Best Ville Poems
Last summer when you (towed) your three (toed), (toad)
I'd not give a (cent) for the (scent), (sent) through the air
Like when I dropped (chili) in (Chile) when it was (chilly),
The old one didn't, but the (new)(gnu)(knew) it was there!
So with sore foot, (I'll) walk the (aisle) on the (Isle)
I (cite) the (sight) of this (site), can renew a man
Look me in the (eye), (I) say, "(Aye), I'm ready!"
You say, "I guess (he'll) (heal) his (heel) when he can!"
If I (rode) in a boat I (rowed) in a ditch by the (road)
Even until signs of (dew) seem (due), (do) you care?
If (you're) still to hold to (your) feelings of (yore)
I don't (buy) you'll stop (by) and say"(bye)", so there!
brush in hand, he breathes life to paper ...
columns ... bejeweled and sparkling
like blades of shimmering grass
piercing the night as star-flecked stalagmites
fingers of phosphorescent proficiency
flickering with the finest of human accomplishment
and twirling through the ether like fairies
darting and dancing to the throb of frantic grids below
glowing girders and gangling spires, agleam
trembling with the concerns of life
and dressed in the temperate weight of wonder
a thousand stories born each elegant instant
countless dramas and conundrums
spinning to their inexorable ends
numberless breaths gasped and giggled
heart-upon-heart pumping ire and exasperation
thrumming with passions, proved and pondered
or the typic pulse of the prosaic
a glistening garden of "la condition humaine"
a beast born of concrete and light ...
its urbane and provocative heart, beating ...
the canvas has come ... to LIFE!
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Something Bigger Than Myself" Poetry Contest,
Line Gauthier, Judge & Sponsor.
N/A'd in the "Cityscape" Poetry Contest.
Meth Bomb, Homicide Village,
Diverse Culture Site, Crown Town,
Kendaltucky and Johnny Appleseed's Homestead;
Tremendous and Troubling and Tortured,
Town of the Long Face:
They say you are explosive, and that is valid; I know of the white powdery crystallized bombs being made under children's beds in the deepest hell of a home
They say you are a cemetery on a cold winters' night and that I must justify with the RGS running the funeral mansion
They say you are congested, and I do believe that there is not a lot of field in range to go through the saloons and institutions
While many of the headlines are validated by the sweating asphalt- this town of mine is home and my hometown is just as flawless as its flaws:
Take me to a more sufficiently lead team of law enforcers picking up the crooks of Kendallville off the road.
Taking a lifetime of folklore and continuously celebrating the satisfied existence like Christians on Mardi Gras or Americans on the 4th of July.
Vicious as bears searching for their prey; amiable cubs jointly loving families and families of families
Sensible,
Persistent,
Exuberant,
Courteous,
Inconsiderate, Impassionate, Immoveable,
Covered in crank, devoured in the brain, suffocated by stigma,
Covered in red juice from babies who bleed from bullet holes,
Covered with resentment all around people who are the same the rest,
Encouraged by devotion taking apart all sin within the field like a first-time Christian opening their heart in the fight for heaven
Lost and encouraged that all things happen in the enclosed surface of a town for Him to save.
Encouraged with tremendous, troubled, tortured loss of the populous, diverse in a congested area, represented by Crowns throughout the town in years past. One finds salvation in the explosion of guilt.
(To be sang to the tune of Cruella De Ville)
Priscilla DeVille, Priscilla DeVille
If she doesnt marry you another one will
to date her is a costly bill
priscilla, priscilla
shes like an widow waiting for the will
look out for priscilla deville
at first you'll think priscilla is just fancy
but after shes got you to kiss and thank
you come to realize shes broken many guys
shes even cleaned you out at the bank!!!
This gold digger, this no good lying witch
thinks shes cool but shes realy just a
your life was good and calm until
priscilla, priscilla deville
My lastest poem has one hundred and one words
Dalmations is where my mind naturally goes
But add ten to that, and I have 111, the angel number
The number that assures me that angels are here.
take away ten, and I am back at 101,
the famous spotted dog number
I used to love singing the Cruella de Ville song
I can still sing most of it
Weird that she and the angel number appear together
Cancelling each other out
pointed hat in pointed Ville
answered to no one on the hill
whisked into the town on the top of a pointed nose
what happened after that no one knows