I walked past the local park today,
As I do most days.
Nobody was there again today,
As he is most days,
When the sun should entice those who have nothing,
planned for the day,
To store memories for rainy days,
Before developers have a field day,
With only nobody visiting local parks these days.
Usage is the only thing that can save the day,
And prevent more developers field days,
Nobody is never seen in parks where there is somebody,
To to take his place for this and every other day,
.
Use them and they will still be there,
long after we have had our day,
For those who plan for a visit to the local park on sunny days.
It has stood abandoned for years,
the toxic soil too costly
for developers to clean up.
It's vast, dark, gutted interior
echoes an absence.
And yet a tuft of grass
has pushed up through the oil
soaked concrete floor beneath
a shaft of sunlight falling
from a hole in the ceiling.
It grows on this narrow stage,
a thin beam of light enough
to sustain it and drip a little
moisture down for it to sip.
It clings onto life
as a poem does, pushing
through a crack in the soul,
seeking out enough light
for it to live for awhile
in a hostile world.
Ports and mods
programmers and developers
oldschool and would be forgotten
with their drives
and engines
the old is unearthed and regifted
like some sort of modern age
robin hood or
some guy fawkes mask wearing hood hell if I know
and this is a bad poem I know it
the focus is all too undefined.
Am I writing to fill pages? Or am I writing
cause I have to?
Neither answer would surprise me at this point
they remake
while I try to make
revamp reivent remake and recycle
and IP becomes a frail sentiment
thrown about in court rooms by lawyers
while they play in our basements
can’t seem to stop the rom on com boom
never soon to bust wave we all ride on in
our highpowered row boats
I wonder if they don’t do the same
filling file after file so it can sit on a shelf
a collection of works all remade and restored
their work. A lifetime
I get it
Simple, Hot and Deep
An entrepreneurs creed
I learned this phrase from working with Trip Hawkins indeed
That's the key to a good consumer product
make it easy to navigate, sleek in design and just this side of crazy
Make it feature rich and customizable
Give the consumer the controls so it's not lazy
It's the fantasy of control that drives a consumers engagement and enjoyment, that relevant detail lost on many a developers deployment
As a producer I see it time and again
they get lost in bad interface and endless steps to get to the end
Trip isn't always right, he was responsible for the single button mouse on the MAC. And us experienced PC users make bawdy remarks about that and a few wise cracks.
But Trip is a genius and inspirational to boot.
And I listen intently whenever he opens that chute
Because the nuggets of truth and refined thought that pour out
are gold mine worthy, have no doubt.
Simple, hot and deep. Artimus (C) Susan Manley 10/05/2023
When it comes to the reality
Of dollars and cents,
They say it's sentimentality,
They must with dispense.
An estimated 75,000 immigrants live in Los Angeles,
All transplants from Mexico,
No, they’re not who you think.
They stand in rows along the famous LA streets,
A promotional idea of real estate developers.
No more native than the Dodgers baseball team.
The idea came from the French Riviera
Where these palm trees were also transplanted
And intended to portray glitz and glamour.
Symbols of the “City of Angels”,
You will see them in many films shot there
By directors, actors, and studio executives.
Many of them were immigrants too.
When the trees bear fruit,
We can all benefit,
Even the unfit,
As backyard fruit,
Becomes the talk of the Street,
As there is more than enough for all to eat.
People who don't normally come out of their shell,
Find they have fruit to give, not sell,
Word gets out, and bags full of fruit to give, not sell,
Find their way out the gate to make more than one new pal.
Can someone tell the developers to leave the fruit trees?
And ask the architects to consider the birds and bees,
When deciding whether to allow some space for some trees,
As we all want to smell some fruit in the breeze,
And have others to tease about the size of the fruit on their trees,
As we stand together to listen to the sound of the birds and bees,
And togetherness is celebrated when the fruit ripens on the trees.
