Best Inns Poems
The glamour of their squalor is found
in specular highlights of crisp brown eyes
peering through mud-matted hair, crying.
Weeks of eating an abundance of whatever,
which consisted of scarcely more than bugs
fished from non-potable cesspools.
A decade seems a long time, until singularly
it accounts for one’s whole life…and yet
we won’t home them, because they are a plague.
Self-righteousness cannot bear the reminder
that “refugees” might be people…children even;
running from nightmares that persist in daylight.
Ignorance is bliss, after all…
and who chooses to come down from a high?
We have full tables, full inns, and empty hearts.
Opportunistic politicians see a platform,
borne on the backs of the starving and desperate,
they manifest feigned outrage and farcical hand-wringing.
Droves follow droves out from the gloomy dread
greeted by cool apathy or worse; outright derision…
what more is to be expected of humanity?
The squalor of our glamour is found
in hopeless disconnection to what matters, or
to the reality that we could have been them.
11/18/15
Categories:
inns, child, christian, dark, heartbroken,
Form:
Free verse
the sea winds calling
calling beach tides thrilling
thrilling woodlands for hiking
hiking along streams vibrant
vibrant wildlife still sprawling
sprawling plant life enthralling
enthralling cobble streets for strolling
strolling perfection in a New England town ~~
a New England town of actual living sounds -
sounds like I should permanently settle down:
Leading a simple life are solid folk.
Many fish the sea for their living.
In city life, they would be slowpokes,
but here time is for deep breathing.
Old lighthouses dot an idyllic coast
and fishing boats fill the scenic harbors.
There’s shellfish aplenty for dining ardor.
Many inns are old homes of lace and charm,
reminiscent of America’s youth.
There are old horse bridges and farms
built when pride was America’s truth.
There is much history to relish
and nature that stirs one zealous.
New England is the good life embellished
and an address that I would cherish.
Categories:
inns, beauty, culture, environment, happy,
Form:
Rhyme
I was just a little donkey
carrying a Special Load.
A weary Joseph led me...
and on my back, Mary Rode.
Mary was tired and cold
and needed a place to rest.
I tried to walk gently,
eager to do my best.
Inns in Bethlehem were crowded !!
No Innkeeper could let her stay
and could only offer them
A stable with a manger of hay.
Noise of the animals awoke me...
and I glanced at the Manger bed..
I witnessed that night, A MIRACLE!!!
The Baby laid down His Sweet Head..
Of all the other donkeys ..
I was most blessed than all of them...
Because I was the chosen donkey
to take Mary and Joseph to Bethlehem
Categories:
inns, birth, christmas,
Form:
Rhyme
(Transit Lounge, Dubai International Airport, circa 2007)
He answered
that he was from far Kazakhstan,
“Exotic place,” he added,
which I know but could not pinpoint
on my mental map.
She smiled
and said, “I am from India somewhere
farther to the northeast bordering China.”
“Hence her fairer skin,” I thought.
And she piped in,
“From Ethiopia,” and I could not
but think of just how much she paid
to have her curly hair straightened.
From the counter
of their air-conditioned, compact
caravanserai, they all chorused
the suggestion that I opt
for king prawn salad
which, indeed, was so delicious
to the hungry eyes but just so rich
for my already travel-thinned billfold.
Thus I settled
for some salmon sandwich
and a bowl of curly noodles
that the Chinese had perfected
long ago in those steaming kitchens
of their fabled silk road inns.
“Fragrant tea
from out the hot and humid hills
of southern India,” the Ethiopian
said with flourish, bringing me
my mug to wash away
the fishy taste still lingering
along the silk roads
of my taste buds, as I vainly tried
to pinpoint far Kazakhstan
on my travel-weary mental map
while waiting, sleepy, for the call
to put me, once more,
on my way.
Categories:
inns, travel,
Form:
Blank verse
Hey kids get out in the car !
Dad, are we going very far ?
You don't ask, I won't tell...
We're going crazy, oh well.
Got to get out on the road...
to forget that heavy load !
It winds from Chicago to L.A.
Route 66 is where you should play.
