Best Shopkeepers Poems
If you go downtown early morning
You can see the shopkeepers setting
Old treasures on the sidewalk,
Writing their welcomes with chalk
On little standing blackboards,
Inviting you inside their stores.
Honeysuckle Antiques has its window
Filled with newfound things to show,
Local crafts and the latest junk,
A fringed lampshade and leather trunks.
Its storefront arranged with trifle clutter,
Metal lawn chairs and wooden ladders.
A rusted garden rake’s crooked grin
Begs you to come shop within.
A copper cowbell rings above the door
As dust scurries across a creaking floor.
Greetings from a curvy dressmaker’s bodice,
Empty coke bottles sold by the case.
The moment you enter you’re lost in time.
You never know what you may find;
A stack of old suitcases eager to travel,
Tiny dishes all the way from China,
A basket full of skeleton keys
Or an old black Singer sewing machine.
So many things lost and forgotten;
A lady’s hat pin, hundreds of buttons
Peer through the green glass of Mason jars,
A boy’s prize collection of toy metal cars,
Polaroid cameras and a reel to reel,
A pair of broken red wagon wheels.
Everyone’s favorite, a brown Teddy bear,
A no-longer-needed baby high chair,
Piles of silver spoons, a tarnished pocket watch;
Its workings inside have ground to a halt.
Someone’s keepsake once shiny and new,
Time of death; twelve thirty-two.
Overhead, a beautiful lead chandelier
Sparkles “I don’t belong here.
Take me with you when you go.”
Shelves lined with items needing a home.
Cramped, dusty isles you wander around
Through all the lost and all the found.
Then persuasive orphans catch your eye;
A porcelain doll sitting way up high,
Sad, in her torn and faded dress
Next to some pink Depression glass.
“Take me with you when you go.”
Beg the doll and the bowl.
In little towns the big events are locally presented,
and every family in the town is usually represented.
Shopkeepers shut their doors when a pioneer curls his toes,
and if someone’s up to mischief, then everybody knows.
Every sporting club is well supported, right down to the wire,
they are the social hubs of towns to set the youth on fire,
through footy clubs and netball clubs combining into one
to sing and dance the night away, promoting local fun.
Of course when youth is mixed with party love can fill the air,
so Cupid’s firing arrows through the hearts of those who care.
This sometimes leads to earnestness when love gets in the way;
the town is now preparing for there’ll be a wedding day.
There’s heaps of preparation from the family of the bride;
flower girls and pretty maids to stand right by her side.
There’s the minister and invitations; the caterers are right.
All the groom must think about - “Are you coming to the bucks night?”
It’s half past five and dawn is breaking; we’re coming back to town.
God knows who is driving but their foot is going down.
There’s nugget, sauce and butter, smeared over everything;
the bucks party is over now - it’s ten hours ‘til the wedding.
And now coming up behind us is a mass of flashing light,
when a siren started blaring; we thought it better to take flight.
We shot around some back streets trying to lose this cop,
then someone with a drunken slur, said “I think we better stop.”
Popularity is not the word that I would say is spoken next.
This angry cop took any plea completely out of context.
He wouldn’t listen to a word that’s said, repeating “That’s enough!”
before I heard the second click of a closing set of handcuffs.”
In a cell back at the station there’s a pall of doom and gloom.
And there’s a hint of panic when it’s mentioned in the room,
by the cop who indicated strongly that by giving him some flack,
we’re gunna stay locked up until his Sergeant arrives back.
I made every kind of plea I could, but this cop avoids my dreading.
He said “Young lad you’re lucky; my Sergeants at his daughters wedding,
so he’ll be in a good mood when he greets you in this room.”
“Don’t bloody count on it” I said - “Because I’m the flamin’ groom!”
Crazy Mick the Irishman, with trademark bike and overcoat,
wheeling his way back into town, classed as a tarnished silly goat.
His hair was long and curly; spoken words barely understood.
His manner gave impression he's up to no flamin’ good.
Shopkeepers grew an extra eye toward their advertised outside,
watching Mick out on the street as up and down he'd ride.
This man was on outcast; different to the folks they know,
a little dirty; is a vagrant, and he acts a little slow.
Mick’s first stop the butchers shop; bargained for a ‘snag’ or two.
The butcher he felt pity, so threw in an extra few.
