Best Town Poems
Sounds of a Day in the Past
Cherry Creek was a thriving small town
Children played on swings up and down.
They screamed with delight and why not?
Today with no school, so homework forgot.
How they laughed and frolicked and ran,
All cares forgotten, catch me if you can!
The swings were well-oiled and so no creaks
Could be heard, but happy they enjoyed their leaps.
Not far away, parents and singles formed a march
Protesting against chemical factory built beyond the arch.
Sounds of a Day in the Present
Cherry Creek is now a ghost town
And all the rusted swings are down.
The chemist factory spoilt their fun.
Children in Cherry Town were none.
So many died from deadly fumes
All protests covered in all newsrooms.
But to no avail, for protests fell on dead ears.
Parents left to other places shedding tears.
The only sound you hear is the wind
No swing moved, empty all rust lined.
But I forgot the sound of money,
The factory simply insults me.
It's a nightmare down on Elm Street. Satan's waiting here at home.
Where's that little Freddy Krueger with his nails of sharpened chrome?
And that dearest Michael Myers, as he's always sure to call?
Halloween won't be so keen without some slashers in the hall.
They're all meeting up with Jason and the other demon spawn
to pay Old Scratch a visit, so I'll leave the porch light on.
I'm your sugar devil daddy and I'll tempt you if I can,
so now open up those goody bags, cause I'm your candy man.
Welcome, all you little zombies. Here, I've got some flesh for you!
It's in a candy wrapper and so much easier to chew.
Just hold out your plastic treat bag, and hold off eating me.
The junk I'm gonna give you tastes much better than my knee.
It's so loaded up with sugar, you'll be bouncing off the walls.
So go ahead and gorge yourselves and fill the bathroom stalls.
Kneel before the porcelain god or use the toilet sink.
You can always use the practice now, for later when you drink.
You can't take a piece of healthy fruit or any home-made treat.
The media have made damn sure it's only junk food that you'll eat.
So celebrate my holiday and consume till it's obscene.
Welcome into my domain... and Happy Halloween!
October 15, 2014
My muse has been hiding out
And with no peep, squeak or shout
She must be sound asleep
No words, just counting sheep
Tired of the poetry drought
Oh where, O where has my gypsy muse flown
Seems she has left me to write on my own
I must not be too rude
She'll cop an attitude
And then taunt me like an evil old crone
Mine vanished after my last book
I've rested and changed my outlook
My brain ran out of juice
And my 'vowels' were loose
Twas quite a feat that my muse took
Honestly, I think mine is rebelling
But there is absolutely no telling
What my missing muse might do
I dare not call her a shrew
Or she'll never return to my dwelling
Upon my desk, I see she's left a note
"I'm on a vacation," is what she wrote
"Perhaps I should've phoned
To say I won't be owned."
Should I have mentioned her in a footnote?
Perhaps she's in a gypsy caravan
Seeking a lover, a Romani man
Living a nomadic life
If he takes her for his wife
I'll need a new muse and a new game plan
My muse is now knocking on my door
Searching for my words left on the floor
She is gathering my lines
Blending them like a fine wine
Hoping for a few new poems and more
Well, recently my muse returned
Her holiday was very well earned
I'll write sensible words
Not on pooping or turds
Poop poetry, my muse has spurned
My muse is back after weeks refusing
And now she can't stop yakking and schmoozing
Three muses have returned
But we're a lil' concerned...
What if we don't find their thoughts amusing?
*Collaboration of Tania, Jan and Lin
My muse has been hiding out
And with no peep, squeak or shout
She must be sound asleep
No words, just counting sheep
Tired of the poetry drought
Oh where, O where has my gypsy muse flown
Seems she has left me to write on my own
I must not be too rude
She'll cop an attitude
And then taunt me like an evil old crone
Mine vanished after my last book
I've rested and changed my outlook
My brain ran out of juice
And my 'vowels' were loose
Twas quite a feat that my muse took
Honestly, I think mine is rebelling
But there is absolutely no telling
What my missing muse might do
I dare not call her a shrew
Or she'll never return to my dwelling
Upon my desk, I see she's left a note
"I'm on a vacation," is what she wrote
"Perhaps I should've phoned
To say I won't be owned."
Should I have mentioned her in a footnote?
Perhaps she's in a gypsy caravan
Seeking a lover, a Romani man
Living a nomadic life
If he takes her for his wife
I'll need a new muse and a new game plan
My muse is now knocking on my door
Searching for my words left on the floor
She is gathering my lines
Blending them like a fine wine
Hoping for a few new poems and more
Well, recently my muse returned
Her holiday was very well earned
I'll write sensible words
Not on pooping or turds
Poop poetry, my muse has spurned
My muse is back after weeks refusing
And now she can't stop yakking and schmoozing
Three muses have returned
But we're a lil' concerned...
What if we don't find their thoughts amusing?
Got home awound twee (I was dwunk as a wouse)
Awose pwomptly at six wit' dwy cotton-mouth
I knew wather soon my day was gonna' bwow
When I stwuggled outta' bed and stubbed my wight toe
Fwopped back on the mattwess cwying and twitchin'
Staggoid back up and wimped to the kitchen
Stumbled to the counter to bwew Folger's bwend
Spiwwed it down my Hanes and boint my widdle fwend
Hobbled to the bathwoom to wustle up some Tums
Twipped on my fwip-fwop and bwuised my weft bun
Should not have cawoused wit' owe Bugsey wast night
Now my head hoits and de wight is too bwight
If I had not dwunk gin for my mowale booster
I coulda' swept in trew 'dat wascally wooster
(Don't feel wike wunning dat siwwy wat-wace
Tink I might caw in sick at the Woony-Tune pwace)
land of lost shadows
and unweathered skies
five urban colours
through unflinching eyes
tall distant chimneys
and schoolyards at play
smoke drifting sideways
in stillness each day
sketches on packets
of stained cigarettes
strange brooding faces
and marionettes
people bent walking
with heads looking down
- if lowry was living
he'd have painted my town.
