They want you stoned, emotionally stiff and complacent,
They heavily promote distraction and division
to manipulate the drones into a low-frequency madness.
They desire mules pulling overloaded barges
up and down a dead-end canal
christened a sixty-hour work week.
Within the illusion of hope and free will
they want goldfish people popping placebo pills,
Swimming round and round in a plutonium fishbowl.
Pooping out unicorns and rainbows and cheap thrills.
Unfeeling to the tuna nets closing fast
deaf to the locking of the chains.
They pray for drones with mash meal brains, thinking it honorable
to be sucking bunions off their kings and queens.
Each day begins with pain refined to grace,
her body bent but never breaking—not yet.
The mirror has no room for soft embrace.
A leap, a turn—each muscle must erase
the doubt that lingers like a hidden debt.
Each day begins with pain refined to grace.
The music calls, a disciplined and silent chase,
no step misplaced, no ragged breath to fret.
The mirror has no room for soft embrace.
Bunions and blisters bloom where satin ribbons lace,
for pirouettes she doth obsess, refusing to pause or let~
each day begins with pain refined to grace.
The stage demands what training can’t replace:
a will that burns but never leaves a sweat.
The mirror has no room for soft embrace.
And when the final curtain begins to close,
the aches remain, ghosts the ballerina does not forget.
Each day begins with pain refined to grace.
The mirror holds no room for soft embrace.
The wages of sin are just never paid.
Try as you might you can't make the grade.
Came home from work all tired and forlorn,
My back hurts, my feet hurt, I've bunions and corns.
I've pills for my back, my neck and my shoulders,
No sense in complaining, I'm just getting older.
I rarely sleep now, I just pass out,
Then I wake with a start 'cause my dogs must go out.
The cat's waiting patiently by the back door,
As the dogs race excitedly across the floor.
Then I go to the bathroom to swallow my pills,
Half an hour before breakfast, it's my daily drill.
I bend over double to brush out my locks,
Took a coughing fit and peed in my sock.
I'm just getting old I tell myself again,
It's my punishment now for a youth filled with sin.
Positively Preposterous Puckheads...STILL!!!
Boy! They sure don't drive no Coupe DeVille.
My wife dragged me here against my will,
I just, Touched Down! in Palookaville!
Her Uncle Buck, buck-teethed and busted bunions,
Always smelled just a bit like onions.
He'd cuss me out while eating Funyuns!
Yep, that Codger's one big Curmudgeon!
Aunt Tildy, wore garters with lace tassels,
Bought lavender soap by the passels!
Had dreams of Knights at White Castles,
And she tells my wife, I'M the ASSLE!
Cousin Clem, I call him "Phlegm," ain't right in the head!
He's thirty-five! and still wets the bed!
And his folks still wonder why he's not wed!
I don't care what that Doctor Phil said!
Last, but not least, is that beast they call Boo!
That cur must be older than...Twenty-Two!
And bowels!...Man, that mutt sure could poo!
As luck would have it...he spackled my shoe!
Damn! Sun's setting, they're sweating, and I'm stuck here...STILL!!!
Oh Lord, please send me that Coupe DeVille!
I might as well start writing my will!
There's "Nightmares Galore" here in Palookaville!
When we are deep into
a constant,
unrequited,
impossible love,
such a divine passion
is said to be most soothing for pimples
and bunions.
Also,
as incredible as it seems,
a secret lover that you have no hope
of ever knowing or meeting -
those kinds of romantic fantasies
will totally banish kidney stones
and chronic melancholy.
Medical science agrees with scripture,
that the ridiculous and utterly unlikely,
can jazz up your libido, and add vim to your
most innocent of sins.
You can now date late at night,
while your partner beside you
dreams of making love
to some movies star or other
without any guilt.
Unfortunately,
a delusional broken heart
still hurts.
A Message of Hope **
Seek inspiration in every day
Despite it's cruel intentions.
Find the bitter taste in rain that falls
Delightful just to mention
Learn to love all of your pains
From bunions up to brains.
The voices in your head are friends,
Enjoy their ridicule and games
Romanticise your anguish well,
If not then, what's the point?
Create your own little world of hell
Snort coke, smoke a joint
Whatever you choose to do from here
If you're caring, or if you're crude.
Just bear in mind, it matters not
Your living; is getting screwed
A is for amber ambition and amethyst dreams
B is for believing in yourself and becoming
C is for creativity courage and celebrating
D is for developing Deja vu and dancing
E is for engaging and encouraging
F is for fun flavor and fulfilling
G is for greatness and God and gifting
H is for happy holy and having
I is for interesting introvert
J is for joyful jokes and chicken that’s jerk
K is for kind kisses king kente
L is for love lavender and lake
M is for magic moon messenger music
N is for noon night now do it
O is for onyx oxtails and onions
P is for purple peace pinky toes with no bunions
Q is for queen quiet and quest
R is for red riot and required rest
S is for soul singing song
T is for Teal Taj Mahal tone
U is for Universe understanding
V is for violet vote and victory
W is for winning wholeheartedly writing
X is for xenophobia isn’t that exciting
Y is for yes yellow and you
Z is for Zulu people with eyes like moon
T’was perhaps by dint of fate
Or some demonic spell
That I, a sock, was granted
The gift of sniff-less smell
I gaged and retched in darkness
Of a foot’s pungent aroma
Finally, I fled the scene
Became a match-less roamer
I hang about old laundramats
With socks lost and unfound
They share a single loneliness
A fading hope of being found
Not me, I shout, I shan’t return
It’s the wanderer’s life I seek
For I miss not the brogans
And those feet that truly reek
Yet, you may see me resting
In the warmth of sunset’s fail
Singing songs of corns and bunions
As I walk that lost sock trail
If bathtubs grew onions
then feet might have bunions
that stink as well as get sore
If you can't remove all the dirt
your toes will sure hurt ~
that your husband
will ignore as he snores
wayfarers do not have picnics with people.
