I live in Leisure World where the grass is green,
and bunnies that munch it can always be seen.
For those little guys, it is essential
to breed fast, indeed, exponential.
So, a rabbit's life is never dull,
and their population is plentiful.
But, this ain't no kiddie cartoon show,
and every coyote that I happen to know
always makes it the strictest habit
to bag a furry bunny rabbit.
These canine delinquents and the crows, fast friends,
play, "who spots the rabbit first, wins".
Walking the sidewalks like shopping aisles,
coyotes are seen with contented smiles.
I say, "Bless their sly little hearts
and their bunny-filled shopping carts".
I stopped for a cup at the local all-nighter
I'm a regular there. I'm the "poetry writer".
You'll always find the occasional hack,
The delinquents, the addicts, that hang in the back.
A drifter, a grifter, disenchanted and surly
All nameless faces, except the waitress named Shirley
I throw her a line, she throws me a sign
Our usual "Hi, how are you?"
Then step to the bar, put a ten in her jar,
She's divorced and the mother of two.
She looks out of place with her ribbons and lace
She's polite, friendly and kind
But make no mistake, she bites like a snake
With a switchblade tongue, razor fine.
They're busy tonight and I need to write
She brings my black coffee to go
Says, "I'll give you this, you give me a kiss
And that will be all that you owe."
A kiss on the lips for ten dollar tips
That sounds fair enough to me
Besides, she's pretty, got big titties
And gives me my coffee for free.
Daniel Turner
Find myself horrified by
modernity
maybe I really am getting older
the words we say
those plastic smile
delinquents with too wide eyes
maybe all too well and I’ve
lost myself to it
the vodka no longer does
protest and the butter smooth
that doesn’t seem to mind the
hour of the day
asbestos mouth and flint stoned feet
with hands like a saw mill vice
if they let me rot I will
you never really get old till you start
cruching on asprin with
black coffe at 3am
not thats its what old people do
all ways just lead
further into the woods
I’m up I’m up I scream to
no one in particular
alarm clock is in pieces on the floor and
I’ll need to patch that dry
wall add it to the list
She has a pretty face
She carries herself well
In uniform she is an iconic
Many so desire her moments
A detective she carries her gun well
When duty calls she flashes her smile
Its a smile i have see disarm many
She has no use for brute force
For her lovely essence nets all delinquents
I used to spy her long time ago
At the signals training school
Once we were Seim Cohorts
Remember.. Kurutu mbona hanyoi..
God knows what followed that
Her MO disarms with ease and grace
My MO disarms with an O prerogative
Saidia Utumishi.. They also need service
Our officers in uniform have to be served too
That's where PMC's we come in and succeed
For controlled outcomes and black ops OP
We dwelt together,
one hand on a door handle.
Keeping rooms --- a semi-settled living,
parents still squatting in our heads,
rent due spaces,
red buses passing below or above,
according to what level we rose to.
Domestic wreckage evacuated,
a small venerable van stuffed to the gills,
and we with our books
bundled up in raffia rafts,
cats tucked under shawls or coats,
escaping loudly on red bumpy buses.
It is the little things that haunt:
a florescent green plastic handbag,
maroon stockings
draped over a lava lamp,
fluffy toy animals
scented with relationships.
Shades of lipstick on a cracked mirror
unwashed rugby shirts,
the soft tang of old spice aftershave,
vinyl albums revolving in our heads.
I recall it all ---- but no,
not wanting to dwell again with the young,
but to follow the routes of London buses
to past, departures and destinations,
to enter again
those rooms for penniless delinquents,
just to tidy up a little, and perhaps
close drawers and doors left open.
Heroes are masked, monosyllabic but super.
The rat gangs obviously
are bad news and apparently
loose and reprehensible,
most are irredeemably dead-eyed.
It's on!
Action demands reaction,
busters need something to bust.
Make-believe peddles a glossy fantasy
until reality accommodates,
comes true
arrives not in good and bad costumes
but anonymously in SUV's, stolen bikes,
and highjacked Lincolns.
It goes on…
Momma bears are aroused,
sports fans are inflamed
creeps challenge, rob and mob.
A citizenry cowers then
strikes back with headlines.
It's most definitely on.
News flash -- it's over,
the good guys are back watching TV,
the delinquents and sociopath's
are out on no-bail,
the jail is a refuge for non-combatants.
On and off mostly.
Not long ago we were all masked
and suspected everyone,
but now
no one is guilty until freed -
all of us bleed.
Back on... it's Back On!
Disgusting delinquents deliberately do
Dastardly deeds during December,
Driving daily demand down!
Behind the ambiguity, the cloaking metaphor,
the language used is indecent,
it sets bear traps, leers at logic,
claps ears.
Poetry drives a train through heaven and hell,
box cars swaying behind
full of
rowdy, rouged delinquents.
Some have mothers who weep for them,
some were born from mud wombs
as wild as unbranded cattle.