In my countryside, silent at sunset
Long gone is the stress, long gone is the fret,
Long gone is the need to be so wide-eyed
Silent at sunset, in my countryside
Calm now are my skies with their colors bold
Streaks of blue marry with orange and gold,
My mind long gone astray, as the crow flies
With their colors bold, calm now are my skies
Another day ends on my small hometown
It's old, sunbathed bricks now shading brown,
As dusk creeps in corners, silence descends
On my small hometown, another day ends
Down the sun dips behind my shadowed pines
And so easily now my head reclines,
Watching and awaiting some dreamy trips
Behind my shadowed pines, down the sun dips.
In Aussie-land dwell the marsupials
By night they paint the town connubial
They make them a joey
Named Zoey or Chloe
Neighbors jump for joy indubitable
It was
a dalliance
this bucolic lost town,
just ephemeral my visit,
petrichor scents of fresh rain, just fallen,
birds songs a harbinger of me,
oh serendipity,
efflorescence
caress.
I feel
the erstwhile past
in the vacant buildings,
the sadness an epiphany,
beyond nature calls my propinquity
but I stay and stroll empty streets,
redolent with flowers,
this demesne lost
in time.
____________________________
March 18, 2016
Poetry/Rictameter/Ghost Town
Copyright Protected ID, 03-769-605-18
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
For the Standard contest, A Day In A Town,
sponsor, Nayda Evette Negron, Judged 03/2016
First Place
Submitted into the Standard contest, Give me a Ricktameter!
sponsor, M.L. Kiser, Judged 02/16/2022
First Place
I am a town kid
A white faced kid
A lonely kid
Face pressed up against the glass
Watching, listening to other kids playing
Knowing my shoes and clothes are safe
No grass stains on my pants
No puddles to make mud pies
My eyes envy the sky
My heart follows the laughter
My soul feels dry
Just a sad little guy
With my face pressed against the glass
as another summer slips past.
Later I have a job to do
Daddy won’t let me go out today
I always have to do things his way
“Pour me another drink Ricky!”
I comply saying “Okay.”
I’m a nine year old bartender,
who just wants to go out and play.
Maybe I’m not really a town kid,
but I am a white faced kid
and a lonely kid....
“Story from your childhood” contest.
Sponsor: L Milton Hankins
Sorry it’s not a happy one.
On a sweltering summer day,
Mr. Crocodile's come to stay.
Slithering into shops and stores,
every cold thing he devours.
Children's mouths drop and drool.
They see what's keeping him so cool!
Cats and dogs linger at his feet,
licking up drippings, of sweet, stolen treats.
Cops and fire trucks roar down the block,
with their sirens blaring, chasing Mr. Crock.
Toddler's cry while their mother's scream,
to see him eating all the town's ice cream.
At Dalton town where I was born
in Ozark hills of home,
There lived a man named Leamon Brown
who plowed the rich, black loam.
His wife, a sweet and gentle soul,
did not foresee his bent,
she daily worked beside her man
who seemed to be content.
But in his heart a wrath appeared
to poison spirit's peace.
When reason left, his anger grew
and clawed to find release.
He stepped behind her where she sat
and bent to kiss her lips,
withdrew his blade and slit her throat
while blood streamed down her hips.
In panic's grip she fled the house
but stumbled soon and fell.
The children screamed in frozen shock
and dove straight into hell.
One son ran to his mother's side
and held her as she died.
His siblings hid from daddy's blade;
he stood there, glassy eyed.
As gossip spread like raging fire
of murder in our town,
the newsmen raced to pen details
as lawmen dragged him down.
His deed became the hottest news
to ever hit our town
The judge declared the man insane
this man named Leamon Brown
Now he is locked behind closed doors,
his wife lies in the ground.
Though we lament the children's fate,
his kids are sorrow bound.
A Tribute to Banjo Pattersons, Road To Old Mans Town
by Robert (Bob) Moore
I read a poem when I was young, by Banjo Patterson
called “The Road To Old Mans Town” about a life near done
I did not understand back then, the meaning was obscure
but as the years go passing by, I understand it more
He spoke of youth, and freedom, of time that had no end
of doing what we wanted, the future ours to spend
time to waste if that’s our want, not count hours as they fly
days that stretch into the distance, don’t yet go rushing by
But as the days grow shorter, and we begin to see
our life is not forever, and what will be will be
and we are sadly looking back, and slowly drifting down
the lonely road we all must tread, to Banjo’s Old Mans Town
He also makes a hope, that we are not alone,
that someone walks beside us, a love whom we have known
that God may not allow us, this dusty road go down
With faltering steps and whitening head,
on the road to Old Man's Town!
graffiti stares
and retro drips
beneath the
shoreditch sky
like those who watch
- between their sips
the world and
us go by.
Aunt Andrea goes to town
Meets a cantankerous clown
Who frowns at her
Flings a tiger
Into her red evening gown