Best Municipal Poems
Public transpo buses are a poor man's taxicab,
but you can't hail a ride when you need one
You must sit and wait on a wooden street slab
Buses are municipal elephants
that move on asphalt trails
If one arrives on schedule, then all is well
Drop the money into the pay slot,
and get taken to that menial job you got
But marginal income don't motivate you a lot
Yet, be glad you're one of the fortunate few
that has a cool bus driver who loves to skirt the rules
He will tell you to call him Zeke
Not mister, not sir
Just Zeke
Thirty years, he says he's been
on the urban safari beat
Says he's seen it all
on the jungle concrete streets
Zeke loves to laugh a lot,
he loves to give out friendly hellos
And Zeke really loves helping
the disabled and old widows
Next time you're in his city,
take a chance and ride poor
If you meet Zeke, you'll be richer for sure
WHAT IT ISN’T
It isn’t waiting for the downtown trolley
Hearing the ding of its bell
Isn’t knowledge of threat
Walking around Municipal Square
In rain, snow or fair
Chin up
Eyes staring off
Biting the bic
What is it that isn’t?
When that trolley dings
What sound rushes from mind to ears?
What really is it one hears?
It isn’t the doomsday bell
Isn’t the whoosh of Detroit steel
From all points urging acts
Of large corporate zeal
It isn’t what shouldn’t
It isn’t sadness or happiness
Doesn’t herald up golden times
Isn’t a struck life force, eternity’s chimes
What then is it?
Whatever
It isn’t waiting for the downtown trolley
Old Dave Austin
A trackless wind scatters his mind
leaves fly away where no leaves are.
A hummingbird inside his chest drums,
the evening is escaping down roads
long plowed over with remorseless change.
It never used to be like this;
he had once been the bold pirate of his fate
his ship sailed away one day only to return in flames.
Sometimes you have to shrug,
keep walking around a small municipal park
until a parked car follows you home
The city will swallow its many tongues
then bury its hummingbird mind
until the dawn
retrieves a life once more.
An achromatic statue of a Union bugler
soldier stands high above
a tiny municipal park
where class Aves defecate daily
on his stone-cold cap and shoulders.
Monday and many more Memorial Days
We will dignify this warrior
And others like him lost in battle.
Honoring them with flowers,
Prayers and parades,
eulogistic speeches
praising them for giving us
another day of freedom
in America, home of the brave.
Emit no evil, hearken!
Men of the underworld
Inflict pain, invite the wrath
Things fall apart, the doom's day looms
Nemesis swings into action
Oust every explosion otherwise...
Emit no evil, hearken!
Vampires of the universe
In a short while, gone the time
Let go of evils, offspring of the devil
Live for humanity
In it abounds ebullience
Vacate every fiendish introspection
Eschew evil, limited time have you here
Over the course of time,
Not again shall your presence remain
Then thy legacy speaks
In every village and municipal
Making such exit agonizing to all souls
Emit no evil, limited time have you here
Last night I met an old boxer in an alley of cardboard; he seemed glad to see me,
shouted me over for a fight, I told him ‘Hey mate, I’m not in your league’
‘Young man.’ He said with glint of victory in his solid brown eyes. ‘That’s alright,
I suppose you’re going to leave cos the forecast is for rain, you in your fine mansion, mine here, just a bloody pain. But then I guess, that’s okay for a foolish old tramp.’
lonesome sadness blues
through the lips of the city…
the eyes are windows
He told me ‘What’s the price of glory if one is shackled to the past. Even my wife left me, took my purse in pursuit of another man. To think I really loved her, gave her all that I could, the witch hankered for the final count, then left me where I stood’ He rambles on discursively ‘One day I’ll roam within my native Devon, where I’ll chase those illusive dreams back into heaven. Its years of abusing whisky years of perpetual hoar frosts that hones this savage beast.’
this fight on its knees
many blind eyes a mismatch…
all have a story
‘How do you think I feel in these chains of formal sorrow, replaying each vintage year each round like no tomorrow, each morning still, I count the homeless, watch the van collect the corpse. Man, I need a second chance to come out gamely fighting, repay life’s referee, society the uninviting.’
incompatible
metabolism a stray…
unfriendly advice
His bottle runs dry, his words begin to wound. Here, In God’s own country left high wide and marooned. Yet like the mortal flame he submits to the desolate night, the municipal van empowered to administer the ultimate rite. No dawn able to invigorate leaves this empty feeling in me, only the morning dew edulcorates while a soul in hell is set free.
careful where you tread
mats to wipe one’s feet upon…
look down you may see
Entered sponsor Mark Toney's 2022 Marathon 19
poem converted from free verse to haibun 2022
3/11/2022
Marble hatched haven communes; helixicly hewn canvas' brushed within
Acidulous acrylics of adumbrated conjectual forms....
