Long Dead end street Poems
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Written By: D. Collins 8/23/19
The same ego maniac who thought nothing would stick.
Had no clue of the conviction we are working with.
We are coming to get him. He had best believe that.
"The Chosen One" will have his face in Big Bubba's lap.
"The Second Coming of God" will hit a dead end street.
When he discovers the world is more than Israelis.
He'll see people of color, in many shades and hues.
A world of many religions besides Christians and Jews.
The Teflon Don feels that he cannot be touched.
Well, that ignorant MF hasn't met a crew like us.
We're the American People, and we don't take no sh _ _.
And, we don't even care if it is the President.
He will soon see us, and feel all of our might.
Then, we as a people, can set everything right.
The People are coming with vengeance on our mind.
And, that pound of flesh, will be yours, this time.
The Teflon Don will soon become Gorilla Glue.
Where every dirty little deed is going to stick to you.
The State of New York is actually stalking it's prey.
The People will get every bit of theirs on Election Day.
Admit you lost track
under a blue fever moon
Buckle your seat belt
The hysterical,
the shrinking curse
Chew dog food, gum
it sure smells delicious
Constant tinnitus
Burn aromatic herbs
Dangerous situations
with sparks from the mains
A threat to the electricity pylons
they are blacked out
The street was familiar
as one's own pocket
Mysterious disappearances
Even not Stephen King
understood what had happened
I got off the bus after a hard day at work
A storm had knocked out every street light
In the gloom of despair, I saw a shadow lurk
My fear of darkness reached a new height
Two blocks to walk until I'd reach my home
but oh, how my fright was filling me with dread
I suffered from an illness called, Stygian Syndrome
Fear that on a dark night I would end up dead
There's never been an algorithm that's predicted
when I'd be exposed to a scary night such as this
I swore a maledict while my heart was conflicted
wondering why I didn't run. Something was amiss
It seemed as if an evil force was holding me back
from taking a step in the direction I needed to go
I couldn't see or hear anything in a world of black
but sensed something wicked hovered near... a foe
My house was the last one on the dead-end street
Should I try to get there without making a sound,
or should I go the other way? I wanted to retreat
but didn't move before I was knocked to the ground
I fought off a hundred creatures who bit my flesh
Every inch of my body was torn, and I smelled blood
I wished I had the courage and power of Gilgamesh!
But if compared to that hero, I'd label myself a dud
I wiggled my fingers and toes... counted ten and ten
Afraid to move again, I doubled up in a fetal position
Streetlights flickered; I saw I was surrounded by men
When someone yelled, "CUT!" I had a sneaky suspicion
A horror movie being filmed, but how was I to know
that everything was staged on my dead-end street?
I was paid for my realistic acting and used the dough
for a shrink and a weekend at a sanity recovery retreat
Dilapidated by harsh weather.
Ivy growing over it held it together.
Not much more than a shack.
My life ended there in that cul de sac.
~The Poet~
Twisting smiles along the way,
Struggles and strivings of the fray.
Trying to reach an ultimate goal.
Hardship seeps, destroying the soul.
Lest we show remorse for the deeds,
Bestowing ill, on suffering it feeds.
Incantations of hollow pleasure,
Rustic cavorting through our leisure.
Opulence rains in a copious deluge.
Affluence smothers yearning so huge.
Time inaudible, voices escape,
Stand on the precipice with no shape.
Trudging without courage so innate.
Leave all behind to contemplate.
Beyond reason, the battle is all uphill.
Feeling the power, we carry on still.
No stopping, no standing, yet defend,
The last conquest a mighty dead end.
Do we have the ability or the knack,
To conquer in life, fate’s cul-de-sac?
Jesus Christ
Life ground to a halt
living down a dead end street
where there's no sunlight
and shadows of doubt linger...
Till your love blew them away.
© Harry J Horsman 2021
Then East of Eden,
Flown West passed Sun
No dead end, new life begun.
The ink of poems,
And tears, all dried,
Eternal hope and peace abide.
Death ground to halt.
The streets asphalt
Shines clear and bright,
With the Son's eternal Light.
No doubt or dread
In heaven lingers,
Poet pens lyrics for
Heavenly singers.
The tears and doubts
Of dying day
Are gone,
...Your love blew them away.
In Fond Memory of Harry Horseman
in collaboration with his poem; 'Jesus Christ'
Rest in the fullness of joy Harry
With love,
BJ
Unsingle, disengaged from others
In that house squared off suburban
On the cul de sac circle dead end street
The one with a picket fence unattended by white
As it had never been painted
Sweetie, a witch with a head full of curlers
Frowns, wearing her green mask makeup
To look pretty for her man, her Mr. Right
Just off a road called Twilight Zone Massacre
A bald person who calls himself husband
Has a head full of twisted thoughts as he is lost
Eyes glare out from windows void of light
A creature called wife stirs up a cauldron
Is it soup or poison tonight
She must look pretty for her man
If he is late there is no saying
Meet the mad, manic, Mister Murgatroyd
An undynamic blistered humanoid
A curred curmudgeon you don't want to meet
In a bar, back alley, or dead end street
He's a filthy, flagrant, flatulent fart
Sewer rat mind and tarantula heart
Cleaves cuddly kittens, feeds them to guppies
Pet pranks the pet shop, punting the puppies
He's our white whale and our snake in the grass
A demon from hell, one pain in the ass
His black, rotten heart's beyond all belief
We need good karma to offer relief
Slurp burping some soup, soup wouldn't swallow
Burp slurping for breath, death would soon follow
A lone chicken bone was lodged in his throat
His face had changed tone and started to bloat
No one there for the Heimlich maneuver
Cuz no one cared from here to Vancouver
No smelling salts would be administered
No certificate of death was registered
They scrambled his brains to stop his last twitch
Then scraped his remains, dropped him in a ditch
A soulless soul and one sorry old sot
Heavens to Murgatroyd?... Heaven thinks not!
I was born in the dusk of March.
There was a blizzard, I’m told.
But I don’t remember it that way.
So much for “out like a lamb,”
and at an ounce over ten pounds,
my mother likely shares the sentiment.
I was a baby elephant.
My formative years were electric blues and neon pinks.
Chester Cheetah, He Man and Max Hedrum.
Our family was teetering on poverty, probably.
We lived on the west side of a dead-end street
with limitless possibilities.
Three sisters and four brothers aside,
I was an only child.
Awkwardly, I attempted my teens,
But oh, those glasses…
They probably had potential,
had I been a decade or seven older.
My prized possession was a saxophone
and I couldn’t gain weight if I tried.
I was a six foot something 2x4.
Somewhere along the way, I can’t say why,
The U.S. Air Force took me in.
They introduced me to avionics and a girl,
a doe eyed product of the dust bowl.
She danced from the hip and into my heart.
She became my first and last kiss.
I was a blushing bridegroom.
Now I’m a two-year veteran of fatherhood,
and an over-qualified desk clerk.
I’m the type who would sooner memorize pi
one or two decimal points past useful
than find it by an infinite series expansion.
I cherish creative outlets, so today,
I am a poet.
04/17/15
All these racists with their lies,
filling the airwaves with propaganda and strife,
Stalins with soundbytes, Magellan their drivebys
the pasts dead end street -topically jacknifed
like it was the only course for a heading, point A to point B.
We pedestrians to lame a detour again, hobbled by peasantry.
But yevolt! Herr Commandant! the halt needs to screech,
only, the rich like you aint in the inner city!
we aint all nazis,
rich republicans or democrats of opportunity
those tobacco cotton czar b*tc**s aint got nothing to do with me
But for you angry youngbloods I see that your blinkers is on
,
flashing inequality, white privilege, and the radios singing that song-
"and the beat goes on and on and on", sheeples, 8 mile,
single file through Babylon.
yes we see you getting pulled over, and aint done nothin wrong
didn't join a gang or messover someone
How would you act if you were the privileged of hip hop and R&B
Say there's a lack of opportunity?
Like a cat coloring the kettle black, while the cauldron is full of Crystal bubbly.
No, you know love and understanding is a two way street
Now about Mr. Cam Newton and his claim at being a "different breed"
Sounding a bit like a young hitler, a complex of superiority
Now I know there's 31 flavors choco-malatto- San gusto consuella-injustice- demingo-......
so many ways to taste, defeat, scoop up the malaise
don't rub it in the face when you're on top of the heap,
make people suck on your chocolate dipped cone of invincibility,
pop cultured froyo with extra cream
bet it makes the taste of vanilla a fetish treat,
out of spite, cause African got some ultra fine honeys
how do you think they feel when you got a fetish for something not a bit more sweet
leaves a bad taste, in the palate of the nationality
too much high flying, smack talking,
mainlining, cult of punk personality
there aint no union in a phrase like "aint seen nothin like me"
I think you better stick with a spoon,
dig your way out of the backstabbery
a silver one for coddled athletes, who got nothin else to do
but compete for biggest cat in a cradle, big man blue
"but they never considered me"
Is there anybody else? I ask you, seriously, just you?
Tonight I lay in bed in dread
of returning in the morning
to the beige building on that dead end street
that floods like the Nile after a rain
potholes in the parking lot like a lunar landscape
to my tiny office the last on the left in the back
its one window facing a barren farmer’s field
where I’ll listen to the click-clack of the keyboard
as my fingers fly nimbly over it
I must have been meant for so much more than this
mind numbing monotony
of minimum wage pay though I have a college degree
to type marriage licenses and divorce decrees
tax returns submitted by the wealthy
that only serve as stark reminders of forty years of failure
to make the world take notice of me
as if I were cursed from the cradle
to be covered with a cloak of invisibility
forever to remain a nobody that no one can hear or see
as all the magic in my mind withers on the vine
wasted before it could be made into wine