Best Slicks Poems
Our problems all began with the industrial revolution
And its legacy has left us with toxic pollution.
Climate change is real and been declared a code red
And if we chose to ignore it, we'll all end up dead.
It's not a new problem, they've been saying it for years
Driven by greed and profit now there will be tears.
Ice caps are melting, I'm sure you already know
And soon the polar bears will have nowhere to go.
Sea and river levels are a worry as they continue to rise
Houses and cars swept away before our very eyes.
Wildfires are quite common now the air is so dry
Many people lose their homes, sadly many of them die.
Not forgetting wildlife, they too perish in the flames
Insurance firms kept busy with thousands of claims.
Our vast oceans too have become a dumping ground
With oil slicks and plastics, just some of the things found.
We burn fossil fuels that release carbon to keep us warm
Now we must find an alternative that wont cause us harm.
Pesticides sprayed on crops with no thought for the bees
Forests cut down ruthlessly, soon there will be no trees.
Action is needed now, they know what's needed to be done
Because when it gets worse there will be nowhere to run.
In the distant future an apocalyptic waste land will be
And all because of mankinds greed and his own stupidity.
Every country must play its part, not just one or two
And every individual on earth that's me and you.
Dinosaurs roamed earth and disappeared mysteriously
And here we all are creating our own catastrophe.
And the many idiots out there who think it's a big joke
They won't find it so funny when they're choking on smoke.
Written 13th August 2021
Somewhere past the fallen limbs
Of old tangled oaks and elm
Breaking silence as lighting dims
Rushing whispers split the realm
Mocking silence with a hush
It slicks the stones of shallow brook,
Exalting in babble with a gush,
I turn to take a humble look.
Searching fluid sounds of creation
Articulating His wordless voice,
Tears fall dryly at my sublimation
To waters endless song , rejoice.
Brenda Atry
September 28, 2011
Oh you know the type—
the orchid woman
a cosmopolitan who cosmo sips
between snips of gist
her charisma a starship —collides
with your star-full eyes
supernova for Casanova
her pouty lips knit a glamour-mag smile
rows of sugar-white pearls
strung shiny straight
behind wet-red slicks of a Revlon stick
—cherry-juice bait dilates your want to taste
orchid woman’s glamorized mouth
for the masses to idolize
for many to fantasize
for her to tantalize
and advertise
there’s no need to compromise
with you
or your penny-candy conversation—
when beauty is legal tender
why invest in a waste of words?
ooh, orchid woman is w-i-l-d
an exotic sun-tanned narcotic
erotic her despotic bloom
quixotic your contemplation;
your entangled-limbs-expectation
that this frilly filly blooms just for you
and oh! just look how the honey makers buzz
watch the money-makers spend their sums—
worker bees blinded by her blonde neon
fall in her wake…
or maybe ‘diamond pro’s’ bling
stings and wrings their eyes
…who cares who falls..
when mere red rose adorations
and sticky sap Hallmark incantations
bear not the fruits of 24-karat donations—
Mmm! Mmm!
her traipse does shake like mango jelly sweet
orchid woman’s long-stemmed catwalk walk
full-rounded bouncy-buoyant racy-lacy-ecstasy
yup.. a thoroughbred— she’ll have you ridin’ high
to your credit and blame
you won’t feel her stiletto tips
when she diva-gold-digs ya
as nothing more than a runway-ramp
all slinky-strut-hips
and stay-the-night-vamp
till fly girl wields her strappy high-heels
in a rhythmical click-clack
all over the next middle-age stage
indeed! orchid woman
a hot-house hottie
fussy stuffy lil hussy—
...too much water?
….not enough water?!
oh no! she’s wilted—
sniffle.. snivel.. “where did I go wrong?!!”
mm-hmm.. high maintenance is s-u-c-h a turn on…
yeah… orchid woman is w-i-l-d (eye roll..)
