Long Bucked Poems
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The stump of one spar poked above the rest beside me slope descending
And I roped that spit in the hope that it would not have me on the fire turning
On that fire burning
I tied one end to my saddle horn with a stirrup on each side
And I held my breath diggin' in my spurs prayin' this would be my ride
That this would be my ride
My wooden bronco bucked and turned in this rodeo from Hell
As the torrent grew round and round we flew to the Talon down below
The Talon down below
In all of my riata days I never held on tighter
I knew that this was my last crew and I'd go down a fighter
I would go down a fighter
Then something came upside my head and last I saw stars blazin'
And when my sense at last I found I was floating down the Talon
The swiftly flowing Talon
Around me floated such a mess as I have never seen
But the mount I chose still above it rose and carried me to safety
It carried me down to safety
I prayed and swore on that rocky shore where the Talon left me lying
And when I looked back t'ward the peak where we had all been standing
Nothing was left standing
________________________________________
I miss those boys and the open skies but not that haunted mountain
I’ll not return with all I’ve learned and days I still am countin’
Each day I will be countin’
As a day I've earned by lessons learned and not taken for granted
So I won't go whether sand or snow to the Talon River Crossing
Ne'er the Talon I'll be crossing
The days I've left before my death not many I can count on
But with my last breath I'll curse his name that surely you can count on
That surely you can count on
With my death rattle I'll curse his name
That surely you can count on
Most of my dreams are quickly forgotten; but this one I keep rehearsing.
I'm not an interpreter of dreams, but there's a certain direction I'm leaning.
My dream was about a long black snake whose type I could not determine.
I know next to nothing about snakes except maybe the venomous rattling kind.
Anyway, I killed this snake(or so I thought), and threw him in a trash bin.
I felt relieved and very proud of myself and began to walk away; but then! That was when my eyes bucked and my mind went, "O My God! He's not dead!"
I then attempted to kill him again, but he was too quick, slithering away instead.
11022017 PS Contest, Surreal And Daft, Kevin Shaw
Me and the missus live in decent
sturdy accommodations (formerly
Schwenksville Elementary School
ofttimes referred to as prison,
and manager as the de facto warden),
albeit not so shabby nor chic low income
quite modest (rather unmatchable cost wise)
low slung building we rent,
for mere dime a dozen
pennies on the dollar,
which facility lacks no shortage
of gossip mongers
with mail delivery major event
whereby many old people smelling of unguent
housing faux superman
thumping flabby chests nsync
with hooking thumbs around
suspenders feigning to be affluent,
and self important as secret double agent
yeah, minus the countless snitches,
livingsocial buzzfeeding rumors
outside our one bedroom apartment
at Highland Manor ranks
as satisfactory ascent
to appease our taste,
and general environmental ambient
aspects compared to other
(mice and roach infested)
housing previous situations of ours
so, despite most every nosy, ancient
snooty, hoity toity...tenant,
particularly one butch,
cock eyed louey, facial accent
a perfect spectacle for circus big-tent
single bucked sharp front tooth
sparkles, mocks, glistens...
as if brushed with Pepsodent
of course displayed "FAKE"
seventh heaven-sent
friendliness, when poor us
being penniless with just tencent
copper piece experienced warm welcome
short time after moving here
(five plus years since July 1st 2022),
but demeanor thereafter went
postal stamping like the dickens
as if me an unrepentant
jokester, nonetheless yours truly minds
against hateful words adamant
lee averse to cast aspersions,
cuz a friendly gesture linkedin
preference to be cogent practicing
what this atheist doth silent
lee preach, sans attempt tubby tolerant
in the face of someone belligerent
attentive to credo, dogma, ethos
while alive in world be tolerant
of others, whether he/ she wuzzent
pleasant recalling days of yore,
I felt disgusted when hell-bent
to hurl expletives (adding insult to injury)
if bad mouthed me, thus
object lesson not requiring fervent
fanatical religious fervor
improving health of Clark Kent.
My map said, "Beyond there, monsters be",
on the fateful day that I left home,
to sail the deep, Balloonion Sea
of cresting waves and frothing foam.
As I waved goodbye to Mom and Pa,
tears streamed down my youthful face,
but I bucked up and sang, "La di da",
and sailed into the ocean's embrace.
The first few days, things went fairly well.
The sea around was still and calm,
but I discovered it was the hell
foretold by the witch who read my palm.
There was not a bite of food to eat.
Would I lose my mind? Would I go bats?
Would I eat the shoes right off my feet?
Would I resort to eating rats?
There was no wind to blow the sails,
and the provisions were so scant.
Was there no one to hear my wails?
Would God hear my appeals to grant?
As if in answer to these prayers,
a storm? - no, it was a tempest, raged,
as if the man who reigns upstairs,
upon my ship, a war, He waged.
