Best Pulleys Poems
Because you’re a poet, that’s why
Behind the thick crimson and gold thread curtains
he stands listening to the din of the audience
searching their seats for popcorn crumbs
while roaming hands brush against the legs
of those sitting closest
The young girls get the winks
and free drinks as the old men
vie for position, straightening their hair
and flashing thick wallets
from stretched out back pockets
He peeks through the slit in the
fancy brocade drapes to find a full house,
everyone is here, the self imposed mayor
wearing a handmade campaign button
shakes hands and seeks signatures
Mrs. Broadmore assigns seats in her row
as the little people gather around, telling her
how beautiful she is while hoping for a glimpse
of the diamond crusted gin filled flask she keeps
tucked away in her left garter
The lights dim as the depressed sulk to their seats in the balcony,
broken hearts fill the back rows closest to the bar,
cheerleaders in pink lipstick and short skirts, the football team
all stoned out of their minds and the debate club collect in the center
while the pretty people, the wealthy pose in the front rows
He gets the signal as the curtain slowly lifts
to the ceiling on well oiled pulleys
There is not a sound as he makes his way
to the microphone at center stage, dead silence
but he reads his poem anyway
It is obvious he is no Leonard Cohen
but he does his best as he recites the verses
he has penned especially for this evening
Upon finishing he stares out as two people
clap their approval and the others whisper and look away
His shoulders drop as he leaves the stage,
head hung low, crumbling the paper he had read from
and tossing it in the trash as he wonders aloud, “Why, why do I do it?”
A janitor sweeping near the exit door hears him
and shaking his head replies, “Because you’re a poet, that’s why”
I reposted this poem because……..I like this one. : )
Categories:
pulleys, poetry,
Form:
Epic
The sails snapped in the wind as the yacht changed tack
soon to refill as the yacht skimmed over the sea racing onwards
riding the large waves with adapt aplume slicing them apart.
Dolphins playfully following as they leapt for pure joy
spinning several times before diving down deep.
Ganging up on a lurking shark they soon send it away.
The screech of pulleys as we prepare to tack once more
as the boom crashes past to be brought up sharp
when it takes all of the free lines and sails puff up.
The ocean is sparkling in the sunlight with white crested waves
as we round the headland and now can sail with the wind
the yacht leaning far over as her gib sail speeds her on.
Now it is time to add more canvas as we flash by
the winning line now in sight and with a great cheer
from the yacht club Casaroba crosses the line in first.
Categories:
pulleys, ocean, race, sea,
Form:
Verse
Germany, 1964
In barracks bare of beauty
I lay restlessly in bed. Around, a rife
of lifeless characters
from some Saturday charade
sullenly invite me to their ghastly parade.
I merely pull my blanket higher up
and blatantly yell out "Shaddup!"
A spot of flesh unknown to sun itches
so I scratch. Musty curtains run
in dusty ripples on their pulleys.
The room overflows with bullies
but I turn over in my bunk
and choose to spurn,
scratching a spot that doesn't itch.
I glance up. The light bulb top is dirty.
I reach up, unscrew the bulb,
lay silent in my patch of dark
and try, vainly, to extinguish
a more persistent spark.
The air around me reeks of smoke and beer,
is heavy with the weight of discontent.
I lie still darkly fomenting
an impotent dislike
for atmospheres like this one.
I writhe upon my squeaky cot and dun
and growl like some ancient,
burly, and barbaric Hun.
Vehemently, I vocalize my intense tension
with interjections "nice people" would never mention.
Categories:
pulleys, angst, depression, introspection, life,
Form:
Free verse
Equations
Linear array of
life symbols,
If one could set forth
on left and to the right,
A mere balancing
of algebraic equation,
We swing to tunes
pulleys struggle a balance.
Unlike free birds
that fly limitless,
Confident cricket
that shrills constantly,
Bees humming
still their honey lost,
Flowers perishing
leave fragrance in air,
All celebrate life
no equations saught.
Man wasting
efforts and time,
Interfering into
laws of nature,
Killing and exploiting
in name of equations,
Nothing set right.
