Best Tar Poems
We exist in space and time
invisible, unseen for who we
truly are exchanging
words for thoughts
never face-to-face
but touching just the same
vitriol tossed with the sweetness
fair barter for some form
of kind heaven exchanging
inclement weather
to the vestries of
each others’
netherworlds
divesting
tar and feathers
Candide Diderot. ‘24
head on.
THE RIVER OF TAR
The River Of Tar
By
Kevin L Fairbrother
The river of tar… an artery
A means to access the highways
Branching through capillaries of roads
Penetrating the Australian landscape
...
The river of tar weaves and wanders
Through cities, towns and villages
Along the coast, in the mountains
To the dessert land of the outback
…
The river of tar, provides the means
For a diverse population to live
A life blood for so many
Scattered through-out the land
…
The river of tar melds with the gravel
Reaching small towns away from the cities
Unites with the red dirt roads that access
Outback stations and dessert communities
…
The river of tar makes it possible, to
Grow and harvest the food we need
To mine and export the minerals
The fruit and vegetables that grow abundantly
…
The river of tar provides an access
To the ports to harvest the sea
For the tourists to experience
Our great Australian diversity
…
The river of tar a grey nomads dream
Living a life of adventure before dementure
Experiencing the pioneering spirit
Keeping so many small towns alive
…
The river of tar we owe our for-bares
The explorers, the pioneers, now long gone
Blazed the many roads we see today
Enabling everyone to see our great land
Grandma told it well.
Some missionaries
Visited her dad –
He was one deacon.
Everyone listened.
He let them teach.
All about God
And the iron rod
Deacons complained
Threatened him
Their mob came
Red -hot tar --
Kids learned
Dad’s strength
Stands!
1/13/2017
One Outrageous Story!
I remember Grandma telling me
about her dad, my great-grandfather.
back in the early 1900s
Of Pith and Tar
Leaves are burning, bleeding and turning
their insides all running out
I see the fires of forests churning
before the Lorax can shout
Towers and spires are pouring out gas
clouds tumbling over skies on the lake
students seem to be crying during Sunday mass
angry about their fathers being fake
The bushes had a dream one time
a future that could have been bright
but the bells have all begun to chime
waking them up in the chaos of this blistering night
I heard that there used to be hope
that somewhere in time there was a stitch
but I guess we missed the boat
because the roots are all drowning in black pitch
Pith and tar
gone so far
can't see the light of day
Bled so much
from devil's touch
nothing left but to pray
sorrows of the fir
the birch and the oak
heaven can't help anymore
because of the golden rules we broke
Pith and tar
lasting scar
can't believe we did this
Pith and tar
the land we marred
no more nature's bliss
my maiden had a kiss for me
but she left it under guard
protected by a juniper tree
one that is splintered and charred
So much for future
so little left to have to hold
the world tried to care and nurture
but all we had was coal and gold
the mountains are all felled
the valleys under tar and fires
we praised false gods and yelled
but all we are in truth are liars
tar dog tar dog where you be
he killing chicken like Wiley Coyote
wife yells you fetch him
for he eats more a them cookies
off I go low curse so she don't hear
dang flies he there alright
over hundred pound of black born trouble
rolling side to side can’t roll over he too fat
gut stink froth spit and feather coughs
dragging down fresh dry whites
he dances begs like some hippo in a tutu
comes up all happy yeah yeah then runs
back to tear up more chicken
white after red and black
chicken squawks and squeeze eyes pop
out the coop cracks
me happy I ain't got no chickens
next door not owning much as he figured
and the wife screams he ain’t got no license
to kill me yelling back
he don’t need no license
he county
A smile. It's hard to tell whether that smile
is genuine or just masking a plethora of
secrets. The sparkle in your eyes suggests
honesty, but the whites of your eyes are
stained with tiny red lightening bolts.
Sweetheart, what storms have you faced?
No one knows of the events you've
witnessed, the memories that you try to
repress. When people see a lost soul they
are quick to judge. She wishes someone
could walk a mile in her shoes, but the
shoes would break before the mile is up,
since they are too worn down from the
countless nights that she ran away, trying
to escape the hell that was her life.
Constantly, she dreams of a better life.
She wants to go to college and make an
honest living. But college costs money,
and no one wants to hire someone so
young...except for the men with the black
tar blood. And wandering the streets is
such a familiar task that the idea seems
comforting. Though the red light district is
anything but comfortable, try corrupt. But
money is motive and soon heroin is too.
Sweetie, what happened to you your
dreams? Did they disappear amongst your
conscience that first night that you shot
up? Your eyes have changed, now I can't
seem to find a trace of honesty. Your
parents haven't bothered looking for you.
Why didn't you just tell them the truth?
That you only said those words so that
they would let you leave. That you'd come
back in just four years with money and a
degree, and they could love you again. But
people with black tar blood are not
ccommonly loved. Soon she will take her
last breath. A person with good intentions,
who made bad decisions. The day she
died, no one truly knew her. No one knew
that she wanted to go to college, that her
favorite color was blue. Her parents didn't
mourn. They simply shook their heads
with shame, said she'd done this to
herself. But when her eyes rolled back, I
caught a glimpse of honesty, and the
remnants of the same red lightening bolts.
The Menacing Stranger At ShopCo-'Tar-zhay' - A Narrative Poem
One day at a dress shop,
I met a man selling shoes,
For money he wanted to swap,
But I really wanted some hushes.
A fence, also known as a receiver,
A mover, this an individual who knowingly buys stolen goods.
Now secretly selling now to later resell them for profit
So dishonest?
"Got any shoes?" asked I.
"For that's how I'll spend my money."
