Long Drive back Poems
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Hercule Poirot entered Santa Claus’s large factory, shivering with cold. The great detective looked back and saw Frosty the Snowman grinning with delight. Hercule brushed off the snow from his impeccable suit, wiped his dainty shoes and arranged his moustache. Though he was in full trimming, he wondered why he was summoned to Winter Fairyland at the North Pole.
elves came out dancing around him singing Jingle Bells. “Ho, Ho, Ho,” cheered Santa. “So, you’ve arrived. A sirop de menthe for the great detective. He needs to warm up.”
Always polite, Hercules asked, “You need my services, Monsieur?”
“Of course. We have a sledge full of toys. Christmas is tomorrow. Tonight we must deliver the toys. Six reindeer are ready, but the leader, Rudolph has lost the red from his nose. Who will guide the sledge?”
Poirot almost had apoplexy. To be driven in the cold with sleigh bells ringing and losing his concentration, all because of a red nose? But he was a man of honour and so he investigated. Rudolph had a cold, and someone gave him medication. The red on the nose disappeared. What to do? Rudolph came in quietly and saw the glass of sirop. Poirot offered the glass to Rudolph who began to lick it. Lo and behold, the nose turned red.
Santa and the elves danced. A great feast took place including the turkey with its trimmings. Afterwards, Santa offered Poirot a drive back home.
“Don’t worry, you won’t have to enter any chimney,’ laughed Santa.
Sledge bells rang, a bottle of the best sirop was given to the detective and Rudolph drove Hercule home.
“Happy Christmas,” shouted the elves. And another Poirot mystery was easily solved.
With apologies to Agatha Christie.
When I wake up in the morning the first thing that bursts into my head is my love. I don’t think I could ever live without HER, she is my Darling. She is strong and pure; she is my HERO. She is my love, my… You see, our love is unlike any other.
Our day starts when I pick HER up from the corner house on Telfair and Fairfax, she is not cheap and is as pure as pure can be. On the drive back home she sits in my pocket on my lap in HER transparent dress. I like HER tightly concealed because it will be a disaster if any of HER were to spill out. When we step out of the truck she is halfway down my pants and I can’t wait to open the door and throw her on the table…You see, our love is unlike any other.
It's unique how an object like love can fit in the palm of your hands; but our love deserves a better surface, preferably I like to have HER in a spoon. This is where things really heat up; as I bring my red flame underneath HER I know this is what gets HER hot, really hot till she is boiling wet. As my skin waits impatiently for the piercing of flesh, I can’t resist but to suck every drop of her up like a syringe. As my arm embraces HER tourniquet hugs; my body screaming for HER injection It’s been craving…You see, our love is unlike any other.
As we lie together with HER in my arm, I can feel HER love flowing through my veins, in my blood, and in my heart. Now I can finally rest as my head falls back and eyelids slam shut. And if I wake in the morning it will be to the knowledge of HER absence, but it’s OK. I know where to find HER at the corner house on Telfair and Fairfax, that’s where I will pick HER up again… My Darling, My Love, My HEROIN.
Form:
I wake up very early, and get out of bed before dawn
My barn animals need to be fed and their water drawn
The steer looks healthy, hope they will bring me some cash
It helps pay the bills and I'm almost out of my only stash
I polish my new boots, black crocodile with fresh spurs
Going out later to impress Susie, hope soon to be hers
Looking forward to some line dancing and riding the bull
Putting on my black Stetson, hoping the bar’s not too full
I see Susie’s eyes sparkle as she waves her pretty hand
Tonight’s looking up, I even like the new Country band
After a few beers, I climb up on the bull and go for a ride
I am in the rodeo competition and have no fear, only pride
I ride the bull several times, laughing with my ranch friends
Susie says yes to slow dancing, hope this night never ends
It’s now getting close to midnight; I must call it a night
I give Susie a quick kiss and we both swoon with delight
I drive back to my cattle ranch feeling happy with a big smile
Thinking this cowboy hasn’t had a good night out in awhile
Kicking off my boots, I head to my bed, it will be dawn soon
Dreaming about the rodeo competition tomorrow afternoon
1/29/2021
Contest: Cowboy Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
I walk along a shore
far inland from the roar
of two great oceans,
the Pacific to my west,
and much farther away,
the Atlantic to my east.
Here is desert land and a foul-smelling, shrinking lake.
Salt retention - the lake's peculiar claim to fame -
attracts the curious few
who test the brackish waters to see if,
floating on their backs, they really won't sink.
Some tread far out toward the horizon,
salt stinging and painting their legs white.
Here now, alone with the sun and resident gulls,
I own this stretch of sand.
Arid heat creates a desire in me
to wade into the coolness of the water,
but nearing pea-green scum, I opt for staying dry.
Suddenly,
a small wave appears,
and with it, a splash of water on my legs.
I close my eyes.
For a moment, I'm the wisp of a cloud
drifting above a cool lake big as a sea,
mirroring the azure of sky long ago-
so long ago, in fact-
that I imagine this land right now
-with its few creature inhabitants-
has little resemblance to what was here before.
I ponder what it could have been like
those many centuries before, but I cannot.
Alas, I know very little of science or
of how exactly this area looked or felt or smelled
once upon a time
when it was more water than land.
I know only this:
today it is we that remain. . .
I open my eyes,
conscious again of the remnant water's stench,
and walk to my car,
anticipating my drive back to the city,
with the top down
and hot wind in my face.
Spending an entire weekend
with one of your best friends
is a treat onto itself,
but spending an extended weekend
with the same friend
is even better...
******************************************************
Drew had come over, with his parents,
to get a haircut and enjoy some conversation.
Before they had a chance to leave,
he was talked into staying the night.
We spent it lounged on basement couches
enjoying our viewing of Spartacus.
******************************************************
The next morning,
we reenacted historical skirmishes,
with a bit of artistic license,
until it was time to accompany my mom
to a friend's cookout.
We enjoyed the usual fare of burgers & hotdogs
as we quizzed one another on random movie trivia.
Although we weren't all too athletic,
Drew and I played a few games of pickup football
with a group of kids we'd never met before,
before retiring to my place for the night.
*****************************************************
Sunday was set aside for camping,
the original reason Drew and I were
supposed to hang out.
My parents took us to one of my favorite spots,
Kennerdell,
where we delighted in swimming in the creek,
hiking the trails,
and watching Return of the King.
*****************************************************
A copy of Wedding Crashers
kept us entertained on the drive back home.
After dropping Drew off at his house;
back to his temporarily estranged family,
it was time for me to finish,
and begin,
work on my D.A.R.E. project.
I finished pretty quickly
& spent the evening thinking about
how wonderful of a Memorial Day Weekend
it had been
in the company of one of my best friends.
A chilly early 1987 morning, 7th March,
five booze cruise boys crammed in a car.
From overnight ferry, just disembarked
when told of the Zebrugge ferry disaster.
Hands freeze on the steering wheel,
as the driver recalls what we now all see.
In a queue, a last minute change he did feel.
All had agreed to travel on The Herald of Free.
"Let's go from Dover for a change", I suggest
All agreed they wanted to see Zebrugge
In the travel shop, our driver felt his unrest
"Portsmouth is a shorter drive back" thought the daft bugger.
And so yet again to Le Havre we went.
Oh on the trip, he got some stick all right.
But in the car I pat him on the back, "mate, you were heaven sent,
we all should have died last night!"
Reflections for Contest
hungover, in car tinkling with duty free bottles. It didn't really sink in (pun intended). Had he stuck to the plan we would have been on the Herald of Free Enterprise departing Zebrugge on the night of March 6, 1987.
His later recollection was that in queuing in the travel agent shop, (no internet or smartphones back then) he visualised extra driving from Dover, instead of Portsmouth, back to Taunton. And so "sod them, I've got to put up with these piss artists, so they'll have to put up with Le Havre again."
We never really appreciated the significance at the time, nor did the friendships last as we drifted apart thereafter.
I wonder if it’s that hard?
I am young and full of years.
I walk this beach every day and watch
The tides come in, and drive back out.
Birds fly gracefully above my head and
The breeze blows sand into my face.
My feet sink into the damp out skirt of the shore
And I splash around in the water.
It’s not easy to come across death and not respond
In some sort of way. I am full of energy
And you lay by my side faded away.
Even though you are only a bird
You deserve a proper burial. Your wings have
Insects circling around them. Buz-buz and zzzz.
They are waiting for me to
Go. But I can’t just leave you here.
What if it was me laying here dead?
I would like to think just because I am human
And you are an animal, we are similar.
We both share the same air,
We both need nourishment, we both live and
We both die. I’d like to think if I were you someone
On this planet would care.
You once flew with that sun kissed colored wings
I walk with these porcelain painted legs
As I take off my white zip- up sweater and show you respect
I gently cover you before the rest of the inspectors come.
How you ended up along this beach
Lifeless and deserted, I shall never know.
Maybe you were sick? Or it was just your time.
But I will give you a proper burial
It’s a seed that I must sow
Showing respect for a life
As the tide comes and it goes.
By: Sabina Nicole
I put two garbage bags of junk into my husband’s car trunk.
I am ready to start filling up the lonely green dumpster.
Most of the year he sits forlornly with two or three measly bags.
I am off school for eight weeks; so I am giving him some food.
He is green and hideously ugly, but a terrific landmark.
Because we live in an earth home, people do not see our house.
They fly past our driveway, not noticing it either.
Sometimes their GPS laughs as they drive back and forth.
“When you see a green dumpster, turn in,” I tell them.
“If you pass a green dumpster, turn around.”
“What kind of place do you live?” They ask me.
“We live in a van, down by the river.”
I delight in saying this.
It reminds me of Chris Farley each time.
I recall driving past the place I used to live;
it triggered a flood of old memories.
Oh, I just had to drive back there!
And with the thoroughness
of an obsessively determined detective,
I did discover relics of the past.
Surroundings familiar though many years have passed
I broadly smiled as I waxed reflective;
old neighbors recalled with fondness.
I sat, wondering where
life has taken them; lost in a deep reverie.
Fine stardust of nostalgia, I sieved.
Haunting ghosts of yesteryear I fondly relived!
Lawn I blew dandelion seeds every...
so often, kept in superb care.
Expanded, narrowness...
of pathway in the backyard; like a detective,
walking my old stomping grounds. Back, at last.
Submitted for...
A Little Memory - My Invented Form - Poetry Contest (Winner: 1st Place)
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Rhyme Pattern ABCDEF FEDCBA ABCDEF
Syllables are 12/10/8/6/12/10 12/10/8/6/12/10 12/10/8/6/12/10
Date written: 01/09/2021
Boyhood was a one-night stand,
So brief and unforgettable,
Full of dreams,
Sweet —like a rooftop party,
Wild and loud,
When the world several feet below,
Full of envy, shouted at us,
“Come down quickly!
Quick!”
Boyhood charmed me and
Did not harm me
It was a different time,
A different boy-game
All was different
Including the falsehood of the time
Fibs were crammed with the essence of joy.
Mawkish, they strengthened the walls of
Defence, by pulse or by slush —
One gave way for the other to flourish.
And I saw things the way they truly were,
Either red or white;
Nothing like reddish-white
Or whitish-red.
Just red or white.
Plain.
Pure and simple.
I didn’t mix colours except when I was painting
With brush and colours on drawing paper
White with the innocence of dawn
Watercolour streamed with tears
Genuinely shed with common bliss.
Our loudest poem was Twinkle,
Twinkle, Little Star
I’ve never ceased to wonder how they twinkled
In the dull eyes of dinosaurs!
And there was Humpty Dumpty,
Our dear friend.
Santa or Father Christmas,
Called and addressed according to your own side of
The pond, possessed the redness that charmed us
And the whiteness that froze us with ecstasy
And with the dynamism of Sunday school songs
Oh, his beard! Mammatus clouds so full and rolling!
The outlines of trees back then resembled the clusters of
Overgrown clouds laughing their senses off
Above us foolish little masquerades
A scene of a flowering act.
With our eyes we saw it all
Just like the television series we saw —
They all made sense —from Gunsmoke to
Bonanza and Hawaii-50
We saw all with grey, tiny eyes on grainy television
Screens, elevated boxes of palatial balls
Those days smelled differently —
With the fragrance of natural love
And the beats of honourable music
And we scribbled figures of maths on
Each other’s back, symbols of agricultural tools.
Oh, the arrangements of the planets,
Beginning with Earth,
Our darling Earth,
Since charity must commence at home.
Politics was far from us
So was double entendre . . .
A one-off incident,
Boyhood is a museum —
You take nothing with you while
Exiting it.
I drive back to it only on the reference gear.