Best Marts Poems
Taken from their hands,
was the land they never visited.
Taken from the mind,
is the life they couldn't grasp
Imaginations were whisked away,
dreams dashed,
souls shattered.
Each kid forced to grow up, and use a broom.
Taught to sweep up, to clean up.
Just to keep their families alive.
Kids I know complain because WiFi is slow,
their phones were taken away.
Oh no! They can't go to the mall with friends.
Why yes, kids have jobs.
Only some and not all. Many don't need a job just to survive,
they want high school credits so they can have a spare block.
Some kids have jobs because they need to help out their families,
then they get in trouble for missing class because they got home at midnight,
slept in and missed first block and rush to school and get kicked out for missing too much school.
Yet we still look at the problems that aren't as important as LIFE!
We look at how the government can make more money,
what forest we can chop down and build Wal-Marts and McDonald's!
How to stop refugees from taking jobs from people.
But I haven't ever talked in class about how to help the poor, and how to balance work and school. Never how to support a family of 6.
But I have been taught how to dance the Cadillac ranch. Watched movies on Geisha's and Super size me.
But never
was I Taught anything that meant something to
Me.
So thanks life lessons.
Lets go dance, or watch some T.V
Robbinsville January 1943, a visionary artist was born to be
Country strong style, is his-story; par-excellence to you and me
Electric guitars just newly seen; would play one day, on music scene's
Where women will swoon, and young girls scream
Hard saved dimes, to his 'turn' would see; at Young Harris, in Towns county.
A Georgia boy made good & some stories, in country-rock/pop R&B!
A world I wouldn't miss, was 'born' to be; under the hands of Ronnie Lee!
Smoky mountain rain fell on our hearts, through cracklin radio's to early starts
'Pure Love' played all its lively parts; at park or mall & in K-marts.
His music echoed in the '70s & '80s, along with chrome mag wheels & feelin free.
Milsap impacts listener land, to date he stirs the soul of man,
His flow is rolling, verging on unplanned, his 'Local Girl' understated-grand
My finding is; my verdict says there's 'more of our guy' on the way!
When I'm feeling weary or senses grey, a 'hit' from Ronnie lifts my day.
Cross Missouri mudflats, on Florida sand; he moulds emotions in his hands.
©JOE MAVERICK 2-11-2015
My shopping excursions to the local marts are very rare indeed.
My dear spouse does the shopping, I only go when in dire need.
I have no interest in fostering the foreign imbalance of trade,
Therefore, when I shop I want to buy things American made!
Why, nowadays one can tour the world and go on a shopping spree,
Without leaving the county or crossing the billowing sea!
Since most things come from The Czech Republic or Paraguay,
The Peoples Republic of China, Japan and even Uruguay!
I can live sans everything French, especially their cheese and wine.
California wines and Wisconsin cheeses suit me just fine!
I'm desperately trying to find a locally-owned shoe store,
Where I can buy American shoes, not those assembled in Ecuador!
Alas, my turkey for holiday repast is imported from Old Mexico.
I'd much prefer that it be bred and reared here in Colorado!
Can anyone tell me where I can buy American made attire?
Seems all the labels read, "Made in Laos, Thailand, Belize or Eire!"
The plethora of stuff continues to invade our sacred shores,
Inundating the shops and marts, overflowing their cash drawers.
Even the paper upon which I scribe was made in a place called Texas,
But I reckon I can brook that, since with them we have a tenuous nexus!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
I stand like roses
Wilted in despair,
Lost in the station
Of life giving breath
As tragedy strikes
And strips my soul bare;
I walk as I talk
My life's living death.
Now God's will, be done,
I hope to endure,
By proffering poems
At all common marts
Or tout to the crowd
My latest sure cure
For illness acquired
From faded old tarts.
Yes I cast false pride
A way to survive,
A belly once starved
Shall sweat for a feast;
Though hard is my heart
Still beating to thrive
I walk with beauty
Not crawl with the beast.
