~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The crows lift like burnt paper prayers.
the last sun licks a gutted Chevy~
its chrome ribs still singing.
Somewhere in the background,
a radio coughs static hymns
into the gathering dark.
poem written in fond remembrance of Allison Jones, family friend and junkyard owner, fondly nicknamed Junk Yard Dog.
junk yipping and yapping
yard dog n
e
• * c B A
k bones and ham bones R K
the
scent of
beef w r now? who is running now
h u w b
o n h o
o w
I n o w
s I f o
n w
g
Amy the tier-one junkyard cat upends
When her ‘I don’t care’ cattitude offends
She stalks, strikes, then eats
Has no time for treats
Mice used to be fast food but now are friends
Sputnik the panther jungle cat has fun
Laughing as all the humans try to run
Some run as fast they can
Some stop to make a stand
Either way their denouement has begun
I'm just a junkyard dog.
Old scars tell my story.
I'm left water and scraps.
Alone in the dark I sleep
and dream of a better life
and love with es
I smell beyond fences.
Love is just out of reach.
My favorite junkyard is in Chariton, Iowa.
A rusty old tow truck at the top of the hill
Painted to look exactly like Mater in the Cartoon.
When I approach the junkyard, I do with anticipation
And there he is. Sitting on the hill with his big eyed
cartoon smile, same goofy teeth.
It makes the rest of the junkyard seem happy
Which is fantastic if you can overlook all of the
beautiful cars and trucks that were once loved
But are now rusting away in depressive sadness.
There he is! I think miles before I arrive.
I am not sure what I will feel if the cartoon Mater
ever disappears. Today, at this second, I do not have to worry.
There is the goofy smile.
Assuring me that everything in the junk yard is okay.
My Favorite Junkyard was owned by Fred G. Sanford
The G stood for Good Times
He was full of surprise with humorous delight
As a kid I would visit his junkyard every night
If he wasn’t filling me with laughter, he was filling me with cheer
Oh, how I wish that Fred G was still here
He ran the junkyard with his son named Lamont
Going back and forth with a quirky response
They had the most junk that you could ever imagine
From the floor to the ceiling always ready to cash in
He had a sister-in-law that he loved to hate
Her name was Ester and she always took his bait
Fred had a good buddy and his name was Grady
When they linked up, you always know it was shady
Fred had great health but there was one drawback
Fred was always faking like he had a heart attack
Grabbing his chest with his hand in the air
Screaming, Oh! Elizabeth, I’m coming to join you there
Dear old Fred always kept me in laughter
He never sold a thing but he was such a great actor
I throw it out then bring it back
A somewhat hoarder, I have that knack
I keep in mind the things I love
Then store them back within my hub
A sound of music a touch of scent
Allows nostalgia a place to vent
A memory made or thought perhaps lost
A junkyard backpack on my forward path
When on the surface I dig down deep
To find a memory within my fleet
The ones I pull have high impact
They keep my emotions right on track
Such days are downs until they’re ups
My conscience divulges outward puffs
From childhood reflections to adult recap
I reminisce from my junkyard backpack
Date: October 23, 2019
Sponsored by: Craig Cornish
The mobile mind indomitable
the rider of life waves
with curled crests of fractured moonbeam
and dark agony troughs of drowned stars
spread breaking on the shore of the past.
The crushed sands carve seaward footprints
the weathering antique contours of decay
time arrow points to topography beyond the shore
away from the eroded wasteland abandoned
where landfill devours the unusurped hopes.
The weed-webbed terrain deep within
piles the wreckage of life unlived
the flushing garden turns metallic maze
the pathway paved outside its fence
waits to be walked
to the mesmeric meadow of tomorrow.
The invented alchemy of memory
glitters gold in the rusted crust of ruins
marigold blooms in the scrap heap
in the Midas touched junkyard.