Let learnings
of physics, chemistry
and mathematics,
Apply to real living
Equations of love
and laughter,
Wisdom and speech
emotions and trust
Be congruent.
Written March 12th, 2016
For contest "Equations"
Sponsor- Anthony Slausen
Now entered for "101 in a row- 14- poetry contest" by PD A
Categories:
pulleys, freedom, fun,
Form:
Free verse
To those who harrass; the yobos we call bullies
I'd gladly string you up by the seat of your woolies
Then from a barn rafter
You would hear my laughter
While swinging overhead from ropes and pulleys
I'd stuff each of your big mouths with a dirty sock
It's such a fitting punishment for you who mock
Twenty lashes at dawn
For you are Satan's spawn
More beatings if you crawl out from under your rock
You should be ashamed when you taunt and heckle
You have far less worth than a penny or sheckle
Your bite has no power
To injure or devour
You're nothing more than a blemish or a freckle
On billboards I'd paper your names for all to see
I'm pretty sure lots of PS poets would agree
Who'd swat you like gnats
And use you like doormats
Because your attitude is loathesome and beastly
*yobo is a synonym for a bully
November 4, 2020
Judged By A Jury Of Your Peers
Sponsored by: Mark Koplin
Categories:
pulleys, bullying,
Form:
Limerick
Glittering diamond summit,was only one day away.
Genetic characteristics,now coming to the fray.
Evaluating patience and a knack for fearing fear.
Drive ice-screw into crevice with the summit drawing near.
Speculative Winter sun,in a mortuary of blue.
Everest conquered only,by the very chosen few.
Snarling pit-bull winds with oxygen levels low.
Bar-headed geese feed on climbers down below.
Months of seasoned snowfall,lies dormant up above.
Metamorphisising snowflakes,slide like a velvet glove.
Snow now starts to shift,on the angled valley floor.
The sound every climber fears,a deathly thunderous roar.
Snow is all around them as they swim to stay on top.
It hammers down the mountain-side and just doesn't stop.
Shovels,crampons,ice-picks now litter the terrain.
Hooks and pulleys mangled from the snows heavy strain.
Rejected by the mountain as they tumble to their graves.
This altitude has attitude,no fortune for the brave.
Bar-headed geese circle in the valley of the dead.
As hours go by the snow there,has turned a crimson red.
Categories:
pulleys, epic
Form:
Rhyme
Children At Risk
children are at risk when they can
physically hold a gun
forced recruitment of guerrilla groups
is not unknown
and occurs mainly in the third world
some return home
with help of pulleys
and improvised shear legs
with difficulty are able to move
the fallen portion of their bodies
mutilated by mines
in the lost cities of African
South America
they were capable physically to hold a gun
now if opportunity
they can take a pencil and a paper
and go to school
to learn how to read and write
Categories:
pulleys, black african american, childhood,
Form:
Concrete
Commingled human sweat permeates the atmosphere.
Grunts and clanging iron greet the ear.
Leotard clad women, without body fat, spring.
Pumped up upper bodies of tattooed men expand.
The smoothie bar dispenses recovery drinks.
Stationary bicycles travel miles, without leaving the room.
Joggers hypnotized by music turn treadmills.
The pulleys of the muscle machines sing.
The locker room calls after a brief and intense workout.
Does the fattest guy in the building have to walk around naked?
The jets in the spa remedy any muscle pain.
Relaxing, I watch an old woman pacing the bottom of the lap pool.
The heated pool is occupied by goggled children,
their swimming lessons taught by a woman in a sensible swimsuit.
They must conquer natural fear of the water,
and demonstrate proper swimming form, as parents look on.
A steam room awaits those who can stand the intense, wet heat.
The wooden walls of the sauna room smell of eucalyptus oil.
Water thrown over hissing, heated stones creates a wall of vapor.
They say the perspiration it induces cleanses toxins.
I am not so sure……but I will return next week.
Categories:
pulleys, healthwoman,
Form:
Free verse
Tired lids to buckets of endless hours
open cracks and creaks
and cold saps their strength.