Our '63 Buick is the car we drive...
takes lots of gas to keep it alive.
Has luxury and that ain't all...
its got a 445 that just will not stall !
Dad said look out the window...
see the USA while we go.
Gotta see it before its gone,
look there's a spaceship on that lawn !
You see everything on the Mother Road...
A blue whale and a giant horn toad.
In motor courts and wigwams you sleep,
buy postcard so memories you keep.
Now it's a little out of the way...
but more fun than the toll way.
See how America used to be,
when it was fun to be free !
There's mountains and lots of funny rocks,
sand and a canyon like a box.
Old drive inns and out door movies...
drink a malt and feel so groove.
I'd lay up on the window deck...
wave to trucks till the're a speck.
Love to look at old car and trucks...
saw armadillos, buffalo and bucks.
Had a lot of fun on the way !
We're almost to the coast and L.A.
So get your kicks...
drive on Route 66 !
To the fond memory of car trips when I was a kid.
Categories:
inns, adventure, childhood, dedication, familycar,
Form:
Lyric
"We're going on vacation," my husband said. I gave him a big kiss.
Time away from home and housework was something I wouldn't miss.
"Let's check into our hotel," I cried, when I heard thunder.
"Which hotel?" My husband asked. I looked at him with wonder.
"You made reservations, didn't you?" I asked with a sense of doom.
The town over-flowed with people. We'd never get a room.
We drove by nice hotels and inns. "No vacancy", signs read.
We were in the dingy part of town when he turned the car around.
There was a lit sign above a doorway, a room was to be found.
A shirtless man said, "Money first", I gave my man a frown.
He whispered, "It's a flophouse." I didn't like that term.
The look I gave my husband was meant to make him squirm.
And as I glared, I truly hoped that it would cause him pain.
Coming with no reservation, was really quite insane.
I vowed if we got home alive, I'd never leave again.
Categories:
inns, vacation,
Form:
Rhyme
Interview (My Next Lover's)
character, heart, hero, how i feel, humor, marriage, money,
MY NEXT LOVER’S INTERVIEW ©
Is it your job to make me happy?
Do you like to buy presents to your love?
Do you like giving presents to your ‘lover’?
Do you like to spend a lot?
Do you have money to spend?
Will you work two jobs with overtime pay?
Will you take me on your long distance business trips?
How would you rate the all-in-one Hotel trips?
How would you rate Holidays Inns?
What is the best thing The Marriott Hotels feature?
Hilton Hotels are the best, won’t you agree?
Why?
Would you return or go again after a stay?
Why not?
Do you believe in plastic?
How much plastic do you have?
What is your highest credit rate?
Do you like younger or older females?
Do you bite your nails?
Do you leave the toilette seat up or down?
Do you eat meat?
Do you like little or big people?
Would you marry?
For money, love or sex?
Are you insured?
Do you ever tell a lie?
White or black, little or big?
Are you under 35 and older than 16?
Are you high or low maintenance?
Diane M Quinlan, didee June 14, 2015
Categories:
inns, character, heart, hero, how
Form:
Free verse
In the poetic violence he will sing
With such manners as to offend all
But on the road does it really matter
Never again will he see them
He's painted lawns with others' blood
Because he will never return to places so dramatic
The man he has become is too laid back
Not he will disrupt others but distract
When they look away he'll be gone in a flash
And when the lights are off he will stay
So many occurances have the words he dreads
Been spoken to not come back home
"We're moving" heard much too often
And much too often does he stay nights
Inns annotated as others' homes
He has made home
And the road simply his driveway
Categories:
inns, teen,
Form:
Swimming pools
And motel inns
A holiday with no end
Pull up the car
Empty the trunk
Leave the ice chest by the pool
Pop tops and a future on ice
Kids in bathing suits
And Dad’s on guard
Mom’s sit and watch the kids
Dad’s talking *****about things they did
Till they pass out and the Mom’s take charge
Then it’s hang up the wet suits
And off to bed.
Sure hope Dad doesn’t snore to loud
Sunlight creeps between the blinds
And Dad is up searching for breakfast
So it’s down to the Denny’s and eggs for all
Another season another fall.