October 7, 2019
through lean years
in this thing called life
i’ve tended to my garden
erected walls with what i could
made a shelter called it mine
i filled each corner
in convoluted ways
with memories and fantasies
along the way weeds got the best of me
my garden looks more like a junkyard
a roadmap of regrets discarded
scruffy trails of abandoned rejects
milestone remnants of betrayals
sometimes i meander
thru the backlanes of my mind
both the garden and the junkyard
intermingling in a unique form of art
it’s messy but i claim it as my own
Published in my 24-page photo/anthology book ~IN THE GARDEN OF MY FANTASY~ 2023
Read on air by invitation ~ January 16, 2022 'POETS HARBOUR'
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on October 5, 2019 for contest MY FAVORITE JUNKYARD sponsored by CRAIG CORNISH - RANKED 12TH
Stained yellow teeth, decades of mistreatments;
Tattered worn hair, mustered stare...
Worn torn shoes just vagabond, dementia rusted mind;
Seems he's been here before, open spaces relics;
My yard is filled with junk; What's up--
Rusted rattled metal, such a waste dried up sores, rusted;
Out of date ragged clothes, ON THE FENCE
Decades of mistreatments, homeless surrounded by substance;
His environment anywhere, his life going nowhere;
If he dies right now will his organs be parted out;
Guts and organs sold he mutters and says I am a junk yard;
My mind scrap collected recycled discarded;
I'm dream his dreams of preoccupation;
Trapped in thoughts odiousness wrecked spirit;
The populist calls the me lay;
Homeless thoughts on his private injustice;
My the junk, my mind is trash Died
So people cried another thrown away soul;
Deposited...
thrown away as an ...Junkyard
10/5/19
For My Favorite Junkyard
Sponsored by: craig cornish
Rusty old sins burden my soul
Sending me broken parts,
Pieces of my most sinful thoughts
Lies, betrayals, grudges and hatred
So many moments of livid rage
Gripping the words of anger that
Passed my lips and colored another’s
Heart with wrath so furious it slashes
There are desperations that grip me
Confine my heart with despair and fear
Anxiety that nurses my old wounds
And commands me to simply not care
Along the walls of my heart, a line of
Wrecked emotions and irate passions
Respond to my yearning for affection
With reminders of what I have been
Sins are carefully judged and taken apart
By a heart that is hungry for a taste of hope
The savory blessing sent by God’s Son
Who died for these parts in my junkyard
October 4, 2019
My Favorite Junkyard Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: craig cornish
Years ago with a 74 ford
Loaded with trash
Three boys in front raring to go
A trip the four of us loved
Back in the day people would put aside the good
One year we found a new model plane
A row of dimes and a box filled with diamonds
Estimated at 20,000
It seems as the story goes
Grandma died and they threw all her belongs away
At first I thought finders keepers
But my good won over my bad
We found the owner and returned them
The best part about the junkyard was
We brought more stuff back then we took
The wife always gave us a dirty look
Contest: My favorite Junkyard
Sponsored by: Craig Cornish
Date Created: 10/03/2019
Junkyard cat
escaping every human
climbing over Plymouths and Dodges,
Hiding in rusty jalopies
that used to carry Grandpas
to potential grandma’s for courting.
Junkyard cat
slinking in and out
Hoping an old woman
will take pity and leave food
She rarely does
Thinking that might
Curb your mousing
Bygone youth carelessly spent
Damaged goods years of torment
Guiltless heart cruelly scarred
Abandoned in junkyard charred
Spent days wasted nights crying
Torment focused on dying
Scarred and marred deep to the bone
Charred wishes on a moonstone
AP: 1st place 2025, 2nd place 2025
Submitted on March 9, 2019 to contest JUEJU-QUIJUE WITH A TWIST sponsored by CHARLES MESSINA - RANKED 1ST
On one sultry August day
In a clearing in the woods
Within a long delay
for salvaged auto goods
Amid decaying vans, under glaring sun
High above one ant, homebound, on the run...
Along a rugged trail
of micro hill and dale
Between pebbles and sprigs
Over shards and twigs
For seconds brief, beneath a leaf
‘Round a rock, willy nilly
Root outcrop, dilly dally;
Up the maple, fast
With head-on-haul in grasp
In and out of bark
Inside crevice, dark
Astride the edge, at last
Across a lichen patch
Behind broad leaves of dark green hue —
To my chagrin, beyond my view;
Out from under the shade
Into the open glade
Within the reflective collage
of glinting metals and shards
Beneath the tranquil sky — recharged!
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