Spawn tipped dippings upon the collateral cliffs edging these, layaway hues?!
Deciphered shades in monochrome pitch pigments beneath the jaded jejunes
Manic manifestations, over-looking the colourant gangrene valley below
While as maritime merchants lifted from the pedagogue palettes of
Row your boats....
Climb their municipal born mast in marauds malice from afar
Signaling unto the watchtower through their Socratic spyglass optics
Inceptions intruder, standing tall and coming ashore; red rum....
...."Hurry, someone save the Queen!?"
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Rembrants lost rocking chair moment in, artistic meritime manifestations ~
Note: Smile ~ I thought that I would offer up a bit of hopeful ice-breaking
and light-hearted humour upon this glorious and lovely "New Years Day" ~
Smile ~ "My 'Love & Warmth,' Always," John!:) ~ Ps. "En' Si Viod" ~
Form:
A dog with a missing leg
Knocked down by a driver
Drove at dog speed
And barked away
We have stopped to see
A group of people, too
The dog with a missing leg
And smoke from nearby hut
The municipal is here
Health officer with a spade
Staring at the carcass
And calling for backup
The cop's siren is here
Looking around curiously
I wonder why, for a dog
And bullet in the barrels
A man looks on and yawns
A sharp kitchen knife in hand
He looks anxious
And prays for a miracle
A newsman looks on
Been here for long
A canon camera at hand
He waits for his time
The dog with a missing leg
Has brought us together
Nobody speaks but we talk
There is tension in the air
No rules of engagement
Someone is angry, another one hungry
Someone is joking, another one hoping
we are here on our terms
Welcome to the Motown Motor City,
asphalt carpet ghetto grind
Automated fated urban living,
everyday inner-city surviving
Hard mean streets handing out no pity,
sharpens perceptive razor minds
Last stop underground freedom giving,
all-day Exodus gospel arriving
Factory-built hearts living manufactured dreams
Black Bottom be a lowly place to start,
Paradise Valley is a forgotten vision now a-rising
Assembly line tough, steel mental parts
Perseverance is Detroit revival defined,
no assembly required
Citizens report any municipal malfeasance
Just another urban spiritual capital gain,
congregation assembly required
Motown cars moving on a heavenly transport train
But you must be counted in attendance thereof,
to know the love song we were singing
God helped us to overcome every paved obstacle
This autumn morning with the birds waking up
and the leaves changing is Election Day. I meet
Jane Trichter on the downtown train and discuss
Henry's upset. Her skin is soft especially her cheeks
and she is intelligent and sensitive. The subway riders
do not recognize their representative.
All week, at the office, I accomplish nothing substantive
but keep the aides and interns working
and cheerful. On Tuesdays there is always a wave
of constituent complaints, by telephone. One woman's
Volkswagon is towed and the police break in
to get it out of gear. Do they have that right,
can they tow even though no sign said Tow Away Zone?
It is an interesting question but I try to avoid
answering it. The woman persists and succeeds
in committing me.
The people at the office want to bomb Iran. A few Americans
held hostage and therefore many innocent women and children
pay the postage. It may be good classical logic to hold responsible
the whole society for the acts of a few, however, then
I must begin to expect the bomb and the white cloud that waits.
Apocalyptic visions are popular again
but we are more likely to thrash the earth to within an inch of its life
than scorch it to charred rock.
Corner of Church and Chambers,
German tourist's language, accent repels me
although I wasn't alive 45 years ago
and many sweet, great Germans opposed the crazy Nazis
but lately I've read Primo Levi's If Not Now, When?,
seen William Holden in "The Counterfeit Traitor",
have followed the argument started by revisionists
who say the Nazi atrocities never happened.
War brought many shopkeepers, bookkeepers close to their earth,
weather, seasons, death.
I see daily life as low-intensity warfare
as my father, the World War II vet, did.
Off to work we go. What is war?
Population control, mother of invention, diversion
from the work of making life permanent.
Today is Election Day and because it's a day off
for most municipal employees, the City Hall area
has been quiet and easy to work in. Henry and Jane
hold a press conference on teenage alcoholism.
Leslie, the other aide, who I'd like to draw
the stockings and clothes off of and feel her whole body
with mine, goes home with her mother, leaving me
standing by my desk with my briefcase at the end
of Election Day.