I've carried my cross
Down dusty old roads
Crossed pastures of dung
With sharp bladed fence;
I've carried my share
Of heaviest loads
Guilelessly gifted
My own common sense.
Watched the grand falcons
In clear lofty air,
As silent they glide
Past steep mountain height;
Caught the golden tresses
Of God's braided hair;
Sanctified meadows
As eagles took flight.
Passionate vipers
Still feed me, indeed!
Yet, in my honor,
I've burst through the bars.
Tasted temptation
From sin's fertile seed;
And Loved with a love
That moved Sun and Stars
It’s the joy of today and the loss of tomorrows,
a boy at the bat, all his bases and sorrows.
It’s the music we touch when we hear lovers’ hearts,
or the hustle and bustle of local food marts.
It’s the sigh of the sun and kid’s skips along breeze,
our favorite lyrics of the birds and the bees.
It’s a mother remembered by a grown up child,
or a howl as it lingers in the starry wild.
It’s the innocent bubbles of a newborn’s eyes,
or the push and the pout of a little girl’s cries.
A note crossing desks when the teacher’s not looking,
a fisherman’s grin at the fish that he’s hooking.
It’s our love and emotions, the way we see God,
or the moo of a cowbell in the dells we trod.
So we dance to our tunes and we share how we feel.
May we cherish all poets and rhymes as they heal!
Farewell, the theme of life,
after seeking world hardly with a knife,
none can we stop - reaching – the den of pride,
we have to go alone following a bride.
Farewell a sense appears a while,
hard to get it back, the lost secretion of bile,
tears flow a moment like the majestic river Nile,
none can we stop – reaching – the den of pride.
Farewell – we mean – detachments of hearts,
no longer found roaming – the certainty of marts,
shedding all the memories,
memories of the past, happiness and worries.
Farewell – the tears stand fake, dripping away love,
happiness thrown away, hatred wins above,
stop shedding tears with no meaning at all,
the tears hamper the view forming a liar’s waterfall!
Strive hard for triumph or see farewell again,
shedding fake liquids, no palpable pain,
I promise to keep farewell alive, with less joy and death,
and feel the meaning of farewells truth, hard passing the last breath.
M.R. Hossain.
Ol' Roy spoke right up without a care
So "Ceasar's" could plainly hear
"There is some ghastly stink over there
Where all those fish live my dear."
Well Goldie tried to hush him by saying
"It is not coming from our corner
But at the garden center on open displaying
Cow Manure with a scent that is an awakener"
L ight
A venues
M arkets
P alaces
S hop-Marts
Copyright McCuen 2009
Working for Snarl-Mart
By Elton Camp
Snarl-Mart’s lots to blame, I suppose
When some local stores had to close
The places run by Mom and Pop,
Slow sales just made them stop
Snarl-Mart can sell at prices retail
For less than they pay wholesale
Its great power to negotiate cost
To the smaller merchant is lost
“Just put us to the test
Our prices always best
Cost will you amaze
Sell for Less, Always.”
By such competition giving,
Many have lost their living.
Employees others had to fire
Snarl-Mart might deign to hire
Will perhaps give out another job
To replace the one they did rob
You have naught good to say
About their measly rate of pay
Little chance to have career
Most are part-time, we fear
Benefits along with your pay?
Hah, we say, just what are they?
With its great power to hire,
It can just as quickly fire.
If “associates” treated unfair
Not a union is there to care.
Will find to organize isn’t wise
A location that does, quickly dies
"We won’t be put through
Union telling us what to do"
To keep our prices so low
Worker raises have to go
If you don’t like our pay
Can replace you in a day
Not even a tiny bit do we care
Stupid smock to make you wear
“Can I serve you?” on the back
In case a customer want to yack
Better not be talking to your friend
If we learn you do, your job will end
Management has no tolerance at all
On the clock, for a personal phone call
Work while you are on the clock
Or know that pay we will dock
A second longer on your break
Will be a very serious mistake
No certain big box chain does this address
Many workers find themselves in this mess
Until the American economy turns around
Snarl-Marts will be your stomping ground
A chrome gun glittering
in the hot sun raise, rays radiating
like a heliographic rainbow,
drawn from shimmering halos
of inferno light, hot.
