Best Smattering Poems
If I write down words
that pour from me like
water rushing from a rusty gutter
carrying my cries in the flood
with decaying leaves and
the smattering off the roof
of droppings from so many
prominently perched pigeons,
is that a poetry of sorts?
If the aged shingled roof leaks
at its eaves (like my eyes)
when wind blows the rain
nearly horizontal and the house
beams creak and sound like
corroded hinges when
seldom-used doors are opened,
has a trope occurred?
And, is anything -- honestly --
more than almost senseless patter?
Does it really even matter?
Whenever my emotions are gathered pain side
down, a smattering of silent, shallow, cobweb shadows
wear me as woe’s weighty gown atop clouds blind
to rainbows where naught is wrought but gloom’s
sound, tempo fraught, inbound.
Did you tire of one President's lecturing and preaching?
Do you cringe at another's tweets, his lechery and "leechering?"
Then as George W Bush Jr's term fades from the annals of recency
Let us recall the stirring words of this man of abiding decency
"Junior" as the USA's President was a bit of an anomaly
As he observed: "I know how hard it is to put food on your family." (Jan, 2000)
It was rather hard to take his Presidency all too seriously
After this: "I know the human being and fish can coexist." (Sept., 2000)
For education, he and Laura shared a passion, a yearning
To wit: "Rarely is the question asked: Is our children learning?" (Jan, 2000)
Of course, Bush could also be sharp as a tack, downright uncanny
Like the time he bragged, "They misunderestimated me!" (Nov, 2000)
And after eight years in office, "W" had become quite the orator
As seen in this reflection: "I think I was unprepared for war, --er." (Dec, 2008)
So there you have it, a smattering of evidence
~ That speaking the King's English is not required of a President
If Summer were a color
Then it might be yellow-green—
Turned amber by the breath of fall,
Of the seasons in between.
And if Autumn were a color
Would it not be orange, or red?
A smattering of scarlet flame
In the distant Summer’s stead.
Winter is more a pallid shade,
I think it might be gray—
As the night grows ever longer,
And as shorter grows the day.
But Springtime favors every hue,
Dabs of violet, green and gold—
Even as the wildflowers
Impatiently unfold.
Till again is framed the Summer,
Rather proudly on display—
As the nights grow ever shorter,
And as longer grows the day!
“January brings the snow, makes our feet and fingers glow.”
—Sara Coleridge
Winter Magic
Something wholly bright
outside my window. What a sight!
Crisp, fallen, new.
Oh! How the smattering of flakes grew!
The contrast against the night,
so angel white, a virgin light.
No human feet
have impressed the Winter sheet.
I pull on each boot.
I give a holler and hoot.
So excited am I, to expand each lung,
to catch manna on my tongue.
My time has come... my time has come
To rise and meet the day.
In hope the woe that follows me
Has been lost and gone astray.
As I have a desperate need to make amends
To burnish up my life.
And fight those fiendish hounds from Hell
Who wish from me another mortal slice.
My time has come... my time has come
To accomplish many things.
And make such time that I have left
Worthy to stir an Angel's heart to sing.
But time has never been kind to me
So I must wrestle with its claws.
In hopes to usurp a brief respite
And further hamper Nature's laws.
My time has come... my time has come
To seek out and find my Son.
And tell him of the pride I feel
Before my time is done.
And pray he may forgive me
For my many foolish ways.
And gather about him the memories
Of my hope for better days.
My time has come... my time has come
To further count the cost.
Where my spirit soars to right past wrongs
And find dear friends whom I have lost.
As I hope to find sweet salvation
Tucked within their warm embrace.
And with their help, a fervent desire to sample
A smattering of God's eternal Grace.
My time has come... my time has come
To settle up my debts.
As it is time to pay the piper
And surrender to the One I most respect.
So with one last thought of tasks undone,
My mortal corpse I shed.
For as you see... my time has come...
I now lie here cold and dead.
(One of my rare attempts at macaronic writing--the reasons for it may be found in the context of the poem. Only a smattering of knowledge of Spanish is needed)
Madre de Dios! Morning already?
The mud, still damp upon my pantalones--
how can I face another day?
My niña is so thin.
Two little oranges are not enough for her,
before she rides the bus to the escuela.
I must work harder, still--
hacer algunos dollars more
hacer su vida para el mejor,
si puedo.
I remember
when like my niña, I was young..
We did not work so hard,
y sobre las alturas
every breeze was cool...
not like this steaming
California campo
by the sea.
I remember, as we worked,
how we were singing,
'De la sierra morena, Cieli...'
Now there is no heart, no time to sing.
El jefe blanco will be angry
if I make him late.
The sun is high upon this field.
My back hurts me so much
from bending. Ay!
En muchas horas I can sleep again
and stop remembering.
Jesús amado, en mi sueño
solamente, take me home
...............
to my brown mountain.
~
What I like about you is your look of surprise
The smattering of sunlight on your white gem face
The wistful expression when your heart is in that other place.
There is not a single fleck of color in your ink-black eyes
Yet in them I see the clearness of the sea, and of a late sunrise.
Sincerity so rare, like beams of a lighthouse in starless space
I want to paint you in a room full tattered furniture and soiled lace
in rags, like a pauper, with only your two lanterns obscuring the guise.
Nowadays you want to be tall, broadening and browning in the sun
Practicing the haughty smirk, the jaunty gait of their game
You can’t quite master it, though with all your might you try
But when I caught you unguarded with your pretenses undone;
glimpsed the innocence that illuminated when I called your name
I realized your pureness of heart no rags could defy.
The tinkerer and his tool kit
turned a tarnished old key
which wound forgotten wheels
rusted and bound and…
A little oil should do,
a slight smattering of grease
perhaps, is all it will take
to recall the lost…lost…
Now what’s come of my lens?
