Long Clip on Poems
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It caught my eye as I walked by
On a cool and cloudy morning
So, I stopped a bit to stare at it
And right away with no dismay
The memories came flooding back
Of an August day thirty years past
And a sail we made on a windy day
Across the bay of Bras d’Or Lake
We set a fine clip on that twin-mast ship
And my heart raced quick as we keeled a bit
Now the windward run was exhilarating fun
As over the waves we bounced and skipped
It’s amazing how fast a morning can pass
While you and your bride are taking a ride
On a twin-mast schooner, as honeymooners
Now I told all that so I can share this
On our way back to the Inverness Inn
We made a stop at a quaint little shop
There sat a heart shaped sign made of pine
With a welcome banner across the top
Painted with the scene of our twin-mast ship
Sailing past the light house we’d seen on our trip
Easily the second cutest thing in the shop
Now to discover how much money it cost
Thirty quid, not a whole lot you may say
But half days pay back in those days
Thirty years now that sign has hung by our door
Welcoming family and friends by the score
Now we have lived in multiple places
And that sign has welcomed many faces
It catches my eye as I walk by
So, I stop a bit to stare at it
And right away with no dismay
The memories come flooding back
Laying my head back, eyes closing,
reminiscing, the years falling away into decades ago
to the 1950s at my grandparents' grand home
for Christmas.
It was a gracious dining room.
Noontime sun streaming in.
Chair rail with deep red wallpaper, white trim.
Decorating the lace clothed "Big Table"
was a tallish 1870s porcelain Meissen fruit centerpiece
with lovers circling the stem.
Even the adults had to look around it.
Grandmother "Lil" and "Mister B"
were at their nouveau best.
All their progeny seated in good form
awaiting the traditional invocation by "Mister B".
Also seated were the ones that were to be
"seen but not heard" at our side table, the "Kids' Table."
Draped card tables for the dozen of us -
me, my brother and sisters and cousins.
Everyone all scrubbed in dresses and ties.
Mine was a clip on.
As expected, a milk glass got tipped. Spilt milk.
Besides that, we kids had great fun and
became friends again as we did each year.
The thing of it was, none of us liked
being at the "Kids' Table."
We felt lesser, unworthy, subtly so.
Even when I was ten, I knew there were
only two ways to get to the big one:
marriage or go in the army.
We all wondered what it was like to be adult.
After all, most of them smoked.
They all had drinks.
The women had figures, swishy swirls.
The men wore suits like they knew how.
At the "Big Table" they all talked like experts
about stuff we didn't understand
and they laughed loudly at Uncle Bob's jokes.
As the years moved on, things would change,
always do.
I saw virtually all my cousins
disassemble their lives too early -
marriages, divorces, addictions, lost jobs, left school -
beleaguered into inevitable submission.
My family miraculously unscathed.
But they're all gone now,
"Big Table" and little table too.
All that's left from the 50s
is my brother, sister and me.
For years, I was at the "Big Table" since my brood and I
took over the Christmas tradition.
The "Big Table" conversation was
superficial and posing was prevalent.
So one year, I put myself at the "Kids' Table." Just for fun.
Yes, milk got tipped.
But oh, the wonderment and hope. A meal that truly was
food for the soul.
Now that I'm old and looking back,
with a quiet smile, mulling it,
I kinda liked the "Kids' Table" better.
Colored pencil illustration by G.Gaul
Ure my chemical imbalance tipping the scales
Ure the voice shouting leaving me pale
Ure the fright in the middle of a soulless night
Ure broken glass on the sidewalk
Ure cuts thru my shoes while u mock
Ure poetry in motion with nausea
Ure incurable when I wanna be done dotta
Ure an audio clip on a permanent loop
Ure the scandal rag with a crappy scoop
Ure rinse and repeat without a cleanse
Ure finite resources thru a single lens
Ure the reason for recurring work in progress
Ure my daily dose of fogginess
Ure the vacuum of perpetual thoughts
Ure the story who cannot be bought
Ure the constant double edge sword
Ure responsible for striking a chord
Ure the force I try so hard to counter with good
Ure responsible for me being misunderstood
Ure my nemesis and friend all the same
Ure the one enabling me to be creatively insane
No pills, no frills, just terrifying numbness followed by troubling relaxations
A pattern of chills trying not to succumb to this rollercoaster of varying sensations
Copyright © Christopher Delegans 2023
Come with a smile,
come with a wink.