A poem may well bury its dead alive
in front of our eyes,
recite a lullaby backwards,
then plant sweet nothings
over the heaped earth.
Lines of linguistic train wrecks
crash their coupled words
into snowy fields,
then out will come the scatological oaths,
the unglued bawdy survivors
of their own gypsy jargon.
Here’s the sleight of hand,
here’s the real indecency -
we are gulled into assuming
we hear only the shy murmurs
of a deeply respectable muse
dressed up in its Sunday best.
When my friend and I finally got chicks, they decided to leave us.
My friend's name is Butt-Head and my name is Beavis.
I thought that I was pregnant even though I'm a boy.
Because Butt-head and I are stupid, people get annoyed.
I become the Great Cornholio when I eat too much sugar.
I'm actually a mental case who eats his own boogers.
When Butt-Head and I meet chicks, we're sure to sexually harass.
And if you have a teenage daughter, you'll end up kicking my ass.
If you meet us face to face, we're sure to cause great anxiety.
We are both juvenile delinquents who are threats to society.
Don't come near us or you'll get so mad that you'll cuss.
You will be happy and better off if you stay away from us.
(Inspired by the hit cartoon that was created by Mike Judge.)
In a small town of 800 the lonely town where children never sleep
Hardly can anyone imagine them ever being sweet
Some are bullies, some rob, steal, some brake windows
Others are found juvenile delinquents breaking into condos
Adults and political authorities
Sanctions rules and laws just for the youth minorities
These hard nosed children keep breaking them curfews
Rebellious youth with incurred huge transverse views
The disorderly town children fight and riot
No wonder these rebellious cretins are sleep and so tried
Small town of 800 this lonely town where children never obey civil laws
These Town Children Delinquents breaking juveniles
9/14/19
Sponsored by:Julia Ward
A young fellow in our neighborhood
ran around claiming, “I’m Robin Hood.
When we rob from the rich,
our positions we’ll switch.”
Well, of course, he was up to no good.
Some delinquents soon followed his lead.
They were merry men. Merry indeed!
After each nightly raid,
in the camp they had made,
they’d get high on their exploits and weed!
Jan. 30, 2019 for Joseph May's Limerick 3 Poetry Contest
Rays of sunshine of a thousand suns fill up my heart and lungs
Polaroids arent the only things i have lost
Wars arent the only things i have won
filters on my tongue and screen blur the scene and block the scream
I raise bars and delinquents
Novas shine for my rejects
They're televising our revolution while shedding our blood
Drapes cover my mouth and eyes
They despise , analyse and paralyse
But never dare to relinquish my shrine
The shrine in the depth of my mind is your home
Overseas it's just your confine
Poignance is in resonance but it pauses just for you
your hopes freefalling with aches and i deem solace yet ask
Do you ever count the waves that crash down to build you?
LAMB AMONG THE LITERARY LIONS
Housewives, secretaries, the odd pro willing to stoop,
All came, delinquents, child prodigies, derelict old men
“All welcome” – the Chair of the Writers’ Group
To those looking for support, with a love of the pen;
They were decent people bonding, scorning the pub
The roll call a hedge school of ancient fame
They read poems and stories like a literary club
And enjoyed playing the great writing game.
Anthology reviewed, the twelve year old took accolade
From the shyest to the most arrogant, all were shook
He was savaged by the grande dame in an envious raid
She was terrified someone so young would produce a book!
Even the chair demurred, and went to The Times
Requesting deletion of “all welcome “– young souls are stilled by such crimes.
Welcome Mat…. by: Steven Hudson
Hands tremble at the grip in my hand,
Two worlds collide in moments of time,
The trigger shakes, while onlookers scorn
What once was peace, now a violent storm
Away ye dogs of thunder come to plunder my house!
Who come to grant me the title of fatherless son
You knocked on our door looking for trouble
But when trouble rose to greet you, you froze like a mouse.
I did not seek you out, you forced a delinquents hand
It was only justice, to protect that which I love
The pulse that quickens, the fear that sickens
The weight of words preceding a heavy handed blow
What was meant to destroy me
Only proved to employ me
For in the face of my enemy the only choice remains
To stand strong, stand fast, that my losses, may become gains.
A Write for All Us Bald Guys
By Elton Camp
Making fun of some person’s physical features
Is not done except by the most vicious creatures
It is unacceptable to point out an enormous nose
And mock that it was once part of a garden hose
Or to tell some man that his face is as ugly as hell
Is something that only the crudest person will tell
Good manners, out the window quickly are sped
When people spot a man who has a bald head
They feel is all right to draw mocking attention
To his lack of hair by open and sneering mention
The victim of the inappropriate and crude remark
Is expect to “be a good sport” as if it’s just a lark
Although such rudeness I absolutely do hate
Most of the time I try very hard not to retaliate
Delinquents who mocked Elisha for his bald head
At the claws of two she-bears, 42 ended up dead
So whenever one, for lack of hair ridicules me
I look around, a she-bear sort of hoping to see
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