Long Cooper Poems
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I went to the Hollywood studio meeting
Paul, Steve and Sandy gave me a warm greeting
I was there to advise them, hired from Spain
My motto in business was no pain, no gain
So we sat down to the business at hand
Their movies were sinking, like stones in quicksand.
"How about a cowboy movie," I said...
"Good guys and bad guys with the latter shot dead!"
A gasp of wonder spread to them all
"Why didn't we think of that?" said Paul
Said Sandy, who though rich, struck me as obtuse
"It has to be woke, it must have juice
The cowboy, we'll call him Abdul McPherson
No, wait, we should refer to him as a CowPerson
His love interest should be black or brown
A birthing person, the soul of the town
The villains name could be Donald McKnight
A Donald Trump stand-in, got to be white."
"Wait," said Steve, "cis-male is a relic."
Abdul should be tender, gender-fluid and angelic."
Steve looked at his reflection in the table of mahogany
Added "How about hints of consensual non-monogamy?"
Sandy said "No! We must push the edge with our fans!
Every character, even the horse, must be trans!"
I was sarcastic, I said "for a true creative spark
We know Spielberg had a hit long ago about a shark,
Maybe stick one in the film, somewhere in the sagebrush
A gasp spread around the table, an awestruck hush
Paul shouted, "that's it! Cowperson versus Jaws!
A fable about transgressing natures laws!
Lets start shooting tomorrow, drop that Batman remake:
With this kind of theme, we can't make a mistake!"
Despite guaranteed payment, I was feeling sick
I already knew there was no hope for this flick
But they got so thrilled, they made their bet
Sunk investor millions, their studio further in debt.
I gathered my fees, went back to Spain
And "Cowperson versus Jaws" circled down the drain
To my horror in the credits, they mentioned my name
I was jeered in Madrid, couldn't face the shame.
Paul, Steve and Sandy did fine at the bank
Woke investors kept funding, though the movie stank
Though audiences felt under a dentist's drill
The Critics said the movie was epic, groundbreaking, a thrill.
Geologists say that one day, California will fall into the sea
Its already happened; Hollywood is a parody
Showdown at Noon but no Gary Cooper, can't find John Wayne
Woke Bandits have stolen the gold off the movie train.
I have no friends left,
In this town,
Will you be my friend?
You, the little Prince
Living On the planet B 612?
Will you be my friend?
The robin
Gracefully singing
When I Walk?
I have no friend,
Will you be my friend?
You, the engineer
In your lighted office
Located In Duchess Anne Street?
I have no friend
In this town,
You, will you be my friend,
You, the creeping ivy
The higher you climb.
Will you be my friend?
You, the schoolboy
That carries in your binder,
Books of poetry
More learned than me?
I have no friend,
You, do you want my friendship,
You Jessica Pegula, you, Coco Goff,
You, Karolina Muchova, players
Who Win tennis tournaments
Playing All over the world?
I have no more friends,
In this town, you
Will you be my friend?
You, the rum baba,
Tasting more delicious than angel liquor?
Will you be my friend?
You, the humble cowboy,
Gary Cooper, who does justice,
When the train, yes the train,
Whistle it three times?
I have no friend,
In this town,
But elsewhere may be,
I’ve had so many; I’ve had so many, maybe
They’ll miss me tomorrow
What happened to my friends?
Je n’ai plus d’amis,
Dans cette ville,
Toi, veux-tu être mon ami ?
Toi, le petit Prince
Sur ta planète B 612 ?
Toi, veux-tu être mon ami ?
Le rouge-gorge
Qui chante gracieusement
Sur mon passage ?
Je n’ai pas d’ami,
Toi, veux-tu être mon ami ?
Toi, l’ingénieur
Dans ton bureau éclairé
De la rue Duchesse Anne ?
Je n’ai pas d’ami
Dans cette ville,
Toi, veux-tu être mon ami,
Toi, le lierre rampant
Plus haut tu grimperas.
Veux-tu être mon ami,
Toi, le collégien
Qui porte dans ton cartable,
Des livres de poésie
Plus savant que moi ?
