Best Telegraph Poems
My bike was transportation; Mom didn’t drive
But sometimes I sped off on an adventure
To Telegraph Hill the miles were only five
Big sis and I made the ride a joint venture
What she didn’t know was the trek was uphill
Although one could coast nearly all the way back
The journey before us sis tried to fulfill
Red faced, she screamed, “I’m having a heart attack!”
“Keep pedaling,” I said, “we’ve two miles to go.”
It was then we made the ice cream sundae bet
The last one home would have to shell out the dough
By determination my sis was beset
At the top of the hill I took a brief rest
I looked down the long road; sis was not in sight
I was just eleven and filled with such zest
The exhilarating ride gave me delight
Far down the road, sis was attempting to ride
Her pace was slow; on her face was a scowl
I called to her, “Hey, just put the bet aside!”
She was closer now; I thought I heard her growl
Eleven years older, she’d something to prove
Heading back I soared past her down the steep hill
When my sis reached the top, she could barely move
More than a ride, this was a test of her will
About an hour after I arrived at home
I washed up and changed for my big ice cream treat
She came into view; in her mouth I saw foam
Sis was walking her bike, her trip incomplete
At age twenty-two, she collapsed in the yard
Mumbling something about sibling rivalry
She’d never dreamed a ten-mile trip would be hard
Mom tried to take her to the infirmary
The sundae? It was yummy, but sweeter still
Was beating my over-confident sister
My big sis had failed in this arduous drill
Her aches told me this ride would not reoccur
*Entry for Gwen’s “My Bicycle” contest. (True Story)
Telegraph poles
Derelict each in their own way
Watch the Forest creep around
Mountains watch them rot
Trains skitter past
The River pays no mind
Dragging their wires on the Ground
Useless
Many miss glass eyes
Many hang their arms
Some have fallen
None talk
No more dots and dashes
The Telegraph
How does it feel; it must be unreal
For a Chaplin to knock on your door
Then to place in your hand a short telegram
That says that your loved one’s no more
Then for how many days are you lost in the haze
Rereading those short little lines
How can they be true; this can’t happen to you
Oh, how your lonely heart pines
And how about the other; the wife or the mother
Whose loved one is missing in action
She’s left with uncertain; not knowing but hurtin’
How can she go on with no traction
She won’t want to admit; even think about it
He’ll come back but still there’s that doubt
So she clings to herself; puts her life on the shelf
Not sure what her life is about
And though it takes years; she will dry all those tears
And do her best just to survive
For she knows in her heart; in a quiet loving part
That in there her loved one’s alive
Mdailey 6/7/12
this is where my tale wings away
past the clutches of the irascible Chadwick
up past the hinges and the curly cue
and its vocabulary roofing tiles
preparing to adapt once again
placing the bellows against the embers
possessed by a holy fervor
that could lay waste to nations
in an orgy of justified non-compliance
defying statistics and trivial desire
their suggestions a camp fire ghost story
in another episode of plastic theater
where love is just another kind of attention
another kind of hidden initiator
knowing what it is to be a lesser thing
scribbling no parachute on the walls
of freshly mopped airport bathrooms
seeking salvation at the last minutes as usual
as angel trumpets bleat a new dawn
to Chadwick's army of twerking schizmatics
banging their forks and spoons
in this cafeteria we call existence
where the only real security
is a freezer full of deer meat
mystified by any and all objects of focus
begging the referee to call malarkey
but fat chance in Fat City eh
where suicide is called proving a point
and your body outline is chalked into
a hopscotch court for sadist spirit guides
bicycle messengered to Main St.
otherwise the odds are slender
that we beat this wall to wall sham
brain chemistry is far from absent
in these absent minded calculations
duking it out with the endorphins
that are prying open this clam shell
yes these gestures are mine and mine alone
wrestling back power of attorney
their being an implication to every movement
trying to buy a little more time or mercy
but Chadwick's monopolistic pricing structure
amounts to a rather long term suppression
of what is already by god ours
The man was
handsome, intelligent,
and good in bed.
But he just
had nothing
to say.
And all of his days
were the same.
Monochromatic
introspection followed
by a sort of smothered
self-expression.
He never
felt like himself.
And he always felt
worried about what
other people thought
about him.
Who even was
he?
His routine?
His career?
His interests?
His beliefs?
Beliefs?
The man had
no beliefs, the
man didn’t need
to believe.
For if he started believing
in something, he may have
actually needed
to start existing.
And that idea
scared the
hell out of
him.