The beautiful ocean with it's roaming waves
The ugly trash, oil slicks and dying fish
The beautiful clouds of blue when I look up
The ugly haze and smog the air looks of smut
The beautiful rain forest with endless life
The ugly money mongrel crawling like lice
The beautiful Twin Towers reaching for the sky
The ugly rubble and waste as people cry
The beautiful child so full of life
The ugly ill mind that gives him strife
The beautiful man who loved and healed, our Christ
The ugly mob who crucified him for a price
When will we as a human race
Turn Ugly into Beauty
and learn to embrace and stop the disgrace?
T Reams
The Rain In Spain falls gently on the Plain
In NYC it backs up sewers once again
Creating puddles that take two weeks to drain
Oil slicks abound the terrain
Causing motorcyclists lots of pain
Cursing and Swearing is what sustains
In the Abundance of Late-Running Trains
Shining gold on mellow blue Melting mass aglow for you Floating, rolling feel the heat Melting down the frozen sheet Big and round, the ants do crawl Blues and browns surround the ball Sparkle, shining through the space White on black do they lace Deep inside the rolling mass Fires of Hell on slicks of oil Steaming moats beneath the soil Truly impossible we say to you Living within the Cosmic Blue
Rain seeps into every crack and crevice
chilling to the bone
Winter has arrived with a vengeance
and summer is forever gone.
Ice slicks the asphalt, into a
glittering glistening death trap.
Here begins the slow invasion
of the unrelenting cold.
This grubby little mutt follows one day,
His hair matted, claws overgrown.
You take pity on the poor thing;
Starving and probably ill.
(A miserable pup with big sad eyes)
And leave blankets and scraps out the door
You wonder of his owners forgotten
He’s no street dog- well behaved and gentle
Perhaps abandoned, lost.
But maybe not. He’s ugly, scarred
Hairless in patches- He belongs in a kennel.
You don’t want him- and feel an inexplicable deep hatred
The wag of his tail infuriates and the curve of his snout enrages.
You slam the door.
A glass spills and everything is red.
Merlot on the carpet, scarlet on the bed.
You knock over the roses
Deep crimson of condolence
You want to draw blood, you want to destroy
You crave another’s red bloody torment
Schadenfreude, be damned
His whines pierce-
through the cold air of the night,
and the solid wooden door.
The royal blue E minor: the laments of the abandoned
You can’t help but join in song
As the wretched creature
howls expressivo at the starless sky
a symphony of loss.
Violins screech to his scratching
with trills, mordents and turns.
The descending melodic line fades and echos;
As the merciless tonic pedal of time ticking
crescendos.
The clarinets wails accompaniment;
subdominant, tonic, leading.
And with a plagal cadence, the mutt droops his tail
Morning arrives- painfully slow
The rising sun thaws anguished aubergine
And leave only tender lapis of fingers frostbitten.
They struggle; falls a familiar key
As you reach and bend
Moist; a warmth unexpected and wet
As the mutt licks your hand
tongue curling around a corpse’s digits
nuzzling his cold snout into the back of your knee.
Tongue lolling, tail wagging
The mutt never leaves.
The frost on the tree branches promise
Of how you’ve lived and grown
They shimmer like precious silver
and accent the beauty of home.
The fresh biting air,
with great gasping breaths you shiver.
Here begins a new journey
With your most loyal friend.
Just like a football I am and have
been bounced around a bit,
But only by chance of fate, no man
would get away with it.
The football suffers silently
the grabs, the throws, the kicks.
I’m not one to take that from
the country boobs or the city slicks.
I come from a line of strong women
who took on varying roles.
My grandma was a marcher
for equality at the poles.
Grandma raised her family of five
after her young husband died,
by sheer strong will and hard work
with no helpmeet by her side.
My paternal grandma must have been
a strong willed woman too.
She raised a very respectful son
who gave womenfolk their due.
My mama raised four strapping sons
without needing to raise a hand,
no slaps, no harsh words and no threats
to make them understand.
She passed down to her daughter
unrelenting self respect.
Rough handling me would surely bring
more grief than you’d expect.
