A
sexy
blonde bombshell
fresh and footloose
notoriously
enticing, ensnaring
dragged me by my nose-ring
bewailing, bemoaning made me
walk down the aisle towards the altar
intentionally intimidating.
Synapses fire to the edges of my soul,
And lock, stock and barrel do cease to hold.
Pinpoint accurate the hour that the moment senses,
Ne’r better dealing the cards only to fold.
How the chambers in the clock click-and- clack,
And the hands cease to ship its shape and bend.
For under the fire only some pieces lose most of their luster,
But I know things seem to resolve In the end.
For every hourglass’ sand can be overturned and reset,
And every door can be closed only to be opened again in flow.
Solid footprints made in the sand on the beach,
washed away with a wave once a path for hundreds more steps yet to go.
For if you think the wind bends in the brilliance of the light,
And the path leads to the end of a rainbow,
So when the silence festers to reach the sound,
Even sights of the future fall too low.
So stand up and bow your head in blessing,
Because battles can get out of sorts real quick.
But holding the freedom lines in place for friends and family,
Will determine what fate in forever the edge of your blended soul should prick.
victorian canal life - the reality (a true tale from from my maternal heritage )
We left our abode
in old Cowfair
haggled a price
for an old shire mare
Onto the
landlord's canal boat
lock stock and barrel
for a life afloat
farewell to our
Buckingham birthplace &
its meagre living
from old point lace
dawdled slow
up to Cosgrove
taking our meals
. . around a blackened stove
our moveable house
painted castle& rose
not a life
we would have chose
Eighteen fifties harsh
&
mean
coal cargo
so nothing stays clean
doff your cap touch your forelock
every two mile
at
the gatekeeper's lock
Fresh food scarce
except for fish
perch & roach
a staple dish
clothes dry
on a washing line strung
out for a timeout
the toddlers young their
number so soon increased & grew
places to sleep
all too few
family life impossibly hard
so back to a tied cottage
in
Aylesbury's Anchorage yard
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2007
Listening to the Boss Singing
The Ghost of Tom Joad,
Imagining the Okies as they
Travelled their Desolation Road.
Word Pictures by Steinbeck,
Dust Bowl Ballads by Guthrie,
Green Pastures Of Plenty
Pretty Boy Floyd, Doh Ray Mi.
Ecological disaster,
Dust and drought,
Trees chopped down
Good land farmed out.
Then came the winds
That blew the soil away
Followed by the Bankers
Who took their land away.
Pack up lock stock and barrel
In the trucks and on the way
To the promised land of plenty
The fabled Californ-ia
So long it’s been good to know you
And then like the family Joad
Driven by need and poverty
It’s off and on down the road.
With Global warming progressing
As more habitable land disappears
Will a new Steinbeck and Guthrie
Chronicle new Grapes Of Wrath years
Will there be a new Springsteen
To sing about a new Tom Joad
As they join the new exodus on
Their new desolation road.
We left our abode
in old Cowfair
haggled a price
for an old shire mare
Onto the
landlord's canal boat
lock stock and barrel
for a life afloat
farewell to our
Buckingham birthplace &
its meagre living
from old point lace
dawdled slow
up to Cosgrove
taking our meals
. . around a blackened stove
our moveable house
.painted castle& rose
not a life
we would have chose
Eighteen fifties harsh
&
mean
coal cargo
so nothing stays clean
doff your cap touch your forelock
every two mile
at
the gatekeeper's lock
Fresh food scarce
except for fish
perch & roach
a staple dishc
clothes dry
on a washing line strung
out for a timeout
the toddlers young their
number so soon increased & grew
places to sleep
all too few
family life impossibly hard
back we went to a tied cottage
in
Aylesbury's Anchorage yard
Oh Corona thou art
the heartless, most abominable demon,,
whoever the hell from the world of Saturn
hath sent ye to our world to annihilate us
be assured rest your days of existence
is numbered ….. for our relentless prayers
to the Lord the Almighty,( who created us all
to protect and destroy when needed at His will)
reverberates at his doors and He shall hear us
and the most Merciful that He is,
will come out to wipe you out lock stock and barrel
leaving no trace of ye on this Earth
His own Earth and His own children before long
Oh Corona the deadly lieutenant of Saturn
quit my sight and get away
your own doomsday is round the corner
Decades since frittering like - yule
ne'er believe me, boot true
lee, I wreck clues lee wasted
my life lock, stock, and barrel
as if there whiz no tomorrow,
this skein knee boy didst spool
away youth like some drool
ling doggone motley fool
while mutely dumbfounded taking -
as undeclared seriously gruel
ling studious favorite pursuit - duel
major space and time, believing
them tubby (out
of this world), and cool,
yet unbeknownst tummy then
more precious than any jewel,
hence this faux Einstein,
who got pool
lightly dubbed"the quietest
student", albeit still
underhandedly cuffed and cruel
moniker, nonetheless wool
worth being spot on,
though when within comfort
of home aye
yak act did mule
lush, non provoke'n, neither tool
ling with smoke'n,
funny weed, but more specifically
class (sic) self serving
as token passive non rule
breaker counted among
My pages have become testimonies
Of nothing to say
In a state where everyone speaks
But little is ever said.
These pages have become as vast as Potter’s Field
Where every word loses their identity
And remain voiceless
In this time of static.
Every name gives way
To serial numbers
And everyone who almost won now sleep
On top of forgotten losers
Who at least owned their own exit
Which came with a kiss to the third rail.
It is a perfect escape
For those of us don’t wish to be found
By those who bought New York
Lock stock and barrel
And forced her on to the stage
Under the strippers’ light
To dance without an ounce of rusted dignity.
Her last on going dream
to put on that black leather dress
of No Wave
and
take the El train to the last station
still in time
when the rats lived behind the walls
before they started buying each
apartment
building
with
“for rent” signs on all the doors
Designed to hide just another crime scene.
Flower in Transit
When the red rose was crushed in the turrets
of time in which blood trickled from thorny
crowns of creation hooks and thorns set loose
a pact with the devil lock stock and barrel
Petals dissolved in crimson powder once the
wicked wick alit the trigger sent laurels
of damnation six foot under rising to hell
a scorched lullaby and ballistic epitaph
Seeds were broken the covenant’s meaning
abandoned before ink on agreed contracts
had dried as perfumed bouquets reeked of steeled
metal dead skin and wanton demise
For that one moment though when she mounted the tank
and planted the flower she dreamt that the thorns
might get stuck in the hearts of transit’s deceit for to
change the trajectory and the smell of red roses to linger
No Latino
Donald Trump
Anti-migrant rant causes campaign bump.
Foolish remarks puts his empire in peril,
Possibly losing–lock, stock and barrel.
We left our abode in old Cowfair,haggled a price for an old shire mare.Onto the
landlord's canal boat,lock stock and barrel for a life afloat.Farewell to our
Buckingham birthplace and its meagre living from old point lace.Dawdled slow
up to Cosgrove taking our meals around a blackened stove.Our moveable house
painted castle and rose,not a life we would have chose.Eighteen fifties harsh
and mean,coal cargo so nothing stays clean.Doff your cap,torch your forelock
every two mile at the gatekeeper's lock.Fresh food scarce except or fish,perch
and roach a staple dish.Clothes dry on a washing line strung,home for a time
whilst the toddlers were young.As their number increased and grew ,places to
sleep all too few.Family life impossibly hard so back we went to a tied cottage in
Aylesbury's Anchorage yard.
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