Categories:
inns, vacation,
Form:
Free verse
VIEW FROM THE BRIDGE
From the bridge, track the ghosts of line, goods yard, Old Town Station
Where we lingered and noted the numbers of each passing train
Web of steel and of steam entwined village and town across nation
'Til Arcadian rural slow lines suffered untimely wane
Gone: the Market where cows sheep and pigs brought in telling perceptions
The images, noises and smells of the farms to the town
The tweeded farmers with leathery limbs and faces
And gaiters of deepest sheen in a rich chestnut brown
Flaxen ropes, billhooks, pitchforks enough for a peasants' uprising
Spread along the High street and over the Corn Exchange square
While Newport Street furnished inns for all thirsts' reviving
And above all, the clock tower made skyline iconic and fair
Then was school run not cosseted chauffeured, in family car
But raced, skipped or dawdled through field, street, market and station
Our little world teamed with action, unscreened, with no bar
Of health and safety; adventure without filtration
In that world we seemed in different incarnation
So are we the same people, and do we now view the same place?
Can we yet discern immortality's intimation?
The adventure goes on though perhaps at a difference pace.
Categories:
inns, nostalgia,
Form:
Elegy
11/28/16
Thrive survive and live
It is what it is
A day of nothing or success using sieves
Carbonation in the soda pop making it fizz
Distinguished areas for hers and his
Individuals involved or infatuated with the showbiz
Don't get in a tizz
Some just take and or give
The planet spins
Life with cartilage and fins swims
Strikes, splits and gutterballs in lanes with bowling pins
Rooms for rent available at inns
Breath mints in tins
Boys and girls occasionally born as twins
Music made with all instruments even violins
Sports and games played with javelins
At church they'll sing hymns
Sometimes you'll need a membership to certain gyms
Whole milk, soy and skim
Going out on a limb
And off a whim
You either lose draw or win
Even if it's only by a smidge
Another opportunity and day begins
Going from light to dim
Above and below the ridge
On either side of the bridge
Help out your kin
Especially when times are grim
Low to high bids
Placed on items
Waters fished for nearly everything, including squid
Due to road conditions, speed and a loss of control, the car slid
Around the corner and the tires started to skid
Recently or way back when
People have disappeared off the grid
No idea all that you or I have did
And the same could be said for where we've been
By: Dalton Ogletree
Categories:
inns, poetry, rap, word play,
Form:
Rhyme
Imagine if the nativity
Took place now instead of then
With technological advancement
It'd be on the news at ten
In fact it would make youtube
A film clip at the stable
Taken by a shepherd boy
Underneath a table
The three wisemen would go on Skype
The gifts would be en route
No need to travel all the way
With the traffic in Beirut
Phone banks would be all set up
To raise funds for the birth
The internet would be a buzz
With the greatest news on earth
No camels, inns or drummer boys
There'd be no one there at all
The Angel of The Lord would be
Black Friday shopping at the mall
In fact I do not think that it
Would be a deal that we would follow
Social media and the press
Would make it all seem hollow
I'm glad it happened when it did
As time has come to pass
With Jesus in a manger
And wisemen there en masse
I don't think it'd be Christmas
If Christ was born today
Without a cd or a movie deal
Or a sport that he would play
Christmas is...and always will
Be the story we were told
I'm glad it didn't happen now
If I may be quite so bold
Unto man a child was born
And he, the son of God....
Categories:
inns, angel, celebration, christian, christmas,
Form:
Rhyme
—Tale of a wanderer who goes with a piece of myth—
The wanderer drifting in the wilderness searching for a long absent
darling leans against the moonlight at times. Wet with dew, is there any chance; you will one day, lay your exhausted body on a cold bed to slumber? But instead of a sweet dream: you will hang on a sharp edged axe; while crying and moaning, hunted by a nightmare. You will, then, wake up in a cold sweat, swept by surging waves.
Then: as a bright star appears in the sky; along with
the gleam of daybreak; light driving moonlight away;
the crystallized water drops; the star brought in the window,
will become the deadly poison of a viper and bite into your flesh,
in the blink of an eye.
