Best Townsfolk Poems
It was now growing dark as the sun was going down
When a stranger rode into Soup Creek, a frontier town
No one could see his face, he was all dressed in black
An old boy was heard to say "I think he's come back".
He took his horse to the stable, then went to the boarding house
Before he went in looked across the street, to the town jailhouse
There was a familiar figure sat outside, in a rocking chair
Cradling a Winchester and the stranger, felt his cold stare.
He'd returned after all these years; he had something to prove
And just after a few days back in town, he would make his move
But Sheriff Koplin is no fool and he had planned up far ahead
And had formed a posse whilst the stranger slept in his bed.
Three fiesty girls from the saloon, Jan and Jenna, Tania too
And a Texas ranger called David who was just passing through
With gambler Milton who was deadly, with a colt forty five
And Tom the undertaker who looked more dead than alive.
It was the evening of the showdown; the stranger came out of the saloon
The sun was now setting but the tension had been building up since noon
From his holster he withdrew his pistol and then fired shots up into the air
The stranger was not one for living a peaceful life and he just didn't care.
Sheriff Koplin approached him and said "Hand over your gun"
And the stranger replied "Lighten up man, I'm just having fun"
The stranger was laughing now and looking down at his feet
The townsfolk were nervous and had disappeared off the street.
Then behind the stranger came a shout in a loud Texas drawl
It was Jenna disguised as an old woman, covered with a shawl
"You heard the sheriff " she shouted, "Put your gun on the ground"
The air was now thick with tension and you couldn't hear a sound.
Then from nowhere the rest of the posse appeared pistols in hand
They abhorred bullies and conflict and were prepared to make a stand
The stranger realised he couldn't win and threw his gun down
Walked to the livery stable to get his horse, and rode out of town.
The drama was now over but it could have gone either way
Sheriff Koplin and his posse restored peace, and had won the day
It was now days end in Soup Creek in that peaceful frontier town
All you could hear were chirping crickets as the sun was going down.
Written on 20th May 2022.
Twas the night before christmas
and Christ was left out,
with no peep of the Good News,
no mountainous shout.
Stockings were hung
by the chimney the same,
but no one made mention
of the Savior's name.
On this sacred night
there were still shopping plans.
Their heart was poured out
through money changers' hands.
'Twas the hustle and bustle
of past Christmas Eves.
Once deemed a holy night,
now a den of thieves.*
Folks went into debt
for the pleasure to give,
not counting the cross
and what it cost to forgive.
Presents were plenty.
Wish lists were fulfilled,
but they didn't thank God
for the blood that was spilled.
An "X" had replaced
the unspeakable name.
Christmas without Christ
was now one and the same.
'Twas the night before Christmas
and Christ was left out.
The townsfolk had forgotten
what Christmas was about.
Merry Christmas to all; let Christ become your light.
*Matthew 21:12-13
And Jesus went into the temple of God, and cast out all them that sold and bought in the temple, and overthrew the tables of the moneychangers, and the seats of them that sold doves, And said unto them, It is written, My house shall be called the house of prayer; but ye have made it a den of thieves."
12-2-19
Scarlett thought she was promised permanent security.
Satchels of resilience bound her fragile wrists.
Woodland deities hailed her.
Underworld demons feared her.
The curious townsfolk simply stood in contemplation -
Inviting epee's gleamed in their eyes
as the garden shears, in their hands, smiled.
Scarlett oft pretended she was Joan of Arc.
Threads of meshed titanium webbed her sheltered heart.
Sour Grimm moppets heralded her.
Skeptical fairy godmothers chastised her.
The relentless wheel of innocence spun without interruption.
Persnickety rogues sashayed in dumbed silence -
permitting their sordid counterparts unwelcomed invitations
into a void where reverend satchels are tragically punctured.
Scarlett donned spiked eye patches in her latter years.
Protective velour swatches masking mass and the masses.
Myths and urban legends empathized with her.
Gods and martyrs appropriately buried her.
The dumbfounded spirits circle Scarlett's broken window with raised eyebrows.
Quizzically staring at rotting barrels littered with skeins if shredded satchels -
yards if tainted fibers being hopelessly spun into yet another
dark, forgotten midnight.
In the saloon gambler Milton, rose from his leather chair to speak
And said we need to make changes for the good of Soup Creek
He read all the meaningful proposals to the townsfolk out loud
And those meaningful proposals were well received by the crowd.
A stranger sat in the corner looked like he'd just got outta bed
Stood up and disagreed with everything Milton had said
He'd totally misunderstood Milton's honourable intention
The situation became tense and you could feel the tension.
There was an icy deadly silence then over by the far corner
Stood saloon girl Jenna looking mean, and cradling a Winchester
There was a mad stampede, as folks tried to get out the door
The stranger carried on ranting and at gambler Milton he swore.
Someone had alerted Sheriff Koplin and he was soon on his way
Then entered the saloon approaching the stranger, and had this to say
"Soup Creek is a very peaceful town and we aim to keep it that way
And if you don't like how we run things then you'd best be on your way"
Then from the back door of the saloon, entered four other deputies
Dave the Texas ranger, saloon girl Tania and the blacksmith called Rees
Undertaker Tom needed business, he was hoping the stranger they'd kill
And then headed off with a pick and shovel, to his office at Boot Hill.
