Best Stocked With Poems
Paradise
I ramble and marvel on the alluring paradise I reside
Tall green pine trees spear to reach to the heavens gratified
A Few scattered pine that have lost the will to survive
Sounds of the wildlife the forest obscures and they thrive
The wondrous mountain range with tall timber surrounds me, enticing to explore
Lush green, brown grass and enchanting flowers in bloom I spoor
The crystal clear rivers and ponds stocked with a rainbow of fish in sight
The clear blue sky with scattered clouds and birds in flight
Through the high brush, I saunter enjoying my paradise, below
I catch sight of a couple, midway in a wallow in the meadow
Feasting on salal and brush
I rush to the underbrush
At a distance I hear the bugle of an old elk calling and gathering his harem
I wonder if I should challenge the old elk but his way up on the rim
By: Eve Roper
1/24/2015
Just down the gravel road a piece is an old-time country store.
On its saggin' shelves are things you won't find much anymore.
Ladies in bright calico barter with Mr. Draper their eggs and butter,
As they visit neighbors on Saturday nights amid the piles of clutter!
Menfolk lounge on benches in front of the store to discuss the price of hogs,
Argue the merits of John Deere tractors and who has the finest huntin' dogs.
The kids were given fifty-cents and shooed off to the movin' pitcher show.
Later they'll meet at Bruce's Deli Shoppe for ice cream and cups o' joe!
Shoppin' carts or computers ain't used in the store owned by Mr. Draper.
He grabs things off the shelf and totes the bill on scraps of butcher's paper.
Snoozin' nigh the glowin' potbelly stove is Spooks, Mr. Draper's hound.
His inscrutable cat, Wilbur, sprawls upon a barrel of pickles a-sleepin' sound!
Ah, the variety of interestin' stuff available in his store is so replete.
Fels Naptha, Oxydol and Lifebuoy soaps as well as pickled pigs feet,
Wrigley's, Black Jack, Beamans and Clove chewin' gums are on the shelf,
Plus Clark, Power House and Walnetto candies to satisfy yourself!
Farmers keep his bins stocked with fresh roastin' ears and sweet potaters,
Rutabagas, green onions, rhubarb and luscious beefsteak tomaters.
If you can tolerate squeaky floors and Mr. Draper's old-fashioned ways,
Drop by and savor the nostalgic ambience of his store one of these days!
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
Entry for Kelly Deschler's "Just Down The Road" Contest
Mom, I’m Coming Home
Four simple words
Or so one would think
But not when your Son is a Marine
He is not coming home from college for the summer
He is coming home from long days and nights of training
He is not coming with a car load of everything he owns
Instead he will have a military issued backpack slung over one shoulder
He will be home for a handful of days
In which he will cram in seeing family and friends every second of the day
Grandma will be baking all his favorite sweets
I will have the fridge stocked with all the meals he has missed
He will crash on the couch a time or two
I will capture a quick pic
We will sit and talk as he fills us all in on his life
As I say, please tell me more
Because I don’t know the next time I will hear him say
Mom, I’m coming home
Jennifer Kiesling © 2014
La Conner is such a pretty small town
That has grown and has changed for many years.
One of the first settlements in the state,
It is so much more than it first appears.
Many buildings from the earlier town
Have been recorded as historic places.
Residents point them out to visitors
With unconcealed pride upon their faces.
The town is surely an artist's mecca.
You'll find them smocked and painting everywhere.
But no painting quite catches the aura
That permeates La Conner's ocean air.
It has become a yearned for destination,
Where vacationers determine to come.
Visitors fill its one shopping street in summer
And keep coming when the summer is done.
Some shops are stocked with finest of fashions,
Where every woman is eager to shop.
Fine art attracts through other big windows.
You'll find that each place is a worthwhile stop.
The town is perched upon wide hillside,
With channel of water on West Side.
North, South and East meet the big fertile fields.
Town of La Conner is contained inside.
Fine yachts and fishing boats drop their anchors
At docks located on the Channel side.
One can almost feel the town's slow rocking
At exact moments of incoming tide.
The lovely high Rainbow Bridge spans the Channel
Connecting La Conner and Swinomish
Indian Reservation across the way.
