Best Wildwood Poems
Often I wonder, is it worth it
Opening my eyes to blurred red numbers each morning,
broken lines of early hour countings,
as gloomed darkness peers through streaked windows
and dusty mini blinds create silent wooden horizons
Groaning, upright now on the edge of the mattress…stretching,
rubbing my face to remove the remnants of last night,
shoving aside the warmth of my faded flannel blanket,
then finding a cold floor giggling at the touch of my naked feet
I recall the dream, my last moments of sleep…weird…real feeling
Aerosmith, a souvenir stand in Wildwood and an iPad
Sketchy but still there (and I wish I were too)
Don’t ask….
I can hear my dogs grunting at the foot of bed
(Probably chasing raccoons in their heads)
What a life, eating, sleeping, no need for love (in that sense),
just a nice pat on the head every once in a while satisfies
Sometimes I guess that is all it takes, all we can hope for…
Still sitting here, yawning…thinking…
Why do I do this each day, every day, the same routine,
the deepest rut, like tire tracks in fresh mud, straight, never ending…
Then, as the tiniest glint of sunlight sifts the tenebrous room
I think of you…my happiness, my everyday purpose and it all becomes clear
Smiling now, I stand and greet this brand new beautiful day…wide awake
Often I wonder, is it worth it...and then I wonder why I wonder
Good morning Soupers
I've been a lot of places in this land,
From sea to shining sea.
There's a place in the hills of Arkansas
That means more than them all to me,
A little wildwood church where people meet
To praise the Lord above.
They don't have a lot of money,
But they're rich in a thing called love
You'll see a friendly smile upon each face
The moment you walk in.
They'll make you feel so loved and right at home,
That you'll want to go back again.
They will pour you out a cup of kindness
And hospitality;
Then they'll take you home and feed you,
And they'll treat you like family.
You're always more than welcome;
There's no lock upon the door.
There's preaching and singing and praising the Lord,
And they know what the altar's for.
Don't look for a grand cathedral,
Standing proud and tall;
It’s a humble little church, beside the road,
At Ben Hur Arkansas.
The forward-pointing fight of jolly time overflies.
And today blurs into a missing yesterday reprise.
The present blossom has dwindled and faded away,
Into a meager light reminiscence of yesterday.
Wildwood snuggles,
haystacks of sparkles,
yesterday struggles,
tomorrow marvels
It's sobering to discover a shattered soul in ruin.
The rage of this life was my deep eternal bane.
Heroic hearts provide a sense of timelessness.
Only to be misled after restoring to endlessness.
Wildwood snuggles,
haystacks of sparkles,
yesterday struggles,
tomorrow marvels
Unbeknown to the utterly ecstatic child.
On bestow, eternality on previous days riled.
He abused the promises devoted to himself that day.
As a result, auld enough, therefore a relentless journey.
A young sparrow meets a growing north wind.
His ambitions don't adapt to the pride designed.
And a terrible yet enlightening event arose.
Men envy the sunbird on the sky, tells the prose.
Wildwood snuggles,
Haystacks of sparkles,
yesterday struggles,
Tomorrow marvels.
Written: November 29, 2021
1st Place contest winner.
''Y'' Contest, New Poems - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Back when we would walk in the spring-green wood
Holding hands, hearts joined only as lovers can
Thoughts circle round those days in the deep wildwood
Now aged, bent way past young adulthood
Young love comes in glimpses in this lifespan
Longing for Jesus' relief of my orphanhood
It was the strange cologne
the misty moon
it was the river rolling on and on
hallucinations and a dream
someone's shadow on the wall
silvery leaves brushing your face
running
running
through the wildwood
over the bridge forever
to the cottage bright
in the meadow
dark stones wet with autumn
showers
hours spent before the dying
fire
your hand in his
it was
the inevitable joy,
the boundless leap of faith
taking your breath
along with the last bit of summer
it was
as strong as life is long and true,
and all for you,
it was.
A NEW COUNTRY SONG
I was ravaged today
by
three country songs
on the truck radio
each moaning the lyrics
". . daddy's pickup truck"
and "the Georgia mud"
while whining that
"she was leavin' me!".
(God! What woman
would not leave if that was
all she ever heard from him
or ANYONE ELSE!)
I reckon he lost
because
the fourth song I heard
had ". . . drink a beer!"
finishing each and every line!
Is there no shame no style
no class no original music
anymore?
Even David Allen Coe trashed
better, with his "The Perfect
Country and Western Song".
At least the drunken pickup
driver was meeting his jailbird
mama, not daddy, in the rain
and crashed his own pickup
into the train!
Oh Waylon, Kris, Willie, Tom Paul
Chet, Loretta, Bill, Lester, Roy
and all you others un-named un-tamed
legends! what have you
let happen?
Where are the lonesome, snow white
doves, the mule train sorrows,
the wildwood flowers, the Tennessee waltzes,
the shotgun willies or the Luckenbach wails
of songs gone by?
