They seep from
long fissured asphalt,
and plaster cracked years.
Hollow houses, boards rotted
by the chew and gnaw of prying winds,
old-time forgotten burgs
lost now within a retreating landscape.
They used to thrive in a hard-scabble way,
used to be owners of hunting hounds
the daughter’s offspring of grit-hardened men,
blood kin to the furnace and the fields.
Both factory and Mill printed a community
upon long dusty summers,
winter launched many a lunch-pail march
and it was good in its bench-made way.
It all fell away so swiftly,
a bottom line in a thick read ledger
scratched through.
Thereafter great-grandparents
were buried in tall clocks,
then carted away upon jumbled flatbeds.
Piece by piece small towns were sold
for pennies - their very own, well-worn,
long spent pennies.
Peace, peace, and sincere peace
We all wish, dream and confuse about peace
Are we really serious, thirsty and hungry for peace
Even though the gunships and cannons are set and ready
To go, to attack the weak and the imagined enemies?
Do we truly want a world of brotherly harmonies?
Yet, superpowers invest their time, ingenuity, and moneys
In smart drones, powerful guns and well-trained armies
Are we sure that we want lasting peace?
This world is made of corrupt goons, polygamists, liars and bullies
Warmongers are hypocritical, strange, sneaky and devious
This agitprop about peace is delusional headlines or breaking news
To startle or to dimwit elderlies, idealists, and crying babies
Politicians are godawful sensationalists on steroid
Where muzzled reporters and anchors are ridiculed and toyed
By elected pogromists in search of free publicities
Yet, yes we yearn for peace and tranquility in the burgs and cities
Peace is about coming with clean and caring hands
To share the streams, the land, the sand and the highlands.
Feeling kinda cruddy, yup, that's the word
Too many fries, too many burgs
When will I learn I can't handle that stuff
Stomach rebels, starts causing a fuss
Once could eat nails and all kinds of gunk
Now I eat mush and ground junk
My teeth are all gone, can't chew anymore
Things go down whole, my tummy gets sore
So such is the life of this senior type dude
Head for the washroom, each time I eat food
Food disappears like famous greased lightning
Or I sit there for hours, really quite frightening
Irregularity's my name, I'm “IRREG” for short
Hope an operation, I don't have to resort
An artificial esophagus transplanted in me
So I can go regular like it once used to be
Oh for the days when I could eat all that junk
Those days are gone, who woulda thunk
That one day I'd be eating my morning cereal
Laced with Metamucil or some such material!
They seep from
long fissured asphalt,
and plaster cracked years.
Hollow houses, boards rotted
by the chew and gnaw of prying winds,
old-time forgotten burgs
lost now within a retreating landscape.
They used to thrive in a hard-scabble way,
used to be owners of hunting hounds
the daughter’s offspring of grit-hardened men,
blood kin to the furnace and the fields.
Both factory and Mill printed a community
upon long dusty summers,
winter launched many a lunch-pail march
and it was good in its bench-made way.
It all fell away so swiftly,
a bottom line in a thick read ledger
scratched through.
Thereafter great-grandparents
were buried in tall clocks,
then carted away upon jumbled flatbeds.
Piece by piece small towns were sold
for pennies - their very own, well-worn,
long spent pennies.
Why my heart joyous today, I don't know,
And leaps like millions of horses in one;
As the warm noon sun melts away the snow,
Glooms in me gone away; fears I have none,
Triumph brim-fills as though wars many won...
Strengths within like waters of seas amassed,
Wherefrom iniquities, like ice-burgs, smashed;
Spirit of God, like wild wide waters, whirl,
Within its vibrance, my ego gets crashed;
Making my sacred self lustrously hurl...
I see divine beauty all around me,
And aware of contrasts of calms and storms;
Youthful humility wrapped in grand glee,
Erases inaction in all its forms;
Detachment becomes my greatest of norms...
I hurt not any smallest of creatures,
I love them all now with their full features;
Honesty like blood in all my veins flow,
Goodwill and compassion as my treasures,
Contentment like life-breath in me does blow...