It’s neither Eden nor Eurydice’s heel. It’s the calamity
upon yourself. You didn’t decline, but laid your weary body,
one night, on the bed offered by Procrustes. Bleeding from the ankles, both feet chopped off by Procrustes’ axe, with no way to turn your misfortune or to blame but yourself.
Although it’s blood, it’s really not blood,
they are a line of brood of vipers forming like
a stream advancing to the woods of the delta searching for
an underground tunnel; a dirge, the tongue-less Philomela’s
piercing shriek. It’s Philomela’s agonizing shudder, disgusted
from the conception of the seed of death.
Itys’ head on a tray: reflecting in the daybreak glow; will ask.
“Why are you lodged in such a terrible inn of all inns? Though
I won’t ask you, but still, want to know
why are you. The fool Tereus? Did you do such terrible thing?
Though you have a virtuous beautiful wife at home,
why then, o thoughtless wanderer, did you walk on a path
just like Tereus’? As a consequence: you must cry; beating your breast; listening to the sound of lyre; that even stops to roll the wheel of fire; for a while, with its mournful tune.”
1. Eurydice 2. Procrustes 3. Philomela 4. Itys
5. Tereus 6. Ixion 7. Orpheus’ lyre
Categories:
inns, allegory, anxiety,
Form:
Narrative
The house is quiet again at last,
A week of fun and mayhem past.
Our visitors now are safe at home,
We sit and rest, together, alone.
Our dear friend Val came first,
Always a treat to have as a guest.
Left us a gift, we are still in awe,
Instead of selling, gave us her car.
Daughter Samantha came next,
along with her husband John.
They came in like a fresh breeze,
Settled in quick, soon at their ease.
Their holiday started the very next morn,
We did so much in just seven days,
It seemed like they'd been here always,
Like Val before, they left us in a daze.
Daughter Emma has booked to fly in,
Bringing our grandson Dominic James.
He's our four year old tornado
So in December it's fun and games.
Tracy and Barney not coming, that's a pity
This year they're off to Dublin's fair City.
Next year we pray we are on their list,
A holiday in Cyprus is not to be missed.
Until then we have been given a task,
No sitting on the patio having a bask.
John's left orders that are quite explicit,
Every Wednesday we have to wing it.
Wing It Wednesday, it has to be seen,
We've got to go where we've never been.
New restaurants to eat, new inns to drink,
A very nice challenge to make us think.
So while Hotel Timperley is without a guest.
We shall pick up the baton and take the test.
We have an Island we have not explored,
On Wing It Wednesday, we will not get bored.
© Dave Timperley 11 May 2015.
Categories:
inns, adventure, travel,
Form:
Rhyme
OLD TOWN ELEGY
The bridge still spans the road - with what design?
The rail that once crossed Ridgeway and vale to the sea
Erased and gone, with scarce residual sign
And barely more trace than near roads of Roman decree
From the bridge, track the ghosts of line, goods yard, Old Town Station
Where we lingered and noted the numbers of each passing train
Web of steel and of steam entwined village and town across nation
'Til Arcadian slow lines were suddenly made to wain
Gone: the Market where cows sheep and pigs brought in telling perceptions
The images, noises and smells of the farms to the town
The tweeded farmers with leathery limbs and complexions
And gaiters of deepest sheen in a rich chestnut brown
Flaxen ropes, billhooks, pitchforks enough for a peasants' uprising
Spread along the High street and over the Corn Exchange square
While Newport Street furnished inns for all thirsts' reviving
And above all, the clock tower made skyline iconic and fair
Then was school run not cosseted, chauffeured, by car
But raced, skipped or dawdled through field, street, market and station
Our little world teamed with action, unscreened, with no bar
Of health and safety; adventure without filtration
In that world we seemed in different incarnation
Are we the same people, and do we now view the same place?
Can we yet discern immortality's intimation?
The adventure goes on though perhaps at a difference pace.
Categories:
inns, nostalgia,
Form:
Elegy