Long Boob tube Poems
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The House That Jack Built 3
Frequently we youngest four gathered bottles that were strewn in ditches,
And along the railroad track,
Then glide our feet over well-worn steel rails on the journey back.
We'd exchange empties for jaw-breakers and bubble-gum at Rose’s General Store,
And whenever I agreed to sing them a song,
We’d be given ice-cream cones for the deed that was far from a chore.
On the way home we’d pluck dandelions, buttercups, and daisies,
To present Ma with a colorful bouquet,
I’d add to it a rose or two if a certain neighbor was away.
If walls of home had open eyes and listening ears of course they’d witness and hear,
The muttered complaints and landing though faint of many a fallen tear.
Still, there was no television to carry us to places no child should go,
No boob-tube attempting to make us believe in all that just wasn't so.
We’d no telephone enslaving us in idle prattle-prat,
There was no couch-potatoing, no pigging out and getting fat.
We weren’t saints and some of our shenanigans surely caused the structure to tilt,
Yet we somehow felt all safe and secure in The House They Say Jack Built.
Then one day city slickers arrived at our door,
Said soon we would be living in Farran's Point no more,
The house where Ma had birthed nine,
Our Haven of Liberty that rested amid Willow, Maple and Pine,
Was part of some Seaway Power Project and Jack's House would be torn down,
And we were forced to relocate , to leave our delightful riverside town.
Gone would be the tall, proud trees, wild berries , rolling hills, winding creek and close friend,
Gone the canal that ships sailed through never would I cheerfully view again.
Gone the long tall grass we'd run through barefoot ,
After a swim in the River we cherished dear,
Gone the smiles from the faces of the Lost Villagers as eyes tried to hold back each tear.
by Joan Donnelly Ellis
Note: Farran's Point Ontario, Canada was a small riverside village. It was one of nine villages relocated before USA & Canada flooded the area in 1958 (St. Lawrence Seaway Power Project)
Thick or thin, it is the Friday night order in special,
Supreme or meat lovers delight, whatever toppings
You like it, does not matter for it’s
The all American favorite, Pizza!!
Roll out that dough, cover it with Italians specialty
Sauce, cheese me to please me, I’ll never get enough,
I’m simply addicted to this deep dish pan delicious stuff.
Cut me no single slice, for more, more, more,
Is the thunderous roar of my mighty hungering’s
Rumbling, within my tummy, for what Pizza!!!
Circled or squared, just roll that pizza cutter of
Portions pleasure, pick up your slice and allow
That thick cheese to pull apart naturally,
Then bite into Nirvana, for this is heavens
Perfection guaranteed by the slice.
Now the frozen microwave style may work in a pinch,
Delivery or the hot and ready special can satisfy
My personal hunger glitch, for that tasty pizza pie,
As long as can get it, I’m satisfied.
Oh grant me one pleasures sinful command to break
Dearest lord above, to indulge myself, and stuff
Myself with pizza, pizza until I burst, for gluttony is
One distractions fault I have dear father, when it
Comes to this circle food, as it spins on the nightly
Commensals boob tube.
Is it not against the law to hide messages within
Certain text, because I swear these advertisers
Know our fragile human weaknesses, late at night
For this delectable substance, called what
Pizza, if I haven’t mentioned it enough,
Yummy, yum, yum old chum.
It’s the party hardy mid-night special, on all
Channels of the United States of America,
There is no doubt of this, rock my world
In flavorful old time favorite, dude I’m
With you all the way, especially on a
Friday night.
This is my declaration of independence
Declared in Italian sauces redden stainy ink,
Give me Pizza or give me death, just kidding
Folks, by the way do you want that last
Pizza slice, I’m not quite full yet, lol.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
we can think then relax a bit
take a sip or to of coffee until I give my foot a push
nestled in the very fabric of a fresh pile of manure
we stand clueless amidst the onslaught of big corporations & government...
peal back the wax to taste fresh air is it explodes through your nostrils
I was once there but I'm not anymore that was so 1984
so I explode inside as I taste the toast made out of hammer head boar remnants,
why does one equate logical persuasion with that of a mediocre blemish..
on the ass of politicians that drive their brand new Audi
get the best seats in the house as a shimmer like a mouse
businessman come and drink my wine and smoke my herb
the backwash of Trump as he sits in his ivy tower alone & desolate
why do we buy into the lie that says I am what I do
you will do as you are told until the very rights to you are sold
get out my cigarette and take a drag watching phony politicians on the boob tube..