Je n’ai pas d’ami,
Toi, veux-tu mon amitié,
Toi Jessica Pegula, toi, Coco Goff,
Toi, Karolina Muchova, joueuses
Qui Gagnez des tournois de tennis
Aux quatre coins du monde ?
Je n’ai plus d’ami,
Dans cette ville, toi,
Veux-tu être mon ami,
Toi, le baba au rhum,
Plus délicieux que la liqueur des anges ?
Veux-tu être mon ami,
Toi, l’humble cowboy,
Gary Cooper, qui rend justice,
Quand le train, oui le train,
Siffle trois fois ?
Je n’ai pas d’ami,
Dans cette ville,
Mais ailleurs peut être,
J’en ai eu tant, j’en ai tant, peut être
Que je leur manquerai demain.
Que sont mes amis devenus ?
Natural soporific narcotic
Recurrent suicidal thoughts
vaingloriously wend along winding road
within windmills of my mind
(o'er a death cab for cutie weeknd)
yakking, yanking, and yawking zeal
becalming this crash test dummy rolling
stone temple pilot inxs
of maroon 5 plus decades long
perdition hellaciously slogging
slow as adam and the ants,
thru fifty shades of gray's
anatomy common weal
masterly baiting this motley crue (cutting),
beatles browed, beastie boy,
foo fighters kickstart new edition
quickening reo speedwagon treadwheel
outre gee (bee) us, grateful dead,
mailer daemons inhabit
cavernous fist size vastness steel
via herbie hancock (hermans hermits)
cheesy munster trap doors that steal,
deep purple swiftly tailored
culture club members squeal
hosted by megadeth
pack rat boston for real
venue at tokyo hotel,
via en grave invitation
signed by alice in chains poison huss kiss
sing, which will spellbind
once contents unveiled,
an instant jane's addiction peal
immediately choking off air supply
then alice cooper egging bad company
to hypnotize the guess who sacrificial meal
supplanting raw
primal scream from spinal tap
acquiescing self to abandon all hope,
especially if black sabbath joins
creedence clearwater revival
dark shadows would demand one
(to take a knee) and kneel
before sacrificing oneself
at the beck and call
of evanescent nirvana
experiencing permanent relief,
sans soul (twisted) sister riding a hansom
off phish hull heart shaped coffin
ample room enough for blind
melon collie 10,000 maniacs,
their healing powers profusely emanating
via m&m shaped talking heads
methinks averring obeisance
to judas priest and hooters
with metallica linkedin with mötley crüe
coldplay feeling of eternal sleep,
where quiet pussy riot
joins carpenters, whose underground
bunker with golden arches
resembles empyreal
heavenly vault wreathed soundgarden
with electric light orchestra
sepulchral crowded house indicative
cynthesis iz done on a green day,
whereat dizzy gillespie afterlife deal
and you bet your sweet bippy meme,
an extra bonus for orthodox believers
(absent myself - a skeptic),
whose karma credit Suisse
with long deceased meatloaf
with soul asylum and heart to anele!
Nearly ten o'clock, Capitol Hill, inside the SCIF (specially designed for classified purpose): House Intelligence Committee chairman Adam Schiff was hosting an esoteric hearing featuring a deposition with Defense Department official Laura Cooper as part of Impeachment Inquiry into Dotard Trumpery. Suddenly a fit of ruckus flared up from the outside, increasingly nearer and clearer, then followed a string of desultory sounds of pounding upstairs. What's up? What happened outside? Over the puzzlement of those present, Schiff roughly learned about this supervention from a subordinate's brief report. He signed nothing perturbable and said: "It's the Gofers of Payolas that are crapping and monkeying around there. But do not panick! 'cause they're exactly aiming at the witness and me. Of course, the witness shall be put under rigorous protection, yet the rest may just stay here and sit tight." Then he turned face to Cooper: "Ms cooper, let me call over several robust escorts to ensure your personal safety." Cooper, remaining unruffled all the time, delivered to Schiff not just an assuaging declination but her deontic assertiveness: "Never overestimate those cowards. For most of them, the best way to varnish their guilty conscience is to howl loud, the best way to compensate their courage privation is to bluff big. What brings me here are the respect of law and truth, the loyalty to oath and duty, the faith in nonpartisan justice. But what brings them here? The blind deference to bosses, the obsessive wariness of watchdogs, or the browbeating practice against opponents? Just go your usual way, and go free of their distraction." "Oh, great! your frankness and bravery!" Exclaimed Schiff, getting up to seek to contact Dem House Speaker Nancy Pelosi. Right on cue, a few barged in, clamoring that the hearing lacks transparency and picking out electronic devices for its livestream with later nearly a dozen more joining them straggly. Although the hearing had to come to a halt due to the gofers' brazen violation of security rules, the present ambience scarcely turned tense, just plunged into weird vibes of twisting steadfast normalcy toward a kind of peculiar hocus-pocus that had continually sprung up from a handful of hopped-up harlequins who were hell-bent on hamming it up.