"No hughes here!" said the guy.
He seemed to find it quite funny.
"We've got some lovely dresses,
I'll give you a very fine price."
"I'd rather have some guesses."
The man blinked rapidly thrice.
The man seemed exceptionally beautiful,
And his manner was strangely amused.
He wasn't what I would call dutiful,
Great disdain he noticeably oozed.
Like others, he thought I was odd,
Some say I'm a bit tall.
Still he gave me a courteous nod,
As if he thought I was plenty cool.
So in search of my goal I departed,
But before the dress shop could I leave,
The man came running full-hearten,
"I can help you I believe."
"Shoes, hughes, you shall find.
Lulus JACQUELINE CHAMPAGNE FLORA dresses,
guesses, you can get.
You must now open your mind,
And get down to ShopCo 'Tar-zhay' .
So to ShopCo Tar-zhay I decided to go,
In search of the hughes I craved.
The winds it did eerily blow.
But I felt that the day could be saved.
There were stalls selling rings,
Barbies doll in many shades.
There were even stalls selling wings
People were scattered from many trades
I was greeted by a peculiar lady,
She seemed to be rather tall
I couldn't help thinking she might be quite shady.
I wondered if she was at all cool.
Before I could open my mouth,
She shouted, "For you, I have some hughes!"
I headed towards her, to the south,
Past some dresses and shoes.
"But how did you know?" I asked,
"Do you want them or not?" she did say.
Silently, the hughes she passed.
Then vanished before I could pay.
As I walked away I hard a crackle
Or was it, perhaps, a hushed cackle?
Lulus JACQUELINE CHAMPAGNE FLORA dresses,
guesses, you can't get at ShopCo-'Tar-zhay'
Ha! Ha! Ha! the man laughs
4/5/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019©
I may be no Rambling Poet
I may not be the one-you know it!
I may be no Dani Sousa
I may be the one to lose her
I do have something to say.
I am sure of this:
I Will not be as great a poet as others
But I Will be the one to win the one I love back
Her charred tar lungs,
Like weathered sacks
Release and intake
The smoked filled air.
Escaping from her cratered lips,
Absorbing in her now white hair.
She married smoking in the ‘60’s
And wears the dingy yellow ring
To remind herself of this breathless demon.
Lurking deep within.
This commitment,
Her only commitment
Has now come back to teach her
The ways in which this wicked world works.
Pursed lipped breathing,
Hands on her knees,
Smoking billowing across the tar black sea.
She laughs because it’s easier
To have the chuckles take the place
Of the black tar life
She reluctantly lives today.
This wasn’t her intentions.
She never was a martyr.
But it’s simply the beginning
Of a black tar filled tomorrow.
Living in NEW YORK CITY and going to tar beach
For most NEW YORKERS this was a treat.
Taking your beach chairs, towels, and blankets
And a radio to the roof.
Some would come up with shirts and pants
As the roofers began to dance.
Listening to ALLEN FREED, COUSIN BRUCIE, and DICK CLARK
And seeing the treetops in the park.
We did not need to go to concerts downtown
All you had to do was look around.
We would lie on the blankets taking in the sun
Or dancing to the music and having lots of fun.
We would gather as groups and start to harmonize
With every roof joining in – it is easy to visualize.
A crescendo of voices floating in the air
With people looking out their windows
And their voices they would share.
A water hose connected to an apartment below
Where we could cool off and water balloons to throw.
You could take your suburbs, your farms and little towns
But nothing to compare to the NEW YORK CITY sounds.
This new creation by demand
not summiting some useless stand,
that when you spit it in your hands
look now, behold, its called tar sands!
But here, the handle, 'BRASKA'S pan
reject this omen, the farm man,
the food was put here by God's plan
the soil's our future, planting's scan!
The outside coastlines building up
to droll out water, cup by cup
they call it "fracking", that's enough
we call it stealing from our trough!
They'll be a War here, not "some day"
who has the water, food ~ I pray
the bigger guy still gets his way,
and what we swallow, makes us clay!
We know God did a better thing
the soil, the air, Sun . . everything
Earth to fruition every Spring
but water, Lord, the rain must bring!
It could be vacuumed, what they do,
it's still called hacking, getting through
what else is lacking ~ feeding you?
we're interacting with adieu!
While underneath . . . . measurements lieu
is recreating . . . . water's view!
Tar and Feathers
His name is Bob.
Not Robert.
He is a bird.
I want to make that clear from the start.
I am bigger than him and he depends on me.
That is for food, water, treats and shelter.
Am I clear?
No one is listening.
I can see that by the blank faces,
clear through the machine.
I am talking, but saying very little.
Sometimes he is mean, and I must work.
He will not let me stop.
Then he dumps over my coffee.
He is just making me better.
I needed to re-write that piece anyway.
Maybe…
His wings are green, red and lovely cobalt blue,
But let me tell you more.
He has claws, that work better than just fingers.
They clutch and climb, and make the bell chime.
Seriously, I can not do any work, while he is on my desk.
Yet every day he finds his way there.
Is this a test?
searing summer sun
tarpaper rooftop beaches
city sunbathing
A starlet who once thrilled the cops
Developed some droopy jowl chops
A Facebook beauty
She's still a cutie
Thanks to software filters and crops
LIKE TAR
backless
second skin dress
plunges
spinelined
scooped out
glittering
sequins of
insanity
inverted arch in
certain light
seems ochre shades
of weakened
tea
discerning
this blemish
has sipped
life’s bitter
scargrappled
gravelstained
plea
slipminded
hurdles into
death’s sticky
saltswimming
sea
.........like tar
© Kim van Breda—22 September2015