On either bank one could just stop to fish.
Written 8/25/14
A pool table lined with blue felt
sports a lively, raucous game,
ivory cracks, the men drink,
shoot the bull while they play.
A humidor lined in fine wood
stocked with Cuban cigars,
a smoking lounge grandiose,
ceiling painted like the stars.
A bar right out of the Wild West
serves beer and old whiskey,
an insurance guy loosing at darts
to a bookworm with a PhD.
A library stocked with real books,
no paperbacks or e-books there,
classics vaunted alongside the
spy novels and western fare.
Gym in the basement, no windows,
where everyone toils and sweats,
a sauna large, and no member
has grown tired of a steam yet.
Upstairs is the banquet hall,
used once a month for feasts,
where steak is served bleeding red,
no concoctions of soy or yeast.
On the third floor, rooms to crash
if you’re visiting from out of town,
or if you’ve drank a bit much,
relax, and lay down you head.
Fixtures in brass and mahogany,
reminders of more elegant times,
side rooms for talking business,
a cellar filled with fine wines...
This is our place, our shelter,
when the world rears and ugly head,
yet at least once a month feminists
show up outside and wish us dead.
They like to shout and chant a lot,
with their one word, ‘patriarchy,’
never seeming to realize
their protests are pure malarkey.
This world had lady-only gyms,
and female-only hair salons,
they never decry that as sexism,
they just go along to get along.
Turn-about must be fair play,
so we made ourselves this place,
what really bothers them about us
is the mere existence of male space.
But this club is a private affair,
so they’re wasting their powers,
they have places where men don’t tread,
so this place, this is ours.
pantoum
Some sixty years past when Paw owned a store.
A penny case held toys and balloons
and there was wrapped candy with gum galore.
Got a penny? Might as well ask for the moon.
A penny case held toys and balloons;
I rarely had pennies clasped in my hands.
Got a penny? might as well ask for the moon;
Paw was too busy stocking boxes and cans.
I rarely had pennies, did have two hands;
pennies were promised if I'd sweep the floor
and keep the shelves stocked with boxes and cans.
Pennies were paid for a hour's work or more.
Pennies were promised if I'd sweep the floor
to earn for wrapped candy and gum galore.
Pennies were paid for a hour's work or more.
some sixty years past when Paw owned a store.
Two days have passed and its not over
I'm still ravaged by my gory deed of inaction
Been praying to the gods asking mercy
To forgive me and grant me guts and to be swifter in action
I live in a country unsafe for women
Laws and its protectors are a dicy affair
Always frightened of getting trapped
In a horrific misadventure on the streets
Shocked and shaken up after watching a late night movie
A nerve wrecking, true story on honour killing
I took long to doze off only to wake up before I slept
Foggy and heavy in mind wondered what was happening
I could hear a girl shouting and a man yelling
Got out of my bed and tried to hear from where
The heart rending cries were coming much beyond midnight hour
I walked to the window but couldn't see through the thick creepers
Rushed to the lobby windows for a clearer view
Saw a young girl sitting on the road before the car in tears
Her husband -presumably with the authority he was using-
Angered and abusive was asking her to get into the car
She refused and kept pleading that her arm was broken
She refused to be seated and was given a tight slap
She was just howling that she was in pain as her arm was broken
A lady who I thought was her mother was foolishly consoling her
I wasn't sure if she was drunk after late Christmas celebrations
Or a regular victim of a suffering male chauvinistic abuser
Before I could wake up another neighbour she was shoved
Into the car and driven off and I couldn't see her mother anywhere
I'm guilt ridden that I didn't act quickly to save her
Keep wondering which house she belonged to
Has she been hospitalised or suffering more brutalities?
Now I'm stocked with helplines, I pray to the gods to make me quick in action
December 27, 2015
Contest: Deep and Dark
Sponsor: Broken Wings
The stores are stocked with chips and beer
And chicken wings galore
For munching during Super Bowl.
Well, who could ask for more?
I’m not a football fan, but yes,
I’ll watch it for a while
In hopes that a commercial
Will induce a laugh or smile.