09 November 2021
Agendaless Exuberance Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Unseeking Seeker
PS Syllable Counter Used
Taxied to the terminal. The fare paid,
vagrants begged for alms, some too drunk to care.
Shrunken faces, weather beaten, they played
a sad tune of which I was unaware.
Some had the means, even possessed the fare
to transport them to towns with better care.
I passed the huddled poor, stepped on the bus,
took my seat at a window facing west.
Soon, the highway’s open arms greeted us.
No longer stranger, a solemn house guest.
Believing the ride would force me to test
my endurance, I slept. I’m not a pest.
Vegas came, sponged every cent from my purse.
Should have listened to the driver. He knew
how slots are rigged; still, could’ve been much worse.
Could’ve sold my soul since winners are few.
Back on the bus, we zipped through burgs so new
to me, I ticked them off my map on cue.
Three days passed. Felt like a tree that was felled.
Then I saw my love. So nice to be held.
Urban Sonnet poetry contest: 5/17/19 by Emile Pinet
Summer market is crowded,
I shall not be found missing.
Nothing like withered leaves
Or disappearing winter birds
But angels in swimming trunks
Pressing men to praise the posh.
In the shinning summer sun,
I shall ignite my motorised Ferrari bike,
Take a cruising ride to the countryside;
Visiting the burgs , the gladiators' square,
And the tombs of the great that ever be.
I shall return in my outboard boat
With wine and flesh for bar-be-cue
And spread my mat by the river side
Upon the well trimmed bermuda grass.
You shall know me when I return;
Sweet Summer Sun shall be my tent.
Jan 4,2015.
I stood alone on the ship's deck all afternoon
just to watch the sun sinking low on the sea,
the Atlantic ocean is so calm this evening
but, that old feeling of dread still bothers me.
I slowly exhale to calm myself once again
and my breath comes out in a white mist,
the air is slowly turning cold and frigid now
as the night's darkness pulls me into it's own abyss.
There is nothing that I can see out there now
except clear-white burgs of ice in the distance,
another odd feeling hits me that I cannot deny
but, how could ice play a role in my existence?
The sun's rising on April 15th will warm me
and I will escape this feeling of an early fate,
my entire body shudders for the very last time
as the sounds of breaking ice and bending iron reverberate.
This poem was inspired by Paul Callus, who suggested that a sequel
to my poem, "Aboard The Titanic", might make for an interesting read.
N atural beauty that dazzles the eyes
E nveloped by the Alantic ocean it lies
W inters are long with lots of storms
F og so thick it defies the norms
O ffbeat people who like to have fun
U nusal named towns, ***** is one
N ewfinese slang, a translator you may require
D angerously high winds can sometimes transpire
L oads of tiny islands, over 7000 waiting for you to explore
A bundance of sea food, oil, ice burgs and moose to hunt for
N icknamed 'The Rock', breathtaking mountains and hiking trails to ascend
D are to be 'screeched in' and become an honorary Newf and forever friend
*Screeched in: An initiation ceremony where the person must drink screech rum, kiss a cod and speak some Newfoundland slang.
The participant then becomes on honorary Newfoundlander.
04/30/2014
Feeling kinda cruddy, yup, that's the word
Too many fries, too many burgs
When will I learn I can't handle that stuff
Stomach rebels, starts causing a fuss
Once could eat nails and all kinds of gunk
Now I eat mush and ground up junk
My teeth are all gone, can't chew anymore
Things go down whole, my tummy gets sore
So such is the life of this senior type dude
Head for the washroom, each time I eat food
Food disappears like famous greased lightning
Or I sit there for hours, really quite frightening
Irregularity's my name, I'm Irreg for short
Hope an operation, I don't have to resort
An artificial esophagus transplanted in me
So I can go regular like it once used to be
Oh for the days when I could eat all that junk
Those days are gone, who woulda thunk
That one day I'd be eating my morning cereal
Laced with Metamucil or some such material!
© Jack Ellison 2012
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