On these arid roasting plains, a virtual frying pan
For beasts to live they must survive on anything they can
Another bug collecting dung, enjoying foetid goodness
May perhaps have much to teach my fellow starving man
Often poop quickly rots so tastes uniquely vile
It must be freshly dropped and not lay there for a while
But when the grass is history and rain becomes a mystery
The king of beast himself would eat a rancid crocodile
But every year the rain on which we’re helplessly dependent
Shall fill the empty river bed where hippos are attendant
Herds of antelope come out where lush green grass again shall sprout
Lions muster now on plains: quietly resplendent
But there a shortage everywhere of places we can live
Property developers do things we can’t forgive
And builders can’t deny encouraging financial gain
They can sell their houses here, if it doesn't rain
4 August 2021
For: Alpha Lines Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Joseph May
Machiavellian schemes besmirch a murky mangrove calm
A propeller breaks the tranquil glass over an underwater farm
Neath the broken still, a peaceful giant stirs with alarm
and no consolation is found as noise churns it's quiet charm
The serene spots need to be augmented for they are our balm
Ecosystems need protection from greedy developers’ harm
Empyrean Earth for all, is in our active palms, giving alms…
(5/12/21: Custom ketch; KKMI Richmond)
THE HORSES
There was grassland with a river crossing, a natural barrier.
White horses on one side, and muscular brown horses on the other side.
If one looks well, there are foals of mixed race, they good genes and will
in time carve out their land, higher up, near the hills and water.
When farmers wanted a horse for ploughing, they lassoed a brown horse,
for lighter work, like driving the ladies to the church in a buggy, a white horse
was chosen mainly because they were malleable to handle.
Tragedy struck, developers bought the land, houses were built, filling
the grassland with noise streets and polluting the river.
The horses fled to a sparse mountain slope on the grass, and many
starved, their life span short, and the puma was a constant threat.
The horses mixed freely they had to when their survival was at stake.
A thousand birds in the green could be soon gone,
if man does not stop cutting down their tree nests;
the streams and lakes ruined the fish woebegone.
To developers the animals are pests,
what can we do about the ocean debris;
the government is stone deaf to our protests.
Oh, sweet mother earth we hear your gentle plea,
the abuse and ignorance of man is wrong;
it hurts all the green, the ocean and the sea.
How sad it will be when there is no birdsong,
the world silent- will any creature survive;
if we do not stop it will not be too long.
Bees will be gone soon - not a single beehive.
oh, sweet mother earth how can we help you thrive.
_______________________
February 14, 2021
Poetry/Terza Rima/Mother Earth is Weeping
Copyright Protected, ID 02-1329-525-14
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, While Mother Earth Gently Moans
sponsor D.W. Rogers, Judged 03/18/2021
Gentrifier’s pliers pull the heart from the old tart
Though a Navy Commander warns crew not to wander
Where sailors drank and brawled till ships’ horns called
By-the-hour beds and Shanghai Red’s demolished so Pedro could be polished
Now L.A. gangs sell the sins, against their guns no patron wins
Tarp homes on the bluff keep it rough, still developers dream and cream
Hills and ocean make a heady potion but fog dispels the notion
That a fat purse trumps a curse; ghosts abound, the lost are never found
When singing a splendid solo
in a public place
becomes a political act,
When dancing a diva duet
in your Mama's political space
becomes a barely tolerable act
for economic and politically powerful co-developers,
Then opportunities for communion
have devolved into too uncivil communities
for cooperative eco-social resilience.
Five brownstones lined up on the corner
Have been there a hundred plus years
Until demolition equipment
Knocked them down, once they got the “all clears.”
The tenants had somehow departed,
Perhaps with a buyout of cash.
I wonder if they were there watching
The bulldozers hammer and smash.
The neighborhood’s losing its status
And certainly lots of its charm.
Replacing those brownstones with towers
Is surely a cause for alarm.
We’re squandering history’s treasures
And also big chunks of the sky,
For greedy developers hover
And space is in dwindling supply.
I mourn all the relics we’re missing
For with every toppling of bricks,
The city succumbs to the sameness
Of others, just part of the mix.
Main Street had a classic pool hall,
Hustlers, chisellers, and those who like to fool all,
Second-hand stores along the way,
And the old Helen's Grill greasy spoon café.
Now, Main Street's no longer the same;
Developers and yuppies have changed the game.
They say it’s all for common good,
But the oldsters miss their good old neighbourhood.
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