Best Ticky Poems
,
riddles N' rainbows paintbrush the day
summer's heaviness invades
rain circumvents geraniums
ant's N' azaleas dance through sidewalks
where tiny green grass creep 'neath weeds
to see sun seed grey with bright
frogs N' grasshoppers flop along
best friends
when storm clouds bend beyond old oak trees
boys N' girls skip rope,
Double Dutch N' such
up N' down the cul de sac curve
moms N' dads pretend everything's ok
when they've long since strayed away
from light N' love
gloves come off
when lights go out
they scream N' shout
the children barely notice
yet they'll feel the coldness N' cold shoulders
as it's gets colder N' colder
just not days N' nights like now
fuss N' fights have no place
right here N' right now
along these roasting roads
where ticky tack homes
crowd suburbia
where riddles N' rainbows paintbrush the day
summer's heaviness invades
as nature n' naïve children play...
today ,
~JSLambert 2014
Wet Blurting
80 year Ole Francisco, yes he said,
off the blinking top of his head,
A bowel fix here today!
Ya know cheese blocks you up instead,
Don’t blurt in diss-aray,
Old people drop one, an go ooooh,
Some feathers in the fluff,
Sand Goannasa drowning in the stew,
Could fill ya pants plum duff,
So listen when I say,
Cheese slab every day,
You wont be farting other stuff,
No blinking bloody blanking way!
So figure out the dose to eat,
Explosive liquid aint so neat,
Constipation on ya creeps,
Cut back on cheese today,
No explosions in the hay,
Eat cheese ya bugger, sweet,
Fun blurting hey hay hey…
Don Johnson
Hey fever don’t like cheese, tuff ticky, adapt to a cheese diet…it bloody works!
Moshe, Larry, Curly,
Howls, cries, nyuks;
Three silly comic stars:
Smile, clown -- Cluck!
Chico, Harpo, Benny, Berle,
Moron grins, happy chins;
Crazy nutty comic kooks:
Funny jokes -- egads zooks!
Alvin Ailey, dance gaily,
False teeth: Brush daily;
Silly Sally, Dilly-dally,
Ollie, Holly, Mollie!
Belly flops, fatal plops,
Messy slops, lemon drops;
Harry Caray, Tooth Fairy,
Music Maven -- Chuck Berry.
Pitty-patty, kitty-katty,
Ticky-tacky, Cinci-nnati
Polly-Wolly, Wooly Bully,
Diffy-daffy, Laughy Taffy!
March 22, 2018
Contest entry in "A little laughter five," sponsored by
Edward McCall, closing date - March 23, 2018
Notes: Moe Howard's (of the Three Stooges) actual first name was Moshe.
'Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk' was a trademark line of Curly (3 Stooges.)
Berle is comedian: Milton Berle (aka 'Uncle Miltie').
'Egads zooks' is an exclamation my mother and others of her
generation used to use (frequently).
'Wooly Bully' was a pop song by Sam the Sham and the Pharoahs,
released in 1965; it soared high on the Top-40 charts.
What do you see when you look at his face
Weather beaten & etched by hard work’s steady pace?
You see a broken down drunken old fool
I see a vaquero, a cowboy old school
These cattle, those horses, this land are his life
They helped him provide for his children & wife
The Vail brothers, Escalantes, Leons, Acosta, Andrada
From the X-9 to Del Lago, Rincon Creek to La Posta Quemada
Lopez, Etheridge, De La Ossa & Daly, all hard working men
Holding strong to the traditions of a life from way back when
From the base of the Rincons, their cattle once freely roamed
These Cowboys are the lifeblood of this valley we call home
I looked up to these men & others like them when I was a youth
They taught me to work hard, stand tall & always speak the truth
They rail at the developers who never seem to keep their word
Praying that they’ll still have enough ground to run their herds
They watch as suburbia comes flooding into a valley once pristine
As ticky tacky houses turn good grazing lands into an urban scene
The word out on the city streets is that the cowboy way is gone
But as long as there are horses then the Cowboy will ride on
Somewhere up in New River, a cowboy still rides out tonight
To gaze out over a moonlit range, far from the city’s blight
In Cascabel, an Old Vaquero & his grandchild working the pen
Are doing their part to see that the cowboy way never ends
What do you see when you look in his face?
