Don’t you see the skip of my jolly heels,
skipping about the globe while planting stars?
Ask then from mother earth what joy she feels
When my rubber sole and her corners spar.
In offices, they don brogues and loafers,
See me jolly hop with sparkled laces.
My Chuck 70’s turn suits to gophers,
Gentlemen grimace and grow grey faces.
I know jealous jugs of beer that will spill
and stink my Converse in bars and taverns.
Yet the canvas skin won’t break for their swill,
For it has walked over hills and caverns.
In churches and pews, I dance all the tunes,
Hear the slide of my foot to the insoles.
While priests return bibles for forks and spoons,
I hear sermons from the trips of my soles.
My All Stars have walked a callous journey
From my little foot to my huge footprint.
I don mine in king beds and in gurneys,
This shoe that has become my life’s blueprint.
Categories:
gurneys, beauty, celebration, childhood, clothes,
Form: Quatrain
April was the koolest month
we walked in the green uprising,
to gather berries,
would eat them as we trekked
the crunching woods.
It was1999 and the sky was clear
for months after;
we had time to can the berries
and preserve them.
Thus when the TV conjectured
the possibility of a global plague
all the channels began to
reprogram themselves;
to electronically dream-up
the year 2020 into our reality.
We had to look away from the screen,
had to ponder our relationship
if perhaps one day
one of us ever went missing.
In a recycling pantomime of motion,
we watched the untimely dying
being pushed on gurneys
out into the deserted streets.
Later we trashed all the uneaten berries
scrubbing our hands
as if they would be forever stained.
Categories:
gurneys, poetry,
Form: Free verse
You are a doctor who is a murdering psychopath.
You hate certain people and they suffer your wrath.
When a patient is racist, you think it gives you the right to kill her or him.
You think that you are making the world a better place, you are very dim.
When people are racist, it's bad but murdering them is far worse.
Every time you get a racist patient, he or she ends up in a hearse.
You think what you do makes you a good person and that is bizarre.
You think you have the right to kill, who the hell do you think you are?
How many patients have you killed while they were on your gurneys?
You're in trouble because I talked to the cops and the district Attorney.
The police are going to investigate and they will bring you down.
When you're locked in a cell, your cocky smile will be turned to a frown.
When you're put away for life, justice will have been served.
Your days are numbered and you will get what you deserve.
Categories:
gurneys, evil, hate, murder,
Form: Rhyme
Ambulance chasers
have morphed into
Civil Rights Attorneys...
salivating at the gurneys – a big
paycheck a chance to obtain,
making a living by inflaming
already blood-red, fiery pain –
Compounding perceived
prejudice -- hate; propagating
color-division...though good
blindness has been of late
on many lips and in loving sighs
contradicting rank media allies
(conspiring enclaves – perpetuating
malicious, racist lies)...
manipulating facts for
evil purpose; they are
the “Mess” in cesspool...with
only one rule, win at all cost,
and a healthful society though
not so gullible as they think
forced to wade through
foul sewage
a shyter's manufactured
legal stink....
Categories:
gurneys, community, inspirational, patriotic, perspective,
Form: Free verse
Sunsets pass, grass keeps
growing, over your grave and
around your mausoleum.
Tarnished and faded names,
just like your ghost. It's not like
we ever planned this, but it's
not like we never saw it
coming.
Since when is fighting it
easy...even when you were
fighting for me.
Gurneys weren't built to chase
hearses but they had already
prepared for you.
I knew the chemicals were
against us but I thought we had
more time.
I knew you were past gone,
that you couldn't hang on much
longer, but I sat by you and
held onto you as long as I
could.
I couldn't think of you as one
more I'd lost.
I couldn't get past the infinite
abyss that would take your
place.
I will never get past you but I
know to carry on until my time
comes to be in your arms
forever.
Categories:
gurneys, loss
Form: I do not know?
You knew by then there wasn't much left,
except wandering sterile halls--
amid blackened lungs;
Where time meant nothing--
fading into insipid yesterdays,
knitting needles complicating--
tomorrow's worried hands;
Age, flattened numbers--
held tightly against your heaving bosom,
as if engraved with loss's stone endearments.
Charred coughs loudly wheezed--
spitting hope upon white cloths,
yellowing expectation--
between porcelain veneered smiles.
But you walked, smiling anyway--
around gurneys with little slippered feet.
Blond hair capturing sunlight--
through slanted windows;
Waiting for those Sunday visits,
when youthful optimism raced up stairs,
where it was greeted with nothing--
but grown-up lies.
Did you know I hated you then?
For no comfort could be given--
amidst such blatant denials,
preparation never kissed any lips.
Now conversations interminably hang--
like unfinished tapestries;
Threads slipping through fingers--
leaving me grasping at each moment's meaning...
Categories:
gurneys, death, life, loss
Form: Free verse