The stranger was outnumbered and knew he wouldn't win
And handed the Sheriff his gun who said "I'm taking you in"
The Sheriff at gunpoint walked the stranger over to the jail
And told him" I'm locking you up and don't think about bail"
Meanwhile Tom up at Boot Hill was sweating digging a grave
Then heard someone hollering it was the Texas ranger Dave
Tom looked up and Dave told him "you won't be needed today
But Sheriff Koplin is generous and you'll still get your days pay"
"Gambler Milton is in the saloon later and he's holding a big party"
Tom threw his shovel in the grave and said "sounds good to me "
They both mounted their horses and then headed back to town
And they arrived back in Soup Creek as the sun was going down.
Written 16th August 2022
The night is the blackest
and the coldest I've known.
The town, so small
it should not be called a town,
is still with its own malice.
I have grown weary of the city
but still, it is too still.
There is no moon
and there are no stars
and there are no clouds
to hide them from my sight.
Only unexplained dark.
The spine of the town
is a dirt road that I cannot see.
Just as well.
Pestilence has touched the land.
It drives the people
to rebellion or terror,
or cleverly reasoned apathy.
The townsfolk do not regard me,
nor should they;
they are depraved
and I am deranged
and between us we'd only
kick up a murderous fuss.
No streetlight shines
and no window glows,
here the people
are best left undisturbed.
How did I come to be here ?
No matter. Here I am.
In the still and in the dark
and in the otherworldly cold
I hear my bones rattling,
nearly, though not quite,
so nearly pleased to be alone.
16th July 2020
Gangs are here
And their here to stay
Going about their day to day
Harassing me
Harassing you
Infidels in our Human Zoo
Triads, Yakuza
The Wild West
Terrorised townsfolk
With their gangland zest
Mafia, Nizari
Guys like Al Capone
Persecuted the innocents
Never leaving them alone
Identification through various ways
Communication
Street says
Tattoos, piercings
Dressed sense too
The Gangs of our Human Zoo
Members are many
In certain cities
Victimise the weak
Pick on the pity
These are kids
Of mums and dads
What makes them
Turn out so bad
Brothers, sisters
No questions asked
Shot and knifed
A Gangland task
It makes them no better
Than you or me
We are the difference
A different sanity
Look how they fall like angels to the earth!
But no soft landing down amongst those rocks.
Those devils on the bridge with gleeful mirth
Terrorised the townsfolk as wolves do flocks
Of sheep at lambing time. For all their worth,
They searched shuttered houses and smashed the locks
Of any door, they could not open wide,
Dragged out the frightened men hiding inside
Battered them senseless to the dusty ground
In gutters, awash with their comrades’ blood
Each in their own vomit and bile half-drowned.
They lay gasping like fish stranded on mud.
The narrow streets echoing with the sound
Of their screaming and each rifle-butt’s thud.
My God, who are these beasts in human form
Whose hearts the desert sun could never warm?
They are Francisco Franco’s native troops,
Moroccan Regulares, so I’m told.
Free to rape and kill, they are the first groups
Into attack. Completely uncontrolled,
Each Regulare picks his prey and swoops
Raping, maiming, and killing young or old.
Just the threat of unleashing these fierce hawks
Compels Comrade Republicans to talks.
Someone had to weave the tale of how the beast was slain,
to paint in valor all the scars and make it worth the pain.
A knight disfigured, charred and gaunt, returning from his quest
employed a bard’s convincing tongue to tell it to the rest.
The townsfolk were a fickle lot; naught kept their love for long
until the wordsmith cleverly described it all in song.
Young maiden hearts were often won by tales of chivalry
of shining knights, and deathly fights for love eternally.
Who better could express to they, the champion’s desire
or stoke the ember in her breast into a roaring fire?
Who but the bard, in gifted grace, could tell of blood and gore
and cause all those who saw the knight to marvel and adore?
Thus we see that though they wore no armor and no helm
that poets, not the knights of yore, were masters of the realm.
For had they never sung their songs, nor wrote their epics down
the knights to all would strangers be; mere beggars in the town.
05/24/15
Scatter me there where the winds are sweet
To the blue of the sky and the sun’s bright heat
On Oliver’s Camp where the dragon lines meet
Scatter me there on the hill
Scatter me there where the waters flow
Where the weeping mourners come and go
Down by The Wharf where the ducklings grow
Scatter me there on the bridge
Scatter me there where the earth sees all
When the pond is lit by a moonbeam’s fall
Where the children play and the drunkards brawl
Scatter me there on the green
Scatter me there where the griffons play
Where the waters pour the hours away
In the pool of the fountain on Market Day
Scatter me there in the stream
Scatter me there with the silent dead
Where ages of souls have been buried and wed
And the angels cavort among coffins of lead
Scatter me there by the church
Scatter me there where the townsfolk cried
And strew flowers on the steps when Diana died
On the stair where 'tis said that Ruth Pierce lied
Scatter me there on the cross
Scatter me here and leave me be
On every street, under every tree
Until I am dust and memory
Scatter me here where I’m free
by Gail
In a covered wagon he travelled west
For every ailment he had a cure
His miracle oil he claimed was the best
People he conned were the sick and the poor.