yet this is nothing new its all been done before
a jar of Spam on the thick circumference of barbed wired fences
second glances as the shadow inferiority complex looms
a barrage of protester outside your door while your kicking it out back with a two bit whore
still there's toast we have to eat as an added substance
the morons in society that stimulate jagged pictures of beverages for your delight...
don't you believe in what television or radio says about you its only somebody else's fantasy
a gun man heads to Nevada to take out his frustration on innocent bystanders...
the nut job from Manhattan decided to take a little stroll in a borrowed home depot vehicle taking innocent lives with him
the good **** prick with flames of violence will have an eternal one way ticket with Bubba in cell block number nine..
then we insist that everything is fine a we lastly grasp for straws and wait for newer horizons to approach what a joke.....
after The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe
(Is this microphone turned on? Testing one two, Poe was a dip, Poe was a dip, testing.)
Once upon a daydream, faintly
whilst I watched the boob tube, quaintly
Jerry Springer 'bout half over when I nodded off to sleep.
Show was boring, soon was snoring
when suddenly I heard my bell ring.
Outside it was really pouring,
pouring there outside my door,
perhaps a preacher to ignore,
I'd be a beanbag chair and nothing more.
(By the way, this is the reader's digest version folks)
Beanbag pretense wasn't working,
freak outside just kept on twerking
(Wait! I forgot what that means)
then through my window climbs this guy who looks a bit unstable.
He stops and stares as though a zombie,
asked him could he be from Bombay,
I think his jeans were Abercrombie.
I showed him kindly to the door,
pointed clearly to the exit,
pushed him onward 'cross the floor,
he stood there shaking, nothing more.
"Now look" I cawed with all my muster,
"Get this through your thick head buster,
Spongebob's coming on soon and I've still to take my nap."
He looked at me with subtle smile,
those crazy eyes had me beguiled,
[karma's spanked me with this trial]
on my knees (Ack! I don't have knees)
on my knees I now implored
would he please just take a hike.
I then got up from off the floor,
he stared and said...
"uh, I gotta tinkle."
EPILOG
That's right folks. You now have the edited, abridged version of what really happened back in 1845. Now I know what you're thinking - 'Gotta tinkle'? But it doesn't rhyme! Well, I can't help it folks that's what he said. And it may explain why he decided to turn things around to make me look like the nitwit in his classic poem, The Raven.
This is Barrymore T Raven III, signing off
*did they have TV in 1845? Hmmm...
There is not a day
Not a day goes by that storm cloud do not accumulate, gather in the deep recesses of my throat, and choke off my life’s breath – that do not rage on, behind these sorrowful, doleful brown eyes, just waiting for a chance opening, that will let out a deluge of pain, pain that has rained down upon this tired old soul for far to long, cutting deep groves into my spirit, leaving thick scares that may become the walls for another to try and tear down as I have tried to do with your walls .
Acceptance will let me know - finally – that alone in this world, I will walk, alone in my room, were the bitter sweets, sound waves of music, dance along the acoustic meatus and beat upon the tympanic membrane on their way into my brain and were the rays from the cathode ( boob ) tube light up the gray matter ( that sits in this stark room ) with it’s illusionary images of imaginary lives with a thousand stories that feed my – and so many more – empty moments. Alone in my bedroom, I lay, were darkness and dreams fill my empty nights, alone in my bedroom were preparation of energy feeds this old body of mine, alone in my bedroom were Mother Nature’s embryonic fluid flows beneath me, surrounds this tired old body with the heat of her life giving essence, her mysterious forces submerging all my cares and woes- for a few hours anyway .
Alone in these rooms, my heart lays, alone in these rooms may be my fate, my destine and alone in these places may allow me - along with all that I have written and written to you – to be able to grieve for the loss of someone and something that was never mine to loose in the first place and would never have been in the first place, it seems .
B. J. "A" 2
Janurary 11th 2008
I was reminiscing the other day about people I've known o'er the years,
And found it strange that their names corresponded with their careers.
For instance, Joseph Carpenter was handy with hammer, nails and saw.
Clyde Barrister, famed ambulance chaser, successfully practiced law!
Art Paynter, dabbled in pornographic oils and is now confined in prison.
My dentist, Whitey Capps, takes care of my choppers as if they were his'n.
A neighbor, Semmi Riggs, is a long-haul trucker and is on the road a lot.
He married a classmate of mine, Tipsy Toper, renowned as the village sot!
An old army buddy, Hank Roper, is a cowpoke and rides the rodeo scene.
An old girl friend of mine, Freda Flick, is now starring on the silver screen.
The town ne'er-do-well, Don Heller, got religion and became a preacher.
His brother Bob (known as stuttering Bob) became an English teacher!
