With limp thunder
came silent still-born rain.
Sky broke,
clouds chose
to play apart today,
as the gray clad stand-ins
in blue duffel coats,
and snow white hoods
slunk away, to fade away,
like peals of bells
fade when echoes fail
to surface on
soft absorbent
compliant surfaces.
Black clouds like the thunder
missed the role-call.
Remained waiting
in the bleachers
for someone
to applaud,
to gee-up
the thunder with claps,
to raise a curtain call.
To giddy-up, giddy-up
the mighty steed Thunder,
to do its
clippety-clop, clippety-clop thing.
to do its
rumble, rattle and roll,
with steely shod and shiny
hooves on cobble stones.
Sometimes my dear steed Thunder,
led along on its reins and bridle,
enters the storm unmounted,
hushed to neigh forlorn,
in gray clouds,
in sky-blue skies.
He had a duffel coat once,
so did she. They must have looked
well-matched
walking in Regents Park
that Autumn.
In time
the coat shop on Oxford Street
died of old age.
Duffel went out of style.
They wore them still.
One day
her duffel was neatly folded,
into a labeled, cardboard box.
His coat developed Alzheimer’s
in a tumble-down closet.
When they unhooked from each other,
he packed only empty pockets,
and a small bundled
of toggles and loops.
The cold of the winter
Duffel coats and bobble hats
Red, white and green
Christmas is nigh
The streets of London
Paved with precious grey
Up in a smoke
A concrete jungle of sorts
Robins, blackbirds and magpies
Green cosmopolitan valleys
Gardens of earth
Salons and appointments
Non locals come in
Traffic jams
Oil, mixed with water
Making wondrous rainbows
Global warming
We guess and wonder
When it will snow
Aiming for December
Then falling in March
The anthems of the city
Sound and complete
Even the sounds
Of thunder and sleet
The new theory of thundersnow
What do the planets think
Of our global terror?
More clothes on
More things gone to waste
Autumn gone but sticking together
A tradition of perfection
The birth of jesus
Out of the gloom the dark ones rise
Into our future we go,
We're just ourselves, don't you dare judge us
And we will be sure at sun rise
How we discovered the glow
Pride's on the shelf, have you not seen dust
Like glittering stars in the night?
This is our very last chance
To take up our beneficial stance
But when this war has lost its light
Into our future we go,
We're just ourselves, don't you know, or no?
Pot gets you higher than a kite,
Cops throw you back in the cell,
We're just a savior, you don't need to go
To extremes to get rid of mine
But when you're in trouble and
I'm in a duffel and you're paying double don't
Expect me to jump out alive
That was the one chance you had to hide
Whether you're ready or not, watch out---
Here
I
Come.
On youth's restless green puff
I rode a greyhound bus southbound.
Everything I owned stuffed into one duffel bag.
Forty eight hours on highway x.
It was getting dark so I settled for the first dive I could find.
One room with peeling pink walls
a large painting of a red heart against black
somebody pretending to be Peter Max.
The next night-I popped into "Geno's bar", to watch a football game.
There was a handful of locals-nobody spoke.
I could see cock roaches racing over the hotdogs.
I was young and beyond hungry but settled for the vending machine.
As Geno would reach for a hotdog, the roaches would scurry off.
By the time the dogs reached the counter they were hot, glistening
and roach free.
Old Geno just smiled as he handed them their roach dogs.
Then quickly took their money.
It was our dirty little secret, after all I was the new guy and didn't want to cause a stir and bug bomb his patrons.
Geno handed me a free beer just before halftime,
I guzzled it down and left him to his roaches soon after.
keep the music sorrowfully low,
so big daddy doesn’t hear.
the shadowy figures, surrender
and whisper in your ear.
the psychedelic colors flow
like the sea foam beat.
Angie, your chromatic hair
smells incandescently sweet.
locked and loaded, alone
with your beastie dreams.
your pillow’s soft and it leans -
your coming apart “at the seams”
one boy plays peek-a-boo, sniffing
your honeysuckles suspended.
tickled by your goldilock curls,
not realizing all it portended.
like walking into the deep dark wood,
he creeps hand and foot, eyes first
like a prowling tiger, tail wagging,
with a rattling tongue a-thirst.
Angie, swooshes her fingers
through his hair, hushes him.
...he stares at the ceiling stars
...loud music descends on his limbs.
Angie digs her embryonic duffel bag,
smiles and adds his decomposing bones
to the ashes of her huge imagination
and recalls that in this world, she’s all alone.