Form:
What's in a Name?
by Preston Hill
The Sun gives birth to dawn. We meet for the first time. We introduce. What’s your name?
We chat respectfully- all the while the sun continues to rise.
To think that once long ago in the cradle of humankind an idea sparked knowledge.
Testing, poking, prodding the mind, pushing thought into expression.
What was then an idea to be spoken was finally written down.
Pictograms on cave walls, diagrams of the hunt, the battle.
Pictograms on clay pots depicting commerce from a life long ago.
Pictograms on parchments that develop shapes, gestating onward to the formation of letters, words, ideas.
Of contracts, agreements, mortgages, governments, constitutions, proclamations.
Pictograms on chalkboards, blackboards, whiteboards on which an idea will be conveyed.
And children learn, apprentices advance, executives and politicians chart budgets and trends.
Pictograms on buildings, bridge abutments, railway cars declaring “This place is ours”.
And as ideas spread so did humankind. Wars and peacetime. Love and hate. Dignity and honor.
All emotion within passed from one generation to the next as the sun climbs higher in the sky.
And on one small piece of ground a family, a clan, a tribe, a village began to grow giving titles to their neighbors in relation to their geography.
Mr. Rock, Mr. Hill, Mr. Rivers greeted with a jaunty wave of the hand.
Then John had a son. Then Samuel had a son. Then Lars had a son.
Yearning for identity, Mr. Cooper, Mr. Smith and Mr. Baker began to teach their trades and build a future, contributing to the economy and serving others.
Soon, the village grew into a town, the town into a city. Nations and states formed and families, clans, tribes and cultures pooled together with separate and distinct idiosyncrasies.
In every language and aspect ideas spread, carrying seeds from the beginning.
Leaving their expectations, hopes, fears and dreams imprinted on the pages of history.
And as the sun reaches its apex, I look at my watch. You ask me, “What’s in a name?”.
I reply, “The world”, then smile politely and change the subject.
BEGINNING
Genealogy child
Is much, much more you see
Than names to fill blanks on line,
Genealogy is your heritage
Of forbears who came from many tracks,
Most to claim an identity of kind
As they made their way along a line,
Right back to the dawn of time,
And in every way and day and in between since,
Many have risen up and achieved,
And many more have felt the chain and the yoke
And become downtrodden with hopelessness of task,
Many overcome difficulties of times
And persecution of their faith filled ideals,
While others stole to survive
And chain and ball became part of their personality,
Many more conquered a watery death,
In the hope of finding the path to a new home:
On the other side to an unknown.
And for many forebears war and conflict never ending
Became their release from an ideology being taught,
And for many a final home in unmarked burial place and graves of dirt
With not a mark of respect to indicate a name of here before,
And for many of the fairer set spending their final days
In the hope of giving delivery to inherit a father’s name
As another child doesn’t survive along with mum,
Disease, pandemics, plagues, wars, epidemics,
All have their names inscribed on the annals of historical scrolls
And parchments where the scribes have described their worth on mortality.
