Best Landlords Poems
I followed milky and mouldy scents,
down cobbled and narrow paths,
only to see it riddled with rats,
feasting on Feta and Camembert,
whilst the wine sipping Uppers prepared to
clash against the cider swigging downers!
The Fromage Frenzy and Curd Craze deli.
across from the Dizzy Duck and the Boastful Bard taverns
had been ransacked with only cracker crumbs on the floor.
All the cheesemongers were hiding in their basements.
All the landlords locked away in their cellars!
Bar stools dripping with Chardonnay and Merlot,
carpets soaked in 'Scrumpy Jack' and 'Strongbow.'
It was utter chaos as the 'cheese shed' raged on...
The goats and the cows watched,
as the town folk gathered on either side.
Anger in their eyes, yelling insults like;
'Cheap cheddar gobblers' and 'stinky Stilton munchers.'
This was not cultural tensions,
nor issues with tariffs, quotas or labelling practises-
this was a war of the social classes!
They were not fighting with fists or weapons,
oh no, no no..
The Downers started squirting stinky cheese sauce,
drenching the Uppers with its reeking stench.
However, when the Uppers started hurling
Storico and Caciocavallo Podolico,
back at the Downers, they simply,
started consuming it with their cider!
Both fractions kept pelting and sprinkling,
until little Joey from the farm,
reminded them the football had started,
so off they plodded to watch the game,
singing and laughing together,
arm in arm, munching on cheese
they had salvaged from their skirmish.
By Edmund Siejka
A high school English teacher
Issues a challenge
Her class
Is to write a poem.
Reading a student’s poem
Her experienced eye
Searches for
Imagery
Metaphor
Tone
Point of view
Ultimately the student’s poem
Is graded a gentleman’s C.
Somewhat surprised
The student admits his shortcomings
Indicating that poetry is a lot like writing
Disappointed
The teacher
Doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Coming home that night on a crowded train
The teacher passes up a seat
Letting an exhausted looking woman
Sit down
Thankful
For this simple courtesy
Brief smiles are exchanged
Strangers from two different worlds.
The teacher notices the smell of disinfectant
Hovering over the woman
Thick fingers holding tightly to her purse
The woman
Begins an animated conversation
With two other women
Broken English
Graceful hand movements
Words interrupted with laughter.
From what the teacher hears
She believes the women
Are cleaning ladies
The little people who clean the bathrooms
Vacuum carpeted hallways
Empty the trash
From windowed offices
High above the New York skyline.
The words ‘poetry is a lot like writing’
Linger in the teacher’s memory
One thing she is sure of
The ladies know of life
After years of
Hard work for little pay
Hungry children
Angry husbands
Absentee landlords.
The train stops
Momentarily the ladies collect
In a small group
On the empty train platform
Suddenly there is no more talking
In the awkward silence
Each of the ladies turn
Toward the direction
Of a place they call home.
Ireland was suffering a terrible fate
People were dying at an alarming rate
The potato crop failed because of the blight
Little help was given now that wasn't right.
The rich fed their faces with meat so lean
Whilst the poor people starved now I call that obscene
Their fault it was not but you let them die
The horrors they suffered a grown man would cry.
The greed of the landlords they showed no pity
Had to make profits for their masters in the city
They evicted the dying, victims of the blight
How in Gods name did they sleep at night ?.
Men, women and children were dropping down dead
Profits before people that you could have fed
You exported the grain to feed the elite
Whilst the poor people of Ireland were dying at your feet.
"An act of God "said Trevelyan, now that was shocking
To use that as an excuse to do little or nothing
You weren't alone though, Clergy said it too
How simple minded you all were to think that was true.
You all looked away, you all have no shame
Did not do enough, found others to blame
One day you'll be judged though and that is a fact
And you can all tell God why you didn't act.
