could finish’s his clause,
An elephant crashes into the decadent room
Filled with Crisp linen scents of Febreze & judgmental fear
It stares at the socialites,
Laughing heartedly as it playfully stomps away into constellation’s onyx night
As tears waterfall from the snobs’ sobbing eye sockets
As if they just listened to another Celine Dion song
The real newsflash
Metaphors played hooky today
©Drake J. Eszes
The dawn spoke her name like a silken secret
carried carefree by the tradewinds of lust and larceny
imported from the traderoutes of paradise and pandemonium,
sequined with violet venom she venerates the virtue of volition
her love is unlawful, unequalled in unrest, righteous in conquest,
tender in temptation, torrid your surrender, her beauty a will bender,
Queen of Empire Passion, warrior unknown to submission
her kingdom was not inherited, glory and throne ungifted,
the treasures, stables and territories, battles and crown all won,
rich in intellect, endowed with rare resources, affluent in original passion
bejeweled in natural beauty, she bewitches beasts and men alike,
Poets pen her preciously as Woman Total, Priests implore her pardon,
male servants pander to her anger and ardor, satisfaction she commands,
Sisterhood the symbol and soul of her mission,
I was just a man, a wanderer wading through her reign,
from the unsubdued North I came, a curious traveler with ancient name,
my tribe unfamiliar, underestimated, a Chieftain of steady pulse,
tresspassing towards her roots my aim was direct knowledge of her
woman of renown cunning and learning, woman of exotic ability,
seeking teaching and romance, though I would not be her Subject or victim,
this she knew, this she abhorred, a challenge to her dominance,
I agreed to meet her alone in the open morning of war,
in an abeyounce of gliding fire she comes riding out of the sun
regalia of black roses against red tears flying above her shoulder,
our horses begin a battle tromp, breaths heavy with moist mania
she has leopards in her eyes
poinsettias and death's palms painted on thighs,
scalps of exlovers and enemies slung on sadle
we acknowledge one another with ritual yell
I exclaim, Warrior Poetess, she screams Poet Warrior!
dismounting with mutual vigor our combat erupts
cutting my cheek with her blade's lip
kicking me in the ribs
I clinch her collared throat
and heel trip us to the ground
she snarls, I growl,
a glimpse of rescue in eachother's eyes -
J.A.B.
"Christmas Spirit"
(Christmas Day in Italian Culture)
as a snowy blanket of white caresses in Winter's glow
and frosty icicles kiss windowpanes in glazy show
a silent atmosphere embraces a starlit sight
while magnificent choir of Angels sing Hosanna O! Holy Night.
Church bells chime in twilight mist to welcome Christmas day
wishing holiday greetings while children glide on sleigh
glorious festive mood captivates inspired light
as heavenly Angelic voices praise Hosanna O! Holy Night.
decorations adorn to honor the precious Infant King
candlelight illuminates the Manger Scene as carolers sweetly sing
the scent of fragrant pine cones creates an aura to ignite
hymns of worship as heralding Angels proclaim Hosanna O! Holy Night.
soon family gathers to partake of traditional Christmas meal
"Feast of the Seven Fishes"prelude to tree trimming feel
the fireplace mantle glows where stockings smile so bright
and hark the herald Angel hosts greet Hosanna O! Holy Night.
Joseph is the patriarch who shelters newborn babe
a gift of God from Heaven sent to Earth to save
a glorious time for celebration in precious moment of delight
majestic music from Angels chanting Hosanna O! Holy Night.
sheer warmth of having a personal relationship with the Lord
a unique experience enlightening as He is adored
sharing love with everyone, the human spirit takes flight
melting their voices with holy Angels singing Hosanna O! Holy Night.
*For Cyndi's Season of Lights, Delights & Enlightenment Contest.
*Nov. 14, 2012.
in the Italian culture we begin our Christmas celebration ...
Christmas Eve - Feast of Seven Fishes Dinner for good health & prosperity
Tree trimming ceremony with music and singing toasting wine
Midnight Mass at Basilica in Rome or at Church in N.J.
Dessert Party after Mass with eggnog
Christmas Day exchanging gifts and visiting children and seniors at hospitals
Pasta dinner with salads and baked stuff shells with meatballs
Desserts of creme puffs laced with rum, cannolis pastry filled with chocolate
Wine tasting from orchards of Italy imported with olive tray
Candlelight ceremony where all hold a lit candle making a wish for a
Happy New Year.
Africa, Africa,
Africa Wake up, wake up,
Your time of success is coming,
The future awaits you.
Wake up from your seat & walk,
You're not there to stay.
Africa, Africa,
You have a dream to work on.
Stop sleeping in your dream.
Your friends are heading to their,
Journeys.
Africa, Africa,
The hope is still there, what are you,
Thinking of?
Is it natural resources?
No, no, no, no Africa, l don't think so.
You have all, but you don't want to put,
Them to use.
Africa, Africa,
When l turn right, l see mysterious of things,
Occuring on the surface of Africa.