"The female trees tend to make a little more mess in terms of seed production and fruit production, so they would move to male trees, because they aren’t making a mess" said Bill Roesel, a municipal forester in Windsor, Ont.
awakened by a racket from the back yard
they watched as Steve staggered through the damp grass,
hatchet in hand
ker-RACK as her right
limb shattered from the violent
assault
the kids quickly returned to their beds,
in the dark
the tree wept as her leaves
fell like summer rain
by august she was dead
Ain’t Nuthin To Do in Lubbock
By David J Walker
The Killer came to town
Jerry lee Lewis and his pal
Jim Ed Brown
Playin at the municipal coliseum
To a sell out crowd
Payin up to 5 bucks
Just to see ‘em playin loud
But… that Ain’t Nuthin
Cause Asleep At The Wheel an
Jerry Jeff Walker an The Mains Brothers,
Waylon n Willie and a lot of others
Includin Alvin Crow were still knocking em dead at
Back to back weekend shows
At the Cotton Club
While all the musicians in town
went to see Stevie Ray V
wailing on his fender
At Stubbs where Lou kept the BBQ ribs
And the cold beer comin
Joe Ely was there being cool
playin pool
tradin licks Jesse guitar Taylor
And Some fool still says….
Ain’t nuthin to do in Lubbock
The Journey
To save the criss-cross that lay ahead,
Set in epoch the traveller throng along,
With equestrian gallantry to solve the puzzle,
In divine supplication to attain the obligation.
And thus desire to maintain direction require,
With all the might and plight that attach instill.
Like Gulliver’s travails,you avail adventure,
Permeating municipal boundaries along magnificent rat-a-tats.
A hope for destination drives the traveller enroute,
And thus a large heart bequests the end.
The air of benevolence a promise of succour,
Trailing on surveillance and sourvenir alike.
Looking behind for memories of root depart,
That is left to romance the caress of bellow.
Like the colours of rainbow,you are clogged in entrepots,
Trodding the weary lanes with valiant approach.
Every hurdle scaled,every mantle attained beholds,
The valour of reminiscence on labour rend.
And seams renascent on time will concur,
The journey to the realm aspire.
The howling wind causes the unlatched shutter
to bang incessantly against the faded gray wood
The upstairs window, that the shutter shields,
has spider legs of cracked glass
A black widow house, if ever there was such a thing
All the other windows of this untended house are shuttered tight,
the ghostly occupants within have no incoming light
The years have been unkind to this old, stately Tudor house,
the once opulent flower garden is overgrown
with nettle vines and weed shrubs
It is in the sabbath year of its abandonment,
fallow is the ground upon which it stand in sullen emptiness
It was dubbed the "House of Ruin" by the local gentry,
not so much because of its baleful outward appearance,
but primarily because of its former residents
They were a disgraced political family,
thrust from the public trough, and forced to forfeit
most of their ill-gotten wealth
Corruption and scandal were the dubious garments
that cloaked this amoral family
The house was auctioned off to pay legal fees;
some family members went to prison,
some went on to work in various seedy enterprises:
Escort services, sham real estate ventures,
cyber gambling and other shady businesses
The house was put into a public trust,
but there was never any municipal funds available
to restore it to its former glory
Thus it now stands,
a blight to the surrounding landscape
Paint peeling off the rotted, intricately carved oak wood,
granite stone abutments crumbling, ornate fence and balconies rusted
A house of ruin with a haunting visage
In the teasing bouts of an early spring,
One must have patience to watch a flower bloom
From the municipal bud to the ripe decor
From which pursed pedals seek to open.
The contents of sweet pollen rise,
Sway, circle and drift like an aging spirit.
Watch closely; you may find a spirit
Splashing the waters from where life springs
Lively enough to make the ocean rise
Above old towns where civilizations bloomed.
Let your shields down; keep your hearts and minds open,
Permeating love with an earthly decoration.
Strive to laugh and decorate
The petty who set fire to spirits
With the same buoyancy that keeps our eyes open,
Veering from traps that devils spring.
Search beyond the vile bloom,
Taking pride in ashes that fall and rise.
I will soon see myself rise
High enough to cast my decorations
Far enough to make the deserts bloom.
I'll paint the coast blue to match my spirit
As winds grow warm with spring.
Hearts will sing and channels will be open.
Likewise, the pores of the Earth shall one day open.
As that molten lava rises,
Ancient fireballs shall spring,
Coating the ground with horrid decoration,
But we shall lie dormant as spirits
Awaiting new life's bloom.
Winds will cool and aid that bloom,
And, beautifully, we will open,
For every spirit
Rises
And, decoratively,
Springs,
For everything that blooms, rises,
And every open heart is decorated,
And every loving spirit eventually springs.