Written on 17th November 2017
to say that rumor has it
is to say that the World Trade Center
collapsed silently and cleanly like
oppositely sexed Siamese twins
who discovered they could mate
I had all channels going full bore
aiming at involuntary insemination
with the aid of a two-handled clam rake
now there's an archetype of malevolence
just how many categories are there anyhow
an infinity an eternity you decide
rumor has it
There may be more than one infinity
however eternity is but an extrapolation
of the next 10 minutes
who would want to spend it only there
a money robot trapped in labor
dead in a puddle of break time jism
insert your domain name here
a world gone heavily annotated
yearning for the dagger of love
whine your last you holy landlords
at a time when rent is the anomaly
where anomalies are just signals
this isn't a broken hearted paperback
or a lightning burn to the head
the big eye on the horizon says
he's trying to figure out
how far to take the next extinction
but is unsure whether to come to us again
as a mystic philosopher or a yodeling yokel
we've come out of the dark place
into the frozen lips dimness
looking for aids to navigation
having discovered the secret entrance
clues were left everywhere
let's hope it ends with clean sheets
because I just found out my guardian angel
is a rottweiler with a missing leg
and just as many teeth
one eye is a ball bearing
the other a shotgun barrel
loaded with pillow mints
he rides a mean skateboard
propelled across a landscape
of food and sex smells
no wonder I'm on the run
from my own mother
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
A Modest Proposal
By Roy Merritt
Doctor Swift wrote it anonymously
His delicate modest proposal
His idea to save the poor Irish
Was to make their children disposal
He was lampooning Petty and Bacon
Quite popular upon that year
Their notions of how society be taken
And socially engineered
He wrote of the poor Irish
How they going to waste
And how a child of just one year
Might appeal to one’s taste
They could be roasted, stewed,
Or boiled long in a pot you see
To be sliced into ragout
And made delicious as fricassee
So let no man talk of expedients
Of taxes on landlords absentee
Let no man talk of new taxes
Or leveling them at me
No clothing do they need
Or furniture to sit astride
Not one penny for luxury
Or vain human pride
It would cure much idleness
Keep women safe and pure
Parsimony and patriotism
The only way to endure
Prudence and temperance
And love of one’s native sand
Was how they should differ
From the Laps in Lapland
And thus the small children
Could prove a fine subject
Not be bemoaned as a burden
But a benefit to the public
You might would put on weight
If the child is particularly sweet
And I don’t doubt be easy to chew
So tender would be their meat
I don’t doubt either as times
get worse in this nation
That some bloody right wing fool
Bring Swift into the conversation
Instead of depending on food stamps
When little food you got
Just reach over into that crib
And throw the kid into the pot
Just reach over into that crib
And throw your kid into the pot
Holodomor Genocide
Native of Ukraine and Soviet Union,
Known once for my independence,
Was pitied tobrutal artificial famine,
Exporting our grain,and leaving us to die,
Declared Kurkul under Stalin's policy,
Shipped to remote uninhabited Siberia,
Left to die of famine,
I was one of the millions,
Once the landlords now riches to rags,
Ghost of hunger that engulfed us all,
Even our innocent kids,
Many nights of darknessand severe ache,
More in heart than in the stomach,
Sun brought no shine,
Zero hope as deathdanced around,
As if wolves driven from the woods,
We ate our own bodies,
Every moment souls died a new death,
Horrible Helplessness, hue and cry around,
Walking amongst corpses,
the good were first to die,
Cannibalism survived,
Could morals stay high ?
Survival a mystic miracle,
Made to deny any famine in public,
Robert conquest termed it 'Harvest of Sorrow'
Decree by Parliament proves it worst of genocide!
Written October 20th, 2014
On Holodomor In Ukraine in 1928
For contest' Genocide' by Cyndi Macmillan
Awarded 1st place
I tell u what shell b the first to tell you
Tim is crazy he aint even jealous of the devil
he gots propellas on the metal
Rest aside those doubts about me
weapons of destruction I don;t even trust in
Whitesqualls Rise up & swallow yall
Im taking chances riskzs and consequences
and im calling that,,, sacrificed chrome polished brass
and im calling chris competition demolished
Im on a baja in a Hallor
Working hard for the heart of her daughter
Sheep for the slaughter dont even bother me
Yes im a legend your just thinking like a protégé
Well geuss what ? my son is my predecessor
I say " Que paso Senior to her step farther"
And me & her brother did a little dirt together
Yes i was like a pirate that burried Treasure
Then i came back as a Survivor On a Glider like Mcgivor
I'll take you to the cliff if u think ur stiffer
I sniffed her then she pist on my terrietory
Your a Teratorous Im the Astroid headed for u
Im a Hailey Im a ****ing comet
You’re like the Red Foe I’ll put cleats on and crush you
Well Im despondant when you stutter when you comment
Eminem dont u ****in call me
Theres a slim chance that u could ever understand a standard
Well u antsy u better go read the ****in manual
Or what about the instructions, chrome never made me stronger
And you think u lucky go ahead and trust it
Gods the only thing i ever trusted in
as i slide in the night in a maroon mustang
i shine like emeralds dipped in crushed diamonds
I had her heart the whol;e time good luck in try in to find it
shes ****in mad cuz i play and splash in the light years
well Im not sorry for GOD being my Guidence
Smaller stars dye for the brighter star Rising
We are Warriors your women in the village crying
AS we stole your pony
Feel the power of a Stallion chasing the scent of heat in a Filley
Hoofprints pounding in the earth and you mistake them for the sound of thunder
Im picking a fight Im talking calling you out to box me
With no weapons in my hand I fight face to face like a man does
Your English Bulldog Im American Pit, I’m like George Washington and Congress
When they signed The Decloration of Independence, The pen is mightier than the sword
It took the pen to entice yall, yall brought ships and thaught yall was goin faught us
Im like my Fore Fathers I still piss on the title of you ****in LandLords
mine is the most beautiful ruined country on earth
who's favorite sons held knives
knife, wire ... tic tac ..
