Long Flagging Poems
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She frowned at him, still dressed in his skins,
then cast her gaze upon sweet Nell.
“Why do you bring a savage with you?
Long, lost, little brother, do tell?”
Prent knew this would be a hard sell.
“She’s your niece,”he informed,”My little girl.
I came home so she could learn the ways of the world.”
Annabeth laughed, then she glowered at him.
“If only our father could see you now.
Consorting with whores, laying with squaws,
that’s how he figured you would turn out.”
But Prent would let no one talk down.
“I came here to settle, and do right by Nell.
If you don’t want to help me, I’ll do it myself!”
Annabeth sighed, and motioned them inside,
but the scowl never did leave her face.
“Mother, I’m afraid, was laid up by a stroke,
I’ve taken over running this place.
I guess you and your…child can stay.
But I’m telling you now, just so you know,
I’m not associating with folks in such ratty clothes!”
The days that came transformed them both
Into good facsimiles of civilized folk.
Prent wore waist-coats, Nell put on a dress
With a high collar that nearly choked,
So tight it was that poor Nell spoke:
“Daddy, daddy! It huwrts my neck!”
Said Annabeth,”Child, you’ll get used to that.”
Days went by and a tutor was hired,
to try and teach the irrepressible girl.
Annabeth grimly took it on herself
to impart on her manners of the world,
still scowling at her like a churl.
While Prent went to his brother Ike,
to see if the banker had a job he’d like.
But luck was not with him at the bank,
owned sixty years by his family.
He still had no skill for business talk,
or keeping the customers happy.
He found his spirits soon flagging.
Plus, when it came to finding a love,
it seemed he was cursed by Heaven above.
Some would walk with him if he called,
but most ran when they learned of Nell.
One was so shocked he’d married a squaw
that she loudly condemned him to Hell.
In truth, it was all just as well.
A mother, he thought, Nell needed to grow,
but none of these women would make that so.
A month passed, and things grew strained,
Annabeth seemed more and more disturbed.
“She won’t learn her manners, and only talks
about trapping, horses, and pet squirrels!
That’s no kind of talk for a young girl!”
She threw up her hands, and said,”I’m done!
There is no helping that little one.”
CONTINUES IN PART III...
Courtesy the miracle of modern medicine
above named prescription medication
expelled, dissolved, cured... out ma skin
involuntary telltale twitching, thrashing
flagging, sacking, tackling... -
scoring field goal and unexpected win
allowing, enabling, and providing therein
peaceful easy feeling twin
affecting yours truly and missus
awoke haggard hung over condition,
viz me kicking as if possessed by jinn
totally unconscious until
brought tummy attention,
whereby said pharmacological script
evidenced ear to ear grin
the spouse enjoyed pleasant dreams
amazingly, essentially, joyfully... restoring
balance between her yang and yin,
now looking forward when
morning hath broke kin
refreshing, rejuvenating, restoring...
idyllic as soundgarden qua Eden
adam mint to consign me to doghouse
pup tent, or dungeon where dragon
exuding assenting puff - toward daddy
regarding timely quick fix with min
hum mull effort, ah wish long been
cursed with penury, the bane didst ruin
ability to enjoy, life, liberty putin
on the ritz courtesy,
how money woes dost underpin
psychological mental distress
challenged time and agin
plucky stalwartness unable to vanquish
ill fated circumstances on par with Pekin
quacker – attempts in vain to duck,
or thwart invisible javelin
bed lamb for ewe know who.
Wispy clouds pass like dreams
over cornfields near the shoulder
of a highway where I stand.
I have many homes, but here
in Sigourney I’m staying for the week
to control traffic in the countryside.
The farms that lie along the road
each have a story to tell,
and each day I talk to the clerk
at the hotel and show her a poem.
The clerk says she’s getting
another job at a nursing home,
and we’re drawn together
when we say we’ve both known
people who had dementia and died.
I tell her on a clear day
I can look to the south
and see the place
where the spread of fields
touches the sky.
This day, the skies grow heavy
when draped by dark clouds
and a linesman says
a storm is on the way
and I think of how fast
life can change in a matter
of hours,
but we continue to work
under a patter of rain
and later hear a tornado
formed south of us
and tore through
the north part of Missouri,
we’re saved.
After work I savor
conversations with the clerk
and the waitress in a diner
who says she’s married
and living on a farm,
the friendships I needed
while working on the road.
(* to be read in the style of Heny V before the battle of Agincourt)
To arms! To arms!
Men of the Shires, rouse from your winter sleep
the game's afoot, waste no more time abed,
to Hardware stores you have a date to keep,
fight through the drapes of cobwebs in your sheds.
To arms!
Unshackle pasting tables, wipe the trays
for paint rollers not used in many moons,
the paint brushes that have seen better days
left to go hard in pickle jars since June.
To arms!
The squeaky front gate mocks you as you pass,
the peeling paper teases in the hall,
Greenhouse offends thine eye with broken glass
house number upside down upon the wall.
To arms!
Onward, onward you face your foe alone
tirelessly strive, no weaknesses, no flagging,
your only ally, her true colours shown
through bouts of sharp critique and constant nagging.
To arms!
We few, we happy few with common bond
will tackle each new challenge with no fear
for though the day be long you see beyond,
when all is done you're off to have a beer.
To arms!