This pleased Mick no end as he left the butchers door.
His feast was quick and final; ate the meat been given raw.
The pub through past experience had little time for Mick,
for beer became his nemesis; urged forward his fighting trick.
Too many times Mick’s antics had forced him to the street,
with bloodied nose, blackened eye; always getting beat.
Compromising was the bottle sale - take half a dozen and then go.
Sit over by the railway line and then drink them nice and slow.
Young kids without feelings teased Mick in his toxic state,
laughing as he chased them, for he'd stagger and gyrate.
When Mick disappeared, our town wondered where he went.
Had he found a home! Had he died! Where has his time been spent!
It seems in potato season when the pickers were required,
Mick was slogging in the paddocks where potato tops had died.
The 'swampy' people honoured Mick, for he had no fear of sweat.
He'd bend his back the furthest; earnt the spud farmer’s respect.
They saw a different person than the townie’s man un-trusted.
Hard working in the hot sun; not the drunk so often busted.
Mick perished one cold winter, alone inside a pickers shack.
Long after picking season ended, so what had brought him back?
He must have known his life was ebbing; left for where he felt no shame.
Spud farmers heads bowed 'round his grave - but not one townie came.
A mackerel sky fillets the village
then hides it in a breezeless blear.
Heads poke out of net drapes
sniff and fish behind trawling curtains.
Shopkeepers brace for
wet dog splatter and spray
for slopping boots and salty puddles.
On the sightless sea
far beyond the shore and shingle,
lost fog horns are lowing deep
like colicky cattle.
Later, misty reeks will be scoured
from groggy docks.
Hauling hands will rope together
tide-tossed tubs,
then tired feet trudge to taprooms
where the brackish parts
of codgers and young alike
can be oiled and quenched.
BELIZEAN BLEND
In the beginning it was the Yucatec, the Mopan and Kekchi as well
Who came from the steppes of Asia where nomads dwell
They fished and farmed milpas, in paradise; away from hell
Some building great civilizations that, for many reasons, eventually fell
Then came the Spaniards whose ambivalence; mixed feelings
Caused them to waver in subsequent dealings
Killed some natives, driven off by others
In the end did not settle; wasn’t worth the bother
Displaced by the British, rowdy pirates turn woodcutters
Who made laws and build infrastructure down to the gutters
Cut logwood, then mahogany for powerful and wealthy folks
Then, to satisfy greed, sought others to enslave in yokes
Africans from Jamaica and Bermuda transshipped
Then as chattel they were frequently whipped
Stolen from Africa, becoming the major labor force
Dehumanized and tortured for centuries without remorse
Mestizos fleeing oppressors in the Yucatan
The War of Castes brought them from beyond
Working as chicleros and cane cutters
As a way of providing ‘ bread and butter’
Garinagu deported from St. Vincent as a form of punishment
Many dying in their odyssey , their massive predicament
Survive , resiliently, on the rebound
A proud people, with culture and learning very sound
Mennonites coming to enjoy religious freedom and peace
Avoiding persecution for a life of ease
Providing furniture, low cost poultry and eggs
Reducing the cadre of many that beg
From India and China they were duped and brought
As indentured servants who were hastily sought
Later as merchants and shopkeepers they came
Voluntarily this time, which is not nearly the same
Backpackers and excursionists everywhere
In a world where they’re free to choose elsewhere
Not part of the earlier diaspora
But manifestations of a new plethora
A graceful eagle soaring free;
Symbolizes our liberty.
Freedoms for which we paid a price;
In terms of human sacrifice.
Cannons, rifles, Revolution;
Bloodbath Civil War’s solution.
‘The Great War’ didn’t end all bloodshed;
On more battlefields soldiers tread.
UN action in Korea;
Containment was the idea.
Next the jungles of Vietnam;
Showed limitations of the Bomb.
Libya, Iraq, Afghanistan;
Still relevant is combat hand-to-hand.
Despite increased technology;
Conflict’s in our biology?
Nation born on “new” continent;
Freedom the great experiment.
Seven articles, ten rights, too;
Framework for our Red, White, and Blue.
Not just Founders’ resolution;
Begat our new Constitution.
Farmers, shopkeepers took up arms;
To keep liberty from all harms.
Soldiers, sailors, civilians, and more;
Also kept tyrants from our door.