mine is the most beautiful ruined country on earth
but the landlords came with their good intentions
and let the eagles get in
... even child knows what happens when you let the eagle get in
white eagle
tic tac ... wire, knife
mine is the most beautiful ruined country on earth
yet despite Geneva terms
they proclaimed what happened 20 years ago as mislead estimation
leaving us behind, unendingly hemorrhaging
knife, wire ... vukovar, srebrenica
how many of them are still out there
You need it, u want it, just to know how it feels
You’re tired of your hands shaking every time you handle the bills
You always have just enough to get by, but not past
You’re tired of wondering how long your credit will last
The secret to money and power:
Wasting not your mind on poverty another hour
The secret comes to the one who is most proud
Of whatever he or she affords to have around
If a broom is all you have, just smile and grab it
Sweep the floor clean, and you may find a coin to eat
The secret to money and power:
Living in a shack, but imagining it is a tower
The only thing to fear is fear, someone once said
Look at everything as if, it has all been paid
Where there is a will there is a way, all debts will clear
If every minute all the while, you choose to be of cheer
The secret to money and power:
Dropping your worries and picking up a pretty flower
You don’t need to be a billionaire, or be the pope
But you can be anything you want, if you nurture that little hope
Yes, that little hope, that comes and goes
Let it stay and never go, and watch yourself become a boss
The secret to money and power:
Singing a happy song while in the shower
Peasants have often become landlords, and vice versa
Lepers have survived plagues while champions die of cancer
For playing along or against this little secret
There is a reward to reap, or some empty regret
The secret to money and power:
Removing what makes your thoughts sour
Banana tree here! Bwana quick sit with me
Come sit with me friend for a spell
These damn tsetse flies are all out for our blood
By now we all know them quite well!
In African village we no got de fence
But when you share shade of my tree
I find even though conversation may lag
Still half flies bite you and not me.
Possessions I have really don’t matter much
You need what I have just please take
For most of the food that I need grows on trees
To own stuff just leads to heartache.
It’s true that I may never purchase a car,
I also have no place to go
And why should I want to spend money on gas?
Bananas are fruitful you know!
And why in the world would I want a TV,
You think I don’t know how to talk?
A box that is filled with bright colors and noise
Whose predators my wallet stalk?
Some people think God is the friend of the white,
But I know that’s simply not true!
A white skin is simply God’s mark upon Cain (2)
Explains why white souls are all blue.
Brian Johnston
November 20, 2014
Poet’s Note:
(1) Bwana is a Swahili word for Sir.
(2) When I was in college living in off-campus housing in the 1960's, the University of OK decided to interview the landlords of off-campus housing units to see if non-white students were being discriminated against in this market. I happen to be home when they interviewed my landlord. She basically refused to honestly answer the questions asked by the students conducting the interviews and then after they left confided in me that she found it hard to believe that anyone could doubt that a 'black skin' was the curse put on Cain's decedents after he murdered his brother Able. I was shocked into silence. Most of OU's fraternities and sororities banned blacks as well in those times.
Innocents tremble in terrible terror
witnessing mankind’s deluge of errors.
Violence grows as a sure hate spreader,
intent on humanities' ultimate sever.
A barrage of plastic politicians with greedy minds
focus on leaving justice long lost and behind.
Modern media’s constant torrent of drama
drags good people down inside insipid trauma.
Landlords, bankers, grocers and their names
Disappeared behind campaigns for corporate gain.
Focused on leaving all people monetarily lame,
Corporations score God second to financial gain.
The world has grown unrecognizable.
Universal fairness may never know arrival.
Stupidity and apathy diseases worldwide spiral
as brotherhood, religion and ethics lose disciples.
An Independence Day Poem written by John Sorie Conteh
I am Mama Salone, the crying mother!
A mother to millions of children.
I am a freedom fighter who fought for the freedom of my siblings and home:
3 scores and 1 year ago, I and my senior kids fought against the English strangers for freedom;
We shed tears and many types of blood were lost, but we never lost.
I'm now 61 years independent but I am not absolute independent.
Today is a remarkable day that is worth commemorating,
But I am not happy, and why should I be happy?
This day needs to be celebrated, but why did I need to celebrate it?
When my efforts have sunk into the ocean;
I regret giving birth to some of these disobedient children
When I look at the Lion Mountain, I remain the crying mother!
I am a one-year-old retired woman,
I can no longer fend for myself and my vulnerable children.
So I only rely on those I made landlords look after their sisters and brothers,
But since I placed them there, they have become dishonest.
They only care for themselves and their tribesmen
When I think of the needy, I remain the crying mother!
I am disappointed with these selfish offspring,
They adapted the greedy man's culture
Corruption, tribalism, nepotism, and regionalism are part of their attitudes.
They make fortune from the needy to enrich themselves
They are living in luxury while their companions are living in poverty.
My tears will never dry, I remain the crying mother!
On the Isle of Skye and Raasay
In eighteen fifty one,
The English Government army
Cleared Scotland's daughters and sons,
Cumberland burned their villages
To ensure cultural disappearance,
Was this Highland subjugation ?
Or Was this a human clearance ?.
There was a ban on tartan
And breaking the law you'd be libel,
If you spoke the Gaelic tongue
Or read a Gaelic bible,
With potato famine and poverty
And without the tartan regalia,
Scotland's most precious resource
Sailed for Canada and Australia.
40,000 cleared from the glens
Left clan chiefs to the land,
Turning them into landlords
And into an upperclass band,
Some crofters came to the meetings
To discuss the so-called fair rent,
Only to be tossed on boats
Like sheep being sent to their death.
But despite these human clearances
And loss of life by the ton,
They've had their final say
You could say they still have won,
The new world is heavily populated
With those of highland appearances,
To ensure we never forget
The highland and human clearances.
Our naughty crafts in sex workshop
are all placed under a constant rewind.
Your accurate curves and warm planes
covered in moisture like a soul’s Vaseline
is an awesome park for the leisure of my lust.
Hormones from both ends,
acting like the descendants of the same goddess
grind the coal to heat up sweet but deadly flames.
Anytime absent, you drastically take away
the wagons of my manhood.
Each day when far away,
your heart leaves a text message
for my eager mind to print and bind.
Each time I open my mouth,
I feel the sweetness of your flavoured saliva,
and my thighs when lying together
measure the degrees of your flesh’s heat.
Each morning, our torsos are on a one on one meeting
within locked hips for a proper discussion,
soft, slow, tender, wet, round, warm-all sensual adjectives
to scenes of tropical temperatures so mild and kind.
Our sweats mix to start chemistry’s experiment
in twos, desires battle fiercely
like opposite royal landlords of the battle field;
dancing tongues, greasing bellies, clamping hands;
breath sharing, fidgeting limbs and flexible pelvises
all combine to make summer and spring wonderful sisters.
Just a little serenity I’ve been searching
but a large green field of little palms I find.
Every damsel has her glow,
but you ripen so sharp to beat the coat of many colours
so that my appetite stay blind
to the city’s rainbows and the town’s street lights.
Everlasting is such a nature’s blessing
b’cos the warehouse of our passion is never in a full stock.
Repetitious Dream – 1
No Controll !!!
Once upon a time – long ago – an entrepreneur, my forte.
Not today !, for that is not – in the heat of the night – what dreams say.
They tell me, – in their surreal repetition – I was but a pawn,
in games played by landlords, clients, friends – I was drawn,
pushed, manipulated and shoved from dusk till dawn.
I do wonder ?, about this wonderland reality, after the setting sun.
Truth ?, I drag it on and on – in dream – till night is done.
This is the stuff – today, yesterday – my dreams are of’
and it seems – years now – there is no end, even though above
all else, – these repetitious dreams – this should not represent the way
life truly was for me, – in another time – during another day.
Awake, reality is – from beginning to end – we all are but pawns,
played by the hands of our need and by the hands of greed
as the puppet masters look on with disdain and yawns
at all our efforts to grow from the simplest of planted seed
in hopes that life will blossom, flower and fill our need.
B. J. “A ” 2
June 9th 2005