So I’m not much like a football
nor would I ever be
an uncomplaining plaything
kicked around so endlessly.
Warmly dedicated to SMJ
Three Sonnets Inspired by my
Reigning Ex
Part 0
Sitting at the edge of the universe
like a man atop a modern skyscraper
who might look down to see the manic street
full of yellow taxis and distant peers,
the first thing I notice on a backwards
glance is my snake-skin mortality
shed and skipping across the flattened ether,
a luminous orb on a linear course
like a puddle-hopping pebble, eager
to sink a lily-pad a child targets
for the hell of it. I realize then - either
I’m dead as a god should be, or just a pet
project of a German ghost, his meager
objective merely my way to forget.
Part I
Before you bed me, I assume the herpes
risk you ignored so many turn-style clicks
so many thick-like quick-strike Rolodex entries
not so long ago made that cavalry slicks
and right-swept Tinder mounts dutifully
saddled have begun their bountiful itch.
A testament, truly, of how beautifully
done was every each one, each surgical stitch
precisely sewn to salvage squeeze-box juice
of battle-field strewn, the red zest of life
a dead soldier blew, is once more, for you,
stalling to flow; knowing your rusty knife
has yet to slice temptation sterilized;
knowing your scalpel’s cut keeps cancer canonized.
Part II
All around you, this kelp-wall compartment
appears an ocean bloomed with room enough
for early light to shuffle halfway bent,
like time’s unpolished hedge, across the rough
field where too young have men gone to die.
Someone is responsible for all of it:
The ghostlike fish who grimly swim upstream;
the crunchy autumn leaves all creased and clustered;
and this, the box you loathe in sleepless dream
of birthday cakes and candles your grandfather
fed the wish-away lawn using mustered
strength from tears his daughter leaked, sprung to lie,
who now only cries at her daughter’s grave,
complaining of stubble when Pawpaw shaves.
Urban Alleys – poet’s dozen contest
windblown city streets
becalmed trash waiting idly
beneath tour buses
sweet breeze that will release the steam
of gutter’s flowing stagnant stream
rats - red eyes in furtive glances
oil slicks glowing rainbow coats
squinting sunrise peeking in the alley
tarmac trash awaiting take-offs rippling rush
night stalkers counting up their tally
shape changing shadows on a soothing hush
fresh cleansing gust of air a city’s blush
10/31/2015
submitted to – A Poets Dozen – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Silent One
My Dad Was Just a Lad
Part 2
He was on a brand new ship,
The USS Horace Bass,
The KEEL was laid in ‘44
APD would be her class.
With a crew of over 200 strong,
But for most, their first time out.
In the weeks and months ahead,
They’d learn what “WAR” is all about.
Headed out for the great Pacific,
Okinawa, at Hagushi anchorage.
371 Enemy planes shot down,
As our Fleet would vent her rage.
Then came those grueling days,
They called this duty, “picket line”.
The enemy must cross this space,
But heavy shelling is what they’d find.
There were occasional escort trips,
To Guam and then Saipan.
It broke the tension of daily fire,
Which was fine with every man.
Returning from such an escort trip,
A submarine blip came on sonar.
8 depth charges would be dropped,
Watch for oil slicks, on open water.
History was made April 25,
Bass had sunk a mid-size sub.
The only APD to, “git’er done”.
36 enemy, “sank” inside that tub.
It was the night of July 3 0,
Things were seeming very still.
When they heard the cough & sputter,
Of a crippled plane, out for the kill.
It caught them really by surprise,
Flying in darkness, fast and low.
Headed straight now toward the Bass,
Wanting to take its fatal blow.
The very last moment before impact,
That killer plane went o’er the side.
An aerial wire had caught his wheel,
Missing our ship, that “kamikaze” died.
One American killed, 3 badly injured,
More injured slight, but still could fight.
The Bass puts into Buckner Bay,
Ship & injured were soon made right.
They would be among the first,
Task Force 31 would find their way.
To take position way up front,
To occupy 'their' Tokyo Bay.