Come to the land
of pink, pink, pink.
Imagine
yourself
as a pale pink fairy,
wearing an earring
that's a pink clip-on,
and real pastel pink petals
held in your pinkie,
pointing to the pink chink
glow upon the horizon
at dawn.
The garden's dye this July
is floral pink blossoms.
And at times I do
have such pinkish dreams,
where everything is hued
in pink ice-creams.
Where I own a fine
posh pink cadillac,
parked in a pink chateau
festooned
with fallen pink lilac.
That,
overlooking
a pink sea
ebbing on pink pebbles,
where a pink moon
looks like big bubbles.
In pink colors,
if I could customize
'n'
personalize
my world:
so pink cushions all about,
and pink curtains unfurled!
My birthdays always wish
for pink balloons.
Oh, I love to decorate
and celebrate
with pink festoons.
And nature lovers could watch
salmon pink flamingoes
who stand upon one leg,
hiding
half their pink toes.
Or even bunny rabbit eyes
in bright pink glows.
Ah, pink's so feminine.
Think of pink hair pins,
pink lips 'neath two pink
blush cheeks,
right above cute
chinny chins,
or as buds in a rosebush
take pinkish peeks.
I see as well baby pink
frocks
and frilled pink socks,
and pink pom-pom caps
upon golden locks,
their pink sashes behind
them upon the walks.
Ah, I've always believed,
and still I think,
that pinkish is girlish and
girlish is pink.
A daytime in Madrid
Gray sky overhead
The mist forms rows
Eyeing, hesitating
As spectators in a field
Hovering for kickoff
Masses of zealots
Shining bands of fans
In the style of a royal army
The sound of shoes trampling
Moving to a specific ground
Hovering for kickoff
The reals of Madrid are tough
They defy tooth and claw
The adrenaline level is rising
Blood of steel ran in their veins
Artistic knives are at the ready
They hurt the stadium
The reds of England look anxious.
To do this, a hero must be called.
A savior in times of peril.
A leader to rally the troops.
A Liverpool that flips the tides.
Halftime is near
Relief for the Spanish is near
But there is a last terror spell
One final shot towards glory
A clip-on their lips
A blow on the Reals' souls
The fate of our heroes is unsure.
What lies next for the Reds?
But one thing is certain.
They seek victory.
Will they master the chaos of war?
Written: June 2, 2022
A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Thicker rays of summer sun
Just poked through the clouds
And licked upon at my face
Like I was somehow painstakingly
applying a fresh coat of lipstick
In a subtle shade of fleshy pink
And as I began to drink it all in
Soon enough the rain set in
Drowning out my former smile
And it took me further and further away
Until I myself eventually realized
I so too had left with it as well
And I was now soaked wet through
But yet still never knew
That though my makeup was smudged
And running down my face
So I looked out of place
As much as I now felt inside
Knowing I had and there was no
Where left on earth
Or outside the confinement of my head to hide
Or make-up left
To cover all my pretence up
The game was well and truly up
All the very last of the mythological sirens
Had finally given up and abandoned ship
And I am merely watching this an old
Repeat news clip on repeat
Whilst sleeping rough outside an
electronic store
As and for the sole purpose of
Keeping and providing me some
Or other form of partial company
Huddled up inside it's doorway
Until early morning dawn breaks
Beard looks weird,
that's a lyrical genius to be feared,
you wrote a 6 year song and got the facts wrong,
fired with the hair and safety still on,
I guess that scope's just a tele,
with sights and hopes on the tele,
Machine Bun Shelly,
initials, MBS, Caps empty,
Mostly Bull Sh……
a superficial sipping soup to his belly
or is it breakfast for a serial prodigy,
steadfast out selling cereal probably,
problems with his intellectual property
so he's just a prop to stop and see.
