Best Lugged Poems
Fish are named
Lazarus and Carl Jung
they swim in the library, art studio,
that spare room
where I write, paint.
Their eyes are the size
of their stomachs.
They mouth dreams
in silence behind glass.
I stare back, envious
of graceful slow motion angel gills
immersed in a tank of tears
gathered from heaven,
capped by corporations,
lugged home from the Dollar Store
to keep the tank full….
On the other side
a breeze streams
over book shelves,
antique typewriters, canvas and paint.
Lazarus and Carl watch me
write, brush colors
and nap...
turn, twist, snore, dream,
dream more….
surreal, real,
really you? here in the deep?
Oh lovely waves of sleep. So many fish in this sea, oh, oh, yes, yes,
you, you, you …with me.
You, evaporate.
Eyes open empty and starved.
Lips spit at the sunrise
as it blinds, blocks out
infinite oceans of you.
In the avalanche, I lost track of my guiding light.
I fled my fireside. I had to evacuate my homestead.
Driven far astray by frenetic frozen fright,
I was just a cowardly racing rescuing airhead.
The wounded wooden face of my brother
lugged away by paramedics in a wheelchair.
My tomb of sleep was my 3 am druthers.
But I called 911, puzzling at my sibling’s stare.
Living and dying from underworld to mountaintop,
the EMTs raised him off the floor like a bag of potatoes.
Everything was breathing pollen and allergen nonstop.
All my raw instincts lacked right or wrong thought flows.
It’s true; I lost poetry. I abandoned my paintings, my pottery,
as though the subverting season of AI sophistry reigned supreme,
as though all creativity was randomized in a human lottery,
as though all consciousness is reduced to a particle beam.
Vacant, these weary eyes roll up in my head.
Vacant, how much long-term despondency to endure?
My brother lives and dies each day in his bed,
defenseless, like a never healing wound with no cure.
My days are distractions, a mad confusing deflection.
I vacated my poetic home, my fireside muse.
I raft the unfamiliar caregiver currents without reflection.
I can’t live forever homeless, maintaining the caregiver ruse.
Sleep now, my brother, knowing life offers you another aim.
Tap resilience from your broken body. This will clear your mind.
My pallet for tending, nourishing, and wiping deserves no acclaim.
Nobody asks for these duties. No one can ever put them behind.
The draw of the tide...
tugs away inside...
remembered rekindled emotion...
lived on the water ...
remember i ought...
Portugese, on the ocean..
cabin boy ..
on a 3 masted schooner...
we lived on salted pork...
the maggots they walked...
red meat went rotten the sooner..
In Timor it's said ..
we'd get fresh bread...
more chillies, beer by the jug..
first mate was casting the lead..
fathoms testing...
as into the harbour we lugged...
sailing round the Cape Horn ..
suicide borne..
over the side water torn..
ironic the twist
sinking forlorn....
no one there to mourn
drowning there did I exist... :)
where i went onetime....Don Johnson 17-may-11
Once upon a time there was a pug who's name was Doug.
He wore uggs, and played with slugs.
Doug looked like a bug.
Also doug has a favorite rug.
The pug always dug and sat in a mug.
Then doug took a bath in the tub.
Doug has a friend who's name is cub.
Doug took cub to the tub.
Doug took a nap in the tub with his friend cub.
Doug the pug tooted in the tub.
Doug lugged everything in the tub.
Doug and cub met a friend named stug.
Doug, Cub, and Stug fell in love.
Rub oh dub oh dub.
That is what we call puppy love.
What is a flea market? I asked, unsure.
I found all kinds of things not found in the mall.
Antiques that brought memories back
Things I have never seen anywhere else
Things I knew I would never see or find anywhere else again
Home made things from creative people
Shiny things, feathery things, things of leather.
I was overjoyed when I discovered you can lug stuff to a cashier.
She will make you a pile and give you a number.
My number should have been JACKPOT
My pile was huge.
\My sister was askance.
My car is not big enough for all that, she told me.
Not to worry, I replied as they lugged a ten foot suit of armor to the register.
I have had to rent a truck to bring that guy home.
