Best Vests Poems
Standing before the microphone,
blank faces stare from cushioned chairs
Jewels sparkle, acting like they’re real,
while bow ties just seem sad…it happens
Marching to the beat of clicking heels,
unbuttoned vests as strange eclipsed spotlights
illumine smoke swirls in overhead rafters
flowing from my ember’d fingertips
And my hair is a mess…but it always is
and I don’t care…do you?
I’d clear my throat but that does no good,
gravel has taken up residence…it pays the rent
The room goes dim, the audience worries
Glares spark like steel on asphalt
I can see them clear, slowly fading in anxious doubt
My mind scratches some ink in dusty thoughts…
I love you, I love everything that is you
Need surpasses desire, and I need
My arms long to cling you, crushed against me,
breathing as one, harmonious breath…dusty thoughts…they come
The bass player plucks and that is my cue,
flicking my ashes I begin to read…poetry
and the audience smiles…I am a poet and poetry is cool,
Leonard Cohen was right
Love feels like it has gone far away
She used to exist everywhere it seems
Now she hides in fear of being used up or let down
Most now, don’t even remember what she feels like
I remember long ago
Love used to have big bright colors
lightening bugs would soar through the night sky
with dancing white beams that glowed in the dark
four leaf clovers would spring from green pines of grass
but would ever elude being found and plucked
by those wanting a taste of its Irish good luck
floral beach balls and pink rubber kick balls were the center of summers delight
camp fire girls adorned navy blue vests and strutted proudly holding red white and blue flags down main street on Memorial Day
lazy polka dot burnt orange black lady bugs
would sleep under the sun
waiting to be scooped up
each child hoping to find the lady
with the most dots
to win the game
cotton candy colored May Day dances held in the public-school yard always on the hottest and sunniest day of the year
each student excited about dressing up in colorful garbs from different cultures around the world
Love was innocent then...
Love had the best aromas too
tide detergent, vanilla extract
talcum powder, wonder bread
sweet potato pie
hot dogs on toasted rolls at the public pool
Chanel #5 on Church Sundays
lots of Chanel #5
Love had the most wonderful sounds
the rustle of fall leaves under your feet
the crunch of plastic sofa covers at grandma’s house
sitting on the porch listening to night crickets on dad’s lap
Maybe love is actually still here
Waiting for us to love her back
She has not been treated well lately
I hope that she will give us all another chance
And come back soon
Hopefully this time
She will stay
Down past the meadow is the grand old hotel.
Where statues of marble encircle the ponds
Tall cypress line up like soldiers at arms,
saluting each limo that comes down the hill
Limousines arrive daily, like vultures of prey,
to stop and eject their catch of the day
There is proof on arrival, of fortune and assets.
Hosts greet each guest, as the day stretches on,
sporting long coat-tails and red satin vests
As we watched from our hillside, from a vast world away,
we're inclined to walk down, to take a survey
Too rich for our blood! We are flooded with awe
Yet, we're drawn to peek in. Where the rich wine and dine
and we will try, most discreetly, to blend into grey.
Alabaster stone gates, and the thick sculptured stairs
are reeking affluence, that we'll never share
__
Heading back to our campground, on the river's west side,
we returned to our tent, tucked under the pines
It's been faded by sunlight, patched together with twine
Where contentment is canvas, and the wind is a song,
and where water makes music, and the breeze is a poem
Our belongings are in order, (in a disorderly way)
A camp-stove, a lantern, for the end of the day
A tent, (army surplus)…. and a stack of dry wood
will add to our comfort, as well as it should
Would we want to change places, if ever we tried?
Would we trade all our moonscapes, or the chipmunks, or tunes?
As we sat by the fire, to remember our day
We have watched the bright embers, as they floated away
Pinpricks of fire that mixed with the stars
We've been granted our millions, ….while owning the sky.
The sea gulls down at Barry aren’t your average little pests
They think they own the sea side and the all wear hooded vests
Their beaks are pierced with hoops and studs and drink from cans of bud .
Beady eyes watch picnics
They truly are such thugs
And if you purchase chips from the shop behind the beach
don’t believe you can relax with those tasty scrumptious treats
They’ll watch you exchange money with hungry look upon your face
then hunt you down and rob you with their spray cans full of mace
Dive-bombing little children is their favourite thing to do
then you think they’ve gone but you’d be wrong when they shower you with poo
These antisocial birdies are quite partial to an ale
they really do belong down in Barry Island jail
So be warned these birds are dangerous
Theres no stopping them you know
With their gang tattoos and leathers
Wearing boots with steal capped toes.
