He’s a sad Bunny
With floppy ears
Sadly button eyes
they can’t shed tears
Bottom of the pile
New toys on top
He needed Beth’s help
To hippity hop
With imagination
she brought Bunny joy
He was her best friend
More than just a toy
Many years now passed
Beth searches for Bunny
A gift for her baby
who names Bunny Honey
Bunny’s happy again
That fuzzy lovely feel
Hippity hop heaven
Love makes Bunny real
Bunny’s round tail
has long been gone
But Bunny still sings
lovely bunny songs
She cuddles him close
Pets worn floppy ears
Bright Bunny button eyes
with no need of tears.
the rusty necklace
which was thrown into the sea
the wilted roses
that lose the petals each day
the torn bouquet wrapper
in the dustbin
a dusty photo
at the bottom of the pile
the foolish dreams
that had broken
the song lyrics
which all sound the same
stuck in an hourglass
so far ahead
at the end,
everything will be forgotten
it doesn't matter
you do you
grow up and start anew
The cellar is his bleak repose,
in concert with the cockroaches and flies;
there he wipes his runny nose,
toils the day long, sunshine tries,
insinuates through rough and crumbled boards.
Lessons can't assuage his conflicts,
the bottom of the pile, his heritage affords
no more, the atmosphere restricts
his breath. It leans against the wall,
a tarnished, dusty saxophone,
a measure of the time when he stood tall,
cadenzas blown with free and strident tone.
Author Notes
...inspired by 'Black Tambourine' by Hart Crane.
*********
Black Tambourine
The interest of a black man in a cellar
mark tardy judgment on the world's closed door.
Gnats toss in the shadow of a bottle,
and a roach spans a crevice in the floor.
Aesop, driven to pondering, found
heaven with the tortoise and the hare;
fox brush and sow ear top his grave
and mingling incantations on the air.
The black man, forlorn in the cellar,
wanders in some mid-kingdom, dark, that lies,
between his tambourine, stuck on the wall,
and, in Africa, a carcass quick with flies.
The cellar is his bleak repose,
in concert with the cockroaches and flies,
it's here he wipes his runny nose,
toils the day long, sunshine tries,
insinuates through rough and crumbled boards.
The colour of his skin constricts,
the bottom of the pile, his heritage affords
no more, the atmosphere restricts
his breath. It leans against the wall,
his tarnished, dusty saxophone,
a measure of the time when he stood tall,
cadenzas, and his free and strident tone.
The cellar is his bleak repose,
in concert with the cockroaches and flies,
it's here he wipes his runny nose,
toils the day long, sunshine tries,
insinuates through rough and crumbled boards.
The colour of his skin constricts,
the bottom of the pile, his heritage affords
no more, the atmosphere restricts
his breath. It leans against the wall,
his tarnished, dusty saxophone,
a measure of the time when he stood tall,
cadenzas, and his free and strident tone.
(Note: written as if in the 1940's)
...inspired by 'Black Tambourine' by Hart Crane
**********
The cellar is his bleak repose,
in concert with the cockroaches and flies;
there he wipes his runny nose,
toils the day long, sunshine tries,
insinuates through rough and crumbled boards.
Lessons can't assuage his conflicts,
the bottom of the pile, his heritage affords
no more, the atmosphere restricts
his breath. It leans against the wall,
his tarnished, dusty saxophone,
a measure of the time when he stood tall,
cadenzas blown with free and strident tone.
Call my name from the fog
Look at my reflection
Through the looking glass
And watch myself degrade.
Hit the lights
I can't bear to see
It burns my soul
for eternity
The pause button is frozen
Life is my sacrifice
The play button is broken
fast forward to my demise.
Catch a smile
savour it for a while
Melancholy is a life style
you're not worthwhile, bottom of the pile.
Dominate your stance
Steal a glance
out of your trance
Fragment this dance.
...inspired by 'Black Tambourine' by Hart Crane
The cellar is his bleak repose,
in concert with the cockroaches and flies;
there he wipes his runny nose,
toils the day long, sunshine tries,
insinuates through rough and crumbled boards.
Lessons can't assuage his conflicts,
the bottom of the pile, his heritage affords
no more, the atmosphere restricts
his breath. It leans against the wall,
his tarnished, dusty saxophone,
a measure of the time when he stood tall,
cadenzas blown with free and strident tone.
What is right and what is wrong,
just listen to some lyrics, written in songs,
no-one can say its wrong to steal,
its a survival thing, we all need a meal,
people do bad things, some for money,
but i understand it, its just not funny,
i have been at the bottom,at the bottom of the pile,
you know its so hard,just so hard to even smile,
people say do good, and it will come back,
but we know thats not true, and that is a fact,
i have done good for many a year,
but i am no better off, and that is clear,
so please dont judge by what people do,
because they are not me and they are not you,
if it was you who was living this life,
then what would you say, when people say that its not right,
THAT WHICH DRIVES A MAN TO LOVE ALSO DRIVES A MAN TO HATE
A UNCONTROLLABLE RAGE THAT GIVES BURDEONS SUCH MASSIVE WEIGHT.
IS IT ANGER IGNORANCE OR STRESS.
COULD IT BE THE PAIN WE HOLD INSIDE THAT WONT LET OUR HEARTS REST.
MAYBE,IT'S WHO WE ARE,THE REASON WE CAN'T FIND PEACE.
MAYBE,IT'S THE MORALS OF A MAN,THAT TURNS MEN INTO BEAST.
IN A WORLD OFWARS,HATE RACISM AND CONSTANT STRESS.
THERE IS NO NEED TO WONDER WHY WE CAN'T FIND ANY HAPPINESS.
TOP OF THE FOOD CHAIN OR BOTTOM OF THE PILE.
HATE IS THE FESTERING SORE THAT DESTROYS A SMILE.
WE'LL KILL OURSELVES WORKING FOR MONETARY GAIN.
STRIVING TO DO OUR BEST FOR RELIEF FROM FINANCIAL STRAIN.
SOME WILL NEVER CARE AND OTHERS MAY NEVER UNDERSTAND.
BECAUSE THEY DON'T KNOW IT'S JUST THE GRACE OF "GOD" THAT TRULY DRIVES A
MAN...
The cellar is his bleak repose,
in concert with the cockroaches and flies,
it's here he wipes his runny nose,
toils the day long, sunshine tries,
insinuates through rough and crumbled boards.
The colour of his skin constricts,
the bottom of the pile, his heritage affords
no more, the atmosphere restricts
his breath. It leans against the wall,
his tarnished, dusty saxophone,
a measure of the time when he stood tall,
cadenzas, and his free and strident tone.
(Note: written as if in the 1940's)
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