Best Newsprint Poems
It was not that she was the only woman in the group, when mingling precariously beneath the bronze figure of William Booth, or her classic stance, when placing saintly, the newsprint covered bottle to lips willingly breached, but her opulent style, her contrast of attire, and as yet her hair unruffled. Although sparse of jewelry a gold ring dangles on a chain, catching the light as it shines in the noon day sun, a tinge of blood trickles down her neck. Her recently pierce ear lobe, bearing signs of some street wise ritual? Evidence of suave sophistication, exists with movements of grace and elegance, fingers more use to the gentle stem of the crystal goblet, than the demure grasp of the shapeless neck of a bottle of brown ale.
a fork in the lane
no signpost to guide one home
a need or a deed
Her head begins to lift higher and higher with every mouthful of distinct courage, every courteous act. Then! A look of deep despair, as the bottle is released from her reluctant deep red lips, a senseless shake only proved her greatest fear. Suddenly to her aid came a wayward chap, swiftly finishing his own endless gorge. He commences to wipe the neck of his perpetual habit, with a mucus soiled cuffless sleeve, before passing it on to her veracious hand, his eyes eagerly awaiting its return.
a lane to despair
not alone but in the palm
existence or life
After the corrosive day is over, the sun finally at rest, only the motley park bench will be her abode with printed tabloids to cover her chilled exterior, her metabolism accelerating, to become one of so many, a license to enter their dissipation, only then will options for her begin to diminish, external metamorphosis soon to blend with inner corruption, life’s destruction rapid along the highway of completion!
first rays of sunshine
a trial or tribulation
the signpost renewed.
© Harry J Horsman 2018
(Another childhood or teen years poem.)
Newsprint small talk
in Mediocrity's lead pot
rustles and gossips while,
splashed spectacularly across
the speckled page of
Society's intellect,
a murder making column one
hides the hushed massacre
of minds.
Each box holds its secret.
Old memories, dreams that died.
The sum of every promise-
the dividends and sighs.
Paper, cloth, and pottery-
a postscript of our prime.
Wrapped in yellow newsprint-
the passing of our time.
Clutter from our passions
lay there dead in place.
While ties among the living
die somewhere else in space.
Written Aug 13, 2018
The lights have been turned on
in the attic
Someone has flipped the switch
exposing
cobwebs, caster oil, crutches
newsprint and cheap china
Which I'm hesitant to touch
least it falls apart in my hands or
cracks like the blue Robin eggs
I once tried to store in my pocket.
I know I should begin cleaning
but I dread the cobwebs
and I'm allergic to the dust (I tell myself)
that's been layering for fifty years
Undisturbed
I am
Disturbed
by the invention of
long lasting light bulbs, showing me around
no, they wont burn out anytime soon
and I will open a window
letting in the city sounds
that drown out the adults
fighting downstairs
distracting me from my chores.
News flash
Paris attacks;
Violence strikes
~~~~~~~~~
Innocent deaths
Terror unveils;
Death delivers
~~~~~~~~~
Madness conspires
Human debris;
Bigotry unleashed
~~~~~~~~~
Evil men scheme
Distorted agendas;
Self-destruct roams
~~~~~~~~~
Good people die
Bloodbath escalates;
Terror unleashed
~~~~~~~~~
Signs of our times
Deceptive turbulence;
Mortal casualties
~~~~~~~~~
Moods swayed
Fear catapults;
Distorted means
~~~~~~~~~
Uneasy chimes
Violent crimes;
Explosive times!
~~~~~~~~~
Details of gore
News galore;
Killing fest
~~~~~~~~~
Retribution
Constitution;
Revolution
~~~~~~~~~
Sorrow sums
Deadly outcomes;
Cruelty strikes
~~~~~~~~~
Newsprint copy
Headline news;
Terror firms madness
~~~~~~~~~
Propaganda hurls
People fodder;
Bombs and bullets
~~~~~~~~~
Create if you must
Lodge your complaint;
Body bags not included!
~~~~~~~~~
Atrocities
Exclusive news;
Pain sells well
~~~~~~~~~
Face to face
Terror redecorates;
Body debris trophies
~~~~~~~~~
Why do you do
The things you do?
Tell me
~~~~~~~~~
Love hurts
Violence hurts;
We all hurt
~~~~~~~~~
Precious times
Ransoms forfeit;
Sad humanity mourns
~~~~~~~~~
The cycle of circles
Bad and good;
Seeking balance
~~~~~~~~~
Maybe we can
Find tomorrow;
Safely better?
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
15 November 2015
Singapore
Come and Find Me in My Solitude
four fingers in a water glass
to keep the “creep” away
four fingers in a water glass
to keep the curse at bay
no ice, let’s keep it quiet,
hard bite of whiskey’s sting
“hair of the dog that bit ya”
as the dying grey wolves sing
rocking inside the boxcars
camping beside the track
drowning dreams of a yesterday
that’s never coming back
huddled beneath “newsprint” blankets
curled in pain’s fetal ball
dreading the sounds of the sunset
fearing the crash of night’s fall
praying for death in a doorway
shivering against marbled stone
a vision through slow closing eyelids
of somebody calling him home
12/2/2016
submitted to – COME AND FIND ME IN MY SOLITUDE – Poetry Contest
from: "The Calyx of the Oboe Breaks", by Conrad Aiken:
"The calyx of the oboe breaks,
silver and soft the flower it makes;
and next, beyond, the flute notes seen,
now are white and now are green."