You can tell that they mean business and with a welsh sarcastic twang
they bully staff and customers at the local Ice cream van
So pack yourself protection
A helmet and a sword
A shield , a coat of armour
Bring all you can afford
Apart from that it’s glorious
A lovely golden beach
But I wouldn’t risk a smile if you’re wearing your false teeth
Some modern folks, when they hear his name,
will roll their eyes and look ashamed,
thinking the cowboy is uncivilized,
with his hats, and guns, and round-up rides.
That somehow they are beyond the stuff,
to good for the wild, and the rough,
following some unwritten ‘elite’ law,
suppressing the urge to shout ‘yee-haw!’
But I think when it all is said and done,
cowboys are truly made of awesome…
Riding swift across the wide-open plains,
coat flapping behind like your horse’s mane,
maneuvering a large and panicked herd,
turning a stampede with iron nerves,
rough-hewn men cooking by the firelight,
coyote chorus yips through the night,
knowing that for all the wind and grit,
it sure beats sitting in an office.
A battered hat worth more than any pearl,
grabs the attention of the cowgirls,
boots that announce you in any room,
be you a mere hand, or fancy bride-groom.
Leather vests that dress up any shirt,
and somehow can even make fringe"work,
a bandana or a wild rag,
with a thousand uses, not a mere fad.
The tell-tale jangle comes from your spurs,
vast coat made out of buffalo fur.
Square-dance, line-dance, twirl a girl around,
to fiddle and steel guitar’s sound,
campfire songs to entertain the kids,
harmonicas to sing the blues with,
teaching the folks to throw a lasso,
then breaking out tricks with swirling rope.
Living life by a strong honor code,
one that good people would do well to know.
Wyatt Earp and his famous revenge ride,
Masterson cut Dodge City down to size,
Doc Holliday gambling with a death wish,
Billy the Kid, criminal, yet tragic,
Wild Bill holding those aces & eights,
and old Kit Carson, out blazing the way,
Buffalo Bill brought the people a dream,
and who can forget, the legend Bass Reeves?
A six-gun at ready, holster right side,
the lines of a Winchester, ever sublime.
Ranches that sprawl on mountain and prairie,
riding the trails where man can breath free,
rampaging rodeo, those guns are fun,
and damn can those barrel-racers run!
Living out of doors, by both skill and luck,
be it on a horse or a pick-up truck,
It’s clear that when all is said and done,
that cowboys are truly made of awesome.
Quiet please dulcet winter’s wind clatter
Let sun shine, snows melt to lace, crocus be.
No howls, blinding blizzards, hail shatter,
Let land seep water and lake birds see.
I want a chiffon of lemon grass buds
and to shed sweaters and slippers and vests.
Cleanse the soot from walks with soapy suds.
Breathe fresh air warm with sun without tests.
I have given my prayers for hunger and peace
thanked my gifts, set out new starts.
I have measured my corn to fatten geese.
The barn is dank and gloomy with stale farts.
Restart year. Seed the babies, feed the living.
Now's time of resurrection and giving.
Dedicated to one I respect, enjoy, fear for and pray for as he faces violence each day in a part of Africa that was once his peaceful, nature adorned idyllic home. I wish him to run, he won't. God Keep Ye, Jannie Breedt
Ocean-born wave rhythms rock their roll
just as motions my own soul does extol
since first we seascaped soul to soul.
From your African, violent, dust bowl
straight to my United States’ role,
joy surfs the tides making us whole.
Your expanse is constant inside my coral mind
as though our ebb and flow were cast entwined.
An ocean sees our coastlines combined.
Though our shared depths are confined,
our seawaters’ yang is surely aligned.
I sail my authentic towards your motion’s drift,
feel its sincere floatage dip down and high-lift.
Never do I rue an anchor of sea-worn shrift
turning shallow the depth of my sailed gift.
Our vibration rides the same sea of mapped calm.
You soothe my torrid zones as a salt-healing balm
might whip storms into the tranquility of a psalm.
Your grace and kindness of steady waves
fill my otherwise deep-sunken sea graves.
Bright life vests secure notes you sincerely toss afloat.