Tonight at game time, most TV’s
Will show this football fare
But as to who will win, my guess
Is very few will care.
The Dragonbone Chair
Mr Williams that's the guy, first name Tad
Wrote an epic story about a little lad
A layabout, a scruff, a hero in the making
In a time when elven magic is awaking
Though he labours in the scullery, he's born of noble line
His father was a great man, we should take it as a sign
So he grew up in the palace, and sometimes he would dare
To sneak into the throne room and sit upon that chair
Of dragon bone they say it's made
A beast destroyed in the crusade
Though myths and legends time may fade
The dragonbone chair has always stayed
My shelf is stocked with just these books
Please don't give me funny looks
I need no other than these four
Now leave me, let me read some more
For the What Is My Theme? contest
Theme : Your favourite book or writer
Choice : The Dragonbone Chair by Tad Williams (Sequence of four books)
A long-standing landmark that I often visited as a tyke,
Was Bert's Country Store just a ways up Dalton Pike.
Dalton could be missed if your eyes you'd briefly close.
The population at that crossroads "town" was thirty or so, I suppose.
The inviting porch had some benches where loafers hung around.
To enter the store you stepped over Bert's snoozing hound.
Winter days you'd find the rabble huddled 'round the stove,
Where discussions of crops, good whiskey and women throve!
An old cowbell jingled upon opening the sagging screen door.
Once inside you trod upon a squeaky, bare, wooden floor.
'Twas a wonder that Bert could find anything 'midst all the clutter,
But in a trice he'd find anything for which you would utter!
Bert had no tolerance for frills or the latest fancy decor.
You'd risk tripping over barrels and rope coiled upon the floor.
The sagging shelves were stocked with canned goods and lanterns,
Wheels of cheese, muskrat traps and the latest sewing patterns.
He sometimes sold hot dogs and sodas under the counter,
As long as the county health officials he didn't encounter!
The Hoosier "town" of Dalton ain't listed on the maps as heretofore,
And, alas, Bert nor his old country store exist there anymore.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Dead Man’s Prologue
Apologies I can’t be with you all,
I was un-expectantly called away.
Without prior notice or warning,
Urgent meeting with overnight stay.
Thank you for a marvelous turn out,
Deeply honoured, feeling so proud.
Enjoy my life in raucous celebration,
Remembrance of joy, happy crowd.
Surprisingly I made it to Heaven,
To be honest, It’s not bad up here.
We have Wi-Fi and all mod cons,
Even a fridge stocked with cold beer.
Time now to end this broadcast,
Losing connection dear family & friends.
So grateful for the times we shared,
Goodbye now as my mortal life ends.
*Holly (Vault Dweller)*
Hey bartender,
Who's that girl over there,
The one nursing the whiskey in the corner,
She has that press hat one that makes her look...strangely debonair.
*Bartender*
That'll be our little Ms. Piper Wright,
She runs the local paper,
Spends all day looking for a story then types the rest of the night,
Bit standoffish at first but quite the looker.
*Holly*
Hahah I'll say,
Just look at that red trench-coat and suit,
And that piercing stare,
Comes off tart as a mutfruit,
But it just bounces right off her wavy hair,
And goooosssh those lips,
Their silky sheen betrays the steel of her gun,
Dangling from her buxom hips,
Armed with an unabashed tongue,
Clearly her deadliest weapon,
Complimenting her feisty spirit perfectly preserved in an hourglass figure both fair and young,
Fully stocked with an arsenal of wisecracks, worthy armaments for free speech's most sensuous bastion,
Avid journalistic endeavors personify her inquisitive nature,
Reporting the most controversial conspiracy or the latest Publick Occurrences,
With jaw-dropping headlines fueled by her insatiable determination not even the mayor can escape her snooping typewriter,
How this vixen has eluded both the aging of time and voraciousness of lovers is beyond me,
And I think I'm allllmost drunk enough to go over and talk to her,
Should only take me another couple of rounds before I'll have the guts to...ah who am I kidding,
I'm over 200 years old there's no way she'd ever go for a pre-war relic regardless of who well preserved.