August 27, at 0810, Captain Flynn,
It’s official: Nagato admits defeat.
The last lone fighting battleship,
Of their Great Nipponese fleet.
Well now I pause to catch my breath,
Our young man will soon be home.
As thousands more hit U.S. soil,
So many of them, will feel “alone.”
Families were there, that’s true,
And friends, now by the score.
But they had not seen the suffering,
The deaths, and so much more.
* * * * *
Written by oldbuck to record for his
growing family, The story of his father,
and the brave fighting crew of the
* * * USS Horace A. Bass * * *
The Lobsterman
She sits alone, hands gripping her coffee cup
Staring out the window at the mist that shrouds the village,
Watching lazy rivulets of moisture meander down the glass
Where is he she wonders, her imagination fearing the worst
She brightens at the crunching sound of footsteps
Approaching up the cottage walk
The door opens, he's home, filling the room with his presence
He removes his slicks as the oceans scent permeates the kitchen
"You're late, I kept your supper on the burner, sit down and I'll get you a plate"
He drops into a chair, acknowledging her offer with a smile
"The traps were light today" he says, "my catch didn't cover the fuel"
He starts to eat the meal she placed before him, his thoughts lost within himself
"Tommy came home from school today, excited about a field trip" she says,"asked if he
could go"
"Its gonna cost $20. I told him I'd talk to you about it"
He looks at her and she can see the pain in his eyes, the stress lines on his face
His eyes red rimmed from too little sleep and too much worry
"I've got to pay my stern-men come Friday, and a payment on the boat is coming due
Might have to let one go til things get better, but a lot less traps I'll be able to pull
Can't make no promises about the field trip, but I'll see what I can do"
He pushes back from the table, says "I'm gonna go take a shower now"
She waits til he comes back to the kitchen and they sit and talk quietly together
Abruptly he says "I'm thinking I may have to sell the boat and take a job in town"
She is startled by his statement, shocked he would consider such a thing
All he knows is lobstering and the sea runs in his veins. Her heart aches for him
"Why don't you sleep on it" she says. "You're exhausted, You need to rest"
Together they retreat to their bedroom, but sleep eludes them both
She lies there thinking how much she loves him, how hard he works to earn their
keep
He lies there thinking of tomorrow, wondering how much longer he can survive
She wakes before the dawn, the bed already empty,
He has departed for the harbor in the dimness of the morn
She knows the sea will always be his mistress, her siren song seducing him each day
She feels the helplessness and fear surround her, and she prays for a better catch
today
racing
burning rubber
smoke rolling from hot slicks
watching the track, at starting line
signals turning from red, yellow, then green
engine revved up, dumping the clutch
leg shaking, tires squalling
quickest wins first
racing
I’ve been sitting here so long,
My butts getting numb,
So I jump right up
And stick out my thumb.
He comes rolling down the street,
With the only smell of mention,
The noxious fumes; olfactory tension.
Now I’m not trying to make excuses.
But I Really needed to get to,
Lower Catoosas.
This dude with odiferous outlet
Was a goin’ my way.
If you think that was dumb,
Just listen to this:
It was a super-charged Edsel
With slicks on the rear,
It had the characteristic stench of,
Cheap, stinkin’ beer.
When I jumped in the car
He shot me the Bird,
And laid on me
These immortal words,
“Far in man…
Like what’s going off?”
I was stunned awhile
Had to catch my breath,
He looked at me with
A grin like death.
The smell was real,
The driver was not.
Like a bobble-head doll
On the dash installed.
I regained my feet,
Away from the freak,
“Thanks, but I’d rather walk”.
Weather looked upon not contemplating
Shores forgot, wisped away to beaches anew
This place that place, sea of blue
Set close not too far
voices in the wind here we are
Rods set tall and straight here it is
we will wait
Lines tightened, rods a bent
fresh bait with old scent
Slicks rolling in crests of waves
Just beyond a bubbling fish raves
Set the hook reel the line
Buddies of fish it's dinnertime