Modern man has less dexterity.
I think I know one reason why,
The replacement of the button
With the zippered trouser fly.
It took some finger manipulation
To keep each button firmly seated
Just a brief tug of the zipper and
The manoeuvre’s now completed.
No exercise of the fingers or
Checks on leaving the loo
Just to ensure that no button
Was fastened slightly askew.
Modern man can have confidence
Nothing untoward is left on show
Just one pull of the fastener and
He’s concealed and ready to go.
But, has he paid a prince by not
Having to stop and linger
To correctly place each button
And thus exercise each finger.
It didn’t burn many calories
Maybe not even a couple
But it required coordination
And it kept the fingers supple.
A lost trouser button could
Very easily be sewn back on
A broken zipper means use of
Garment at least temporarily gone.
Yes, there was a lot to be said
For the buttoned trouser fly.
I suppose I’m just a relic
From times long gone by
When the world was less hasty
Without this modern daily stress
And a man had the time just
To pause and check his dress.
I return to gather my shards of memory.
As a spring bud, obsessed with chilly nights or clammy.
Strange things happen above the seats of obscurity
Creatures that do not belong here are raised that way.
A red rose flees her urge to provide love some dignity.
I've run out of names; it's time to turn the key.
The seats behind the gap had been creatively ready.
We are quietly evoking thoughts spaces of empty.
Seats associated with the concept of intimacy.
Written June 2021
ALL YOURS (Jun 14) Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
I find people often worship at the feet of those
With great literary abilities
These people who posses amazing verbal dexterity
And are advanced in profundity
And speak with a verbosity
That makes others convinced that they are academically and worldly intelligent
But I read between the lines and hear every word they say
And find myself amazed that despite all of this
They still have the capacity to chat utter garbage.
(Sorry verbal diarrhea, but that didn't rhyme lol)
I dug out the
big pieces of
black soil of
my choice,
Crumbled them
in a tank,
removed the
humus and
pebbles;
Then the soil's
soaked and
kneaded 'to
paste I placed
On my wheel
and moulded
all 'ese various-
shaped
vessels!
Like a balloon, happiness soared high
Like a sword piercing through the blue sky
Deflowering the virgin power of gravity
She roves every commune with dexterity
I saw her parched on a tree
And the birds chirped and danced in glee
Heaven of alves, made reality
She roves every commune with dexterity
Upward she soared and soared again
Invading Lord's sanctuary without bargain
Angelic fingers plucked guitars in uniformity
She roves every commune with dexterity
21/07/2011
By:Joseph Osita
For Francine Roberts' "happiness is a balloon contest"
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