*Bartender*
News flash buddy, she's single,
Read today's headlines and you might find the subtle hints,
Listen to her playful comments of life and lust weaved in-between the innocuous babble,
The words may take their place in the articles but her true message is hidden underneath the paper's yellow tint,
She's young and lookin for love just the rest of us here in the Wasteland,
So what've you got to loose hotshot go get her,
Or do you need another round on the house give you the upper hand?
*Holly*
Well damnit bartender one more round it is,
If you don't from her till morning it'll be one of two things,
Either I've been utterly rejected and lying in a ditch,
Or I'll be too busy ignoring the world trying to make her mine.
1
I came walking on daytime’s wake
a pigment dry palette of dreams
filled my pockets with hope
digitally mastered visions of glory
fuel for the broken fires of passion
each step of the journey a trial
each path a temptation to believe
tomorrow will be the end of today
where strangers I have met
on the road to distant vanishing points
in step with eternal drums
dogs who beg for mercy crumbs
from the master’s table
for those who find the empty stable
I am Cerulean
the long distance voyager
2
robed in sky blue fusion fabric
patterned after ancient promises
steeped in salt flats time trials
to set new records for obedience
speed the nemesis of costly delay
all for a search without ending
a city a gate a massive pearl
wisdom not her only treasure
lost in the turmoil of rhetoric
and endless spiral speculation
I took a turn to the narrow left
and hid my face in the borrowed cleft
for fear of judgment’s bloody arm
to raise my banner of alarm
I am Cerulean
the long distance voyager
3
only I know the forest highways
oceans running long beach shores
snow capped mountain hideaways
among the thickets of sleepless nights
stone fences closing war torn borders
to the eyes of media madness
who cannot close the credibility gap
between their surgically guarded ears
and fumes that fill reality playgrounds
bursting veins with profitable intentions
spilling children’s crying laughter
among medicated claims of peace hereafter
I know the headlines are for eating
the taxman’s trade for cheating
I am Cerulean
the long distance voyager
4
meadows green with limestone caverns
rivers stocked with seamless flowers
valleys cut by deep dish pizza
fountains fill the blackened void
fragments of imagination
comfort words in bits and bytes
nightime memory analysis
of what I thought I could see
beyond flesh and bone and mortar
casino lights with smoking embers
easy picking on empty heart strings
wishful thinking on eagles’ wings
only to hear a pounding hollow echo
let it go let the whole thing go
I am Cerulean
the long distance voyager
Poetry is intended for restlessness,
too much sweetness drives away poetry...
You can be pregnant with ideas,
stocked with what is benefit and write
emotionally without stoppage,
but the unusual metaphor is missing...
to the one that outlines the poetry...
Behold, the singing of joyful countries
it's sad...
The singing of sad countries is content...
There then lies the poetry that reflects
what the soul does not sight...
Poetry is not sympathetic text
in pretty words that appear
always full of emotions... and with
melodramatic sweetness... lack the
high-sounding that the Greeks call Beauty,
when the imagery that materializes the mystery is lacking,
only through metaphor or metonymy,
it subverts the original meaning,
gaining in breadth and beauty...
That and poem with poetry...
The word has to come dressed as a party
the poetry is dressed in the real fantasy
that the figure of speech contains...
Poetry is immaterial...!
Slow Down
Recycled daily rotations
in and out we rush
so many aspects mapped out
break free
slow down
enjoy nature
it’s God given
adore a big ole sun
sedentary-ly
threshold-ed on a horizon
Enjoy a bony tree branch
Vogue-ing in the wind
Cry through
A Piano-ed Cannon D
Sway hips to a calypso beat
Rotate lips around honeysuckle
Munch a fruit
Plucked straight from topiary
Enjoy a cleavage-ed sky
Stocked with clouds fully fluffed
Gawk upward at stars burning
Aflame in a black beauty-ied dome
walk naked in some rain
Let it finger your Cumming sensibility
Play with your kids,
and be more silly and ridiculous than them
We rush to and from
missing a plethora of beauty
Acquire some excitement
jemmed is life
as we brand our foot-prints
transversely on life’s dewy grass
Enjoy the ride…….