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The ides of March have gone and come.
Still, strains of vernal music sound
clear echoes, in my ears, of early times,
of other years: an orchestral swell
of oboe, flute, and violin.
The feel of warming wind,
the scents of orange blossom,
daisy, buttercup, and clover
I once enjoyed --
are those days over?
My recent times are flavored
with metallic clank, with oily odor --
my eyes fatigued by newsprint
and small-screen glare.
And music: the blare
of claxon-horn and siren-wail
and, sometimes, noise which
issues from a box borne on shoulders
through the street; an empty, but compelling,
quite insistent, loudly pulsing beat.
I welcome all new, although slight, intrusions.
Pale sensory perceptions bring back images,
now faint, once acute, of places, times,
and pleasures past. Faded sights and faces
and shadowy, unquantifiable pursuits
evoke a time when love, like freedom,
didn't cost a dime.
The sound of the presses
While they run at high speed
The reporters and editor
Trying to fill a town's need
The feel of fresh newsprint
And the smell of the ink
Working on broken machinery
Sometimes old and extinct
Trying to meet deadlines
Proofreading as i go
A fast-paced stressful job
But it's work i love so
To see the newspaper
As it comes hot off the press
Taking pride in my printing
For in so many homes it will rest
To leave at days end
And feel pride in my chest
Now the town's got their news
I can go home, get some rest.
On the edge of metropolitan midnight
he lays in a breathless silence
rasping the evanescing yesterdays to his windows
both open and locked,
while the unknowing below in stale smoke barrooms,
wait to sear his wounds and retell his life
in putrefied requiem.
Abashed metropolis
echoing of muted voices once adorning the streets
in practiced synthetic ritual,
the vile awash and seeping through asphalt cracks,
the scent of rot, old and new, smattered on old brick edifices
silences the ascending smoke plumes
belched from and within dirtied concrete towers,
the final endeavor from within a dying mans spirit
reaching out to no one
City’s voice wails from the antechamber in darkness
anxieties fracturing the panes amongst the downtown fire
of urban panic
lucidity congealing away within him, kept only in the moment
by metronome dripped medicine
exposing him to his damp streets, dirtied culverts, sewer ditches
chemically induced and maintained.
Fighting for his identity within this sterilized chaos,
whispering for the few of open mind somewhere below the window sill,
quicky stepping onward, over his newsprint life,
calling out one last time
There he lays in cold white sterility,
calling silently to his windows, both opened and locked,
watching his stories catch and fade in the dull humid streetlight
wisped away on steam grate stale winds,
the dying soul, eyes closed, his aged lined face
muddied, scraped, and walked over,
through the grime of progression left on sullied pavement.
I feel like
I am all alone in this world
with eyes
watching my every move
you might think that
I was paranoid
but every time I open my eyes
to see
someone is responding to me
answering a question I have
but never asked
I turned up the sound
on my radio and TV
so that no one can hear me pee
at home
I communicate with others
on recyclable newsprint
which I keep to burn
at home
I burn all
my garbage and place the ashes and bones
in public waste receptacles
around town
I wear recyclable rubber gloves and leave no prints
I wear recyclable rubber condoms and leave no sperm
I wear a mask and recyclable rubber booties when I am awake
you might think that
I was paranoid
but every time I open my eyes
to see
I seem to
find me
It wasn’t that she was the only woman
in the group, that mingled precariously
beneath the bronze figure, or her classic
stance, when placing immaculately the
newsprint covered bottle to lips willingly
breached, but more her opulent style, her
contrast of attire, her hair as yet unspoilt.
Although jewel less except for a wedding
ring in her recently pierce blood stained ear
lobe, (this bearing signs of some street wise ritual?)
she still wore a suave sophistication, eyes
that bred a wanton life, fingers more use to
the gentle stem of the crystal goblet, than
the demure grasp of the shapeless neck of
the common brown. But alas maybe the
corrosion has not as yet penetrated her
foreboding mind, a mind that in time will
be given to surrender, never to realize that
this volatile life will plunge her deeper, into
one shambolic life, whilst still trying to escape
from the previous. But! Who knows what ills she
was force to bear, what tribulations life brought
upon her, maybe her new found acquaintance
comfort her, listen to her sympathetically,
understanding her predicament, also a novelty
this sharing, this caring, respect and reverence
showered upon her, like solicitous petals
falling gracefully upon her shoulders,
removing the burdens of a lifetime.
Her head
began to lift higher and higher with every
mouthful of distant courage, every courteous act.
Then! A look of deep despair, as the bottle was
released from her reluctant deep red lips, a
senseless shake only proved her greatest fear.