When l turn left, l see tears rolling down,
The map of Africa.
Africa, Africa,
You are the problem to your children.
When l think of the physical features,
Tears roll down my eyes creeping towards,
The center of my chest.
Africa, Africa,
Iron ores, we export them and import,
Vehicles.
Why don't we use those ores in,
Manufacturing those imported vehicles.
Why Africa?
Africa problem is Africa.
©®2021
A.M Ngumbu, Jr.
chieftains trade their loyalty behind the clouds
high mountain king Carrantouhil commanding his Macgillycuddy Reeks
men of begotten rank, scheming skulduggery
secrets hide out of sight, Comeragh mystery shrouds Coumshingaun
flighty earls flee from the Lough Swilly shore
priests conspire, a king, a queen, a lord-protectorate exact revenge
imported evil stalks the land and soul of Ireland
near-on half give way, massacre, starvation, transportation and slavery
annexation by stealth, abomination
exposed Shannon artery, remorseless draining through lakes of tears
solidified karst corpses dissolving
into central mireland, ringed by coastal ramparts and remnant towers
turloughs disappear where the ground is leaking
playboys drink from black frothy pools of humour where the craic is good
where sad refrain gives way to rhythmic distraction
where song, stories, poetry, plays and dance merge in murky island brews
native chiefs are stripped of their Ulster lands
to control, anglicise and civilise a rebellious region
the area most resistant to English rule
official and private plantation, top to bottom colonisation
Gaelic hands across the channel disrupted
Scottish and English incomers, presbyterian and church of England
town and country, protestant domination
Irishmen uniting for briefest moments on higher ground
descent into cold depths of history
the Cliffs of Moher plunging from The Burren's bald barren bleakness
disfigured fingers pointing blame, shame and guilt
like the peninsular lands, Beara to Iveragh, Mizen to Dingle
stretching out to a new land of migrating hope
escaping abuse and clutches of long-robed men and women
the stifling heavy hand of implanted culture
two main layers of tradition now overlaying an unfathomable past
Now the villager’s are waking from the dreams inside their heads,
They’re locking doors and windows, and they’re hiding in their beds;
It’s a yellow rainy morning with a mist across the sun…
You can hear the hoof beats coming, terrifying everyone.
It’s a legend sprung to life, and it’s a horror story true,
You listen in the silence and you know you hear it too,
And the sound is getting closer till it’s beating in your bones,
And it’s hammering and clattering upon the cobblestones.
Yellow Rider coming
Through the early light of day,
Hear the hoof beats drumming…
Too late for you to pray.
And the Rider’s coming closer still you stay inside your room,
You’re looking at his saddle, and his giant hat and plume,
But you cannot see his face because it’s hidden by the brim,
Still you recognize his saddle so you know it must be him.
For it’s silver-mounted leather from a Gypsy caravan,
His uniform is yellow silk imported from Japan,
And his sword is Spanish-crafted, and his pistol made in France…
And there’s nobody escaping, everybody’s had his chance.
Yellow Rider coming
Like a bandit through the rain,
Hear the hoof beats drumming…
Till they echo in your brain.
Now the Rider is departing just as swiftly as he came,
He’s taking someone with him and I will not tell his name,
But it’s either you or me or maybe someone else we know…
Now the Yellow Rider’s leaving as the sun begins to show.
And the people are appearing at their windows and their doors,
The merchants all are opening their markets and their stores,
And the villages will make believe he never came at all…
But away out on the high road you can hear his mournful call…
Yellow Rider going,
And he’s taking someone new,
Someone we’re both knowing,
Is it me or you?
Is it me or you?
A crystal glass brimming with fresh, ambrosial grape juice.
Some do desire imported grape wines.
No matter what, always recall, their source is God's holy vines.
I do live in heavenly, arcadian, wine country.
Occasionally, wearing, a purple see through scarf with lovely, gold leaves.
Misfortune, though, when one gets purple stains on luxuriant, shantung sleeves.
2/15/2021
~ 1 ~
Born in their meadows and
bread for the masses - to
culture exploited, a suture
‘livery of freedom’
he spun on the wheel ~ I
canvas my flag, and the future.
--------------------------------------------------------
Khadi means handspun and handwoven cloth. In 1918, Mahatma Gandhi started his movement for Khadi as relief programme for the masses living in India's villages.
Raw materials then were entirely exported out of the country by the colonists and re-imported as costly finished cloth, depriving the local population of work and profits on it.
Gandhi didn’t just revive India’s flagging Khadi industry, he made the humble hand-spun fabric the symbol of all things swadeshi (indigenous to the country). When he encouraged people across India to boycott foreign clothes, spin their own yarn and wear Khadi, he was encouraging them to rediscover their pride in their heritage while lending support to their rural brethren.
It is also the most sustainable and eco-friendly product whose production requires no electrical support or fossil fuel and generates no toxic waste.
This fabric keeps you warm in winter and cool in summer!
