Best Tacks Poems
He's the class clown, full of hijinks and pranks,
Puts tacks on your seat, swallows fish from the tank.
He's full of you-know-what and vinegar, energy galore,
Will he act goofy today? -- Does a hungry lion roar?...
...Back at home, he trudges slowly through the side door,
A frown and fret on his heart, like a festering sore,
His mind a dark cavern, not a thing to live for.
He takes off his mask, the transition's complete,
'Cuz you can't be a clown when life's got you beat.
When you pack my luggage but won't pack my lunch
When you lock me out I get a hunch
When you put thumb tacks on the bathroom floor
I get the feeling you don't love me no more
I found hair remover in my can of Rogaine
The nail in my car seat caused me so much pain
When you microwave my favorite CD
I get the feeling you don't care for me
When you toss a salad but it's at my head
When you squeeze my neck until my face turns red
Then keep on squeezing until the red turns blue
I get the feeling that you think we're through
When you let the dog shred my brand new shoes
When you put a laxative in my jar of booze
When you say your nightmare began the day we met
I get the feeling that you are upset
When you cut off the arms on my overcoat
And try to put a rope around my throat
Then mix Ben Gay with my jock itch cream
I get the feeling you like to see me scream
When you lean an axe against the bedroom wall
And start putting needles in a voodoo doll
Then pull a knife and say come on let's play
I get the feeling I should go away
IV
A soul was broken to make room
For dusty halls and labyrinths.
A gossamer, nylon bed-sheet shroud
Enwraps the remnants of that mind.
And no excuses can be made;
This disease does not justify that one.
I do not sleep deeply, I do not wake easily,
I dream of cities built on sand,
Next to the swelling sea.
Oh, they should have lasted.
Why should they fall?
I dream of timber horses,
Brought between those city walls.
We should have known; we should have known better.
III
But, I am not an honest mystic;
Beware what you ask of me.
I will show truths within the liar's tapestry.
But, you will not believe; no, you cannot believe.
II
I howled for my motherland
When the mutiny began.
I heard the cry of treason; heard the cry and ran.
I saw blood be spilled,
Some of it my own, then
Felt the rest boil, that this could happen in my home.
I saw the battle through, until the very end,
Then wished the traitors pardoned,
Because they were my friends.
I
I cannot tell the difference
Between the sleeping and the dead,
So, I will dole out blankets, and keep the kettle on.
The streets are cracked and dirty,
And they all appear the same:
Shattered glass and roofing tacks
Where I place my bare and weary feet.
I don't want to go on.
But, I must rebuild; I must rebuild.
I have no grass to lay,
The trees and flowers will not grow,
So, I shall use nothing, but mortar, brick, and stone.
It's not the same; it is not the same,
But, I shall call it home.
Early in the mourning she rose
She wood fined her boat
Wear she rose across the see two the sure
Their she mustard all her mite
And toad the boat on the beech
Butt if the thyme was write she tide it two a boy
She could hardly weight
Four she nose she will sea her suite sun
They wood sit on a bolder, brake sum bred
Then they eight a hole pair
Her sun called her a deer
He tolled her when he urns enough doe
Ore got sum tacks witch was dew
He wood by her a flour at the bizarre
Witch could be tide in her hare
The cent of the rows wood bee sew sheikh
One knight he said she wood prophet
If she past buy a different root
He new the currant could get ruff
The whether was no longer fare and getting two chilli
She road away into the missed
Aisle meat ewe next weak he balled until he was horse
He trussed he wood see her next weak
Only Homo’s ‘Aloud’ – Jerry T Curtis
23rd March 2015
~awarded 1st place
I am but a slave among lives hidden features
Who cares what I crave midst these two-legged creatures
I crave superb polish and fine furniture wax
Extremely strong wood glue and upholstery tacks
To be moved more toward the shade and less in the sun
To have a tung oil bath, ah, now that would be fun
I crave to be gently rocked and read to again
Like when grandpa was alive and Jimmy was ten
But most of all to stay in my room at the keep
And be warmed by the fire until I fall asleep
THE MAN WHO DREAMED HIS LIFE AWAY
When I was young the Moon was lifted
Hung with tacks and thread
On a mystical ceiling of dreams
She in her skyward place I in my bed
We lay so tightly wed we two sure lovers
That all my years flew round passed us by
While from out our eyes some angels gathered dust
At length proud man at work by day by night
His busy light in flood on tissue walls
Tried describe to she and me a smoking glory in steel
And a prophet raved – “Hear! Heed!