White smoke from a funeral pyre,
drifts like ghosts over this lost terrain.
The hum of traffic
on a different shore,
each appealing in his own discourse,
each the shadow of a passing memory,
faces of lost in the Dream
becoming chrome…
A smoking gun; tears fly, ragged...
across this war-torn dominion,
to the unknown,
on the coming thunder, it echoes
in the canyons of a city, vast.
A figure falls,
the shadows deepen in the halls.
Something stands tall,
slow in elements of time...
of a past life to no one last,
screams of some come to different traffic.
The hmmm of white sound!
Drones in the veins
of the leviathan,
elements of a life lost and lived out,
at last,
the chrome gun glinting
under a hollow sun,
heliographed.
…incoming of one,
as the storm clouds gather
on the horizon.
He Dreams bitter,
resounds with echoes down
the Corridors of Time.
As vacant a car sits,
in lost baron shopping marts
and forgotten car lots,
the dead
are sitting sublime
in chrome spinning
flashing over around
down under a gun
glittering under the Infernal Hollow Sun…
oppressive hell in its damnation. Eternal!
A chrome gun glittering in the hot stars,
hot shells flying into the air,
exploding rounds echo in chambers of ancient cities…
a ruined Metropolis!
Raise!
Oh!
Death...
the reapers scream
radiating like a heliographic rainbow...
as the shells spin to the ground,
down shimmering halos,
thunder resounds
sparks alight in inferno white light,
hot…
burning!
BRIGHT!
The other day my cousin Mabel
She said to me
Mike I ain't never seen
Nothing before like your poetry
Cuz, you need to be famous
We're going to take this on the road
We're going to knock down some doors
We're going to make some heads explode
She said I know this feller
He's going to do good by you
He's one of them there agents of sorts
He'll put you in the news
Right then and there she called up Bubba
Who believe me, didn't come cheap
Wanting all the money up front
If he was to represent me
So I handed over all my doe
And now that's where we are
On a whirlwind of a tour
Of America's Super Wal-Marts
He even had me a bunch
Of my poetry books printed out
I think that they're in English
But I still have my doubts
That's okay cause most here
Prefer not to read
And Bubba had his kid draw in some pictures
Which seems about all they need
They ask if I'm famous
I come back with a lie
Ever hear of Jeff Foxworthy?
Well I know that guy
That's when the book sales took off
Like history in the making
I told Bubba to buy his son more crayons
We're going to need more illustrations
Yes this being a famous poet
Seems to really suit me
Tomorrow we're going to set up a stand
Outside of Denny's
We'll be hitting the breakfast crowd
Right on up through lunch
So move over fame your in my spot
Just call it a hunch
Today I traveled via a ghost train past the pantheons of dead gods
burnt realms of yesterday I see the ramparts of the empire.
The kingdom of the dead the world of heaven the laws of man,
the ideology of a martyred king of kings a god wrapped in dying flesh.
Like all intellectual apes crucified by man-made AI, delusional mobs
shrill screams, shopping marts, dead malls, and electron guns.
I travel the dead lands of some mad American Empire of empty heads
mechanical hearts, I see the waste of humanity stretching out to the horizon.
As dark clouds drift, as the train rambles by on bones of things unseen
better left unknown, skeletal remains hanging behind these sewn-shut eyes.
Of forgotten philosophies, and lives live out in the passing flames
of a distant dying day drifting out behind me,
Today I traveled the ghost plains during November reigns
feeling the ice of ghost trains, souls in worn seats of yesterday.
Wrought iron intricate weave, n carved wood form a petrified forest
of the damned, demented, & doomed, today I traveled via a Ghost Train.