Willie Wrench turned out to be one of the finest Buick mechanics around,
And his wife Lila (nee Leak) is a plumber and none better is to be found.
Cyrus Cloud is working for the National Weather Service as a meteorologist,
And I hear that Buddy Butts has a thriving practice as a famed proctologist!
Frenchie Horne has his own band and I see him on the boob tube now and again.
An old pal, Gilbert Graves, is the village undertaker located at Fifth and Main.
Was it intentional or fickle fate that wedded these names to their vocation?
I reckon in a sense 'twas both due to a struggling bard's wild imagination!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
What the hell does that mean, why title it that
Unfortunately it’s an epidemic, a virus in fact
That continues to spread and lay eggs where ever it goes
Only a conscious mind is considered its foe
We sit and we rot in front of the boob tube
Believing the hype that comes from the boob tube
We sit and we stare our minds hypnotized
Dreaming of things that shall never be realized
We’re prisoners of our mind but the gate’s neither closed nor locked
We are merely afraid to make that first step for fear of a drop
From stability to insecurity, from commonality to maturity
To stand out alone many find quite intimidating
Why must we be blind and deaf to our environment
When actions take place seeking our acknowledgement
Asking us to cry out due to social injustices
Only to be played down by the diversity of the Supreme Justices
In a blanket of snow there lies a few specks of dirt
That provides color for a sea of hurt
But like an invisible clock there lies and invisible ceiling
Capping the height to which one could be dreaming
We are zombies that have been modeled from prototypes
With slight upgrades to endure the new fight
We were taught what we need to know
And everything else that we do not know
Is used against us so we remain caged
In the prisons of our mind, hence once we have aged
Will pass on these false teachings to future generations
But I could be wrong, I’m just a Haitian.
Form:
I live in North East Florida
That's just a hop, skip, and a jump
From the land known as Georgia
Where "Honey Boo Boo" once held court with her mom
If'n you never knew "Honey Boo Boo"
You're in for a treat or more than one
She was a multi car train wreak
That you couldn't turn your bugged eyes away from
First let me explain the state of Georgia
So this family ya'll will understand
Not long ago they re-dirted both paved roads
Said progress was getting way out of hand
So with that said and done son
With formalities out of the way
Lets turn our attention back to our star attraction
And see what all she had to say
Her fame started out on Toddlers & Tiaras
Reality shows we all seem to love
From The Crazed Housewives to The Kardashion's
America can not get enough
And since it's on T.V. it's gotta be true
Did you ever try her drink sensation
Of Red Bull and Mountain Dew, she liked to call "Go Go Juice"
It'll put hair on your derriere for extra pad in relaxation
And who wouldn't want to see a six year old
With that kind of Hellacious Buzz
What went through my mind when I looked at it was
Ahhh, Redneck Motherly Love
So now do you redneckonize her
Where all I just said is quite true
A dolla used to make her holla!
I sure miss "Honey Boo Boo" on the Boob Tube
As I'm sure all of you do too...
inadvertently
rubbing it in your face
that s/he has turned out to be
something that you didn’t,
not that the two of you had
the same thing in mind
when you were both
younger,
but the fact remains that there’s
the kind of person who
hides with age,
buried in regret &
constantly stuck in
reliving the past
with nothing but memories to
haunt &
the kind of person who has
accomplished something that
they set out to
in the very beginning &
with that,
they feel like they need to tell
the world, like they need to
update those with whom they grew
up,
as if no one else has changed at all,
as if everyone was rooting for them
the whole time &
their dinky little small town
was nestled round the boob tube
waiting years for their face to
appear on
prime time.
this kind of person is most certainly
hard to deal with,
because they have fallen out of reality &
walk with a different crowd now,
but in a genuine attempt to
“stay with their roots,”
they try to communicate with those
whose lives stopped whilst theirs continued
to move forward---
it just doesn’t work.
I used to be able to run full steam all day with little sleep
Now I can barely walk unless I have a little cat nap
because I still am a fitful sleeper at night, up and down
I once ran around my yard with my dogs
Now arthritis in my ankles has me ambling, slowly
I dream of walking fast, which I also did once upon a time
My vision used to be better than twenty-twenty
Now I cannot read books or magazines unless they are big print
or I keep a magnifying glass close by my easy chair
Sitting around watching TV was the last thing I would do
until ten years ago when I tore my meniscus
Now I spend a lot of time eating potato chips in front of the boob tube
I used to be clever and funny and fun
I do not feel that way anymore
I feel dumpy and frumpy
Do what you can while you are young
Fifty five is a lot younger than seventy-three.
You might as well know it now.