Faith is the one checkered King
On this fantasian board a playing.”
But I like my Moon bearing such pale light
Long dead a mere reflection of life
Was old and could not rise
*spot poetry written in 15 minutes or less about any random subject
There lay a button,
'neath the weather beaten tile,
Lay in it's dust, shadowed crust,
it had been there quite a while.
Hopeless trust amongst the feet
that scattered it abroad,
It dodged and hid itself for keeps,
in hopes 'twould not be trod.
It kept itself a distant force,
this button in the tile,
I picked it up to change its pace
and placed it in the pile,
Of buttons in my sheltered home;
'twould be so happy there
But who was I to criticize,
or place it anywhere?
Perhaps it was quite happy,
in its home away from tacks,
So I turned around,
and put it down,
It was happy to be back.
Moral: Don't assume that changing ones'
surroundings are always what THEY desire.
Talked to a fisherman
He said he hadn’t had a bite in days…so I bit him
Hickory dickory dock
The mice ran up the clock
The clock struck one…
If he clears concussion protocol he’ll start tomorrow
Mary had a little lamb
…and mashed potatoes too.
One potato, two potato, three potato, four
That’s all I could afford so I walked out of the store
Walked into a church. There sat a tethered parrot on a perch.
With a wily rasp he asked if I could “un-tithe” him
Purchased a pack of condoms
The sales clerk said: “that’ll be $6.95 plus tax”
I replied: “forget the tacks, I’ll tie them on”
Beautiful is your foot with the stabbing nails.
The yellow and green ones that have never been cut.
Gorgeous is your gaping mouth with the missing teeth.
And your big and hairy smelly monster butt.
My lady, my love, my dragon queen troll.
You can never be too fat or chunky or slimy.
My one and only, professional flatulent princess,
Your smell calls me to you, and your hair, it’s blimey!
Beautiful are your clogged-up ears full of wax,
Beautiful is your nose, full of snot pure and yellow.
Beautiful is my lady, whose toenails claw like tacks.
I am your he-monster, a lively, happy fellow!
Not advertising that flippant flick. I just want to know
where my blooming flivver is. It ruffles my feathers no
end to find out, when exiting the embassy,
that my buggy's whereabouts are a mystery.
I must meet Sherry 'cause her right toe
wants a sweet kiss. Did the camel tow
my car? That blasted mammal! Sherry's dear
foot can't wait! Please do not tell me the deer
took my buggy! That son of a Witch
would fine
me with a very pricey mulct which
isn't fine!
Not another loathsome tax
to put up with! Oh no, Lord, please!
I beg thou hearken to my pleas!
Now, let's come down to tin tacks.
I need my bloody car! A choice bass
cooked by Sherry awaits me. The crass
specimen who's got my car is so base,
and I'm so cross! The camel has a bass
voice that creeps me out! I do not want to
deal with him. I cannot even stomach two
secs the sight of the deer. He's ugly too.
II.
On returning to his flat, mad as a goat,
Ivo found on the door, the following note:
Dear Ivo,
I hereby inform you that your awfully and
illegally parked streetcar has been impounded.
Come pick it up at the City Hall and
bring cash with you for there's a fine. 8 hundred
clams.
Much love,
The Crane from Ukraine.
Blimey! That heartless crane! I won't give her a buck!
Now I know the ruffians weren't the camel and the buck.
Well, let's be fair, it wouldn't be cricket to pass the buck.
I didn't park properly. It's my fault. That's it. I will not buck
at the fine.
III.
I got my car back for free. How? l told the crane;
"I'm in a hurry to meet Sherry who needs me to canoodle
her feet. I'll have tonight for dinner a bass fish with noodles."
"If a foot massage like the ones I used to get in Ukraine.
you give me, I will be happy to call off the mulct." said she.
I pleased her feet very much. She loved it. Then we got some tea.
IV.
I'm on my way home to eat some bass,
with my beloved and awesome lass.
It's so nice to be able to dine
without having paid that gruesome fine.
Her home was my escape
It was an awesome retreat
Full of wonders and surprises
Green glass and old lace
Cut glass and fireplace
A real ticking clock
Fresh laid eggs
Queen Anne legs
And a cracket by the fire
The dresser, complete
With comb, brush and mirror
Tablecloths and silver
A teapot swathed in wool
The folded newspaper
Anchored by a Parker Pen
Reveals a half-completed crossword
Sugar cubes and butter dish
Flank the silver toastrack
But she is gone.
Her essence removed
Like a dying candle, snuffed.
Yes, there is value here
There are pieces which I could keep
To remind me of her.
And yet, as the vultures scramble
for the costliest heirlooms
My heart leads me to the pantry
Row upon row of jars, large and small
Neatly stacked on narrow shelves
Each with a handwritten label
I scan the rows from left to right
But nothing seems of any worth
There are jams and preserves
Marmalades and Pickles
buttons of every size and shape
Ribbons and bows, tacks and collar studs
A myriad of things long removed
from our history and understanding
but my eyes eventually fall on a dusty jar
in the darkest corner, almost hidden from view
and I know I’ve found my treasure
let them have the Wedgwood and the Ivory
they can fight over the antiques
In my trembling hand is held a jar
Which speaks more of Gran than anything else
Gently, I brush my thumb across the dusty label
And tears are born as I read the words:
“Bits of string ( too short to use )”
There, parked in rows
like overused commas
or German prose
or mothballed bombers
lay ranks of rats
as if on drill,
but quite as dead
as vaudeville.
Someone had slit
each ventral hide
and pulled it back
to peek inside.
And there they lay,
flat on their backs,
guts on display,
paws pinned by tacks.
Ashamed, they were,
like party-crashers,
with gaping fur,
like little flashers.
Those organs, packed
so coral-fine,
would soon be hacked
by Class B-9.
Unseeing eyes
stared at the ceiling,
but woke in me
a fellow-feeling.
We’re all the same.
We want to live.
Why dish out blame?
Why bring a sieve,
sort sheep from goats,
grandly decide
who lives and dies?
To my distress,
those little guys
with upturned throats
and parted coats
were nothing less
than crucified.
on behalf of the little guy
deep behind enemy territory
welcome to the nameless republic
all good capitalists want a monopoly
all good physicians need you sick
the National Antidote Party broke down the door
I told them everything I know
so they let me off the meat hook
loosened my bindings and necktie
hammered nails in my head instead
powerful radio transmitter nails
don't get too close I'll bend your spoon
gimme a shot of Moonbeam barkeep
and a round for my ill-bandaged crew
we'll drink to the muse Pandemonia
don't get too close she’ll bend yer crank
with another specious spectacle
not necessarily Beauty's anointed
but a piston riding party girl nonetheless
I let you touch happy place
and now my theory on the blinding of Oedipus
which first off requires a family unit
for the inherent predispositions of childbirth
they made me walk upon magic carpet tacks
so me and my echo are here a little late
and a little paraplegic and screaming headaches
this is after all a holy epic of pilgrimage
from the sands of Delirium to the banks of Delusia
a simultaneous ambiance one for each eye
an ancient art form somewhat updated
coordinating the cascades of impulses
yet still black as the inside of a cow I mean crow
this epic deals with a touchy subject
intercession of the gods
grab your hat mister
we're going for a little joy ride
where anything including countries
can be bought sold and stolen
by the mutilators of comparison
hardwired and proud of it the fools
built for Survival the TV show
but times change and
survival meant finding parking
where one can escalate from emaciation
to farting obesity overnight
unrecognized even when brightly illuminated
we know only one thing for certain
that the Universe is knowable
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
Gathering dust on my bookshelf,
Old textbooks from my past major,
Reveal something about myself
(Never read again, I’d wager).
Attached in place by hidden tacks,
Gathering dust on my bookshelf,
Paper mache’ Mardi Gras masks
(I never really wore myself).
Gardening books share the top shelf
With outdated references;
Gathering dust on my bookshelf,
Indicating preferences.
Genealogy, mysteries,
Fantasy tales of dwarf and elf,
And science fiction histories--
Gathering dust on my bookshelf.
No more money, no more quarters.
Only nickels, dimes and pennies
Left at the bottom of our jar.
But not to worry my dear…
Tomorrow is another day.
No more fresh bread, no more butter.
Only millet, crumbs and scraps
Left at the bottom of our cupboard.
But not to worry my dear…
Tomorrow is another day.
No more books, no more tables.
Only wall tacks, dust and the floor
Left at the bottom of our property list.
But not to worry my dear…
Tomorrow is another day.
No more free time, no more pleasure.
Only worry, woe and concern
Left at the bottom of our hearts.
But not to worry my dear…
Tomorrow is another day.