Exhaustion gives
and so do lids
for I was not born a god.
As end to time,
results evade.
Exasperation grasps unthinking.
Sudden shaking, endless quaking;
Axes work upon my trunk and limbs
as children join my garden of dreams.
Growling, grasping and blind,
reaching for those brave souls
-though errant spawn evade.
Yet, a fallen titan,
Cronus, I shall rise again;
a new day has dawned.
Pulleys creak and
levers groan, "Overwork!" they cry,
but work they do as I wake.
One thought I have, a simple dream:
I truly wish that someday
-past dawn
-past six o' clock
-maybe even eight
the kids might deeply, sweetly sleep.
Categories:
pulleys, children,
Form:
Free verse
It's the core of impartiality,
The depth of equality.
None out-does the other.
That's about me and her.
We impersonate love and court it fully,
Dissociate from cogs and man made pulleys.
Look at her whiten jealousy,
As i cut off lusty fantasies.
Our acts are real,
Perfect two way seals.She locks i unlock vice-versa,
Two compliments no trespassers.
We handle problems personally,
Make decisions Biblicaly.
True verses from songs in our hearts,
Love heals lies hurt.
By M.O.O aka Carswell the impersonator.
Categories:
pulleys, devotion,
Form:
Verse
Gramps had a Sunday rite,
It was quiet, perhaps trite.
In his chalice a Bloody Mary,
As solemn as a seminary.
Took the goblet and a crank,
To his great Big Ben clock.
Slowly wound as he drank,
When done, he’d close the lock.
A hundred years of perfect time,
With a soft, not muffled chime.
On the hour, brass bells peal,
Then a strike, the hour to reveal.
From its grand and lofty tower,
Only time did the clock devour.
Telling time is how it played,
For only this, was it made.
The pendulum’s eternal swing,
Akin to ocean, time was king.
Like endless waves of the sea,
That hit the beach, to rise and spree.
The old clock stopped
when Gramps died,
The crank too hard,
still Granny tried.
The case too tall
for her new abode,
Became gift to grandson,
down the road.
The clock from Gramps, to enshrine,
One day to pass it down the line.
‘Til then to crank it every week,
Its old wood to groan and creak.
The grand old clock no mere shell,
A soft ticking, then sudden knell.
Like ocean waves, gave quiet peace,
Its pulleys and cables never cease.
The sounds of eternal tick,
Westminster chant be its lick.
All derived from weekly crank,
For this and love, Gramps we thank.
****
This poem is also on Vimeo
https://vimeo.com/455917835
Categories:
pulleys, dad, daughter, granddaughter, grandson,
Form:
Rhyme
CHICKEN GULLET DESTINY
(or "The Trouble With Radishes")
The memory of things that will be
usually fades into the haunting melody
of a life reduced to picking the easy fruit
of future history.
Never more the blue-sky dreams,
Living low, deep in the dirt,
careful to not look up and see
what may become of me.
Extoll the virtues of the radish!
In harmony with nature he is, returning all he takes,
bissfully blank, nary a care
for whom his creator may be …
… or his chicken gullet destiny.
Perhaps I'm not fit to be master of this contented menagerie,
cursed as I am with words and tools and this fine pair of shoes.
However, crawling and squawking don't come naturally
despite the earnest promises of the well-wishers of humanity.
Gears and pulleys to and fro, yet radishes have their static charm.
But motion's the thing!
Not the clinging memories of planets yet to be
and the eventual end of me.
Categories:
pulleys, destiny,
Form:
Rhyme
The old stone gristmill stood like a monolith,
its massive wooden wheel creaking and turning
dipping into the swift waters of a dammed-up creek.
Inside, everything was covered in a fine white dust
amidst a cacophony of cogs, gears, and pulleys.
Most notably, there was a giant granite stone that turned,
crushing grain into powder.
It was a dangerous place for kids to be,
we weren't allowed to hang around the workings.
Pa and all of the neighboring farmers
brought bushels of wheat there to be milled,
keeping the miller busy filling white cotton sacks with flour.
A pond adjacent to the mill fueled its workings,
and we'd gather on its banks for picnic lunches.