Down the lines of ages spent,
from Adam and Eve in the garden,
and Moses on the mount,
and mighty Jesus of the cross,
Christopher Columbus and flattened earth,
Shakespeare with parchment, pen, and verse,
Captain Cooke and discovery of worth,
And convicts coming ashore in chains,
To sands of Gallipoli’s blood,
Our heritage lines could come from kings,
Or from peasants on gallows
Or Ned Kelly on the run,
Or the gold diggers on the digs,
But no matter where you have arisen from,
Your genealogy first and foremost starts with you,
And then goes backwards in a line
And your line could be great,
Or it could be small,
But matter not,
But remember well,
That you are part of a family tree.
And genealogy child,
Is much, much more you see
Than names to fill blanks on line.
Francis Cooper – Mac © 29-Jun-20
You don’t have to say
one spherical metallic word
I know with GSW empathy credulity
just how you feel ... I bequeath kindred sympathy
Taking one lead body blow
for the I homeboy visiting team,
was enough mental pain timeout for me
And the physical hurt toll it put on my body
made me frequently start falling to my knees
I can understand if you’re gun shy,
really I can
When you felt the quiet burn
of the silencer,
and the sweat of your fear
started to pellet fly
There’s a few blood splatter
reasons why
you’re audibly mute upset,
and so gun shy
Some whack eraserhead
unholstered their hostility on you
Bam, bam went the bullet hate —
hot metal piercing flesh ...
smearing cold iron-cooper fear
over your nude, trespassed privacy
I can understand if you’re gun shy,
really I can
I can truly relate
if you thought death
was your imminent fate
Really I do
You don’t have to say
a single semi-automatic word ...
You’re gun shy,
and I know the trigger reason why
Your temple’s been invaded
by kinetic metallic thieves,
who left your wounded,
praying soul to cemetery bleed
But putting a cap on the lip lid
is gonna make you implode within
Though asking for a modicum of gun control
is considered a Second Amendment sin
Keep the treason
on the tip of your tongue
from speaking
It’s best to remain gun shy,
never saying a word
It’s smart to duck when the bullets fly,
and the screaming is heard
Silence is double-O seven golden,
it’s good that your thoughts
ain’t got a license to kill
In the quietude of the grave,
victim death shout echoes do reverberate still
So, shhh ... stay low-key gun shy
Any sound motion can be detected
by a revolver barrel indiscriminate eye
Heat seeking for some unsuspecting
bipedal target to Big Wheel die
Any guttural movement
is gonna get a crosshair,
scattershot, fade-to-black goodbye
The kevlar-coated lip service politicians
sternly suggest you keep
any over-the-top, brash comments
under-the-counter on a locked vault cry
They say, now ain’t the time to be vocal and brave ...
bite the bullet,
and suffer your soul to die timid gun shy
The world is a cold place.
The powerful conscript
the poor for war
so that profits soar.
We see an eagle
and think how majestic
never stopping to analyze
what we're left with?
How pathetic do these
prophecies have to be
before God intercedes?
It's up to the Us's.
The you and me's
but today I woke up
not wanting to see who won
the midterms
but who's holding a grudge
in his hand there is a gun.
Shooting will persist.
This division will continue to split.
Red and Blue our greatest divide,
how did we end up being
so one color focused?
I'm glad for whoever won.
It's not the winners
but the power I fear.
I feel powerless living
at the behest of someone
else's mercy.
Those mercies that say
her body is not hers.
My antibodies aren't fine.
And documentaries
I choose to watch
have to be scrutinized
and remain hush-hush
so that we stay so out of touch
with what made us American.
We've fallen a mighty long way
from great days.
Honestly,
we can no longer hope
to stay the same.
We've changed
slipping ever so closer
to the point of greed
is all we'll know.
We argue instead of listen
and place ego juxtaposed
to healing and say
one step is too far away.
Love thy neighbor
as we love ourselves
was the second best statement
ever written
But utterly fail at following the first.
Our love is devoid of reflection.
I see me in you.
I recognize your pain.
I acknowledge your hurt.
Now, lets find our worth.
It can't be separate but equal.
Can't be two sides of the same coin.
We need to bleed
like cooper in penny.
One of one and solidly so.
