Best Wouldn Poems
Phobia
Once in Paris, I was going to a venue reading poetry, the hotelier told me to take
the subway as it was easy. After being a fender for busy people I found my train
and suffocated. First stop, I ran off and found myself at a strange part of the city,
sweating and shaking like d drunk who had been on a bender for a fortnight.
Phobia! I didn´t even know I had one, my pipe dream of being a u-boat captain
had sunk in a hole of terror. My instinct, when lost in a strange place, is to find
the nearest tavern/bars, there are many taverns in Paris it was easy to find one.
I had Pernod, not that I like this drink, but after all I was in France; to blend in
I wore a black beret given to me by a relative of my wife who runs a hat factory
in Lyon, and I had had garlic bread for breakfast. But was unable to lift the glass,
my left hand wouldn´t let me, the right hand blankly refused and pretended to
be lame. Finally hiding, behind the Guardian- an English newspaper for people
who see themselves as liberal socialists-. I gulped down the horrid drink. It did
wonders. So I ordered a whisky, I was a hero, nothing could scare me
as I walked bravely out into busy streets full of people who looked at me as if they
had not seen a beret before, and looked for a taxi.
Church Bells
Once I lived in a charming English village, near
an ancient church, every Sunday morning
on my only day off, the bloody bells chimed.
Thought I saw a woman cycling to mass in
the mist, and it wasn´t Germaine Greer.
When Muslims ruled Andalusia, they tolerated
Christians, but a poet of that time -Ibn Baqi-
circa 1059 1112, wished they wouldn´t clang
bells so hard waking him up when air was cool,
sleep sweet and his Christian mistress had to
get up and go to mass. So far nothing has
changed, dear Ibn Baqi, the bells keep on tolling
Imagine being surrounded by flies,
Big surprise I surmise,
Now Imagine being getup in a doo-doo disguise,
Which wouldn,t be wise, seeing that your surrounded by flies,
of various size, with Big Eyes that Multiplies,
AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
Does anyone hear my cries!!!
Form:
(Eliza paces restlessly finding herself back at the door)
Eliza: Martha, I'm going through...and I want you to come with me.
Martha: I like it here, I...
Eliza: I know. I know you like it, but it''s not enough is it? You know what I think? I think our babies are behind that door. Nothing could draw a mother like this but her baby. (She pauses. She can see she''s getting through to her)
Can you really wake up feeling empty, lacking, pretend, again? So our babies might not be behind that door. It might be the doorway to hell. It's worth the risk...isn't it?
Martha: I...I can't go without Missie.
(A long pause as something changes in Missie''s face. Her concrete expression gives way to something Martha barely recognises, despite having lived with her for ten years. She looks troubled)
Missie: What if he''s there...my baby. He''d be ten now. All confused and hating his mother for wanting to give him up.
Eliza(she begins to understand Missie for the first time): You could talk to him. Try to make him understand.
Missie: He wouldn''t. He just wouldn''t.
Martha: At least you can say you tried.
Missie: Go...go without me.
(Martha embraces her. A motherly hug that she''s been wanting to give for fifty years)
Missie: You guys are gonna be great mothers.
(Martha and Eliza take a deep breath, hold hands and pass through the door, which emits a bright white light. It closes behind them, leaving Missie in what now seems to be a very large, very empty room. She climbs onto the bed, sits cross legged, taking a doll from beneath the sheets, stroking its hair and weeping)
Missie: I''m sorry baby. I am so sorry.
(She looks silently towards the door labelled ''depart'', and wipes a tear from her cheek. The lights dim)
Broremann, the farmer worker.
Every morning at five thirty sharp, my brother Broremann
had to milk five cows by hand bring bucket full of goodness
to the scullery where maid sifted it and in a churn it went.
He had to start milking Rose first, she was the mother cow
other cows wouldn´t give milk unless he started with her.
After milking Broremann had to clean the barn five cows
make a lot of dung; he pushed it down in a hole in the wall
it was later used to fertilize the land. My brother was proud
of his ability to milk and his hands were, firm yet gentle.
There was a problem though Rose didn´t yield as much milk
as before as she was getting elderly and the farmer sold her
to the knacker’s yard. It was a sad day and the other cows
mooed woefully. The farmer bought a new cow to take Rosa´s
place, but Broremann couldn´t milk her first, as she was new-
comer, so he started with Gerda, now the oldest cow, and milk
the new one last, thus rural peace continued in the cow shed.
The Missing Limb
I was driving a long when I saw half an arm, from
elbow and down to hand, on the verge of the road.
I stopped picked it up with my right hand and it
quickly grabbed my left wrist and wouldn´t let go.
A man came from the bushes: “it is my arm,” he
said and wrestled it off my wrist and connected
the limb to its rightful place, stapled and put it
between his shirt opening looking like Napoleon.
He told me that years ago he lost his own arm,
doctors sewed a new one on; works ok, but there
are tasks it doesn´t like to do like being helpful
when nature calls, I let my right hand do it but
sometimes I forget the left detaches itself tries
to run off. With that he went back to his field
mounted a tractor, his left arm worked fine, and
he disappeared in a blast of dust and diesel fume
If inferno flames are melting your spirit.
Causing gapping wounds of disappointments developing infections.
Pus oozing oppression, odor of deception.
Swathed in agony dressings.
If you’ve been cloaked in sheets bearing the logo of minority
While walking in the majority
Ear marked with inferior wages projected for projects,
brainwashed into thinking we’re self sufficient.
Stamped on food allotment threatened with starvation with every election.
If you can hold the cold hand of your child.
Wrap satin royalties across his chest, tucking in his future.
Line him in crushed velvet for a comfortable home going.
Watching faith fade.
Managing to lift your head high push shoulders back to face the hate that took him away.
If your idea of protect and serve rings true only if you believe in amendment #2, that phrase has never applied to you.
If you watch 365 days of American History and only 28 days of your own, told to let it ago as you watch the new age lynchings. Slavery in the form of prison sentences. History on repeat yet remixed.
If you watch video vixens, half dressed twerk videos become the image of you.
Your natural full lips, thick hips, round ass become the joke in one era and the plastic surgery rave yet on you he finds fault.
If your humble disposition has you in a silent rage but they wouldn’t know it looking you in the face.
Humbled by grace.
Then you know what it is to be a black woman in America.
(This isn’t finished)
Let´s meet the happy-go-lucky man;
full-blooded,
neither craven nor valiant,
taking life as it comes with a touch of indifferent air,
good-humored, easy-going,
careless and not jealous.
Just It wouldn´t be bad to beam him a bit of mundane grandeur to be a perfect partner.
If it was not because...
We are actually referring to a dummy
The Conversation
I sat on the roof reading a book
and eating a banana.
But as the day progressed
I got hungry and
tried to get down by climbing
up and over a low wall onto
the kitchen terrace.
Legs wouldn´t let me.
In the struggle I lost the book
it ended on the road face up.
My neighbour came
helped me over the wall and asked:
“What were you doing?
“I was reading Jose Saramago
In Portuguese and I read slowly.”
“Well, it is ok then.” He said
“But I didn´t like him he was
a communist and ex car mechanic
went to live in Spain after
winning the big literary prize.”
Dear mom and dad, you told me I was your treasure
My heart quivers to ask you, why did you leave me to break under the pressure?
A worthless, wretched, withered flower, that was I
Nonetheless, I always did my part
I dreamed of your embrace, wished for a little praise; yet your groans and snide remarks
Only shattered what was left of my heart
I was an dirty, filthy mattress, in desperate need of cleaning
Struck with wooden bat, each night, as i'd yelp
Your scoldings, your beatings, your old leather belt
It hurts to say, they never really helped
Dear lover, my love was true
It hurt to know, love was just a game for you
My heart was a mere counter on the board
It would suffer turns and turns just to get to you
My veins were the lonely pathways
My blood still reeks of all the sorrows you've put me through
You left; as i struggled to survived with all my might
You left; with nothing but a shoddy rope and a rusty dagger by my side
Life is a prison
All doors shut tight, each moment I become less and less sane
There only ever is one escape
I never wished to stop living, I only wished to cease the pain
Tonight, as the clock strickes midnight
My foot will caress the chair, I'll count till three
I died a long time ago
But tonight, I'd finally be free
Goodbye, beloved, father and mother
Thank you for letting me die, thank you for not being aware
Signing off, Yours truly,
A descendent, a progeny, a lover, your worst nightmare
Such effort to write, when you wouldn't even read it, would you?
Pools of blood splattered on the floor, your ugly heart falling out, you couldn't watch as you disintegrate, could you?
Scraping your eyes, tearing your throat while you scream silently, motionless on your bed
After all, one can't really be convicted for murder when the murderer is already dead
This was a true story bout' this ole lady
and this baby who ain't hers you see cause'n its' white ya see
and she ain't she a mammie or a cook but to the honey child
she the baby mammie cauz' she more a moma to the honey child than the baby
mama
mammie been in that honey child face every science she poped out of the white
hefier and she wouldn' even feed her a bottle must less let her pull at her tit
honey child and mammie done got so close that white lady came back when
honey child was house broke and talkin' and walkin' and didn' even know that
white hefier was even her mama she say mammie who dat lady and mammie say
why honey child that white lady is yo mama and honey child say NO NO she ain't
my mammie you is my mammie and mammie told honey child baby she gave
birth to ya but you is right I is yo mammie and I will always be tha mammie so
ya go younder and speak to ya mama now ok be respectful and mind yo manner
like I done taught ya and don't make me have to tan ya hide ok honey child say
yes ma'm mammie
Broremann the Angler
On the pier where fishing vessels were tied up my brother
sat fishing all the while seagulls kept swooping and shrieking,
he blissfully ignored them. He had no hook at the end of his
line and when asked why he said, I don´t like to hurt the fish.
But crafty little Broremann was not as innocent as you may
think, he didn´t like fish, all those horrible tiny bones,
his mother had sent him down to the pier to try catch some
fish for lunch. He liked sausages with mashed potatoes and
stewed peas, now he could go home tell his mother fish didn´t
bite today, but made sure to put the hook on the line so his
mother could see he was really trying. An old fisherman gave
him two sardines wrapped in a newspaper, but wouldn´t you
know it the pair of sardines somehow slipped out of the paper
and made their way back to the sea.
i wrote this poem as if i was a soldier in world war one. i got inspiration from my
history class.
My feet started hurting me, they were starting to ache,
Then BANG! I heard a bomb go off and the ground started to shake.
I grabbed my equipment and sprinted out to fight,
But when I arrived there I got a terrible fright.
It was like a rainstorm but of blood instead of rain,
Around me was terror, faces full of pain.
I stumbled over bodies and there…I saw my friend,
He had gunshots all over him, he had met a gruesome end.
“Quick” I heard an order
‘Gas Gas’ I held my breath,
Then I tripped and fell
I didn’t want this to be my death.
I knew I had to get up now!
If I wanted to survive,
I forced on my gas mask
Struggling to stay alive.
Men cried out like babies
But I didn’t want to cry,
I thought if I was optimistic
That I wouldn’t die.
I saw others choking
I just wanted to run,
Bodies lying everywhere
They fell like dominoes,
One by one.
I struggled to my feet
It was excruciating pain,
I thought of my loved ones
What if I never saw them again?
The smell of dead bodies
The taste of my own blood,
I could hear and see men dying
While I was sinking in wet mud.
Once it all wore off, I started to look around,
And stared at all the bodies lying on the ground.
They looked as if they were sleeping, as silence was everywhere,
I’m glad that I made it although it doesn’t seem that fair.
All of these men are heroes and that’s all that I can say,
And luckily for me, I will live to see another day.
Form:
Retracing a happening
Afternoon at the big hospital, far from home
I sat on my bed wearing a new pajama;
tomorrow, the surgery. From my window I could
see the zoo and cable cars going overhead so
punters could admire animals from above; but
think if a car fell into the tiger enclosure.
I had a packet of fags in the bedside drawer,
thought of sneaking into the loo, but someone
had removed the packet and lighter too.
I was in a strange mood, like I had hypnotized
myself and not me who sat on the bed like a lamb
that knows nothing of the morrow.
A brisk nurse came gave me a pill and a glass of
water, when I awoke my throat was sore, but
they wouldn´t give me water and I hated those
who had done this to me.
Three days later, a day in May, they let me go.
Dressed in shorts, open necked shirt I took a taxi to
the bus terminal. Driver helped me out of the car,
and I made slow progress up some steps to the ticket
office. A woman came helped me to find the right bus
and she carried my bag. Must have fallen asleep when
I woke up the bus had arrived to my home town and
took a taxi to the local hospital where the trek began;
my car was there but I could not drive it, chest too sore
and I worried about the stitches. A neighbour looked
after my dog feed and let her into the house at night.
The dog knew I was near so I took another taxi home.
glad to see me, she knew I was ill and didn´t jump up
and she slept in the doorway of the bedroom making
sure that no harm came to me.
Sonata
It was about noon and I had nothing to do, I had not written
anything for a week, not since my girlfriend left me, had deadline
an article for a magazine, they wanted something about sharks,
like I should know, I had a pint of lager in a bar while reading
the papers; and another one, perhaps more while thinking about
sharks, my girlfriend and the deadline. I walked to the library to
read about sharks. But they wouldn´t let me in said I was drunk.
Please let me in I´ve to read about sharks; piercing library silence.
In the park I made notes about sharks trying to remember if I once
saw shark fins while swimming in the sea off the coast of Trinidad,
but I kept thinking of my girlfriend, so I picked some flowers for her
and was promptly arrested. My editor was nice about me faulting
the deadline and published an article I had written about Russian
wolves, like wolves should know if they are Russians or not.