Why was I ravaged today
by
The flashing neon sign
re-echoed ghosts
of disturbed country music,
not re-assured by soulful
originality?
Are we no longer able
to compose, to play
in a twitterless world
of art, creativity, quality?
Alas we have lost; I want
to scream!
"Turn off the radio, the IPOD,
close the door!"
I will spin my LP's once more,
crash my pickup into daddy's garage
and listen to Les Paul and Mary Ford,
. . . end my culture, and
. . . "drink a beer!".
WILDWOOD DAZE
April 7, 2011 at 1:19pm
WILDWOOD DAZE..
As I ride this clanking some what rocky bus
we know as New Jersey Transit I ponder
my destination, while I joy ride to sunlit beaches
and do wop dreams that can only be WILDWOOD.
I sit here fighting that draining tired feeling that
always tries to steal my sunshine.
I will NOT allow it, for I am on my way to SANCTUARY.
AH' Sweet sanctuary the smell of the boardwalk , beaches laden
with jelly fish and the call of the fudgie wugie man waits for me.
The smell of my childhood vacations, nostalgia flows through
my senses as if I were ten again.
I may be inspired to write a brilliant Shakespearian piece on
my way to Cape May County, who really knows.
What I do know is , I want to run my toes through the glistening
sand , have seaweed wash past me as I yell " AH SEAWEED"
Eat funnel cake and Curly fries slurp down clams and play putt putt
ride the biggest coaster they have all while staying a t a two star
motel from 1964.
Where I can bring back my youth as I forget the crime ridden abode
I call my home.
Breath in salt air , jump through a crashing wave as it washes my troubles
away, if only for a few days
As a footnote.....I wrote this about 4 years ago on my way to Wildwood NJ....On the 2 hour bus ride...lol. Thank you...for reading :)i
Who remembers, is it only me?
When March had drizzled, and April fooled us...
But a morning in the month of May.........
We'd spread upon a kitchen table
Paste made of flour, scissors, borrowed
paper, crayons of rainbow colors
Pretty paper doilies and….
Mama letting little hands
Create surprises, of cone shaped fans…
The memory shrugs so many years
Where innocence, was cut and shaped
Into bright-sprigged paper cones
Accomplishments, each of our own
On May the first, a small bouquet
We would rehearse, a verse to say
To spread come spring, then run away
Then quickly running out the door
To pick spring beauties, one by one
Fresh Lillies of the Valley, wildwood fern,
Gathering them, heavy on their stems
Sweet and fresh as morning dew,
So filled with springtime, filled with bloom
Then paper cones were flower filled
Small bouquets of sweet perfume
Then down the dusty road we trudged
Side by side, with grins of pride
No greater pleasure as a child
The thought of bringing someone smiles
On May the first, a small bouquet
We would rehearse, a verse to say
To spread come spring, then run away
Timid knocking on a door
“Surprise...Surprise! Look what’s in store!”
Our little legs now running fast,
And down the road, quite out of breath
Behind a tree, where we would hide
And watch them find this flower prize
Must not....get caught.....must not get caught!
And we were taught
That bringing gifts to make them sigh
Was worth a lot !! Was worth the thought
A thoughtful way to light their eyes
On May the first, a small bouquet
We would rehearse, a verse to say
To spread come spring, then run away
_________________________________________________________
2/19/14
COUNTRY MUSIC
I was ravaged today
by
three consecutive country songs
on the radio while driving
each moaning the lyrics
". . daddy's pickup truck"
and "the Georgia mud"
while whining that
"she was leavin' me!".
God what woman
would not leave if that was
all she ever heard from him
or ANYONE ELSE!
I reckon he lost
because
the fourth song I heard
had ". . . drink a beer!"
ending each and every line!
Is there no shame of style
anymore?
Even David Allen Coe trashed
better, with "The Perfect
Country and Western Song".
At least the drunken pickup
driver was meeting his jailbird
mama, not daddy, in the rain
and crashed his own pickup
into the train!
Oh Waylon, Kris, Willie, Tom Paul
Chet, Loretta, Bill, Lester, Roy
and all you others un-named
legends! what have you
let happen?
Where are the lonesome, snow white
doves, the mule train sorrows,
the wildwood flowers, the Tennessee waltzes,
the shotgun willies of songs gone by?
Why was I ravaged today
by
The flashing neon sign ghosts
of disturbed country music, and not
pleasured by delicate originality?
Are we no longer able to compose,
play in a twitterless world
of art, creativity and valued songs?
Alas we have lost I want
to scream
Turn off the radio, the IPOD,
close the door
I will spin my LP's once more,
crash my pickup into daddy's garage
and listen to Les Paul and Mary Ford,
. . . end my culture,
. . . "drink a beer!".
Oh, the incessant noise, the jibber jabber,
civilization’s cure for loneliness,
the panacea for boredom.
If only, if only, “You’ve got male.”
would be an answer.
Ah, but no…
Tweet on, “Oh ship of state…”
this Union, this rudderless human joining…
Oh, to be a deer in the wood
the silent wood, the sea of green, the eye of calm
to hear naught but the patter of rain.