The rule of law and not of men;
Safeguards rights of each citizen.
Mighty eagle can choose its way;
Strong wings, talons, a bird of prey.
Freedom, like eagles, can take flight;
From our grasp if we don’t do right.
Each generation has a choice;
Honor freedom or lose its voice.
If we don’t defend and cherish;
Oh, how quickly freedoms perish.
A person shot dead,this how it unfolds
rioting and looting,electrcticals clothes and gold
Tottenham bore the first brunt,that came undone
and spread throughout the boroughs of London.
As i sit viewing the tabloids that brings
aireal shots fires destroying buildings
mindless youths as it spreads north
Leeds,Bristol,Birmingham to Liverpool and forth
People go homeless,shopkeepers go broke
no school for children,an absolute joke
we have soldiers in countries fighting wars
they are the unsung heroes fighting a cause
Ashamed to be English? to an extent
i have never seen anything like this event
what will go next Buckingham Palace?
one word from me being absolute " disgrace".
.
My Grandfather's Grocer Shop
I was born in Liverpool - England and
I remember back to when I was a child
how I marvelled at the way things were done
in my Grandfather's Grocer shop. in the early 1950s.
I saw him getting a portion of butter and
by using two paddle boards, knock up the butter
to form a block of butter, then wrap it up in
white shop paper, and then he would go to this
large bacon slicer which operated by turning
a huge wheel with a handle, then removing
the bacon from a butcher's hook and then
carving large slices of bacon on it, he would then
hand slice the cheese and wrap it by hand
then give it to the customer, eggs had no cartons
back then, so they were just put into brown paper bags,
customers would often return over broken eggs
and want replacements, if children came in they
would spend the pocket money on a bag of broken
biscuits, straight from the large tins they came in
as there were no packets of biscuits during those
early years of the 1950s, the shopkeepers would
often give free samples out to promote new products
as advertising was very rare and visual advertisements
were often seen on counters or on walls, I used to go in
my Grandfather's shop and was given a large peice
of cheese or some chocolate biscuits as a family gesture.
I watched in amazement as my Grandfather would count
the days takings out of the old fashion till, he would
turn a handle and the draw would pop out, it did not even
have push keys like the more modern cash registers of the
time, but it was vintage in every way, my Grandfather is
now gone, his shop has been knocked down for redevelopment
as many old businesses went the same way but
I will never forget the wonderful memories of my
Grandfather's Grocer Shop.
An Indian Boy II
-----------------------------
That another Indian boy, little boy,
Oh! In rags, unwashed, walking barefoot those roadside footpaths.
Call the Indian scientist sinners
And proud profane politicians
And show them the scene…
Is waiting silently outside the busy shops,
Carrying a soiled sack,
And quickly collecting the trash,
The kind shopkeepers throw out at him.
“I would help him by a note but
He would become a beggar.
I would rub with my hands his head,
Kiss his little hands, or would hug,
But, it would make him a lovesick—I felt fear.”
I have an idea after a solemn assessment,
To end this menace, this war weapons race:
“Let all the countries have a Common Defense Center.”
And if any Iraq ever tries to occupy any Quait,
Shall meet a necessary catastrophe!
And its officers like the keepers of hell—
Just faceless—callous and impartial,
Shall order Israel to leave Palestine;
And tell India, Pak, China to leave Jammu Kashmir
And that in a week’s time
And they all shall comply with—humbly.
Sick Russia won’t eye at its tiny neighbors
And great U.S.A will feel a lot freed of
Its huge duties and responsibility.
And then economy shall grow and unemployment shall go,
Borders will shrink and diminish down,
Poverty will be past and progress will be fast
And, prosperity will prevail
In there the forests and there down the vale.
MIDNIGHT PEARL
It was well past midnight, the streets dark and bare
She appeared out of nowhere, just standing there
A full moon slithered across a cloudy sky
I was mesmerized by her without knowing why
Never had I seen such a beautiful young girl
She shimmered and glistened like a precious pearl
She approached me slowly and took my hand
The warmth of her closeness was truly so grand
She guided me toward the seashore close by
Spoke not a word -- she seemed rather shy
The rest of the evening is all just a blur
When I finally awoke, I couldn't find her
I searched the shoreline both up and down
I talked with shopkeepers all over town
No one had seen this lithe sensation
And said I must be having an hallucination
Was I only dreaming -- was she really there
What actually happened -- what did we share
I may never again see this lovely young girl
But I'll always remember my Midnight Pearl
Curtis Moorman
19 April 2012
For the contest: Midnight Pearl
Although the Christmas tale rings true,
For every child who feels slighted and destroyed,
By religious insult, pretentious token or symbolic kiss,
He shouldn’t only be wishing for Santa’s gifts deployed.
