Long Feather bed Poems
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With the stage name “Denver,” beloved poet John
to country, folk and beautiful soft rock was drawn.
“Take Me Home Country Road” made him a star.
What lovely songs for nature he strummed on his guitar!
With the stage name “Denver,” beloved poet John
became a 70’s phenomenon.
To tunes like “Grandma’s Feather Bed” and “Annie’s Song”
his fans would listen and sing along.
With the stage name “Denver,” beloved poet John
crashed his plane one day, and in an instant he was gone.
His art lives on even though no longer can he roam.
How apt his autobiography’s name: Take Me Home.
Dec. 29, 2020
For Brian Strand's the 'YOU SELECT AGAIN' Poetry Contest
Chorus x 2
It’s okay if my ego wears jacket
it’s nice if my resume plays drums
I’m endowed, dazzling and full
so let the world know my hands are a major part
of those holding it.
1. A personality that is a well powered Agora
for affluence and power to trade
from collar to ankle, my long covering is embroidered
with stitches of laurels
as life’s willy, I stand against nature’s passive resistance
educated beyond satisfaction
as I neither drink the slurry of poverty
nor condemned in the scaffold of barbarism.
The depth of my influence
surpasses the borders of space
the slideshow of my worth stays not reclusive
as my path has gone beyond fate
to put fortune under no quandary to visiting me.
Chorus
It’s okay if my ego wears jacket
it’s nice if my resume plays drums
I’m endowed, dazzling and full
so let the world know my hands are a major part
of those holding it.
2. There is no contest
to my flag standing highest and brightest
yet my blessings still feel reclusive
my known image will stand collateral for global peace.
Media houses even in the desert
roar in a moving tempest of my reputation
yet not half the needed depth is achieved.
My commanding drive and intimidating leadership
the first education to all newborns
I am a feather bed to all my networks
even in the grave, my decaying bones
will be worth more than the basilicas of ancient Europe.
Chorus
It’s okay if my ego wears jacket
it’s nice if my resume plays drums
I’m endowed, dazzling and full
so let the world know my hands are a major part
of those holding it.
3. Stronger and continuously refined I am
as I stand on top
and drink the revile, like old wine
of those who wish to live in forgery of me
the air is tagged with my trademark
as communities mimic
from the chronicles and sweeteners of my exploits.
The sun rises from my past
to reiterate a future covered with curtains
of red silk and exotic flowers.
Down the stairs to a panhandler is stupid
but my pride can wear an Asian salwar
rather than an Italian blazer
yet, fully satisfied to cling
unto the appendages of God’s glory.
Chorus
It’s okay if my ego wears jacket
it’s nice if my resume plays drums
I’m endowed, dazzling and full
so let the world know my hands are a major part
of those holding it.
Lake of beauty there in France
Invitation for romance
Of course you know what I'll now say
I want to go with you someday
We don't know French but no big deal
We'll learn together, so much appeal
There is in doing things with you
And I still hope you want me to
But if you don't I understand
And I'll still write odes by my hand
To let you know that I'm still here
Expressing love through words, my dear
And if one day that well runs dry
Just look for me up in the sky
A little plane can create art
With it I'll draw for you a heart
And loop-the-loop over your head
In yellow smoke, a feather bed
Of lilac clouds and Vera Wang
Ascends from you, those scents will hang
And blend in with my best cologne
Acqua di Gio descends down
A fragrant zephyr fills the air
Together, forever floating there
I think that I’ll try to write one of those poems that doesn’t rhyme,
The poems that I like to write tend to rhyme all the time.
Oops, not a very good start.
Be creative. Be descriptive.
Use flower scented words that escape from the reader’s strawberry stained lips like soft
snowflakes on a still winter morn and hang in the air like a single feathery sword from the
deliciously soft down pillow on grandmother’s feather bed after a playful tussle with my
angelic son.
Oh yeah, that works … Not.
A subject. I need a subject.
Think, think, think.
Something that would be interesting to read. Or something that is witty and funny – laughter
is always good. Or something that makes people think and ponder and put their finger to
their chin and go, “Mmmmm”.
I usually read these kind of poems and can’t figure them out,
I am left wondering what the heck I just read about.
Hey, that rhyme was a mistake – it happened on its own.
Oh, who am I kidding, I can’t write this kind of poem!
It’s hard being old-fashioned. But, hey, that’s who I am. Besides, no one ever reads my
poems anyway. I’ll bet you are not even reading it now.
So much for the witty humor – bet you didn’t even notice it.
Oh well, think I’ll go write a poem – one that rhymes.
Argh...What Accursed Fate Did Lurk...
Regarding thee 2009 Hyundai Sonata
(50+ shades of gray), a cred
debt tub bull vehicle, that at
this moment finds sinking
feeling akin to led
zeppelin, yes (for almost ten years,
this car manufactured with damn) sped
to countless destinations,
no whomever drove head
ding here, there, or anywhere,
yea without missing a beat said
vehicle dependable, rightly never left
being reliable, thus no question even Fred
Flintstone could corroborate, how red
dilly reliant aforementioned car
stood us in good stead,
aye attribute to quality wed
did craftsmanship in tandem being exam
manned by skilled automotive technicians,
nonetheless majority of cumulative costs
exceed all other expenditures
and asper right finds
me in a severe emotional,
financial, and spiritual jam,
when meager money resources
socked with exorbitant costs
analogous to experiencing bam!