The Indian national flag is always made of Khadi - It is not just a fabric but a way of life.
www.thebetterindia.com/95608/khadi-history-india-gandhi-fabric-freedom-fashion/
Johnathan, Innsley, Marie, and Paul ---
Tom, Trish, Bea, and Jack: all of them.
Black, white, asian; Jew, gentile, zen...
Sex, art, love, mores revolved,
entering ever-shallower circles of discovery.
Clear ice cubes clanked on glass;
religion, sex, quality imported Scotch
and Cuba made the rounds.
Conversation calmed, each with his own idea:
the ultimate word.
Fake furs, donned, drifted into oblivion.
Feeling alone, J. C. cleaned up.
From the dulled Johnson's Wax luster
on a genuine Duncan Phyfe table,
his distorted rumpled reflection
stared up at itself.
J. C. looked away, noticed four new white rings,
picked up a soiled Canon towel,
and wiped away three beads of water,
a few ashes, and himself.
It's in a turtle soup shop where I'm employed
It's my duty to cook vomit-inducing soup turtle
which no decent human palate could stand;
a horrid job and a salary which is even worse,
an insult to my brilliant overdeveloped mind;
Not to mention the iniquitous schedule,
though there's something much worse:
the appalling uniform which is an insult
to a nonfrivolous mind like mine;
and in no way instrumental in contributing
to social elegance but a pathological attack
on good taste and gumption!
a distorted regurgitation of undigested
food for thought!
A lavender cup with the grotesque company logo!
The unsightly checked fuchsia and gray pants!
And to top it all: a striped khaki and purple poncho!
My odious uniform! Imported from Togo!
A lovely idea had the company's honcho!
An idea that my Togolese friend rejects!
I hug him! I look up to him!
'Cause he abhors both poncho and honcho!
Cripes! Yikes!
Dinner's ready! Yucky turtle soup I shall regurgitate!
Sir Isaac Newton
was thought to be quite highfalutin
Liked caviar, imported tea
and all his foods were gluten-free!
____________________________
For Brian
Yogurt.
"I begin the day buying yogurt in a small favorite grocery store."
Not pizza, nor gatorade.
Bananas
although they are imported from afar and grown in monocultures.
Attract fruit flies in August.
Peaches
locally grown with rainwater. I ate all the farmer's peaches alone
stacking them by the railroad tracks.
Water --
rainwater, tap water, distilled water, carbonated water, spring water ?--
deep gulps, infinite sips.
Nuts
in moderation, or not, unsalted, raw, replacing chips. His bowl
of filberts, almonds, walnuts quiet weekday mornings.
Edible plant parts --
roots, leaves, stems, flowers, fruit, buds. In olive oil
or butter.
Potatoes --
look online how best to prepare. Baked or fried. With a little
fish or meat.
Tea and honey,
play and prayer. Swimming and running,
talking quietly.
Bread?
Bread's possible as the Bible. Each is liable
to bloat us.
Wine and dandelions.
Dandelion wine's Ray Bradbury's story. Cans in a pantry, books on a
shelf
to the end of time.
Pasta
we used to call spaghetti, never noodles. I wonder if I can remember
how to make
grandma's sauce.
Tomatoes --
cherry, grape. Grab God's eye
going by.
There is a body stronger than the flesh alone
it is the body of your love, that temple built of desire's stone
quarried from the chaos of your erotic emotions, shaped by destiny's moan,
where neurotic nerves, psychotic passions, fanatical faith and romantic rose chrome
are imported from the four corners of your heart, brought to the mount of your soul zone
upon here, obedience and freedom, submission and domination chalk and chisel to the bone,
the flame of Shekinah seduces spirit within and without your psychic cyclone
as age becomes an aggregate of obsession's ascensions and avalanches in cycles for you to atone,
Egyptian magicians and Phoenician mariners could only dream of your pulsing fortune,
what do magic rites and the mines of Ophir have to entice with compared to your throne
Hiram, the builder of holy royal bastions would seek the secrets of your star storm home -
J.A.B.
Down the street at the corner, the sodium
Streetlight casts an eerie-yellow glow on the sidewalk
Below, a feint hissing sound emanating from escaped
Gasses. Up the stairs, just a few feet away, I'm narrating
A sequence of myself carrying a large kettle filled with
Chili, my look confident, my shirt spattered with
Bubbling sauce, unseen are the remnants of the
Bomb
Blast...blood-stained parts of a little boy's shoes, fallen
Off as he crawled home, not quite to the door.
Sleeplessness, a byproduct of artificial LED lighting,
Historians
Agreed
Where hand -held devices and
Computer screens disrupted tidal waves in our brains,
Leading to irrational decisions by our
Leaders, dooming
Civilizations not yet born,
New, 6-handed life forms were
Imported from other planets
Un-earthing gold and iridium, along
With relics from the 21st. century,
In an effort to more
Accurately erect memorials to a
Vanished society,
The
Chili
Was
Good
11/8/14
© james marshall goff