Weather beaten & etched by hard work’s steady pace?
You see a tattered old man, shaky hands & blurry gaze
I see the heroes of my youth, hear the tales of the glory days
When cattle outnumbered people & Cowboys still roamed free
Back when the West was Wild, back in the long ago & used to be
Ticky, Ticky, Ticky Toc
Ticky, Toc
I lay here in bed
Listening to that grinding music of the clock
Ticky, Ticky, Ticky Toc
Ticky, Toc
Oh, please let the slumber come
Ticky, Ticky, Ticky Toc
Ticky, Toc
Where’s the morning sunrise
Ticky, Ticky, Ticky Toc
Ticky, Toc
Ten till six, it’s almost time to get up
Ticky, Ticky, Ticky Toc
Ticky, Toc
ZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzZzzzzzzzzzz
By eve roper 10/25/2014
A Repetition
What is your temperature?
The doctor asked
During an ordinary visit.
I left the examining room
And walked through
My palace
Skin and hair
Nails and tissue,
75 years of growth.
Ivy wild
as a Venus flytrap
Snaring an insect.
Tendrils curl and cover
Cages of ribs
Prisons of my own making,
Arid and Dry.
Soothing rain
Falls from mouth and nose
With nowhere to go,
Pores clogged
With regret.
Breath shallow
In and out
In and out.
No escape.
Chest
Rising and falling,
Rising and falling.
Dry air moving
Dry air moving
Over parted lips.
Teeth clenching
Unclenching
Teeth clenching
Unclenching.
“Temperature is normal.”
I respond.
I return the next day
Where is your pain?
The doctor asks.
I reenter my
Pulsing, beating, breathing
Palace.
A child moves further
Away on the bed
From an adult’s
Meandering hand.
The hand disappears.
The touch remains.
Blood pressure rises
Breathing becomes shallow.
Fatigued,
I relax
By aqua blue
pools of bliss.
75 years of blessings
Fill once arid spaces.
Adventures daringly dreamed
by a South Chicago kid,
Raised by parents
of the Second World War
“Roosevelt knew the
Japs were coming.”
He did nothing
To stop it.”
A ticky tacky house
By the tracks
Is our Gardens of Babylon.
I say good-night
To the whistling roar
Of a mighty steam engine
Ever so lightly
Shaking my foundation.
I return the next day.
Cheered by
Yesterday’s excavation.
I meet Seven Brides
Carrying oil lamps.
Their light
brightens once-dark corners.
Castle-like ventricles
Arch into stairways
Leading to
Magnificent towers.
Pink, baby skin
Warms a Mother’s heart.
Three children grown,
Now parents.
Six grandchildren,
Hardly children.
I look closer.
The pain evaporates.
Geysers of Gratitude,
Mist fills deserts.
Orchids of pink
Violet and gold.
Bright Pink Flamingoes circle
Capture and close.
Childhood scars,
Covered by mossy
Sponges, soak up old anger,
Vacuuming the shame
Of innocence.
I know now
Why the ivy
Meanders, clings and binds
To new cells
And old bones.
Its tendrils give
Eternal life.
Evergreen,
It breathes
Forgiveness
Fidelity and constancy.
(to be read out loud)
I'll eat the nibble naggle nooky nickel
nipple nappy mum mum mum
I'll chew your gooble gobble giggle gaggle
gimpy grampa's gum gum gum.
I'll call the wimpy wappy wiggle waggle
wacky wobble wum wum wum
I'll drink the wiggin' wimple whoopy whacker
wookie worker's rum rum rum.
Woo wow wee wah
Geegaw mee mah
Hee haw hoo har hey hey hey.
Mao moo mud muck
Wigwam poobah
Mad mook mick mack yay yay yay.
I'll have a murky muddle maple maggot
monkey marbles chum chum chum
I raised a ticky tacky tinky tonka
tailor's tiny thumb thumb thumb.
I'm really punky pickled pooka puckers
pitter patter dumb dumb dumb
I hear my diggle daggle doggy dingle
diddle daddled hum hum hum.