Immediately to her aid, came one of her new found
companions, swiftly finishing his own endless gorge,
he commence to wipe the neck of his perpetual habit,
with his mucus soiled cuff less sleeve, before
passing it on to her veracious hand, his eyes eagerly
awaiting its return.
One can imagine when the long day
is over, the sun finally at rest, only the motley bench will be hers, only the best that fleet street can offer, will cover her chilled body, her metabolism soon accelerating, to become one with theirs, a license to enter their dissipation, only then will all options for her diminish, external metamorphosis soon to blend with inner corruption, life’s destruction almost completed!
© Harry J Horsman 1991
The ergley-girgley men head south,
Inverting their insides to go out,
Never speaking, only winking
At the waddley ones who wash
Their clothes in bleach to kill the flies.
Oh, the rank of it.
The waddley ones are wide mouthed with awe.
Their teeth gleam;
Their tongues are rough like a cow's.
Hair is swept back, stringy and limp.
Their feet rattle when they walk.
They do not limp.
Their clothes are jump-suits, purple.
They are the waddley ones
Who never sleep, only torment.
They are ornery to a tee.
Tree limbs would not hang them high.
Cowboy shoot at their sombreros
But always miss.
A secret falls from their lips--
Unintended-- and is swept up carefully
And preserved in old newspaper
Like a tomato in the fall.
The newsprint is contaminated
By contact with such despair.
No good comes of it.
I saw an old man with a hard hat on
Walkin' down the road as the sky turned dawn.
I said, "Howdy Bub, where you headed to?"
He said, "Don't much matter - just west will do.
I been roughneckin' seems like all my days -
Got to thinkin' 'bout how little it pays.
Then I thought hard about this drizzlin' rain -
Whether the sun would ever come again.
An' then I remembered last summer's heat
With the oil soaked boots that ruined your feet
Well, I broke my glasses and swore THAT"S IT !
Stormed off the floor and fell in the mud pit.
I got back on dry land, drippin' and soaked
The young rascals just laughed, pointed and joked.
Well, I just shrugged and said 'send me my pay'
Hiked up my britches and went on my way."
I said,"Well, Friend. have you figgered it out
Are you gonna make money or do without ?"
He said,"Yessir, there's somethin' I'll espouse,
Play the piano in a bawdy house."
Well sir, I laughed so hard the tears ran down
This mudsoaked roughneck was surely some clown
I let him out when it came to my stop
He told me his name - he looked more like "Pop"
Years later I saw that name in newsprint
In the Obit section - his life was spent.
Seems he was famous, jazz played at its best
Got his start in a whorehouse, somewhere out west
All I could see was that muddy roughneck
Leavin' that rig headed west sure as heck
Mudpit to cathouse ain't a new story,
But it's a long road from cathouse to glory
April, 2013
Rhyme AABB
COLD COMFORT
(A dog's story)
We sit by the window looking in
The rain has soaked us to our skin
We've not much fur and very cold are we
But they look past us seeming not to see
We are their family they sometimes say
Do families treat other members this way?
If they were asked to sit in the rain
They would say "that's completely insane"
They believe animals don't belong indoors
Our paws it seems cause a mess on their floors
Food and grime is on their floor is it not?
But it is spread by their wandering tot
It seems they are victims of falsehood and myth
Holding that animals lives are not of much worth
Why do they think such things to be true
Do we not have red blood and beating hearts too?
All that we ask is their love and affection
There's danger for small souls who need protection
If they should invite us to go inside
We'd show our pleasure and kitty would hide
They'd have newsprint for my wet feet
I would look but since I can't read
I'd give my thanks and upon it I'd pee
Yiu can walk a mile in a mirror stance and
never feelyour own re reflection. Your glaze gaze
bends on invisibility--a certain humor
crosseyed cleverly cleared like the rooms in the
Winchester House or a traffic jamitis through
the Mac maze at sundown. Feel ferr to co caress
your tired instep and take a loud load off
hope for that new impact that will tell
the torrid tale page by page compact dutiful
but united in a duffle bag born of poise
pronounced zipper closed but not finger
forgotten-A minor standing at the Bebop
wishing well cool crammed
with apast B&W luxuries like a passed used
kleenix round for loose nose hits--picture
frame elements often snotconceived, but
always matted for ignoi insignificance. Like
clean tree pages waiting to be messed by
someone's illict penmanship, dry but butt bold,
promising but hiding those grammar grabber
glib gratuaties in hopes of a chance for a fat
freeload advance and a creamy handshake which will
sale set the ass o nine critics on their
Keep pseudo salient the echo encrusted
think thoughts you columinize- like a pants
pair without the cute cuffs--hope your midsection
is in tune with the public bulge extroadinarre.
Simple times, simple terme, simple thoughts
simple solutions knowtellseefree for all course
bookings on a thorny stitch stage- pious prowess
butt ugly unique paychecks pay roll a sham stabbing
sliky slander most of the toime home prompt
legal-though low-some in in intent and
dubious dime parlor dance demeanor. Customize, cannonize that cowper's
culprit calamatious catastrophic claim. WTF?