In remote towns he would set up his scam
Helped by two' friends' in the crowd for his trick
Who' volunteered' but were part of the sham
Arthur the cripple and poor sighted Mick.
But they were fed up of his trickery
And exposed him to the crowd in the town
The conman shouted" Mick what can you see"?
Mick said "nothing, I heard Arthur fall down"
Snake oilman was speechless and he went pale
The townsfolk seized him and threw him in jail.
Written on 30th December 2018
A wildflower stands erect
Soaking in rays of radiance
As the bees and townsfolk buzz
And the wind sways in a slow dance
Contentment is where she stands
Until she spots something missing
Among all the townsfolk talk
She was bound to start listening
Was in the clouds but now on land
Leans in to get a better view
A life involved with others
But she doesn't know what to do
Clueless but curious
Tries to start a conversation
In search of a smile
Doesn't find it in rejection
Caring but cautious
Hoping to look approachable
In search of a word
Doesn't happen when you're invisible
Confused and crushed
World doesn't make much sense
In search of a friend
Everything is better in ignorance
Laughter among all but her
She hides her eyes in sorrow
A life void of others
No hope for tomorrow
Disappointment is where she stands
Teased by something she can't have
Alone among a crowded crowd
Her heart wounded by lonesome's stab
A wildflower builds a wall
Unsure if she can be saved
Brick by brick is stacked
Her own prison's being paved
May 2010
LOVE IN THE FOG
Gardens will bloom and leaves will fall
Hearts will be quickened –fog or snow
Love beckons once its sudden call....
Through midnight fog a stark black crow
Sought shoulders of a man well-horsed.
Hearts will be quickened –fog or snow
A woman parted highland gorse
She walked with purpose—mind was set--
Sought shoulders of a man well-horsed.
As Fate would have it their eyes met
He smiled --reached down-- her hand kissed light
She walked with purpose—mind was set--
Plucked from the road—sped out of sight.
Her bonnet tossed mid roadside grass---
He smiled --reached down-- her hand kissed light
Townsfolk wonder each time they pass
Gardens will bloom and leaves will fall
Her bonnet tossed mid roadside grass---
Love beckons once its sudden call....
Who of us dares
Fly into the night
On love’s bold far-eyed steed?
1/2/13
Trouble, trouble stirs the wind
ghastly ghosts rise and ascend
warty toads croak
vile spells are spoke
witches’ covens evil intend
Burbling, gurgling cauldron hot
with purple vein, red blood clot
virgins hopeful eyes
fear and dread belies
throw them in and stir the pot
Screeching, screaming banshee songs
garish ghouls with pointy prongs
mulish mummies
reeking rummies
to evil spirits the night belongs
Trembling, tremoring witches fear
townsfolk are coming too near
sticks and stones
fire bemoans
the end becoming too clear
Freaking, shrieking their cry drums
slicing the air with its thrums
unwilling to face
they cut to the chase
quickly flee to save their bums
Just one cup in the morning; no added flavor
Ceylon tea or Assamese is my preference
Each drip and each sip I so favor and savor
Betwixt too light and too strong. This makes difference
Its red-black-orange mixture I fondly adore
My chocolate face waves betwixt its white-ash smoke
There's a fragrantly sumptuous taste in its core
To sip this nectar with me join a few townsfolk
It's poured into my cup in a hundred-degree
I start sipping. It does not hurt my lips or tongue
The process goes on till I, finally, could see
Not a tinge is left, and I feel extremely young
A cup of hot black tea is the day's protector
Can't I compare it with the heavenly nectar...?
09 February 2023
A Simple Pleasure Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Julia Ward
'Twas the night before Christmas, and there sat the Grouch,
waiting for Santa and his present filled pouch.
I'm sure that all of you have heard of the Grinch,
but the Grouch is far worse, at least by one inch.
That vile and distasteful sixty-six year old man
had been writing poems which he pitched in a can.
To tell you the truth, I don't think you've met a
man with a more implacable vendetta.
His heart was cold as a hard frozen icicle.
As a kid, Santa never brought him a bicycle.
So, when the fat fella came down through the chute,
the Grouch was there waiting to lodge his dispute.
The grumpy man challenged St. Nick to twelve rounds,
and the two commenced boxing, no holds out of bounds.
The two of them danced, and they bobbed, and they weaved.
If it wasn't true, it could not be believed.
I must say, it was an incredible fight.
There were jabs, upper cuts, a left hook and a right,
but in the twelfth round, to the sound of a crunch,
Santa connected with a strong roundhouse punch.
The Grouch smiled as he looked up from the ground,
and he saw little birds, heard a sweet tweeting sound.
He saw so many things that anyone would like,
and he saw a shining candy-apple red bike.
From that day on, he was happy as a joker.
He even invited Santa Claus to play poker.
I'm happy to say, he's no longer the Grouch,
and the townsfolk, with feeling, say, "he's no slouch."