From the first time that I saw you
When few were in your corner
I watched you from a distance
And I saw you, play a stormer
There was thunder in the air
And you made my young heart sing
For I knew, I’d seen the makings
Of the new M.M.A. King
I seen you dance, a lethal dance
With the look of the insane
A kick, a punch, like rifle shots
White lightning in your veins
To those that said, “you couldn’t”
The ‘Belt’s’ above your station
Your confidence and brilliance
Helped lift, a flagging nation
My name, my friend, is Steven Walsh
And I danced a ‘different tune’
A grain of sand, in a desert storm
A hope among the ruin
Obscurity, was not my way
My thoughts they couldn’t gag
The proudest moment, in my life
To hold our Irish Flag
Five thousand years, before today
Then you’d have been a Pharaoh
A life cut short at twenty four
I got to meet my Hero
No equal on this planet
A body, lean and mean
Each time you fight, I’m at your side
That’s me, upon the screen
So, Conor, if you’re listening
I’m always in your corner
I’ll watch you here, from Heavens Gate
And know, you’ll play a stormer
There is thunder in the air
And you make my young heart sing
For I knew you'd be the makings
Of the new M.M.A. King
Things are moving at a rabid pace.
Motorists throttling throaty compact cars.
Coming up on you at Mach speed like their lives are on fire.
Like their time is more precious than mine.
Notice the clusters of yellow-vested workers
digging up the earth, laying miles of line everywhere.
A couple of them were in my backyard unannounced.
For two days they worked in silence.
I opened the drapes on the picture window
to let them know that I know what they're doing
And is probably no dang good for the people.
They glanced over and continued laying plastic veins into the black earth.
Letting me know that they don't care that I know what they're doing
is no dang good for the people.
In their frenzy, they trampled my infant rose bushes to death. They are death.
Just like those chem trails stitched across our sky are death.
Things are picking up pace.
They've already erased Honest Abe.
No more copper in the pocket.
Silver and the greenback are next.
Plastic only-more control-a globalist's wet dream.
They want to know when you're buying
what you're buying
and how much of it you're buying and at what price.
Restrictions, red-flagging, and rationing are next.
They'll say it's for our own good; they are our slow death.
Big Brother is not only watching but is smothering us.
They want to kill the middle class and individuality,
Cull the herd, shame and arrest the songbird in all of us.
*Image of Ukraine Chronicles by PJC.
Top of the Charts 2023
1. putin was put in the hit list~~grateful dead now dead and company
play [14th-17th, Cancun, Mexico]
2. your feelings and emotions are left at the door~~on the welcome mat
3. a symptom flagging a rock star climbing the charts~~yellow backs
blues mark
4. hollywooders tip newsmen goodwill ball~~so sly even their stills move
5. hollywood moguls think stars ratings best in courtrooms~~not studios
6. libs think that what is central is between your legs~~not between
your ears
7. teens carded for smokes, alcohol, guns, and movies~~all comforts of
homes
8. kids study hard to be like dads~~first must beat dads in video games
9. it's hit or miss, sink or swim, tit for tat, lies or~~half-truths oh my gosh
10. your souls to God by friendly fire are tokens~~new arms shipment
arrived
11. newshounds must prove their news agency~~best way to I.D. their
bodies
12. make sure that the white flag you're waving is white enough~~and pray
for snow
13. west cash in alleys and street corners~~self-finance efforts and ship
drugs
14. demonrats are busy printing money~~publicans rehide the ink
15. for those who coerce the years of our past~~be prepared to raise the
dead
2023 January 13
*4th Place*
Hit list 2023
~~Joe Maverick: Judged 2023 February 10
*HMS; 17x15
A free afternoon
So we heeded advice.
We strolled by the river;
The streets did entice.
We wandered down alleys
In neighborhoods where
Unexpectedly, ruins
Cropped up here and there.
To keep us from flagging,
I turned to gelato.
My spouse had espresso -
He liked it a lotto.
But when we were ready
To hit the hotel,
We vetoed a taxi,
For back where we dwell...
We travel by subway,
By foot or by bus.
It's quick and it's cheap,
Which of course is a plus.
Yet we're tourists and don't
Know the routes, like at home
But we figured - we'll ask.
After all, when in Rome...
So we purchased two tickets
And made our way back
By bus and by subway;
The code we did crack...
With the help of some locals,
For at every station
Were "Grazies"* and smiles,
Which don't need a translation.
*thank you in Italian
Lint dunes roll in around at 3pm.
A magma of malaise soaks flagging shoes,
pewter molehills baked
into every concrete moment.
P.M. anywhere outside a pool
is a waste land,
the day drones in sink holes,
waits for the sun and moon to remember
to be apostles of good news.
Saltlicks on the brim
of empty glasses catch fire.
Siestas, naps, and forty-winks
are available for the unemployed,
the rest must hang like bats
from the arid levers of an internal clock
as we anticipate happy hour.
Prior to that sacred moment
many will hotly debate
which time zone to ignore
to get there faster.
Remember, my life is just a forest flash
I don't have a life anymore, your life for me is just drifting away
Life is dusk, death is the bright dark flash
I have no more life, no more death, all my desires have gone into the
distance
Into the distance, you appear, the shadow fades
My love would have been a complete and endless devotion to you
You will never understand, you will never reach the infinite field of my soul
Understand, but don't. You will never understand, because you have never felt
my sensitive and monogamous love
You have lost our endless love, oh Emma.
Live on. You're late, a real Emma awaits in a new life
The judicial knock of death awaits urgently
It screams to go on!!
I loved you
I was burning with desire
No flagging
I'm dead
There is life in heaven in hell
You don't come there.