As kids, we'd be allowed to swim or fish
while pa and the other men did all the work.
In my mind's eye, I see him dusted white as a ghost,
exchanging smiles while sharing a joke with the miller.
Today you can only imagine what it was like,
for it now only exists in dreams or picture shows.
It was a time that time will never repeat,
when farmers gathered at the gristmill
as both a necessity and a communal event.
(Free Verse)
May 25, 2018
Categories:
pulleys, 8th grade, 9th grade,
Form:
Free verse
Now further conversation taking place
described the safe, best way of stacking hides.
Ingenious method used filled hold's small space,
accomplished by the means of pulleys, glides.
One might think way could weaken vessel's sides.
"Only to four feet of the beams, sir. Next comes the hard part called "steeving",
the way of crowding hundreds of hides into a space only a few could be place by hand."
"How is such a thing done?"
"By use of blocks, tackles, and dogs. It's a matter of leverage."
"I don't think I follow."
"A large "book" is made from twenty-five to fifty hides, doubled at backs, and
placed one within the other, to leave but one outside hide for the book. Back of the
outside hide is inserted between two other hides in the pile. Above and below this
book are placed smooth strips of wood, well greased to make the sliding of the book
easier. The book is forced in by mechanical leverage."
"All very complicated, senor."
"It works very well but demands much strength of the crew in pulling the ropes."
"They must certainly pull together!"
"Mister Huerra, you've put your finger on the most important part of the whole
operation. They must certainly pull together and it's done by song."
"This is very interesting. How can a song help?"
"Sailors need song as soldiers need the fife and drum. Sailors must pull together
as soldiers must step in time. They can't pull in time or with a will without it."
"Si, Senor Huerra," Don Hernandez said, entering the conversation. "We've
often heard their singing from our hacienda. It's stirring, adding color to our life."
12-27-18
Categories:
pulleys, conflict,
Form:
Free verse
Joseph Robinette Biden
now commander in chief yay
manning ship of state
tossing anchors aweigh
heavily pierced tattooed
donning sheepish pirate(s)
at heady roiling waterway
fending off trolling rapscallion
much more thrilling
than watching cabaret
January twenty first two thousand
twenty one marks his first full day
wherein Oval Office finally
flushed, ousted, and zapped,
whose paternal ancestry
begat genealogical linkedin émigré
name unknown, nevertheless
one Johann Trump born within
Bobenheim am Berg, a village
in Palatinate, Germany circa 1789
moved to nearby village of Kallstadt
where his grandson, Friedrich Trump,
the grandfather of Donald Trump,
born in 1869 gamboled
upon grassy fairway
whereby grandson notorious
to grandstand and gainsay,
but especially renowned
windblown coiffure
kept intact courtesy "fake" hairspray
said product he did fulminate
against and inveigh,
cuz he envied (as does yours truly)
the trademark thatch sported by J.F.K.
At long last, a stalwart adept candidate
unwittingly saddled
with onerous figurative freight
COVID-19, homelessness, joblessness
sober statistics impossible mission to inflate,
whose physique slender and lightweight
boot pulleys and levers of power
he quite savvily can operate
personable and suave demeanor doth resonate
allowing, enabling, and providing
law and order to materialize,
and accomplishments downplayed
(unlike previous commander in chief)
whose braggadocio would never underrate.
Concern still prevails
regarding that woman user
egging fascistic paramilitary
white supremacist ilk
twittering as a digital schmoozer
hell bent on sowing anarchy,
cuz other Democratic contestant
did not defeat
soured at prospect their man beat
(him - who shall not be named again
ranks as a sore loser)
nevertheless, an oafish shill bruiser.
If prognostications allowed me,
at bedtime, when a supine American,
one garden variety and generic
sleepy Joe among madding crowd
will experience glee
at prospective buoyancy, decency,
fraternity, harmony, jollity, levity,
nobility, prosperity, serenity, tranquility...
wishing no ill will toward
former forty sixth president.
Categories:
pulleys, 12th grade, adventure, america,
Form:
Rhyme