And, taste only the dewy mist
on the tip of pedal pink tongue.
To not have soiled the soul, flesh eater, destroyer
To be Un-manned…
To run and leap, doe-eyed, over fallen log…instead of fallen foe.
To rise a-dawning in the mist of a four-legged dream.
To be mounted by a loyal buck
and birth a quivering fawn.
Surely, all the monkey mind has to offer
can not compare to the innocence of the doe.
Shut the roaring static, kill the jabber walkie
resurrect me silent, furred and free
amongst the fiddleheads and moss
of the wildwood.
I miss her, Mother Egypt
and those friends I left behind,
timeless history, marvels and mysteries
etched in stone by her own scribes.
Longing for the waters of the nourishing
River Nile and surrounding seas,
the laughter and smiles of everyone
who once loved and greeted me.
Near the shores of Alexandria,
Abu Qir and Fort Qaitbey,
Where Cleopatra's palace once stood
in somber ruins, she now lays.
Near Pompei's Pillar and Roman remains
of columns and fortress walls,
white marble statues and museums filled
with antiquities large and small.
The sights and sounds in every town
Of a marketplace lost in time,
Selling goods from almonds to wildwood
And candles to clocks that chime.
In the land of the Eye of Horus,
the son of Osiris the King,
and Isis, Queen Precursor
to Mary, Mother of God, Creator of everything.
Cradle of Christianity and home to
Pagan, Gnostic, Muslim, Jew, sanctuary
where the Holy Family fled from evil
to a warm and welcomed refuge.
Where the mighty Sphinx and Pyramids
stand silent, proud, and tall,
in the salutary sands of time
with eyes peering down upon us all.
Temples of Luxor, Abu Simbel
and Colossi of Memnon,
Valleys of the Kings, Queens and Hatshepsut
awakened, alive again each dawn.
Mummification, adulation
of life and death and stars,
Constellations, incantations
and the wonders of who we are.
Battle tested, rarely rested
waiting for the next invasion,
of Persians, Greeks, Romans and those who seek
your immeasurable treasures unabated.
The ebb and flow of come and go
throughout your long, hard years
of growing seasons, rhythms and reasons
to keep fighting back the tears.
Yet never waned while fighting flames
of one invasion to the next,
while still your people smile and sing
with a yoke upon their neck.
In a land that never loses the allure or
enigma of mankind's birth,
where magic and myth still hold their grip
on whatever we think life’s worth.
Mother Egypt, truth be told, I miss you more than all your gold
and antiquities that survive,
where I once sipped cappuccino
watching history passing by.
I know a seagull named freckle head Sam,
he plays on the beach in the hot sand.
Likes Wildwood and Cape May too,
because there's always something to do.
Eats curly fries right from your hand,
that dirty seagulll freckle head Sam.
Pretzels, popcorn, and ice cream too,
he eats everything you know it's true.
So beware if your out on the beach,
keep your food out of reach.
For freckle head Sam is always close by,
ready to swoop down from the sky.
JSergi
Oh, the incessant noise, the jibber jabber,
civilization’s cure for loneliness,
the panacea for boredom.
If only, if only, “You’ve got male.”
would be an answer.
Ah, but no…
Tweet on, “Oh ship of state…”
this Union, this rudderless human joining…
Oh, to be a deer in the wood
the silent wood, the sea of green, the eye of calm
to hear naught but the patter of rain.
And, taste only the dewy mist
on the tip of pedal pink tongue.
To not have soiled the soul, flesh eater, destroyer
To be Un-manned…
To run and leap, doe-eyed, over fallen log…instead of fallen foe.
To rise a-dawning in the mist of a four-legged dream.
To be mounted by a loyal buck
and birth a quivering fawn.
Surely, all the monkey mind has to offer
can not compare to the innocence of the doe.
Shut the roaring static, kill the jabber walkie
resurrect me silent, furred and free
amongst the fiddleheads and moss
of the wildwood.
Just come on down, and spend a very pleasant day
at a spot on the shore that’s not too far away.
Feel the warmth of the sunshine, and the ocean’s spray.
Walk on the sand dunes, or on the boardwalk today.
If you come from New York, or Northern New Jersey,
or Philadelphia, there’s this place you must see.
It’s not just for adults, but the whole family.
Coming to this place will make everyone happy.
It’s the finest shore resort anyone would know.
If you want to have fun, it’s the place you should go.
The beach, the boardwalk, and the restaurants are good.
This is a seaside town known to all as Wildwood.
,
Spring Paintings by Kinkade
purple sky at eve
a log cottage by a stream
with windows aglow
after vietnam
my old familiar path home
lights and chimney smoke
lilac carnival
decorates each city block
it must be springtime
a splendid stone bridge
arched over a placid flow
june night memory
blue wildwood steeple
with many a wagon track
june morning service
dusk in the city
rain soaked streets thrusting up light,
cars, shops and people