Villanelle : Who dares to doubt must he questions address Fate
Who dares to doubt must he questions address Fate
Let tears on High Holy Mass spill down the Seine
Would one propose to the Lord what's not innate
Is the Lord's mise en scène an act desperate
A dire call to fill Church benches lone vain
Who dares to doubt must he questions address Fate
Who'd wish the Crown of Thorns be crushed under weight
Aging oak high rafter timbers tumble rain
Would one propose to the Lord what's not innate
Witness the Lord's will red-hot Spire irate
Whose felo de se the Flèche pierced heart in pain
Who dares to doubt must he questions address Fate
Montmartre's severed head Saint Denis lugged Frankish hate
Who'll don Louis IX Tunic to rule Louvre brain
Would one propose to the Lord what's not innate
Could Man his collapsing structure rebuild to date
Lord's Agent be or manage the mise en scène
Who dares to doubt must he questions address Fate
Would one propose to the Lord what's not innate
© T. Wignesan - Paris, April 17, 2019
Sonny sat on the floor
in a low lit corner of the bedroom
he hugged his trumpet
as a young man they had had great times
he reminisced of his love for his horn
He was unable to play it well now
not since his stroke nine years ago
had stolen away his embouchure
and destroyed his ability to sustain the notes in tune
He tried to play his horn but too often
the notes sounded like screeches from hell
he recalled his glory years in high school
where he shone like a star
He received two gold medals playing Rafael Mendez’
arrangement of the “Mendelssohn Concerto”
he was 17 years old and felt the future was his
but he was 80 now
and still lugged his old recycled memories,
never realizing he and the world would get old
too soon
Nostalgia, the bane of old folks
was Sonny's saving grace
As a young man he achieved the goals he set
no matter how insignificant they might have seemed
And the feeling of those supreme achievements never tarnished
those moments of struggle made his life meaningful
soon enough the time came to hit the big time
but the big time was not so welcoming
There are those who come into this world
full of aspirations but never get blessed by the hand of God
no matter how great their desire,
then there are the fortunate ones who are born cupped in God's hands
and are given the privilege to reveal the music of the spheres
It was Sonny’s 70th birthday when he had his stroke
he cursed the abomination that had befallen him
though the stroke marred his old age
marvelous blessings did happen to him
At age 24, Sonny fell in love, married a beautiful Irish woman,
had two adorable kids, later to be a pain in his butt
but the kids are married and gone now
and all's well in Sonny Land
Sonny and his wife are still married, going on 60 years
one could say theirs was a union made in God's cupped hands.
An added piece to this story:
Sonny's son had two marriages, one successful one not so
and several business ventures but he was lucky, he gloats with pride
because as glitchy as his life had been he had become rich
"Some guys have all the luck, huh Dad," he said.
Sonny replied, "If that be the case, son, so be it,
Our longevity has made our love real, but we're happy for you,
you have the money but we have real love.
In Junior High, I decided to try
to play an instrument
I joined the band, French horn in hand
determined to make music
I lugged my horn, ready to mourn
for myself, as I walked home
Although I practiced, my butt, this horn kicked
I could never play a song
The noise I did play, made all ears run away
and was painful to mine as well
Like howling dogs, the sound was all wrong
and frightening to my neighbors
Children cried on my street, men were white as a sheet
mothers ran out to buy ear plugs
But I didn't upset, became teacher's pet
And won the band's top accolade
With trophy in hand, I took a stand
and never returned to band
This is a true story but SLIGHTLY exaggerated
By Rhonda Johnson-Saunders, January 31, 2012
5th place in Self Exaggerations contest
Metamorphosis: a word for butterflies,
Said the science textbook in school,
Positive transformations connoted her young soul.
Age brought in a new realisation,
Life, a one-way road with two destinies,
The darker one a metamorphosis too.
The endlessly bleak days,
Dwindling success,
Slipping confidence,
Broken dreams,
The road to change now a narrow old bridge,
Fragile and frail to support her lofty dreams,
Permanency etched in this new route,
Metamorphosis it was; not a passing phase.
Yet, butterflies her eyes chose to see,
Bright pupils midst tear streaked face,
Light shone on the narrow bridge,
Carefully she lugged her weight.
The caterpillar crawled, awkward and slow,
The bridge creaked, threatening to break,
Yet held on to this struggle everyday,
Patiently trudging to the light ahead.
Metamorphosis, still a double-edged sword,
All her struggles could tip her either way,
Yet, she chose the route with pain,
Trying to metaphorse yet again.
She knew it was a story of win or die,
A second dark metamorphosis she wouldn't survive,
Yet this turnaround she chose,
To gloomy life, she refused to bend.
Cocoon she became, the saddest soul alive,
Tears became her appetite,
Broken she was in a thousand pieces,
Her delicate spirit a ruined mess.
The pain made her numb and weak,
Shallow breaths and fiery cheeks,
She closed her eyes, her bright pupils gleaming,
She felt her soul float, she felt existence cease.
But, most of all she felt her eyes open,
Her lips curved a natural smile.
Wings she bore as beautiful and delicate as her spirit,
Her body she felt, weightless and symmetric,
Effortlessly, she flew upwards,
Gliding through the wind, peaceful and sound.
Embodiment she now was, of beauty and success and all things gold.
Bleak fluorescent rooms a thing of the past,
The bridge her metamorphosis, the pain her badge of honour,
She knew it was her destiny, sweet success and enchanting beauty,
She wasn't made for this toil and grub.
Yet, that was her life, the struggles and the pain.
She was now, an angelic dream,
A lover's ballad, a sailor's home.
She was a child's wish, a fairy tale,
A land of exotic fruits, a colourful maze.
She was a drug, an elixir of life,
An ecstatic dream, a virgin queen.
She exists as immortal bliss,
Her scent seaming all earthly souls.
As summer withered to its end
I thought of Maggie as a friend
But when pale dew weighed down the grass
Young Maggie bloomed from spritely lass:
She burst to woman, overnight,
Bright smile, all curves, a pleasant sight—
We blushed and gazed through early fall,
Still young enough for touch football;
We ran and weaved and tumbled down
To lie in leaves hued autumn brown
While teammates mocked and rolled gloss eyes
At love arrived in friendly guise.