Our waters churn beyond human means of control -
they plunge and sweep as independently designed,
leaving us with merely sand’s feel to finger sift.
Yet my endless depths harbor no sinking qualm
for my intangible drownings, your tangible saves.
I am a better me with each beached, ocean note.
Through the eyes of one born in 1952:
1950’s TV craze
Muscle cars, blue jeans
Poodle skirts, class ring exchanges
Simple time, grandparents involved.
Girls want to be pretty, men call women girls
I Love Lucy
Topper, Loretta Young,
Show of Shows
Grandma’s house on Sundays. Grandpa’s teach skills.
Girls want to be beautiful, men call women “dames”
1960’s Marauding cold war
Russia cosmonauts
Space race
Grandparents are moved to nursing homes.
Girls want to be Jackie, men call women “wife”
JFK and Bobby
Dr. Martin Luther King
Killed by cowards
Grandparents give advice, but visits are more seldom.
Girls want to be housewives, men call women back home.
Early 1970’s, hippie revolution
Egyptian cat queen make-up, free love, anti-war.
Barbara Streisand, Sonny and Cher, Bette Midler,
Grandparents see an alarming pattern of disrespect.
Girls want to be singers and dancers, men get confused.
1980’s
Fur vests, striped pants
Disco Music, John Travolta, Sundays are just another day.
Grandparents have rights, and try to get part time custody of their grandchildren.
Women want to have rights, be independent. Men call them “busters”
1990’s, Turn of everything, selfishness on the rise.
Assassination of Innocence, church and family are scoffed.
Grandparents back off, not daring to give advice, seeing it is not wanted.
Women are working all over the place. Men are not the only bread-winners.
2000’s Computers are in houses
Children are alone, latch key
911 happens, people pray for a day or two.
Grandparents are nowhere around.
Men and women get depressed; children are too.
2010’s
I-phone. I-pad, I-know. I, me, I, I, I.
Lawsuits, lawlessness, spiritually bereft.
Communication breakdown; facetime grandparents once in a pink moon (rarely).
People sit next to each other and text. Confusion reigns supreme.
Breaking down of family is complete. Sorrowful, angry people, disjointed, sad.
Watching the television
Reading the news
I ask not for your views
your case for war is farcical
Your indifference to human suffering is immoral
Yet you call yourselves men of faith and children
Of the clothe
You place your anger on vests of death and drop
Your bombs from birds like rain you kill and maim
And say its in his holy name
To feed your never-ending thirst for greed
You cut the green from the equators belt and clear
The forest to add more wealth
You leave me no clean air to smell
And then you persecute my life and so deprive me
Of my rights and when I rebel and demonstrate
You steal my vote
And filled with hate you lock me up behind
Eelectric gates
And when the continents of ice tell their story
Of immanent demise
You show no concern as winter begs for something cold
and summer has no layer to hold Its scorching heat
now uncontrolled
You know my torment you hear my cry
Deliver us from lying lips deceitful tongues and
Genocide
But you turn your sightless gaze aside
The winds though hear my plea and come with
Vengeance as they blow and the rains fall torrential
As they go
And twisters twirl in lands they do not know
The seas lash out with anger in its waters rising
flow
And the earth trembles as the mountains rumble
And fire comes from deep below
Your buildings now come crashing down
The land erodes to only rock and cost you billions
To put them back
And caged in temples of your conceit
You sit and wonder why
And Mother Nature smiles in the aftermath
Of your demise
Earl S. Jackson
Aug 2006
Copyright © 2006 Earl S. Jackson, all rights reserved.
relax release mind
expand universally
no concentration
feel being lost in
the unknown totality
to find again self
changing formation
becomes one to another
with in the whole one
continues till end
power of supreme time vests
in unnumbered clocks
In twilight's' iridescent field I walk
On an astral-like dimension , agleam
Where creatures robed in steel vests wink and blaze--
How entranced am I by their puzzling squawk
Muttering faintly, lenses white as chalk;
Till my body glides on a mystic stream
To relish the enigma of this haze,
A sigh which breaths would never wish to lock :
Then gradually a Nova descends
In purple mist around a vortex, such thrill ...
But gold starship wheel on their homeward flight;
That cosmic beings, kind, part when dusk ends
In the afterglow lingering still...
To tuck my dreams in wondrous joy tonight!
..................