Storm waves like wolves fiercely stalked and prowled.
Lightning threatened electric shocks,
Winds like sea-monsters screamed and howled,
and pushed me to the machete rocks.
I knew that I would surely die.
My voice was gone. I could not scream.
I said goodbye, but I did not cry,
and woke to find it was a dream.
This is a tale of rags to riches
About a young girl called Franny Britches
Franny was the youngest child and the only girl
She had four older brothers Billy ,Bobby ,Bert and Earl
Her parents worked very hard but were very poor
Though extremely rich in love and laughter the family were for sure!
Franny was a thumb sucker in her younger years
Resulting in terrible bucked teeth and being teased by her peers
Franny loved to write never without her pen and old worn book
Sitting alone for hours under her favourite maple tree beside a little brook
No-one ever knew what was written in her book ….though were warned
It was for Frannys eyes only if you peeked you’d be scorned!!
Franny did have two friends Daisy and Mary-Jane
They met when toddlers and life friends they would remain
She suffered years of bullying about her teeth
It was constant, never ending without relief
Years passed a successful wealthy woman Franny became
She had her teeth fixed now no longer a plain Jane
It was years of poems Franny wrote in that tatty worn old book
About all those sad years of bullying that she had withstood
Franny became a highly regarded published poet ,author and activist
Writing on anti-bullying that all those years had taught her
The poet that I write of is the renowned “Frances Le’Britch”’
Writing for the “bullied and bully” so all lives can be enriched!!
Time and Time again
Uncle Poppy sat on Brutus's back
Brutus stood still never to move a jot
So in order to offer an inducement
In the lead was Molly sent
Uncle Poppy mounted Brutus,
__sat on it's back----
Then flanked Brutus
----gave it a slap-----
Worst thing he ever did
Instead going up the hill
Down the incline he sped
Bolting, dropping Uncle Poppy on his head
Rolling and sliding on his belly
Greening his clothes and splitting his welly
Denting his ego, scrambling his brain
Wreaking havoc with excruiating pain
He groaned and writhed, cussed his luck
Swearing me to secrecy of the act
Of Brutus's bad behaviour and open defiance
Shattering his trust and forged alliance
But as fading memories eases ancient pain
He recovered lost memories and tried again
Once again mounted Brutus, straddled his back
Brutus moved neither and inch nor forward a jot
Such an enchanting spectacle was gleaned
By Pusey a friend from many adventures shared
Who shouted," get down, I will take the ride
A mule is a mule, a ride is a ride
And gingerly jumped on Brutus's back
Flanked Brutus ---gave it a slap---
Brutus swayed and turned, bucked and kicked
On the concrete hard ground was Pusey shipped
Then suddenly motionless as if dead
We poured cold water over Pusey's head.
Brutus had that look on his face
Daring any other to take Pusey's place.
Molly shook her head as if to say
How can you entertain a mule who doesn't play?
How can you get on a mule's back
Flank it, give it a slap?
Mules are meant to be stubborn and free
He is the son of Molly the mare
And Rufus the Jackass
Hardly pedigree
Wouldn't you agree.
One day I delivered a poem
one that seemed to be premature
so I swaddled her up
and set her aside
to grow 'til I felt reassured
How she yowled and howled for attention...
how she cried so piteously!
How she coughed and she sneezed
whimpered and wheezed
then threw up all over me!
Still I tenderly tended her bedside
and lovingly nursed her along
determined to sacrifice everything
to raise her up healthy and strong
As she grew and recovered, she wandered
and crawled over everything
and I found I had trouble containing
my rambling, unruly offspring
She became an inexcusable bounder
a wayward and bratty ingrate
who despite all my love and affection
refused to make sense or read straight
She dallied in questionable places
she idled and shiftlessly shirked
lazily lagging, ignoring my nagging
while I selflessly, endlessly worked
Firmly applied discipline to her
and structure, and meter, and rhyme
but she bucked, and rebelled, and bit me
and stayed up beyond her bedtime
We wrestled, and wrangled, and brawled,
bickered in bitter altercation
if I didn't do something quite soon
she would ruin my good reputation
At length, I decided I'd had it
we had reached the end of the road
and although she clung like a wet paper towel-
I flung her and flushed the commode!
cinnamon seeps into the home and I can already smell the sugar crumble
a fragrance of childhood innocence captures memories and recollections
different times they were when fresh food could only be bought in season
or harvested from a garden plot that teased my taste buds when growing
beans and potatoes where for the winter alongside spicy pickled cucumber
carrots and beet root were quietly flourishing under cover of fertile soil
to warm as soup longing hearts and bodies when the heating stayed cold
it was post-war and my family still remembered frost bombs and hunger
giving shelter a garden loo I remember was painted and faded in Royal Blue
with a heart carved out into the door although there was probably none
every time you sat there you knew you were producing valuable compost
sustainable living is neither a very modern invention nor flatulent science
behind it a rampant blueberry hedge stood tall and proud in the autumn
you had to duck and stretch out to pick the harvest from thorny branches
did not mind the scratches and bleeding because hunters and gatherers
know that food on the table required skill resilience as well as tough toil
the lacerations were like medals and badges of honour for the pickers
fuelled the collection bucked mixed with sweat from young skin full of
endurance purpose and meaningful clusters of patience and strong hope
for life pastry and home cooking in years when food had not to be fast
much later a psychotherapy lecturer painted a picture of therapeutics
and reminded me that blueberry crumble starts with flowering beauty
proceeds through passion and effort with spiky endeavour to seed
and preserving fruit and effort is a necessary rite of passage to reap
I have succumbed to taking my pills and they assist me on my journey
but when I feel blue I sit in my garden and listen for birds in the hedge
share crops with bees and grateful wasps in silence no sting in the tale
eat biscuits and feast on remembrance so that my nostrils fill with joy
21st August 2020
ORIGINAL PITBULL OF THE GODS
Intro
Original Pitbull of the Gods, I was sent for a reason/
To eliminate the politics, corruption, and treason/
I convert all music heads into metal heads/
I had my choices and chose to do this instead/
Verse One
Original Pitbull of the Gods, I am the chosen one/
The Holy one, they chose to lead this Nation and I’m holding them/
Down to the ground with this knowledge and power/
Second after second, and hour after hour/
Big headed and rowdy, I’m exuding my energy/
I get the crown bucked up and everyone feeling me/
I do what I do, the energy wallop me/
The truth lights the way so the metal heads follow me/
The cops try drilling me, and so do my enemies/
But I’m blessed by the fallen homies spirits that’s filling me/
And they still in me, everyone of their souls/
Like the Mississippi River, I flow and flow/
Like Flo I glow, this is progressive/
Life is all about fallen getting up and lessons/
So take these blessings, listen and come alive/
Follow my lead, take a ride to the other side/
Verse Two
I was sent here to bless, but I been tested/
With trials and tribulations, I can’t rest/
Until my duty is done, so I do what I gotta do/
To lead the next generation and show them how to move/
I was blessed with this gift, that’s here in your presence/
Open up your ears and receive this message/
I got the knowledge from the Gods and I will lecture/
All the music heads refugee who’s running from disaster/
Call me your pastor, the original Pitbull/
If I give you anything, it’s gonna be a fistful/
Eat it and get full, my lyrics is flesh/
These other people doing it, is just doing their best/
I do it with no effort because my skills is divine/
My craft is divine that’s why you feel every line/
Every line every rhythm, is hard every time/
And time is of the essence, so I’m doing it now.
He’s judged and condemned to take the saddle, yet, still fighting
without surrender, while we slip the bit between his jaws.
This, and ducking feet in dubble time while lashing
the gear to his back, dodging lightning while riding Thunder.
A saddle placed on a throne and strapped to a rocket.
He fights, he chokes, and rolls his eyes.
Who would give a dollar for his tough ole hide,
go sit on him in the seat of a rocker or hang him over the pea-patch
With the crack of a bullet, he could be gone.
I have trouble waiting for my chance to sling the sweat.
I purch high on the seat, chaps folded back, a nod to pull the rope.
Then out of the gate we fly, the dust, the slobber,
the foaming mouth and ears laid back.
I am screwed to the back of the saddle and
held there by centrifugal force.
Suddenly, the earth and sky are drunken things,
bucked from my senses, jolted to and fro as fence
reel past.
My dreams of being a cowboy fading rapidly
into the choking dust.
Yet, I hang to a flying hearse, the horse called Thunder,
whose hoofs beat drums of doom with boiling smoke.
I’m tossed high in a sickly orbit of sky and earth.
Thunder, still kicking as if to sling his burden to the stars,
plunging ahead, searching for a place to land.
The sky appears to darken around my head,
somewhere between a raven’s wing and the
back of a buzzard. With my shaky hands, I feel
the knots on my head, I fight for breath while spitting
sand, choking on dust and red eyes rolling. I feel hands
on me as they pat my back with hoots and hollows
beyond the limits of my brain. I stand up with
my unsteady feet and stagger. I see Thunder standing
at the other end of his domain.
Then the red bronco whirls in a resounding charge,
rumbling a folly of hoofs in rapid fire.
The final defeat, as I hurl myself over the rail.
Who would give ten dollars for that piece of leather
hanging slightly to the right side. Who, while shopping
for a bargain would settle for a deal.