Long Curtain call Poems
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Dedicated in memory of Mr Dangerfield, Rodney.
He was a comic few will ever forget.
He is most known probably for his classic routine;
"I Don't Get No Respect.
When I was born the doctor delivered to my parents the very sad news.
"We tried everything, but I'm sorry, he managed to pull through."
I Don't Get No Respect.
I remember taking my first steps so vividly
and then dear old Dad tripping me.
I Don't Get No Respect.
I asked Dad if I could go ice skating on the lake with all of the others.
He then said to me, "Wait until it gets warmer."
I Don't Get No Respect.
My mother practiced this form of birth control constantly.
Whenever Dad wanted sex, she'd show him a picture of me.
I Don't Get No Respect.
"I lost my parents. Do you think we'll ever find them?" I cried.
"I don't know," said the policeman, "There's so many places they can hide."
I Don't Get No Respect.
In the kidnapper's note to my parents for ransom
it read, "Give us five thousand dollars or you'll see your kid again."
I Don't Get No Respect.
Last night, my wife wearing a sexy negligee met me at our front door all alone.
There's just one problem with this scenario. She was coming home.
I Don't Get No Respect.
My wife phoned and said, "Come on over. There's nobody home."
When I arrived, guess what? There was nobody home.
I Don't Get No Respect.
During sex my wife always wants to talk to me.
She called me from a hotel recently.
I Don't Get No Respect.
One day I came home from work early
and saw a man run naked jogging past me.
I asked, "Why are you jogging naked buddy?"
He replied, "Because you came home early."
I Don't Get No Respect.
"What'll ya have?" the bartender asked me.
Indecisive I replied, "Just surprise me."
So he pulled out a naked photo of my wife for me to see.
I Don't Get No Respect.
I went to a hooker, thinking it might be nice.
When I dropped my pants, she dropped her price.
I Don't Get No Respect.
My psychiatrist said that I'm going crazy.
"I'd like a second opinion," I replied to she.
"Very well," she said, "You're also ugly."
I Don't Get No Respect
I told my psychiatrist, "I'm going to kill myself when I get the chance."
She told me I'll have to start paying her well in advance.
I Don't Get No Respect.
No Respect At All.
I've had enough of all of this.
This is my final curtain call."
The grand madam wore double strains of opal perils,
Around her collar of white lace, in eloquence personified,
She’s cultures Lady of utter refinement, curtsying to noble
And high brad’s aristocrats alike.
In fragrances of memories I’ve drifted backwards,
To a time of Lillie’s corsages tied upon white gloved
Wrists, long gowns of silk that trailed behind ladies
Of status and grace.
Glided carriages adorned with opulence’s wealth,
Lined these main streets busy thoefairs,
Drawn by horse powers elect.
Pulling these beguiling vessels beneath oil lamp light,
Did the pampered horse flesh travel, delivering the
High born royals, from fancy balls, to posh dinner
Parties and the rich man’s society clubs.
Gentries Gallant dapper Dan’s went a courting,
Seeking beauties ungloved hands, with sweet kisses
Of vows promise, yet a dowers riches blinded their
Eyes, to the spoiled countesses true nature, so these
Court Jesters with mouths full lies deceptions,
Got their own back lashings tongue, in the end.
In these arena of wealth and fortitude, did Madame
So travel, amongst the crimson carpet walking
With prides stride, holding her head held high,
Never exposing the lower birth from which
She’d been birthed.
For she knew the truth hidden behind these
Fanciful fans of lavender and lace lay masks
Of masquerades charades, and games of
Fortune were played by dollar’s gains, not
The feelings of heart.
True class exudes not from ones pedigree,
Or families wealth and power, but instead
It comes from within, honor, duty and a
Soul’s valor of spirit.
At the evenings final climatic hour,
This mistress of the wise, seeks her humble
Shafto’s warming bower, sitting in her chamber
Of isolation, she smile at the portrait hanging
Above her mantels fire place.
Whispering slowly, soon beloved, she blows him a
Final kisses farewell, then drifts into infinities
Drifting realm of for-get-me-knots.
Behold its Madame’s last curtain call,
Let us all throw red roses at her feet,
For if a lady of true elegance ever existed,
On this earth of ours it was her, Madame
Of lavender and white lace, let the opal
Chains of perils thus be broken, as her eyes
Of classes distention, close for the last and
Final time
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Inside The Mysterious Enigmatic Fragmentary...
Mortal Mind Of Matthew Scott Harris
ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK!
Seedy gobbledygook ergot
visibly argot bubbled, burbled, bustled...forth
yea...give garbled, jangled, warbled shoutout
if ye doth render
mug gadabout totally confounding,
this unfettered voluminous confection
ruff lee in toto as sample
doggone freelance gargon
sublime red rover - misaligned with
twenty first century time
emerging, fishtailing, kvetching,
slithering, whipsawing
during springtime
thaw - oozing out primordial slime,
schlepping aboard bissel mishuga train
while kibitizing with longfellow
ghost hosts Bartleby,
thee Herman Hermits,
and Stray Cats caterwauling
scrivener circumlocution showtime
evidences troubadour prima facie
tremendous struggle rustling rational rapport,
ruminating, citing his dismal schooltime
track record muddled, and hence
questing to cobble a rhyme
distilling, harvesting, and
leaching (out pulpy, knotty,
Max Headroom Ancien regime
filmy... gray matter) in realtime,
while strains of Ragtime echo
from late nineteenth century
tin pan alley, nsync, linkedin
cubist, dadaist, existentialist...
mine poetic melange jerry rigs
flashes random discordant phrases
kickstarting hotmail...faintly
analogous to processing quicklime
mucking with abstract alphabetic
mire ranks as playtime
forging whimsical tactical trippy thoughts,
nursing eternal idealistic Earthly peacetime,
worrying away looming mortality,
noshing post death as pastime,
welcomes input and alien abduction – ME,
mine "FAKE" existence, sans charade,
facade, masquerade onetime pantomime,
no second act allowed, nor
revising questionable tour de force
I claim NO pièce de résistance, nor overtime,
asper waning game
of thrown away Life
approaches nighttime haven
soon...forever rest in peace
surrendering requisite burnt offerings,
sans (cremated ashes) - meantime
fete grateful dead
scythe lent hoodlums on warpath
to incite bedlam
postprandial mealtime prayer final -
deathly hallowed gleeful grimace
witnessing successful electroshock therapy
of yours truly emotionally frozen
decades long comatose state
thankfully oblivious, when impending
curtain call signals finis!
How empty can an inbox possibly be?
Not unlike a door..... practically off at hinges
The paint is definitely peeling
More than one shutter has fallen astray.
One piece at a time
Have you ever seen that?
How old houses....
the shutters give way one slat at a time
It's almost like watching a clock tick
After 1 year the slat on the front shutter drops by 1/4
of an inch
By year two there are three slats on the front shutter and four on the back falling falling slowly
Drop an inch...drop an inch
small little pieces of wood losing their ballast
By year five the paint's chipping on all of the shutters
you can tell they were all red once or some dreadful pungent green
Then great shards of paint seem to start clinging off of the clapboards too
Can see it almost like a song
plunky pock rock or a slow lanquid sad ballad
a song of one lost a sea or to storm or just decay
the first chip of paint is the first note
and then all of a sudden the whole house seems to want to join in and it's chip chip chip , chuck,chuck pluck pluck plunky plunkity and it's a symphony of lost paint chips like raindrops sound in an empty metal pail
Neglect
nobody cares ....that the shutters are falling apart
and no one cares that the symphony of chips of paint has begun
because nobody lives there anymore and no one is listening except fro teh occasional drive by
If that house was an inbox.
It would understand mine
Such
an empty house
When you're the first person to enter
an empty house...
It's like you're swirling the dust
of the only thing that lives there
elves and fairies and dust dune devils
it's like they know you're there
But there is just the eerie silence
The elves, sprites, ghosts and memories cling to what remains of the tattered curtain...awaiting a...curtain call?
The house is never ever really empty
The walls remember the hands
The ash remembers the fire
The sink can still taste the water and feel the rust
Even the dust on the floorboards remembers what it was like to be mud on a boot or a cell of her skin
An empty house has more inhabitants
than my inbox
in the beginning....My inbox had a voice
Maybe even my in-box remembers
how it once said
"You've got mail"
My final curtain call has come,
The stage beckons one last bow.
I’ll die in that electric chair,
Twenty four hours from now.
So many thoughts pour through my mind,
Of Hell and eternity.
Can one so lost as I be saved
And avoid that destiny?
I can’t forget my mother’s face,
The day I was arrested
For killing that abusive cop,
an act the law detested.
The cop and I had history,
Dating back to my teen years.
And my mother never noticed,
The nights I came home in tears.
Abuse began when I was twelve,
with a shoplifting arrest.
The cop would make a choice that day,
what it was, few could have guessed.
I was cuffed and placed in his car,
Then driven out to the cape.
The next day, I reported him,
and accused the cop of rape.
But they just laughed and sent me home,
I had nowhere left to turn.
That utter sense of helplessness
Was a hard lesson to learn.
He’d pick me up from time to time,
Bogus charges were the theme,
Then drive me back out to the cape,
Where no one could hear me scream!
Obsession fill the next ten years,
The injustice would not cease.
How can a man protect himself
When abused by the police?
One night he took me to the cape,
Thinking I was easy prey.
That was the last thing he would do
Before his life slipped away.
He didn’t know I’d gotten free,
And he never saw the knife.
When he pulled me out of the car,
That was when I took his life.
I stabbed and stabbed and stabbed again,
As he bled out, in the mud.
I was captured an hour later,
Still soaked in my victim’s blood.
They said I stabbed him sixty times;
I lost track after he fell.
I hope I’ll get to stab him more
If we both end up in hell.
I await my execution,
As I try hard to forget,
How I enjoyed killing that cop,
Something I still don’t regret.
For what I put my mother through,
My heart is filled with sorrow.
And yet, her darkest day will come
At setting sun tomorrow.
For that is when I’ll know at last,
What the Lord intends for me.
It won’t be long until I learn
Where I’ll spend eternity.
Is my immortal soul the kind
That God’s Kingdom would allow?
I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough,
Twenty four hours from now.
My epitaph writ large...
courtesy third person singular.
Mise en scène pour décès
pardon his feeble attempt at French,
a unilingual English language
quibbling, and scribbling mensch
strongly advises applying
left handed monkey wrench,
which custom designed tool
assigned impossible mission
to discern sense and sensibility
regarding following poetic thread
subject of a fool's errand.
Mein kampf witnessed, punctuated,
and evinced courtesy final breath
automatically triggering (tumblr
to activate) final curtain call
and unremarkable death.
As stipulated in the living will
cremation of his lifeless body
cremated into soft gray powder.
A prerecorded hashtagged obituary
downloaded to individual smartphones
and simultaneously appeared on
the following poetry websites:
COSMOFUNNEL, Hello Poetry,
Neopoet, My Poetic Side, Poetry Soup,
PoetryNook, PoetryVibe, Prose|
A community of readers and writers,
and All Poetry.
He hesitated and lost out
on game of life big time
even fumbling crafting reasonable rhyme
noshing, spending, and whiling
inordinate amount of hours
squirreled away in his bedroom
surrounding himself with reading material.
He amassed fountainhead of knowledge
quietly engorging cerebral gray matter
whereat noggin swelled up
rivaling globe, but Atlas shrugged
at him, whose head
resembled the first Chinese brother
who swallowed the sea.
Odd his voracious appetite
to buzzfeed with one
after another binary byte
zealous precocity to engross himself
with storied reading material
that does extremely excite
(at the expense of healthy socialization)
where his imagination took flight,
nevertheless myopic eyes of his
did glean insight
keeping his cute button nose
between pages of choice morsels
to appease hunger
keeping himself awake
drinking high test coffee
during darkness aided by jacklight
processing meaty material with might
experiencing abundant, exultant,
intoxicant, over-extravagant
joie de vivre day or night,
a balm, elixir, inebriate... quite
the panacea to abet emotional incapacitation
which entails crafting poems
oftimes spending efforts
with efforts undertaking rewrite
unwittingly garnering a fanbase
courtesy ideology doth unite.
T0 Spencer Snyder, age 80
Curtain Call
He signed you for a starring role, with no time to rehearse,
None had played the part before, so no-one better or worse,
Been a long run and the folks keep coming, your lines change like your sox,
Director nods up in the Gods, no prompter in the box,
And every time you looked to Him, He’d smile and say Well Done,
Despite your wild unscripted words, you could do no wrong
Though critics voiced opinions, you know what worth they are,
Mostly orificial, mostly rated R!
Curtain Call! You’re on again today
You can prance and sing and pirouette or sulk the night away
Curtain Call! Delight with what you’ve got,
When you act on inspiration, you can’t be what you’re not.
Well, all runs have their ups and downs, you faltered there sometimes
And scowled at other actors for their excrementary lines,
Complaints they won you nothing but laughter from the crew
But now you know they’re there to show the very best in you!
One day you’ll hear a casting-call, Director’s words are spare:
“The part you played was perfect, I’ve another one to share,
But because you did amuse me with your foibles, funks and fears,
I’ll let you practice this one for another 20 years!”
Curtain Call! You get…. no stand-in for your role
You signed for the duration when you were just a soul
Curtain Call! When you grasp a life, there’s no-one here to blame,
And how much you enlighten us your only claim to fame!
You pondered long life’s meaning, but the guru’s words rang true,
That it don’t mean a goldarn thing but what it means to you,
It’s meant to be a mystery, of that you can be sure,
And for your play, if we had our way, we’d implore Encore!
And at your final curtain, kindly exit with a smile,
To let us know you loved the part for just a little while,
We’ll stand for your ovation if we’re not all in the ground,
It’s a goodly bet that’s all you get for having us around!
Curtain Call! (It sounds) every morning when you rise,
The stage has made you large as life, regardless of your size,
Curtain Call! We love you, please curtsey to acclaim,
An arch-angelic Oscar has been chiseled with your name!
Stillness feels deep here in these halls;
Silent vistas offer relief;
Death brings sure sleep at curtain call;
Cold agendas in grief's sad brief.
Long passageways and rows and rows;
Lonely sailings to unknown shores;
The dead don't say what yonder grows;
We the living wish we knew more.
Our visit here to greet the dead,
To pray for souls to rest in peace;
Let kinship steer fate's sure parade;
We feel the hold, the dead at ease.
Each niche a tale of life now flown;
Each face once walked this earthly plain;
Now silence trails lost bygone moans;
Now stillness talks where no voice gains.
Memorial day for our lost kin;
A prayer fond, a mindset still;
Whispers now stay for peace within;
Stroll by this lawn, mourning hearts feel.
With soul and heart, talk to the dead;
We know they hear our inner voice;
Life circle parts beyond all dread;
Cycles endear sound grace and poise.
Brief tablets speak where words now fail;
Deeply attuned with wise intent,
Each mounts a peak beyond the veil:
Feel hint and tune frame lost content.
As shadows fall in the last light,
We take a stroll here first and last;
Live sweet and gall with new-found sight;
Life's on a roll in feast or fast.
The dead remind that life goes on;
The grim reaper awaits each soul;
Discern the find here and beyond;
Soon each sleeper will circle whole.
Sunlight now fails, winds of change blow;
Horizons pale, lost of sure breath;
Death's icy gale fills each hollow;
And thus soul sails to greet kind death!
Here by this route where hallways meet,
All thoughts and deeds return to rest;
Death is time-out for two-way street;
Each cycle seeds soul journey quest.
We take our time to simply dwell,
Observe and know time here is brief;
Heed love's fond chimes to live life well;
Then candle blows with joy not grief.
Now once again, we carry on
To weather all, to live our best
With poise laid plain, feel once upon
A time that call to feel love's quest.
Our prayers laid, our kinship made,
We take our leave in heartfelt calm;
Feel love repaid in succinct trade;
Forsake this grief with cheery psalm.
Leon Enriquez
28 Mar 2014
Singapore
(Dedication: For my late mother on her birthday
anniversary, born 28 March 1927.)
Happy two thousand nineteenth birthday Autumn - September 23, 2019!
Despite twittering, uber
sputtering kickstarting
onset of cool weather
argh, another brief daily spate
re: forecasting blistering,
nauseating, sweltering...
ninety degree plus Fahrenheit
temperature forecast
(along eastern seaboard)
courtesy mister summer,
who will overstay his welcome
hoop fully a more seasonable
cooling trend rounds out ninth month
(according to Gregorian calendar)
I eagerly look forward
to crisp refreshing air
much more comfortable
to weather being outdoors
within/out this sequestered enclave
postage stamp size geographical area
offers respite versus metropolitan
denser population centers,
the former disappearing open space
rather disheartening, but urbanization -
purportedly the definition of progress
finds once open farmland
less than fifty years back
crumbling barns now tombstones
testimony when people
farmed the land, and lived
linkedin with rhythms of nature,
which only found courtesy said vestiges
inevitably razed (similar to boyhood home
324 Level Road) finds yours truly
brooding fast paced instant
credit karma gratification
twenty first century, which
small, medium forces at large
outfox the time tested imprimatur
i.e. latent powers planet Earth
unleashes (thank you global warming)
decrees final curtain call
*****sapiens runs rampant
wreaking havoc all points of compass
already inundated with scorching,
melting ice caps, flooding...
future generations, yet unborn
might avoid predicated on
dramatic alternatives fossil fuels
already showered Gaia
with carbon dioxide
as well other noxious poisons
though vibrant advocacy
evident among students
vocally demonstrating against
irrevocable damage, whereby environment
and countries situated
near sea level take heavy hit,
nonetheless... cautious optimism flickers
inducing mandatory one hundred eighty degree
reorientation regarding eco friendly
methodologies to lo mein, maintain,
sustain... technological civilization,
else quaint existence of thee
will be read about
in digitized history books.
The Tulips Curtain Call
The ground was dark and still in the farmers meadow,
The wind lay still, against the ground, silent and low.
He held his breath, tapping the ground, he waited, knowing,
something new was soon to grow.
The soil turned inside out, grumpy at the turmoil,
inside it now, new seeds did lay, would they be
both boy and girl?
The garden bed, lay long and proud in row's,
he knew what was to come, his wisdom knew the truth,
it would take all to work together, rain, wind and sun!
The sun he rose, day in and out, as the wind mourned a gentle sad song.
The rain did softly pitter patter, every evening, on and on.
The wind took his place as the ground grew warm, she would greet them soon.
Days into weeks, the soil did shiver and excitement mounted,
The wind, threw off his mournful cloak, intrigued by what he saw,
he played with little shoots, that showed, by the lighting of the moon.
As weeks grew on, the sun soon started to turn,
the wind anxious at the chill,
they needed to come, quickly now,
before the ground grew cold.
Tough little green stems beating their way,
pushing hard against the stone, finally breaking
at the light of the day.
Hooray, such cheer, to see the little green troops
the bed so proud at the work he had done.
The ground whispered to the wind, the creatures they did chatter,
the announcement of their glorious bloom, was the subject of the matter.
Eventually the day, the sun did smile,
the wind raced to and fro,
up and up the shoots strong and proud,
to announce the Tulips show.
One, two, three and four,
a hush came over the garden once more.
Silence as once again breathe was held,
she lifted her bulb and opened her petals
announcing she was born.
Our Tulip laughed as she sang out loud
her wonderful morning song.
She woke the others, and they too greeted the wind and sun.
The meadow alive and washed in colour, Tulips as jewels of red, blue, yellow and more.
What a sight, what a sound, what a delight to see, the Trumpets curtain call.
Name: Chantelle Smith
Date: 17 August 2020