Then, charged with terror and romance,
I took my crush to Harvest Dance;
We closely swayed upon gym’s floor,
Her warmth and scent impelling more:
In crisp night air I clutched her hips
And breathed a fog as we touched lips.
For Halloween, we dressed the same,
My notebook margins held her name.
I lugged her books through cold to school,
Entranced and feeling not the fool
Until that day she softly said
At heart, she felt, our love was dead.
I pined for her through solstice drear
And Christmastime brought little cheer.
But, New Year’s Eve, I found a date
Who smooched and clinched ‘til very late:
That luscious fling turned winter hot,
And autumn love? I plumb forgot.
September 27, 2017
Autumn Romance Poetry Contest
Julie Rodeheaver, Sponsor
That's Halloween almost over,
the masks and caps and gowns
with streets and pubs and shops and clubs
all filled with ghosts and clowns.
A thought occurred to me last night
with Christmas drawing near,
we don't do that much dressing up
at the festive time of year.
We don't see three kings from the East
with treasured gifts they lugged
(though hauling Gold, Myrrh, Frankincense
may mean that you get mugged).
We see no Angels, Shepherd lads
or choirs invisibule,
save for the kids in towels and sheets
on stage at local schools.
I think the problem may well be,
and we just are ignoring,
the dark side stuff looks really cool-
the Christian garb's just boring!
World at times is a spring of mirth
And at times a root of melancholiness,
Gaiety and ruth are ineluctable quirk of nature
Where it leaves no beings unbrushed.
Bight trice would shimmer some days
And putrid flash would strike at times,
Discern that's a puissant canon of nature.
When grievance mounts the golden throne,
When relation twists into tears,
When desires wrench into agony,
Never hell bent to confide suicide
For those troubles proceed the incredible comforts that follows
Alike the precession of hell heretofore the heaven.
Whenever melancholic flash haunts you
And coerce you to confide suicide,
Think no other than thy indulgent mother
Who lugged you almost a year in her belly
And who raise you up, with vacant scars
Physically and mentally, all well sound.
She never raise you up, to entertain thy death unnatural and astound,
She just raise you to live a life
And amend world into a ameliorate place to dwell in,
Life is a precious douceur of God
And thy mother is a God in human form,
So let's say no to suicide in all tastes of life.
---
Santa came to my house,
he was quiet as a church mouse,
cookies placed upon a plate,
all frosted and tasty as he ate,
he chug-a-lugged the cocoa drink,
making his mustache turn dark as a mink,
after a belch or two he pulled out an enormous box,
tugging on something shiny and red looking sleek like a fox,
it had two wheels, a horn of its own and fenders just my size,
this was the bike of my dreams and considered a prize,
his large hand squeezed the horn and made it toot,
laughing to himself he got on the bike, a fat and jolly old coot,
he was having too much fun on my brand new bike,
I ran downstairs and yelled at him to take a hike,
Santa stared at me and pulled on his curly white beard,
he was at the house real as life and suddenly disappeared,
I looked ll over and realized I might have hurt his pride,
but he left me with a shiny new two-wheel bike to ride.
"On Dasher and Dancer, Comet and Cupid"...eight tiny reindeer?
Doesn't that sound stupid?
Pulling a sleigh 'round the world in one night?
Only can happen at the speed of light.
Santa would fry due to friction...but not to worry, he's only fiction'
Mother and I were set for the night-tucked into bed- now turn off the light.
We heard a noise on our rooftop,Thunk thunk,thud"-would it ever stop?
What happened next (believe me. it's true),
The rafters gave way and he crashed through.
A fat foolish man in a red suit.
And he lugged a very huge bag of loot'
He got ashes and snow all over the floor.
I don't understand why he didn't use the door'
Pulling his pipe, he polluted the air, I asked him to stop, but he didn't care.
Handing me a tie made of pure silk, then he demanded,"Where's the cookies and milk?"
Everyone leaves him treats every year (occasionally something for the reindeer).
Since his demand had no effect on me, he turned around knocking over the tree.
Hours of work in an instant undone, but no time to re-trim it before morning's sun,
I told him to return from whence he came and not bother coming again'
He said all this junk was just meant to please us, but I told him he only needs Jesus.
I told him the Lord meets all my needs. He said, "Yes, but I pander to greed."
I said my children, myself, and my wife had received the best gift- eternal life'
When this earthly race is done, we'll reside forever with God and His Son.
I could see his eyes fill with fear. 'Finally he said, " Man, I'm outa here."
He speedily left to cover the Earth, for he found that our home celebrates the Saviours birth.
As I survey our visitors mess, I can only say, "Merry Christmas and God Bless."
Arthur Ball (H.S.L.P.)
December 25, 1995* (The first serious poem that I ever wrote,
Pretty funny cause it's not so serious, but
again it is serious.) Robert A. Ball
They misread, not misjudged, what was being said.
I lugged it up with my tenebrous mirrorings instead.
The denial to force trials remains an aware voidance.
And my calm is lit, despite the sprinkler's presence.
Written: January 21, 2022