Ah, yes, you see? Do you see?
There, my lad, it’s right there!
The heart of the matter…
Now, what’s the matter?
I think it can be fixed, lad.
But not today…tomorrow!
Tomorrow it shall be!
A little more rust,
a little more forgetting
a little less vision
and…
Let’s leave it be for now.
Everything is ok.
8/14/16
My Big Dreams
sleep on the wings of saints.
They become vaporous
and airborne
colliding with
baptismal raindrops
balancing themselves
on a million
patterned snowflakes
to only then slip, slither
and snuggle
into the bosoms
of future white rosebuds.
Burning dreams
glitter in cahoots with Polaris
creating a brouhaha
loud enough to wake the dead.
Their dressing rooms
may be seen in the tunnels
of L. Frank Baum's
ebon cyclones
or possibly meandering
between the fragmented lines
of a Lewis Carroll novel.
Carefree and capricious
I see them
listening to the silence
near twilight;
secretly conversing
with rainbows at dawn.
Those precocious pixies
seeing me laugh aloud
during unexpected sun showers;
as I gleefully observe
a smattering of umbrella-less fools
being gloriously
splashed and plunked by
My Big Dreams.
Memories float away,
catching sunlight as they sway,
a cloud of spent dandelions
dancing on the breeze,
like a blizzard in summer,
a storm without the freeze.
Numbness settles in
with its needles and its pins,
robbing feeling, looting hope,
weeding dreams before they grow
like a smattering of stars
snuffed by the city's glow.
Gentle mists from a smattering of clouds
Struggling to make their way to the ground
The sun is having its way far, far above
Sending rays of shimmering searing down,
Turning the droplets into a rising steam.
Darker clouds gathering on the far horizon
Chant unbridled threats at the summer sky
Invite the weakling mists to make another try
Challenging the partly cloudy summery day,
But clearly western weather is coming our way.
Quickly the thunderheads make their move
Again empowering the tiny droplets of mist
A gusty cool wind gushes in from the north,
Chasing me inside with a sudden downpour.
The power is flickering, the lights gone off
Strong bursts of thunder are accompanied
With frightening streaks of lightning bolts,
And, just as quickly, the rain clouds move on
To dump their anger on another destination.
The lights come back on and the noises stop
As the sun comes out, and the humidity drops.
Written June 2, 2022
With the world in lockdown
What is left to do ?
But log onto soup
And write about it
It's a sorry state of affairs
In solitary confinement
Such as doing simple math to
while the time away
Like
Counting how many sheets are on
a single toilet roll
Or
How long it takes for a kettle to boil
Or
Just how many repeats there are
these day's on television
It's at times like this i suppose we should be grateful for the internet
Even if it mostly doom and gloom
and tales of woe in our future ahead
With just a smattering of Fake News
for good measure
And 1 or 2 funny videos of cat's and dog's
For the loneliest of them all
With no family or friends
To count upon
It had not rained for months
the bush was dry as a tinder
clouds appeared in far distance
to once more fade and vanish
The sun beating hotly relentlessly down
everything resting in shade so sparse
the trees without their canopy of leaves
grass dry yellow and brown
A carelessly chucked piece of glass
sets the grass ablaze, soon all is burning,
flames moving on devouring all in their path
those too slow ending as blackened cinders
Flames that devoured and raged
devastating all as it pillages on
all in its way left as burnt embers
blackened landscape wherever you look
Can land so destroyed live again?
or will it turn into a dust bowl?
a breath of hope blows in from the east
a small smattering of rain gently falls
In its wake comes rebirth new shoots appear
soon the earth is responding with growth
a cleansing has occurred ripping out the dead
soon most signs of the fire will be covered over
All that is left are blackened gum trees
skeletons on the horizon a timely warning
that nature rules here and will take a hand
in keeping her world fresh vibrantly alive
True add verse situation,
whereat me mission
trans send dint state didst ache
after yours truly nearly
did nearly break
chassis 'pon took drastic
over corrective measure,
not quite August,
nor jejune piece of cake,
while rounding raised
curbed contra corner
suddenly felt wrath of wife quake,
viz passenger rear tire
gone flat as a pancake
impresario found myself
hearing Thus Spake,
Zarathustra, when in truth...
twas ma constricted trach.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Some weeks back
acting so cool and chic - bank
king all bravado, machismo
self importance, and frank
lee babbling like a cripple creek
off by a black key with Hank
Williams tune imagining
myself swaggering like a lank
key trump petting Don
(feigning faw being "Beefy") plank
walking lampoon able
laughingstock Freaky, thank
less as a lapsed worn eraser head
pencil necked Geek yank
key doodle dandy hood be
forced to do penance as cap
pit dull leotarded asinine
arthouse flop, where nary any words
(worth their weight in gold)
described my benign
behavior, NOT even
smattering of unflattering deign
nig grating hammock colorful expletives,
that would find an ensign
sailor to blush at my inept
shameless travesty over the line
utter in apropos totally tubularly
moronic juvenile mine
ness zero car raze zee antics,
didst drive my doppelganger nine
tee bajillion miles away in search
of another auto body – pine
ning for newer model
then a 2009 Hyundai Sonata sign
ning off contract with this
stunt driver wannabe
unimpressively try'n
to act the blithe dare devil,
while thee spouse didst wine
and scream more'n bloody Mary
as the gunned axle nearly broke
trying my damn nest to
"FAKE" dagger a type cloak
his husband resembled a fool,
where angels fear to tread didst evoke
unsuccessful, unstinting, and unsparing
unstrung epithets of colorful expletives
unsuitable for poetic folk
boot urgent prayer went out
to incredible Hulk
Hogan, and/or even the ghost
of Andre The Giant, this haint no joke!