6'4 and standing taller,
picking on a man, his wife and his daughter,
who needs protection ay,
you're a big and bad ball-less brawler,
that's the shallowest level you can resort to,
and though it's none of my bees wax,
you did it to be witnessed and receive plaques,
but it was easy and witless like corny flakes,
the business doesn't need Autotune fakes,
forcing the rhyme like all you want is a smoke,
not literally you'd choke, that's such a weak joke,
clearly begging for your songs to be bought up,
as if we went from Shady please stand up,
to worshipping a hairband on a no flair brand corrupt
and yeah I admit some of it was good, generous, but look,
with 6 years to write it should have been off the hook,
this lame ass your best and you took as long as you could,
when your next hits out you'll remember when you last stood,
and you'll be mocked by the only line that was any good,
MGK can't stand up,
that'll get you like Cranbrook,
from Cleveland Ohio,
leave now and fly home.
Note the depth and the many double entendre in this,
written within an hour of hearing that diss,
MGK's peak, now for the diss-appearance,
I've heard you can't write your own lyrical sentence,
that's dense, how you ever gona go the distance,
now go into the distance with your spoon and bowl,
you had your 15 minutes so back to your hole.
Part 2: Picking the rhymes apart and taking a shot, on my page to read now.
* the second line is a double entendre,
a serious comment about Eminem and a sarcastic one about MGK, you know, cus rhyming beard and weird is amazing haa.
* Hair and safety clip on
* Just a tele, a telescope
* Initials - cus MGK initials but Eminem doesn't M&M
It is ALLright, my brother
Clip on those wings
Your conflict is of
the greatest tragedy
I can feel your rage,
frustration of the hustle
Take on those wings
Ascend to the skies
Envision the dream
Our new Black Paradise
You are not your struggle
Go on, grow this hustle!
Breathe, climb higher!
Believe, glide through the fire
Channel the voice that roars within
Pummel the void that snares the weak
Clip on those wings and set to the skies
Seek out salvation, Black Paradise
Let off the channels of idiocracy
Hold onto hope as you set your sails
Look to the glory,
Glare beyond the skies
See the grand meaning, Black Paradise
It was more than a word
More vivid than a dream
A nation united, unified by peace
The dream of perfection,
The hope of freedom.
Still it evades us, Black Paradise
In the land of my Fathers
Lay the seeds of the earth
And with the sweat of our mothers
They suckled the plains
So grow forward my brothers
Set to the skies
Glide through the fire,
Black Paradise
Growing up I always saw these commercials for razors
Razors that will shave “extra close to the skin”
Ones that have 5 blades and ones that have 7
And an ergonomic handle that is pink just for you
Commercials showing the perfect pretty blonde model on my tv
Shaving her armpits to be impossible smooth
I know now that they were already waxed
No hair is left because hair isn’t dainty, isn't feminine, isn't appropriate
The perfect pretty blond model on my TV says
Underarm hair is a turnoff, so start worrying when you’re 11
Shaving is necessary if you want to have a husband!
Who cares if you get cuts from your razor
Who cares if you get ingrown hairs
Oh your razor is dull? Buy a new one!
Get our super handy replaceable clip-on razor heads ™!
How much are they? One replacement is only $20!
The perfect pretty blond model in the razor commercial says
With the most stupid
Serene
Irritating music in the background
You’ll never be truly pretty unless you are hairless like a newborn
So shave your pits from the womb to the tomb!
(Lesley Ann Down was an actress in
the Golden Age of live TV drama.)
We live in an age of midgets.
There are no seers now, only lookers,
no values left, apart from digits.
Cash is the hook, and we’re all hookers,
no Carmen Joneses, only Bridgets.
Did you have to learn the equation
(“have to”? – what an odd suggestion!)
which represents acceleration?
It’s printed now, beside the question.
No gravity, just gravitation.
Subtitle writers, now, can’t spell,
and language teachers know no grammar.
When banks are hiring tellers, well,
in Alabaster, Alabama,
they sing aloud, “You Never Can Tell”.
Let’s get somewhat more sarcastic.
Our carpenters just never get wood.
Today our craftsmen just squirt mastic,
then, as any moron could,
they clip on bits of precut plastic.
We’ve got police (I like this best!)
who, far from being Texas Rangers,
have never passed exams or tests,
and can’t, by law, face any dangers,
or run rash risks, like make arrests.
No Richard Rodgers, Buddy Holly,
no more Stoller (as in Lieber),
but ‘tis the season to be jolly –
after all, there’s Justin Bieber!
Hence, loathéd melancholy!