Over today, a six hundred
plus dollars repair, hits mine head
hard (albeit figuratively), I surmise
a worse fate than being dead
agh...please help me survive
this shell shock humongous,
(yet critical) brake system replacement,
cuz trickling optimism fled
leaving me agast
how ongoing expenses,
will be met for me tum tug get fed
now yours truly feels
utterly rife with dread
as his emergency savings
account reserve tapped,
since checking account
hemorrhaged i.e. bled,
whereat monthly social security
deposit cannot be used to feather bed
my inner peace, particularly when
alarming sense of monetary
distress dost dead
din ability to breathe easy,
when faith to remain
financially solvent fled...
Hence psyche feels like
being pitched to and fro
with no recourse to buttress
legal tender woe
full despair spurs philanthropic
largesse (I hate to beg), though
an upended employment track record
(most recent job held...oye vey
maybe two decades ago)
severe bouts of anxiety/
panic undermined emo
shin null (psychological) confidence
nsync with sweaty palms, this this bro
kin metaphor, which in part
contributes to lifetime mein kampf
of a bajillion times ho...ho...
humbug mood possessed mind
fiendish poker face spirit in hell
worse off than a hobo living on skidrow!
Myrtle Parker
Myrtle Parker lived on the Riviera,
That’s the English one not the French.
Her favourite tipple is Red Currant Cider,
Only beverage her thirst would quench.
Never did she marry no husband,
Preference for life single and free,
Though kept two doggy companions,
Twin Westies, Florence and Zebedee.
Miss Parker was a gatherer and hoarder,
Antiques, curios, lots of impractical tat.
Her catchphrase was somewhat familiar,
“I‘ll find a good use for that.”
Tumbledown Cottage name on the gate,
Aptly called for badly required repair.
The man from Devonshire Council,
Shakes his head in anguished despair.
Oh, dear Myrtle what are we to do,
I cannot see the wood for the trees,
Environment Officer is calling today,
He doesn’t like cockroach and fleas.
Myrtle lives close to Muscle shell beach,
Small cove of shingle and coarse sand,
Opposite the Cat protection league,
Where she buys new clothes second hand.
One summer had a house full of Kittens,
That grew into fully grown cats.
They left her in search of new comforts,
Plagued by visits of large rodent rats.
Myrtle decided on a radical clear out,
To make way for a new feather bed,
But could not let go of her treasures,
So continued sleeping on the sofa instead.
Seventy years old, obstinate and proud,
Devon Council man returned to her door.
“This house is making you poorly my dear,
Regretfully you cannot live here anymore.
Oh, dear Myrtle here’s what we’ll do,
Move you into a comfy town flat,
Environment Officer is calling today,
Condemn your cottage, so sorry about that.
Myrtle Parker was born in this house,
Her father he worked on the boats,
Mother stayed home baking bread,
From freshly ground buckwheat groats.
Tumbledown cottage is full of memories,
Though can’t find many for the clutter.
Diminutive rooms two up two down,
Walls dampened by broken pipe gutter.
If I have to go then take me in a box,
She chained herself to the newel post.
I’ll defend my rights for all I’m worth,
Then haunt Council man as his ghost.
Council man arrives excited with keys,
For Miss Parkers new urban home,
But Myrtle had been true to her word,
and perished on the staircase all alone.
Oh, dear Myrtle what have you done,
Your new flat was shiny and clean,
Environment Officer is calling today,
Demolition boss with bulldozer team.
My dad is bigger than yours she said.
It made me mad; I wished she was dead.
Took my anger to my Uncle Ned.
He started laughing, happy instead.
Most serious now, sick in my head,
Ran to my cousin, Goofball named Zed.
He chased me off, his face spitball of red.
With laughter shaking his feather bed.
I decided to sit in my little she-shed.
Devoured Ritz crackers ‘til I was fed.
Refused to talk to my Uncle Ted.
Who was spitting a story about Brother Ed.
I rode off on my purple and pink Moped.
Had an accident, needed bandage and a med.
The nurse who helped me was named Mrs. Ked.
Beautiful, she was a recent newlywed.
My dad is bigger than yours she said.
I was shocked for a second, but then I read
A book, settled down, no longer in my head.
Seeing the humor of Ed, Zed, Ned and Ted.
One couple of days, clothed in nakedness, singly composed, and all in dismay
stayed off course, legally corrupt, credit a bill, and comp a tip, to leave and stay
yet, the nightmares I dream, on rocky feather bed cot, are dry bed streaming
ripped from their seam, well dressed, blessing and cursing all steaming.
Second of the first, the last day starts in May, friends are out and in friction,
seas don't rise for joy, nor can a drowning soul, can't will be truth in fiction
I blindly see an eye opener, lose luck, hear muted sighs, tighten, and roar
gone now loosely stuck in the lost and found, again and nevermore.
Have you ever seen a puffed-up hairless dog?
I frankly did not think that I ever had, and I said as much.
This one is a big eater, he feeds more than a hog.
And he puts on airs, speaking of his manhood and such.
I could not wait to meet him, and it did not take long.
He was sitting on a royal throne, looking down on me.
He made arm motions to show me he thought he was strong.
I wondered how much more arrogant he could be.
He raised his wine goblet and yelled off with her head.
I realized with a start he was pointing it at me.
My hair was awful, straight from a messy feather bed,
At least I have hair, I told him with a bit glee.