travelers, journeyers, vagabonds, are wanderers.
they prefer nature to humans, and they keep moving.
do not try to enslave, entrap, slow down or capture one.
wayfarers come in a variety of shapes, boot sizes and heights.
they are usually taller than the norm, but not giants.
their leg muscles are well-developed, and they have bunions.
not all of them, but the two that I have met.
wayfarers are story tellers, but they keep their stories silent.
sharing them in their heads, but not with other humans.
they believe they will write a novel "someday"
weirdly enough on someday they are still moving, walking.
my aunt accidentally fell in love with a notorious wayfarer.
she followed him to Switzerland, France, Germany and Russia.
he kept asking her to be quiet, and it bothered her, for a year.
she thought she could change him, but she was incorrect.
wayfarers may not remember you even if they see you yearly.
but they will remember an oak tree branch or a twig on the lawn.
they will remember where they ate their peanut butter crackers.
they keep moving, so do not fall in love with one if you can help it.
Have I got my glasses
And my hearing aid
My bottle of mineral water
No fizzy lemonade
I cannot find my handbag
Or my money purse
Putting on my shoes
Have made my bunions worse
I have a box of tissues
For my runny nose
Oh dear, what a nuisance
I have a ladder in my hose,
Removal of my stockings
Make's my poor backache
Things I used to do in minutes
Now an hour takes.
One sleeve of my jacket
Is inside out,
If I wasn't so hoarse
I might attempt to shout.
As I mumble and grumble
About the absurdities of life
My stomach starts to rumble
And I have to run for my life!
If I were a poor woman
I would dance and sing
through basement boogy woogy bars
all these days and nights
of EarthTribe healthy men
Winning
not measured in applause
but absorbing painful bunions
in glad support
of Earth's healthiest worn-out pause
Performing songs with peace
inviting massive choirs
composing mother muses,
matriarchs of deeply felt integrity
dancing EarthDay's cause.
[Written with much love and bonhomie in
response to Milt’s Poem ‘Hearty Poetry Soup’]
*
Not so long ago in a land called Soup
A warlock gathered a talented group
These were the wordsmiths who writ all Soup Lore
But the warlock decided that they’d write no more
For he had been born to be ‘Soup Laureate’
A role he’d hold longer the more folk he ate
Even a warlock is sometimes unreasoned
Not much consolation…when you’ve been lightly seasoned
So here in this cauldron we boil and we bubble
Somehow I sense we’re in some kind of trouble
My hope is this as I cling to the edge
I hope I’m the meat and not the two veg
But, lo, I discover that Milt’s being mother
He’s spotted my need to write something or other
His warlock-like methods at first seemed remiss
Until this old turnip sat down to write this
But still I find one thing decidedly troubling
I look like a beetroot from all of that bubbling
My poor scalded feet are developing bunions
So at my next barbecue… Milt’s in the onions!
Walk on the plantar aspect;
Yonder sole walks through life's traffic
So on these streets he walks alone;
On cobbler pathways made of stone;
Tether bound feet worn polluted soles;
Trotting marching everywhere he goes;
Step by step by step by step lonely traveler;
Trolling throughout the city he goes;
Yet now preeminence instilled solace;
The marathon a walking gatherer;
Hindsight in the back of his mind he knows;
Like in biblical times he's marching the streets of Zion;
Now still he stands he digress;
Embedded of The Souls of his feet bit so gravel;
Feet corns and bunions hurt ;
Done walked miles on this bumpy Earth;
Pathway lit lighted flows;
Marathon Man walk on, he walks alone-
On terrain this worlds track and field so graphic;
Marathon Man walk on plantar aspect;
8/26/21 ©
For A Brian Strand Rime Me Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
A visit to Lidl, can seem like a riddle
But I like to browse through the aisles in the middle
Where you may find farmyards and little toy zoos
Right next to pair of size 5 ladies shoes
The range in the middle seems muddled and weird
The padlocks sit next to a small plastic beard
But I’ve just discovered the madness had spread
The grocery aisles have messed with my head
If you have gone there to chat up female singles
You will not impress with their own branded Pringles
Their fresh eggs are packaged like nothing I’ve seen
Who buys their eggs in a pack of fifteen
It does make some sense to have band-aids for bunions
But what is the purpose of onion-less onions
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