But the Father Christmas story ensures,
That every kid is worth something, equal and sure;
The morality attached to Father Christmas is quite explicit,
That all can be loved, and in that all can be complicit.
It may be that you call this semiotic of Santa Claus implicit:
A suggestion, indirect and a loose interpretation;
But I think that because all kids are included in his giving,
The inherent equal worth of all is its stipulation.
Any kids, of any diversity, difference or race:
Black, white, Asian or Australasian;
Fat, tall, geek, weak or disabled,
Whatever your facet, you are enabled.
Society so needs this Christmas story,
That a child’s interests are his right;
His hobbies are to be accepted and encouraged,
And that even the cold shouldn’t make you tight.
That the individual is considered at Christmas time,
Is on point and fully correct;
Economics and money have a high place,
In a persons needs hierarchy, you may detect.
St Nicholas first emerged in a poem in 1823,
Published just before Christmas Day on the 23rd,
By the Troy New York Sentinel to help its shopkeepers,
Multiply sales, and cheer and invigorate searching customers.
The love of a parent for her child,
Objectifies best by way of a gift;
And I just love the symbol of Santa,
Whom the lonely child from insolation can lift.
It is that time of the year
When all the shopkeepers begin to cheer...
They've started the season sooner than before
In hopes that it will bring people to their store.
I am more tied to the traditions
Than I am to these indiscretions...
So it makes me go bananas
When Halloween is followed by Santas!
Who would have ever believed
That this kind of irreverence could be conceived...
It's not for glory, for thanks, or for wishing us luck
It is only that they want the almighty Buck!
As for me, I'll sit home and drink a beer
I never shop, until December 24th of the year.
Have a Merry Christmas!
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.
My unusual physical appearance
Was enhanced by a striking thinness,
And enormous long-lashed blue eyes.
Less charmingly, I was also the kind of
Deliberately malicious little hooligan
Who'd remove some periodical
From a neighbour's letter-box
And then mutilate it before reposting it.
The sixties' famed social and sexual revolution
Was well under way, and yet for all that,
Seminal Pop groups such as the Searchers
And the Dave Clark Five;
Even the Fab Four themselves,
Were quaintly wholesome figures.
And in comparison to what was to come,
They surely fitted in well
In a long vanished England
Of Norman Wisdom pictures;
And the well-spoken presenters
Of the BBC Home Service,
Light Service and World Service,
Of coppers and tanners
And ten bob notes;
And jolly shopkeepers
And window cleaners.
At least that's how I see it,
Looking back at it all
From almost half a century later.
So relieved at the Christmas bells,
Which abound in stores and on cards,
That we hear on Christmas Eve,
From churches sounding for their services,
Reminding us that there's a story behind it.
A bell can be rung to call someone,
Stating that a person is in need,
Endorsing an act of service in care,
Whether you close a window or feed.
It reminds us that all people have the entitlement,
To presume their right to be cared for,
And not just accept what their carer wants to give,
But demand the help which lets them live how they want to live.
A bell can chime the last call at the pub,
Signalling you to abstract and summarise your conversation,
Collect yourself, your thoughts and conclude,
And feel the warmth that your friend has given you.
And of course, bells remind us of history,
That old technology which stood for so many things and operations in the past,
Like calling lifts or elevators,
Signing to shopkeepers that customers had just come in the door of the store,
Announcing danger ahead for a ship (like the Titanic),
Locating a lost dog or cat (now done with a GPS).
An elevator's bell never asked for your weight,
A store's door bell didn't specify your identity,
And a care call bell didn't state your request,
Nor how it was to be given.
I like bells, because they make me feel secure,
They suggest that making another aware of your presence or problem is fine,
And they normally sound so happy, so joyful,
Without any suggestion ever of guilt,
About their possible calling purpose at the baggage you may have.