5/8/2019
Musical Inspiration Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joseph May
Song choice: Angie, Baby by Helen Reddy
A man of unquestioned probity in his community, stumbles upon
A hidden duffel bag in the woods while camping with his family
He pulls it out of the dirt and zips it open. The duffel bag
Is stuffed with $100 bills. He turns in the money, in full
To the authorities the next day. His honest deed earns him
Considerable, much-deserved kudos in the press. Unfortunately
He also gets the attention of an unscrupulous stranger, anonymously
Demanding "every last penny of my money back, or I'll...
Continue to make life a living hell for you and your family..."
A ruthless demand
Stranger wants his pound of flesh
Tough predicament
Date written and posted: 04/18/2019
Each day, she wallows in unspeakable despair
Her hunger is unslakable
There's misery in her downcast eyes
Poor woman, a have-not in the world of haves
She's a beggar and dumpster diver
Her appearance weather-beaten and unkempt
Her hand-held sign speaks more than she does
All that she has is stuffed into
her medium duffel bag
"Where will she sleep tonight?," I wonder. Where?
I sure hope and pray it's under a roof
Dear God, please keep her safe and sound!
CONTEST 555,ANY FORM OR NONE,ANY THEME,UP TO A MAX OF 20 LINES
Sponsored by Brian Strand (Winner: 1st Place)
Date written and posted: 02/06/2019
Moving Won’t Matter
Written: by Tom Wright
3/3/2018
A wise man once told me “moving won’t matter”,
Your troubles will forever hitch a ride with you.
Trouble’s, are like seed, that winds will scatter,
And the passing of time sees them quickly accrue.
In mind’s duffel, troubles repose in disguise,
Leaving them behind only becomes an illusion.
That they resurface should be no surprise,
And your resident state will be named confusion.
Summer Snowstorm
Recalling winters chill and icy glow
That lay upon the whitened banks of snow
Your cheeks are bitten to a cherry red
The polar bears and penguins daily stead
The Spring and Fall have mimicked weather’s norm
With Pea and Duffel coats to keep you warm
Foretelling soon the season soon to come
No more for rain to hear its steady thrum
The God of Ra has brightened all our land
The sun has kissed the beaches and the sand
It’s Summer’s theme and bodies shall be tanned
Just shorts and thongs and others will be banned
Oceans await the surfboards when they soar
To top waves and beat the sharks to the shore
A season in heat as a snowstorms core
The power of ice and the power on shore
Seasonal or Unseasonal Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Kim Rodriguez
October 29, 2018
A young man carrying a green duffel bag
over his shoulder shifts when he walks.
Off to war for our country and flag.
No military knowledge with little talk.
Enemy troops marched across the bridge,
with tanks, and hundreds of machine guns led.
As he sat dug in along and across the ridge,
bullets were zipping right over his head.
The dawn of the morning across the glen;
a plan was thought, bargain it was, the loss
of two companies to stop a million men
and ten thousand vehicles from getting across
Pop, pop pop, of distant sounds and then more,
trading volleys of gunfire with blood and gore
A friend gets killed and he dies to the core,
trembling with raging fire. A Casualty of war
5/24/2017
As I laced up my tennis shoes
I hurried to meet up with you
and ran to find you getting off the bus
And when I saw you standing there
in uniform so debonair
I was hoping everyone would notice us
As you picked up your duffel bag
we walked, and you took off your cap
and put it on my forehead just for fun
And as my curiosity
began to get the best of me
I asked you if you’d ever shot a gun
My mother said that you’d been gone
you’d gone to fight in Vietnam
I couldn’t have been no more than nine or ten
With pride I walked right next to you
And wondered if you felt it too
Or would you feel anything again?
Have you seen Ms.Cynthia Morris' moose
Who has eaten Ms. Kim Patricia’s goose?
She laid a golden egg
In my red duffel bag
While I was running for the loo bowels loose
(Nonsense/Limerick)
Anna fell in love with a Pterodactyl
They pecked and petted in a reflex tactile
She laid a big egg
In my duffel bag
And I found my grandson in a projectile
I look about this merry gloom
Thoughtless, fat and slim.
Remembering but half a tune
I'd lost my will to win.
'Give up thy Eric Idle, son.'
I heard a whisper mutter.
And sitting up inside my head
Knew this was not a stutter.
'Are you the reepher with a grin?'
I asked, which pleased him so.
'The one without a duffel chin
And klinkers to and fro?'
'Indeed I am that very sole
That fishes in the deep.
I've come to Clam you half or whole
And Cod your wife to weep.'
'Ah-ha! You baddie bootleg bloke.
I've seen you as a lad.
You took my Granny up in smoke
For only half a drag.'
'Def Albert and his weeping nose
You took him there as well.
To where God only heaven knows
It's really hard to tell.'
'Perhaps, not now, or yet at least.
At most, not in a bit,
Be gentle, like a gentle beast
And sit a while in sit.'
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