Fiction - October 2018 Writing Challenge
Sponsored by Dear Heart a.k.a. Broken Wings
--------------------
10/15.2018
Magazines and jewelry
Nothing shows your age faster
I see a broach and think “That is from the 40’s or 50’s.”
Mink stoles were from the 30’s to sixty’s depending on the style.
Mushroom canister sets excite my 1970’s self.
Teenage movie magazines from the 50’s and 60’s
are easy to recognize.
The disco stuff with the faux fur vests and
tight striped pants for men. 80’s.
I look at old magazines from the 60’s and
I know most of the players.
Maybe all of them.
I recognize Dr. Martin Luther King, Jacque O and Marilyn for sure.
Lucy and Desi, Tab Hunter and Natalie Woods.
Pink cars? From the 50’s and 60’s probably.
Turquoise cars? Not as easy.
Turquoise cars made a comeback in the 90’s.
But the style might help.
It used to be I could name the year of any car
built from 1955 through 1980.
I doubt I could do that anymore.
Having moved on to other interests.
The Checker and the Mercury Marquis do not count.
They never wavered much from their own status quo.
I visit antique stores and smile.
Recognizing things from my childhood.
Everything from my childhood is in an antique store including me.
I feel totally fine about it. It is the natural order of life.
"Hey, isn't that what's his name?" Uh-oh.
Written: February 24, 2024
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Moonbeams kindle ambrosian dreams
Love evolves on auric gleams
A gem in space, a costly pearl, a Luna
Fetching felicitous feelings, a fervid fawn
In this wassail ethereal area, hearts soar
I was awestruck by the lambent moon
Glittering gems, gilded in dull dust
Vanity surpasses a chimeric spell
A cromulent devotee, in awe
Emerald aureola, blazing high star
Heavenly memoir amphorae
Sew love from words in utter gaze.
Toed moon syntax tonight
In our bucolic spot, love will thrive
We are those who wield abilities of orbs
Sparse straps, splitting stripes
Love outshines crimson swirls
Sapphire adorns translucent tulips
Sturgeon Roe names cast in crystal
Sipping strawberries spoils serene seas
My love infused a porcelain spirit
Sketch my comely soul
Let me breathe your raspy hiccups
Believe me—beyond oblivion
Your Zinnia blooms gambol my heart
Gorgeous, lost in a well-woven nimbus
Fugacious felicity and fluff on fiery flowers
Rising flames, faint shooting, conflict.
Outside orbs offer otherworldly orbits
Deciphering diaphanous riddles
Could night cherubs grasp our grace?
Classic clear cloud cores
A balmy silk breeze hides enigmas
Covered below perseid colors
Your dulcet eyes sparkled dimly
Rose-tuned praise of cyan candidness
Via velvety vintage valleys, vivid verse vests
Beleaguer back the fire of our waltz
The moonlight lifts our mellifluous breath
Dreams soar in tangerine skies.
I wear a hat because I've lost my hair
Folk would laugh out loud at my head so bare
Long ago my hair was thick and wavy
It was the colour of mother's gravy.
Her gravy was dark as the lumps of coal
She would light a fire with, when it was cold
If short of cash, then us kids had to sit
In the disastrous sweaters she would knit.
Often they’d be too clingy or too large
Though knitted with love for those in her charge
Mother said if we were cosy and warm
It did not matter at all what was worn.
The years have passed by, hair has disappeared
The worst of it is, it's cold on the ears
But my mother, bless her, before she left
Knitted a draw full of hats, socks and vests.
I am a ghetto boy with no ware to go, so I talk to the lord to keep my flow.
The answer came that would make me a man.
He said the graveyard would be calling my name, but you want fame;
so here i go. Make the wrong move and the door will close.
I said lord I can't help myself, unemployment on the rise and i don't have many
friends; cause i begin to wonder is there spies with in.
All i want to do is to get out of this rut, without hanging with the fellas
selling dope at the cut.
I don't want no mess so i carry a peice in case some fool want some of me.
Hitting the switch in the car so my girl can get in, I keep her with me
to keep me from committing a sin. I am a ghetto boy, but i'm out to win.
All these things mean something to me.
It is not what you would see in a hustlers magazine.
A stash of dope in the trunk and thee dogs at the cut,
dressing in hood gear and waring bullets proof vests.
Is death the promise for doing my best.
I am a ghetto boy with no ware to go, so i talk to the lord to keep my flow.
THE END