The wrecking ball long since
demolished boyhood house zen
located at 324 Level Road,
a once rural residence,
which soulful yen
I called home
since February 28th, 1968, when
Boyce and Harriet Harris
(my octogenarian
widower father, a transplanted urban
cowpoke father, and late outskirts
of poker flats mother) than
experienced livingsocial in the country,
cuz aforesaid domain didst span,
and encompass,
one hundred plus acre estate
listed in national register
as "Glen Elm", where ran
woodland surrounding a golden pond
favored by Canadian Geese,
but under game plan
of commercial developer Donald Neilson
(a tall lumbering
"all business no play doh" man
blueprints drafted for
an army of vinyl city
exemplifying Little boxes
on the hillside ditty
Little boxes made of ticky tacky...gritty
material upending wildlife refuge,
ah...what a pity
yet, impossible to stop industrialization,
the das capital way
spurring thy preferential longing
for nature preservation oye vey,
and to make a million bucks in USA
if land left off limits
for propertied class today
then in the near future,
an aggressive builder will sashay
confirming prophecy
scooping up gobs of profit
out maneuvering competition
analogous to a marathon relay
race quickly witnessing little boxes
to sprout all the same
by construction workers,
who hammer away,
nailing steady income,
viz all work and no play,
who maxim eyes
American middle class dream
asper buying affordable home
after acquiring a mortgage to outlay
their limited choice sans, may
be there's a green one and a pink one
and a blue one and yellow one, how zing
free enterprise, and they're
all made out of ticky tacky
held together on a wing
and prayer they all look
February 28th, 1968 marked the date
Boyce Brandon Harris
(my octogenarian widower father)
purchased a small tract of land
Pooh would Winnie
constituting shadowed sliver
once hailing, hallmarking, harkening,
glorious vast "Glen Elm" estate,
which circa 1910 encompassed
a hundred plus acres of woodland
(including a pond frequented
by migrating Canadian Geese)
eventually zoned for commercial,
industrial, and residential development
(all in the name of productive land use)
particularly put into motion
courtesy Donald J. Neilson,
who transformed expansive woodland
rivaling shutterfly
sprouting like mushrooms towed stools
booming explosively
after ample precipitation
little houses on the hillside
little houses made of ticky tacky...
popped up overnight
transforming landscape
displacing flora and fauna with vinyl city
(minus spit of property papa bought)
manicured bumped uglies with wild wisp
reduced pristine niche leftover jot haven
squawking disoriented geese instincts
thwarted, where drained wetlands
a Arcadian past suburbanization
overlaying (palimpsest like) rural setting
trademark bucolic print Currier And Ives
stock in trade signature prints
landscape sparse human population
country aire sprinkled with family farms
fresh dairy, produce, vegetables
butchered animals free ranging
without synthetic injections
nostalgia faintly recreated here
Highland Manor Apartments
Schwenksville, Pennsylvania
a slip of country revered
against a Paul Ling urbanization
nothing appears familiar
retracing roadways now major highways
frequent moments breeds alienation
familiar ground confusing, frightening, and perplexing.
Ticky Bicky Boo
Licky Mickey Moo
I'm in love with you
Little Tsuki Tsu.
Chicky Dicky Doo
Ricky Nicky Nu
Close your lips with glue
Kiss a kangaroo.
Tricky Picky Poo
Quicky Hicky Hoo
I'll practice Wu Shu
By a shady yew.
Wicky Kicky Ku
Yucky Sticky Stew
Visiting the zoo
Painting chickens blue.
At one time my neighborhood was new mass-produced little boxes made of ticky-tacky – all looking just the same*
Beautiful affordable, true suburban models, in mid-twentieth century they were truly quite the rage.
But now the then-proud new homeowners have mostly moved to better places
While new ones gladly renovate these aging homes with new rooms and outer faces
When I walk down the street it’s easy to see many of these homes looked exactly like mine
at one time,
before they were distressed and foreclosed
It was a model community that boasted of its clean uniformity, sterility, and safety from those unqualified outside, distressed and forebode
Now it’s a bit grittier yet in my mind much prettier than a planned little row of little boxes where the kids all turn out the same.
It’s a mix of even and odd ones, making for a mix where none is truly plain.
Now the trees have grown so high, and despite the leaves and branches dropped I’m thankful for the breezes
I imagine there are dozens of Spots, Fluffies, and Socks in haphazard plots beneath them
Where beloved pets rest embraced by roots that still grow along with branches
that are strong and large, and now holding swings for another generation of kids and grandkids.