Pass the pantheon of dead gods n burnt realms
of yesterdays, I see the ramparts of some mad American Empire.
Burning snow falls quietly on
cold rusted wire and brittle bone.
An ancient creature looks to the horizon
feeling is body built of razor wire and old bones, cold,
a delicate tone transmits from on far...
Wraiths walking in the burning
snows depths, as it falls, it drifts...
In eyes buried burning bright,
across this delicate armature
of wire and bone skeletal hands clutch.
Bloody foot falls leaving no footprints,
upon the burning snow lies cinders of stars.
Transversing transcending reflecting
in a vast landscape of desolation.
While ash gray clouds drift
on oceans of spirits they race,
undulate flow to rhythms eternal.
In frustration and rage as brittle fingers trace,
each a wreckage of eons past
like broken fine china ruined
in department malls,
dead cars and neon bars.
Alone in shopping marts
eyes of the damned...
Faces blistering burning bright
listening to black concertos
in dead concert halls as eons fall.
Someone something ethereally framed
by elections runs glistening bright...
A silhouetted figure in distance thunderstorms,
lightning wreaths it fragile face
it walks among the ruins
the wreckage of rage
in ancient graves,
Insane dominions blaze...
A boney fingers trace
secretly a wooden oblong box
full of oblivion and infinite,
feel the burnt primordial clock,
a face still cracked bold but
keeps the time as death comes
as memory of all is lost.
As mortality is crucified
on wire and bone a thin
delicate in tone resonates in grace.
Walking still onward in the burning snow
feeling the drifting imagery,
cascading across its face,
an armature of wire and bone
walking forever in foot falls
of time as it falls apart sublime.
In the darkening cityscape
lightning filigree fragile and frets.
Alone on horizons distance edge
lingers an oblique and obsolete monstrosity
it drifts in the burning snow
forever alone in the forever more...
Where are we going?
Or
Where do we go from here?
It happened again
It was the same as yesterday
It was the same as yesteryear
Is there no end?
How long must we endure?
A young man takes a gun
And decides to kill
No reason given
What was the thrill?
How long must we endure?
He aims he shoots
Babies fall
Blood on the wall
They were just bodies after all
How long must we endure?
Where do we go from here?
They fall in our schools
They fall in our parking lots
They fall in our homes
They fall in our synagogues and churches
They fall in our alleys
They fall on our concrete streets
There are dead bodies everywhere
How long must we endure?
They sell them in alleys,
They sell them in Wal-Marts,
They sell them at gun shows,
Even the internet.
For a price you can
Buy one anywhere.
Where do we go from here?
How many tears must we bleed?
How many lives must we ruin?
How much love must we lose?
How many graves must we dig?
How much fear must we endure?
What is a life worth?
What is the pain worth?
How many have we hurt?
How many more must die?
Where are we going?
Where do we go from here?
What are my rights,
If I decide to fight?
Should I buy one?
Should you buy one?
Should we have the right?
What if we, keep doing what
We’ve been doing.
Should we expect something different?
Will the outcome be different?
Where are we going?
Where do we go from here?
There’s blood in our schools
There’s blood in our parking lots
There’s blood in our homes
There’s blood in our synagogues and churches
There’s blood in our alleys
There’s blood in our streets
There are dead bodies everywhere
Shouldn’t we expect something different?
It shouldn’t surprise you
When there more guns than people in America
Where are we going?
Where do we go from here?
Is this America’s Legacy?
The clamorous, glamorous, amorous...
sing succinctly about their worth,
to the ragged bagged haggard masses,
who push forth their carts...of forgotten arts, through the marts.
Complaining of the waning interest in their air
to the mayor who sits upon his throne,
calling home to fill its moat, with his boat,
paid for, by the maid for,
failing to clean the railing leading to bedroom,
the bride and groom tried to room
to sanctify the event to which they went.
Form: