Life a genesis, oh
A path toward vacancy
Trim down a modulation of lube apathy
Dirt arm's craving toward end! neither
The thorn was there , oh
Mesmerized by puppies tearing neck for the muddy popcorns
I myself giggle with lacrimal fallacy
Bone to bone, crate to crate
Waving with thermal fate
Rinsing heavily with northern gray, oh...
/Boom Bap Reverie
Crates cracked open in dusk-lit basements/
Needles tracing dust on grooves of gold, Soul samples looped—forgotten statements resurrected from wax, stories retold/
Basslines thump like city heartbeats, Hi-hats flicker, snare drums snap, old school wisdom in concrete streets, Cyphers ignite in a boom bap trap/
Chopped horns echo in subway tunnels, Scratch of vinyl, a DJ’s prayer, Freestyle poets, words like funnels pouring truth in the midnight air/
Apollo Brown dreams in sepia tones, Soul-worn records, crate diggers’ pride, Underground kingdom, built on bones of legends who never died/
So, spin that hour of rare instrumental. Let nostalgia ride the groove in every sample/ Hip Hop's past is still on fire/, and hip hop’s spirit finds its truth/
The plaster in Rick’s place was always flaking near the doorway,
eaten away by damp heat and cheap tobacco smoke
that hung like dirty lace off the cedar joists.
Back in the corner sat a stunted, yellowed box—
a five-octave upright slapped with salmon and faded gold,
its pedals worn down to raw, scuffed brass.
It wasn’t built for concert halls. Just a pine-cased crate
that smelled of spilled Cointreau and stale olive brine.
Heavy teak doors kept the street noise out,
but couldn’t block the shuffle of black-market transit papers
passing under the low oil lamps.
Then Sam laid his knuckles on the keys,
cracked ivory, half-sticking from the salt air,
and the room went dead quiet.
She stood in the entry, silk coat catching the light,
asking for that song from Paris
before the tanks rolled in.
Rick didn't yell. He just stopped dead in his tracks,
watching the smoke curl off his cigarette
where it rested on the edge of the wood.
“Play it,” he muttered, his voice flat as gravel,
and the little wooden box gave up the only thing it had left.
War’s no place to date,
with Picasso flesh.
The lover’s irate
and melons’ not fresh.
War’s no place to date,
nor time, too much space;
bananas in crate;
vanish without trace.
War’s no place to date,
with splinters in creche
sans paradise mate.
Mankind’s stench, too fresh.
Diamond you were shy and wary,
Peeking from behind a crate,
Your gaze portrayed that we were scary,
So still, you sat, resigned to wait.
Pearl, in your white and silver coat so bright,
You moved with grace and eager trust,
You circled near with pure delight,
As though you were waiting for us just.
Indoors in gentle state you reign,
Soft sovereigns our control insures,
Your rule is complete in this domain,
You have taken this place and made it yours.
By day you claim the chairs as we leave,
By night, our bed is half your own,
No protest do you ever receive,
Your royal rights are well known.
This could have been such a cold place,
With all our children leaving us alone,
For love has filled each quiet space,
Pearl and Diamond you have claimed your throne.
Clarity Through Static
She sits where chandeliers spill gold on marble floors
Diamond cold against her throat, Gucci bag at her side
Friends lean in, laughter bright like baubles in a ballroom
Talk spins: Paris in spring, Italy by the sea, new bags, new trips
Forks touch plates piled high, then rest. Half the food untouched, cooling
Beneath the diamonds beats a broken soul in velvet seams
She laughs, but the sound thins out before it reaches her eyes
Outside the glass, heat shimmers off the street
On the footpath a crate holds donuts dusted with sugar and sweat
Her dress is patched, joggers dusty from miles walked before dawn
Wrinkles carve worry lines, but her eyes keep a steady, quiet light
She stands through summer, smiling at each passerby
Under the bridge by garbage bins is where she sleeps, yet she thanks God
Hunger rises when the restaurant door opens and scents drift out
She feels it, turns, sells one more donut and counts it as enough
Static clears. Her gratitude rings truer than hollow chimes
Poet’s Note
Date: April 22, 2026
Title chosen: Clarity Through Static
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
Thesaurus was pouting, mad at me
I left him out in the rain you see
He was in a crate, but the lid came off
I apologized, he snubbed me with a scoff
“Wreck ashore! Wreck ashore!” came t’ cry on t’ wind,
Lanterns lit quick as t’ dark rolled in.
Steady on wi’ thi crates — them crabs an’ Welch’s near!
‘Tis whiskey this — nee chance it’ll spoil in ‘ere.
Rain an’ wind can’t find us here,
Sea maybe… but we’ll sup wi’ cheer.
These caves lead straight t’ father’s hoose,
An’ more beyond to hide these fruits.
Lantern sways on dripping stone,
Bottles clink as up we groan.
Scraped bloody knee an’ t’ elbow ache,
Forgotten soon wi’ profit make.
Tha whines an’ bawls cos tha’s lug crates,
Twelve bottles o’ nectar — tha’ll thank me, wait!
“Easy now lads, keep t’ lantern low —
Up t’ bolt-hole sharp we go.”
‘Tis salvage this, not looting mate,
Pulled from out them vicious waves’ gate.
Straw spills soft as t’ crate we crack,
Golden smell comes drifting back.
Eeh, t’ excise’ll come — nee doubt o’ that,
Sniffin’ round like dockside rat.
T’ excise searched caves an’ barns galore,
Yet weddings rang on t’ village shore.
Pygmalion, it were stoutly done
To chisel up your special one.
You can't get a date,
But quarried a crate,
By which all your courting is none.
stray cat runs and hides
finding warmth in old milk crate
filled with fresh straw
Benny the sad dog
artichokes, peas, carrots,
but no meat
for this sad dog to eat
Benny dreamed
many a dream
of being free from his owner
He could smell him from here
Extreme Body Odor!
Benny needed a plan
a plan to get away
of getting LOOSE
and catching the tail end of a Caboose
Benny would be free
free he would be
to hunt and eat his own prey
that would be the day!
Benny could not wait
wait to open this crate
to get out and be free
but what is that did he see
Benny saw the lock was not locked
he was completely shocked
how it could be unlocked
all he needs is the front door unblocked
Benny's owner was standing by the door
the door that led outdoors
The owner was talking to the UPS man
now was the time to execute this plan
Benny the dog made his way through
through the unassuming two
The two gave chase
trying to match Benny's pace
Benny passed this street
and passed that street
until he saw a squirl
Benny began to quarrel
Benny gave his owner enough time
time to catch him on 3rd and Pine
Benny's hopes were now dashed
dashed and fed with potatoes of mashed
As olden
My crate is bothered
Again in milks nestle
Tiler of salt and creek
Abrupts the smitten teaks
So hardened in Finnish
Carved as turnip
Young gentle artisan and I
His trolley rails
From gentle Oranges County
Hearing days labor in gus tide
Ventura he sails
Bringing floors tapping
And in Santa Monica his best hides
Docile Does Defeat
Feathered wide
Apart as stride
Tipping blooms
Cautious feud
Disabled pollens
Meeting mew
Brewing nets
Callous frets collisions
Darkest reflections take
I was only eight
when I caught the calico box crab freight.
Just a small-town crab-boy in tattered britches,
I found my way to fame and riches,
loaded in a crate.
ideas don’t have time to percolate
Trixie yells them at me, this is my fate
Some of them are lame, not witty or great
Fearing Trixie’s wrath, I do not hesitate
As muses rank, she is truly first rate
her fantastic ideas we do not debate
she can create a poem from an apple crate
play dough, umbrellas, or a rusty grate
She does not want to hear what I have to say
Swiftly kicking my thoughts into a ditch all gray
Trixie is one of a kind, but always the boss.
If I did not have her, it would be such a loss.
1. To Fly
My father was an admiral, and so
I joined the Navy. Back in fifty-eight
to be a pilot seemed the way to go:
ship-sailors were committed to a crate.
Scrub decks? Paint rusting gunwales? That’s a ‘no’.
The Skyhawk was my weapon (and my fate!)
2. Rubicon Crossing
Some nations follow rainbows, I am told:
we thought, in Vietnam, ‘search and destroy’
would lead us to our fabled pot of gold.
For years we tried it, but it brought no joy:
we lost our nerve, and switched to ‘clear and hold’.
Saigon endured the selfsame end as Troy.
3. Brainwash
The Hanoi Hilton. Yes, I was a guest.
They found my father was a VIP,
and left off hurting me. Impressed,
they wanted to restore my liberty.
But if I left my buddies, I’d detest
myself. I turned them down. That’s decency!
4. Frozen Side of the Sun
Should politicians simply sing the song?
A woman voter told me, in the hall,
Obama was a Muslim. I said, “Wrong!”
I guess I lost her vote. I made the call
I knew was the correct one. I was strong.
Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all.
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