The yards are no longer so clean and shining green, but I focus on a long-gone vine
That left an imprint as it at one time crept up the wall outside my door,
and so artful its design
I want to keep it there forevermore.
I pass added studios for boarders, made from added rooms from added carports,
Basketball hoops at the street side, foot bridges over ditches for bikes, and newly added porches.
With new rooms, rooves, paint, and landscape
Nothing here a mere misuse of ticky-tacky tape.
Even those homes that still look the same outside for their original floor plan
If you go inside each you’ll see windows and walls removed and added
While the footprints are still here, new shoes have stepped in place
All from boots to bare feet to these homes have found their way.
So as I walk down the street,
At least I have a little hope right now
For despite how bleak the times may be,
At last I can believe everyone is allowed in Levittown – for now.
*Apologies to Malvina Reynolds, Little Boxes (1962)
We sit
staring at the Sun
wishing you were here
wishing we were anywhere
anywhere but here
We want
for the taste of human desire
salty
sweet and creamy
with the spirit of She
We ride
like crazed urban cowboys
We take no prisoners as we clang across the ticky tacky asphalt
with the sickly sweet city air in our teeth
and in between drags from our outdated cigarettes … We cry
We cry
long and hard we cry and cry
We shed these tears
amongst close friends
The sorrow is not for the world you see
It is for us and only us
We ****
like rabid and wild animals
We roll in sweaty filthy sheets
and share a trickster form of companionship
naked and lonely
together for brief moments as we slam our swollen genitals into one another
with only lust
for we were never taught to love
We roam
from person to person
from street to street
from hapless moment to hapless moment
like a dry and aimless desert wind
We do nothing but kick up sand and dream
We dream
big and powerful and American dreams
lovely dreams
beautiful dreams
lonely and hopeless dreams
We dream of getting out
We dream of getting in
We dream with open eyes and gushing hearts
We sometimes feel deep within our beating chests
that these dreams could one day be
but they are visions of a world we will never see
We sit
staring at the Sun
wishing you were here
wishing we were anywhere
anywhere but here
How many more springs will be granted.
Springs where seeds and flowers are planted.
How long will the filthy rain sustain the vigor
Of tender shoots so green and innocently eager.
We spew out human seed to take root on earth,
Lessening its space, its value and its worth.
How long until we are world of ants scurrying,
Everything trampled by the constant hurrying.
We have chipped the beauty away into rows
of ticky-tacky houses where nothing grows.
Where are the jungles, the forest primeval.
Not now but air and water that are lethal.
Oh, mourn the earth of beauteous expanse.
Now no beauty can be found with a glance.
Mayhaps we will survive - but maybe not. . .
between progress and the lessons taught.
Sleep well sweet Earth, beautiful orb.
“Little boxes on the hillside; Little boxes made of ticky tacky
Little boxes on the hillside; Little boxes all the same”
from first verse of “Little Boxes” by Malvina Reynolds
Vanilla Is . . .
the typical white picket fence
surrounding the front yard of a ticky tack house
It’s a sunless sky
waiting for a rainbow to embrace it
It’s an ordinary bird’s egg
before the burst of life emerges from it
It’s a pie without the fruit;
a cake with no frosting
It’s the color of eyes grown dull
longing for a glimpse of romance
It’s my skin untouched by summer -
still breathing winter’s snow
It’s the quickly fading fragrance of inexpensive cologne
as Tabu's more sensuous scent lingers on and on
It’s a milky white-washed soul
of unexceptional interest
It’s a lackluster longing
for nothing in particular
As I see it, vanilla is
the epitome
of monotony
'Tick', 'tock', 'tick', 'tock', the ticky-tocky click of the clock continued to beep
'Ree-raw', 'ree-raw', the roaring of the frogs was heard over and over in the deep
I stood awake to solve a riddle, a jigsaw puzzle, denying my eyes of sleep
Caged in a cottage of low rentage my wage could pay, hoping I did keep
'Ko', 'ko', 'ko', 'ko', was the jangly sound from the corner where the roof did leak
Hitting hard my tympanum as the woodpecker does the tree with its beak
"Oh no!, I'll have to go" were the very words my sullen mouth could speak
Indeed!, first thing before noon, it was the Thatcher that I'll have to go seek.