Not so easily disregard
but all voices heard.
Turn down that megaphone.
Let the soft spoken be heard.
It's funny. I voted for a President that called me un-American and today was the first time I choose to forgive. We carry the sins of social media longer than we'll ever know.
Unfortunately, I came to deliver a message but no one was home.
They were either celebrating a victory
or loading a gun.
Nobody wins if all of us lose.
Let's try love.
Lost my kids once just for a minute or so in the fair: needle in haystack.
Busy and purposeful Sunday morning. Fascinating bee hive but I wanted my kids back
Thought they were next to the glass beads jostling and rattling on a necklace chain,
Or near the polished fossils, and bags clinking their sea-shell collections from Spain.
I squinted for their faces in the crowd,as rows of cheap eyeglasses looked invitingly
Over at the gaudily-decorated casual shoes, just arrived breathless from Turkey;
And stalls overflowing with flame-coloured dresses - Moroccan, from Agadir -
Trying to inch down to the ground like wriggling children. But not my children dear.
Toy insects buzzing joyfully and plastic windmills whirring playfully in the breeze
And serious-minded compasses busy seeking north didn’t fill my search with ease.
Carousels with ponies and dinosaurs, birds and elephants?
Maybe they had fulfilled my wandering kids’ secret wants?
Noisy price-haggling. African traders switching from language of Germany to Wales,
Or even to Arabic, as they sensed customers's different interests and possible sales.
Chinese and Vietnamese comparing views in French, their only common tongue.
No doubt, my three had slipped their leash and were hiding: they were young.
The swish of the decorative paper garlands in the breeze was near-lost in the crowd;
And the conflict between Welsh folk-music and American heavy-metal rock so loud.
And I listened to the colourful chatter pulsate
Of traders trying to persuade money to leave your wallet.
Girls in sandals and sunglasses. Old ladies in floral patterns and blue-rinsed hair.
Young men eyeing girls trying on dresses ……but my three were not there.
Ah - but then! At the ice cream stall I saw three hungry mouths, kept
Pressed to the glass. Three money-less urchins all glad to see dad. I swept
Them up in my arms and started to relax and enjoy the fair-market.
I’d lost my kids for just about one minute.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Entered in Lisa Cooper ~Dark Poetess's Contest County Fair
recurrent suicidal thoughts vain
gloriously wend
(o'er a death cab for cutie weeknd)
yanking zeal
becalming this crash test dummy rolling
stone temple pilot inxs
of maroon 5 plus decades long
perdition hellaciously slogging
slow as adam and the ants,
thru fifty shades of gray's
anatomy common weal
masterly baiting this motley crue (cutting),
beatle browed, beastie boy,
outre gee (bee) us, grateful dead,
mailer daemons inhabit
cavernous fist size vastness steel
via Herbie Hancock (Hermans Hermits)
cheesy Munster trap doors that steal,
deep purple swiftly tailored
culture club members squeal
hosted by mega death pack rat boston for real
venue at Tokyo hotel, via en grave invitation
signed by Alice in Chains poison huss kiss
sing, which will spellbind
once contents unveiled, an instant app peal
immediately choking off air supply
then Alice Cooper egging bad company
to hypnotize the guess who sacrificial meal
supplanting raw primal scream from spinal tap
acquiescing self to abandon all hope,
especially if black sabbath joins
creed dance clearwater revival
dark shadows would demand one
(to take a knee) and kneel
before sacrificing oneself at the beck and call
of evanescent nirvana
experiencing permanent relief,
sans soul (twisted) sister riding a hansom
off phish hull heart shaped coffin
ample room enough for blind
melon collie 10,000 maniacs, their heal
ling powers profusely emanating
via m&m shaped talking heads
methinks averring obeisance
to judas priest and hooters with coldplay feel
ling of eternal sleep, where quiet pussy riot
joins carpenters, whose underground
sepulchral crowded house indicative
cynthesis iz a done dizzy Gillespie afterlife deal
and you bet your sweet bippy meme
an extra bonus for orthodox believers
(absent myself - a skeptic),
whose karma with long deceased will anele!
Form: