Long Chauffeured Poems
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Learning when/how to close seat then...
flush... the toilet with good frisson!
(alternately titled long windedly
using lower case letters:
no matter tidily bowled over based
upon real events, perhaps subject devoid
of literary merit and/or taste
no embarrassment, cuz
I got nothing to cover
despite precious time going to waste).
Analogous to constipation,
constitutes full term pregnancy,
perhaps umpteenth or first,
which former offal bodily function I durst
mention, said subject doth stink,
yet... exercising bowel
applicative, constrictive, effective,
exhaustive, gesticulative, instinctive,
massive, oppressive, qualitative,
quantitative, significative and unitive
(beg to differ if ye think me perverse)
both scenarios prone to stress and strain,
difficulties can arise evacuating bowels
gluteus maximus muscles severely pursed,
radiating sharp stabbing sensations
behind junk in trunk quarters felt
until bulging temple veins ready to burst,
where piles of hemorrhoids
foul rectum tortured and accursed
necessitating Judas Priest well versed
to issue last rites while
appropriate official dull livers worst
news to missus, whose
inconsolable sympathies nursed,
nevertheless bit torrent of sorrow
honor alone time with grateful dead
subsequently finds medical personnel disbursed,
privately newly minted widow mourning
tears for fears immersed
bemoaning sudden permanent absence
gone fore e'er foremost farter figure first
instance obliterated, when posterior
uproariously (actually not funny)
inflicted hemorrhage emergency,
die hard ludicrous poet (me) experienced
all expense chauffeured ride in hearst
aforementioned purportedly roughly comparable,
courtesy hearsay, when
hypothetical woman with child,
(here, I metaphorically paraphrase)
as maven ready to take aim giving birth
(nine months after satiating
hankering call of the wild
buzzfeeding miracle worker whipped thirst,
and temporarily appeased
inherent maternal yearning
to beget offspring, then... off to races
sprinting at greased lightning speed
amazingly enough slightly protruded womb,
(among other fledgling
and/or practiced moms avid runners
all touted as winners relay race crossing
finish line simultaneously
comprising distance measuring more'n verst.
In the landscape
of melancholy,
where arctic
heartbeats linger,
I long for withered
willows to blossom
like speckled
diamond petals,
while your crystalline
silhouette strolls
through tangled tunnels
of my weathered mind.
And I question
the highest choir
orchestrating
ethereal anthems:
What if there’s no right key
to harmonize this
undying yearning?
What if love had a voice?
Would it be an
echo of melting snow—
thawing glacier hearts
to stream upon
silver lakes,
mirroring drifting
clouds of memories
that drizzle
rose-tinted flakes?
There, the crisp
air whispers
magical tales
chauffeured in
cashmere cadence.
But, like the golden
tendrils of
winter jasmine,
my fingers
stretch beyond
fogs of frozen rainbows,
sketching
sweet-scented dreams
across skies
in porcelain pigments,
as your voice
glimmers and
glows amidst
poetic pearls
resting on
your lyrical lips,
shifting through
colors of the
seasonal breeze,
serenading
symphonies
for soulmates.
So let me
undress the
wintry wisps of vanilla,
cloaking the
citrine threads
of sunrise in your eyes,
listening to
the song of the
wind that shrouds
our unsung sonatas
when we were undone.
For you and I,
we are like
jewels in the azure,
ruminating in rhymes,
quilted in a
secluded igloo,
as chickadees
of the night
chirp in sync
with the moon,
mimicking hymns
from the
hypnotic lyre of Orpheus,
to which Eurydice waltzed,
even the waning stars
would unravel
a sequined staircase
to the gardens
above the highest spheres.
For I would die
a million
deaths to
rewind and replay
the dulcet chorus
of this
immortal romance.
Puttin on the Ritz - Just for You
Remember when I used to be dead broke,
and everyone laughed cause my dreams were a big joke?
Well I married a rich fellow and I’m rolling in dough.
Now I’m puttin on the ritz – it’s time for my show.
Visiting the old neighborhood, I’m sure feeling grand,
showing off my chauffeured Rolls Royce just because I can.
Watch me strut ‘cause I’ve been blessed by Lady Luck;
while you’re still frying chicken for a measly buck.
Oh, forgive me for I don’t always like to gloat;
but do check out my genuine animal print fur coat.
It’s no secret that Neiman Marcus is my main go-to store,
providing me with designer hats, purses, shoes, and more.
As for my fabulous make-up, make-over, and hairdo,
well they cost much more than you earn in a month or even two.
I see you’re ogling my sparkling jewelry and accessories,
Dahling, they were purchased exclusively from Tiffany’s.
Like leading ladies, Lombard, Rogers, Garbo, and Garland,
I ball room dance and jive to Callaway, Ellington, and Armstrong.
My oh my, indeed this lifestyle can make one become so giddy,
while gliding and sliding to these tunes can be quite heady.
I know jealousy is considered really uncouth and uncool,
but in your case, Sweetie, go ahead, it’s actually okay to drool.
Oh please note, my dear, I’m only passing through,
from Lenox Avenue back home to hoity-toity Park Avenue.
So for now, I'm here puttin on the ritz - just for you!
08-25-2015
Contest: Puttin on The Ritz
Sponsor: Judy Konos
Placement: 1st
He bounds with class like a souped-up Benzo
Slick hair defies gravity and air flow
More charm for the maidens than Lorenzo
Nod and a wink as he offers hello
Dressed to the gills like a TV comic
His voice rolling to knock down those stacked pins
Punching through Vegas with force atomic
Regardless the price he still always wins
They call him D-Bone, the lolling salesman
Eager to cement melodious deals
One step ahead of the scowling bailsman
All while he's molting his naive ideals
Muses abound from that puffy wineskin
No slowing down so he cannot look back
Trading brew city for all that dull sin
He's jamming while crooning to the rat pack
"How many swimming pools have they got here?"
He points while nodding to the lounged ladies
Reveling within this neon frontier
Baking his brains while chauffeured through Hades
Filled with mirth despite jonesing for cash
Vowing with pumped fists to never slink back
Pondering how he shall make his big splash
Those jaded fiends gauge him as just a hack
What they don't know could fill a museum
For he esteems and comprehends the past
These stuffed shirts would build a mausoleum
Before they'd construct relations that last
In his mind he hangs with Frank Sinatra
When respect held clout and coolness was king
Romantic songsmiths governed the genre
Liberated minds stormed at full swing
D-Bone refuses to pluck their ticket
As they tell him he needs to wait in line
When confronted he tells them to stick it
Keenly scanning the distance for cloud nine
Madras
Hotel lobbies, hotel bars
Hotel rooms, air conditioned cars
City sights and sounds and smells
A smile, a frown, a shout impels
The thoughts within to exude
And express themselves without interlude
Here no blossoms, no sweet fresh air
Save the scented jasmine in the women's hair
And the two don't mix, as we all know
Like the fires of hell and virgin snow
Flowing bright and silken dress
Saris adorn the putrid mess
Hems lifted gently to protect them
From certain ruin in the amalgam
Of open sewers - each gutter one
Of refuse tips - the pavements on
Rotten, decaying, organic matter
Dried up dung and vomit spatter
From the mouths of the unlucky
Poor and destitute - never plucky
"They are content with their lot"
(Steeped in drink, their guts they rot)
Laying near the dirty door
Their filthy rags bright no more
In the street or on a stair
Ignored by all without a care
And yet...and yet, life goes on
Each to their own - their God isn't one
Some are born to thrive and prosper
Others to poverty and despair
And here we are, visitors just
Though we discreetly watch - as we must!
And absorb each heart rending sight
Forsaking those in their plight
But if we give - sometimes we do
There are no thanks, nor feelings due
Because are we helping them buy food
Or alcohol which kills? Then we brood
And the rich they come in chauffeured car
Or the latest model bought by Pa
In designer clothes, their scarves unfurled
The stench, the poor? Another world!
See that rich man
begging on the telly
He’s made your financial future toast,
now he also wants your
cash reserve preserve jelly
Do you believe the rich man,
who’s pleading real con-science nice,
flashing teeth pearly white as rice?
If you do,
then reach down in your pockets
and dollar up
Do it! Reach deep down and don’t think twice
Pay his penthouse suite price
Help that rich man
get on his bankrupt feet again
Donate to his favorite charitable cause:
Me-Me and Me Too
Them are three fine looking triplets ...
you know you gotta help buy
them trust fund babies some shoes
Now that rich man prefer the dollars,
but he’ll accept coins too ...
them that got good silver jingle
And any plastic alms given,
will be a credit to your people
Get a Trump card: Joker gift scrutiny free
But, it won’t be accredited to your tax relief
Good grief!
Somebody help that rich man,
strutting down the street,
hailing his chauffeured limo Caddy
Who’s gon help pay his taxi fare?
That man needs more
than just spit bubbles in the air
Help that rich man,
whose investors are down
on his speculating luck
He needs you
to reach deep down into your purse pain,
and dollar up
He says, go tell your husband or boyfriend,
to reach deep, deep down
into their bleeding green leather grain,
and dollar up
Give it all up ... until the rich man
says he’s had enough
Plenty to build a tower tall,
high wall stack of bucks
But, do a greedy dog ever get enough?
Lear's & Lemo's
Written: By Tom Wright
1/4/99
With what we have
seems we're never content,
We reach for plastic
when our money is spent.
With more month than money
we'll figure the float,
Then like Investment Bankers
sit back and gloat.
We dream of a Lear Jet
or a chauffeured Lemo,
For we're tired of traveling
by truck to and fro.
While appearing content
we're reaching for more,
And what we can't spend
we'll invest or store.
We borrow from Peter
so we can pay old Paul,
Inwardly denying we're broke
just badly bent, that's all.
Money is at the root of all evil
I've heard it said true enough,
That must be why we hurry
to get rid of the stuff.
We return from the mall
with scrapes that bleed,
Packing all of our booty
most of which we don't need.
After an hour of unloading
with each thing in It's place,
It's painfully obvious
we need more cabinet space.
But we feel good for our part
toward combating inflation,
For while buying things on "sale"
we've helped save our nation.
But come the first of the month
we're paying bills again,
Then heading to the mall,
for to save would be sin.
So cut up your plastic,
and continue driving your truck,
Buy only what you need,
try saving that other buck.
While we dream of chauffeured Limos
and of Lear Jets to fly,
Truth is, we're extremely lucky
if ends meet and we get by.
Sat where it’s sat since chauffeured in gently
No driver now for the rusty old Bentley
Its tyres and battery equally flat
A rusted up den for an old ally cat
Manicured lawns, bindweed infested
No gardener now as hardship suggested
No tourist, no fan, nobody interested
Intruder detection no longer tested
Inside, a rocking chair, no longer plush
Creaks like the bones of the wizened old lush
Who stares at the walls of the now peeling flock
And pays little heed to the un-ticking clock
Newspaper clippings lay where they fell
Sometimes she grins at the stories they tell
But just as though they were still pinned to the wall
She picks up not one, she remembers them all
They’d urged her to dance, they’d begged her to sing
But all of a sudden the phone wouldn't ring
Now cataracts sully the stars In her eyes
And stubbornness stifles her arthritic cries
The phone once rang often, to her recollection
But now she just listens to check the connection
No point in a phone when you're no longer known
And the sound of alone... is a dialling tone
Dancing for Hollywood bought her the world
But one willing bint and her stardom unfurled
A word of advice for which she will vouch
You’re born but you die on a man’s casting couch
And as she sits there in her old rocking chair
With her makeup undone and her unkempt hair
Now she succumbs to Hollywood’s ills
As she rocks back and forth with some gin and some pills.
OLD TOWN ELEGY
The bridge still spans the road - with what design?
The rail that once crossed Ridgeway and vale to the sea
Erased and gone, with scarce residual sign
And barely more trace than near roads of Roman decree
From the bridge, track the ghosts of line, goods yard, Old Town Station
Where we lingered and noted the numbers of each passing train
Web of steel and of steam entwined village and town across nation
'Til Arcadian slow lines were suddenly made to wain
Gone: the Market where cows sheep and pigs brought in telling perceptions
The images, noises and smells of the farms to the town
The tweeded farmers with leathery limbs and complexions
And gaiters of deepest sheen in a rich chestnut brown
Flaxen ropes, billhooks, pitchforks enough for a peasants' uprising
Spread along the High street and over the Corn Exchange square
While Newport Street furnished inns for all thirsts' reviving
And above all, the clock tower made skyline iconic and fair
Then was school run not cosseted, chauffeured, by car
But raced, skipped or dawdled through field, street, market and station
Our little world teamed with action, unscreened, with no bar
Of health and safety; adventure without filtration
In that world we seemed in different incarnation
Are we the same people, and do we now view the same place?
Can we yet discern immortality's intimation?
The adventure goes on though perhaps at a difference pace.
Oh! London what future awaits you?
Oh! London what is in the coffers for you?
Oh! London do you still weep?
Oh! London I hope you'll still be priceless.
She held your reins firmly,
She chauffeured you with undying zeal,
She polished your armour with dexterity,
She raised your walls with unabated strength.
Your doors you opened to many,
Others you brought into your train,
You stood by them like a mother hen,
Your hands guided them to safe grounds.
Your streets saw no one homeless,
Your gates didn’t bar the indigent,
You embraced the lost ones,
They built their homes with your bricks.
You walked with astonishing elegance,
Your beauty rekindled waning hope,
Your ethics bewildered many,
You stood tall among your compatriots.
You battled your assailants,
You weathered many storms,
You pushed through turbulent seas,
You strengthened your feeble knees.
Oh! The city that doesn’t go to sleep,
Let many still find solace in you,
Oh! The city that is cloaked with beauty,
Let your allure stand like the summer sun.
Who comes to ride your horse?
Who comes to pull apart your curtains?
The departed still smiles,
The Book of Chronicles still honours the departed.
Let’s stand in honour of our Queen mother,
Let’s salute her bravery,
London has you etched in her memory,
London has your name scripted in her parchments.
October 22, 2022.