Long Ground floor Poems
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Prolific? can't stop the damn flow
tried hot showers, even cold... nope!
nuttin' works, might try holding my breath...
crap, almost saw my life pass before my eyes
hey, I did some juicy stuff
remember when I grabbed a young filly
on the subway and couldn't understand
why she got so upset... geez
only caressed her parts for ONLY
a moment or so, then I DID thank her
I mean no need to yell and scream like that
what is this world coming to, anyway!!!
another time, a larger than normal (fat) lady
got on our elevator and pressed “2”
we were on the ground floor so I said to her...
“that's only one floor up, you could have walked!”
she answered, “WHAT and lose a pound?”
Cathie and I were on our honeymoon
in Cape Cod at the time and she was wondering
“what the hell did I get myself into”???
that was 18 years ago and she's still wondering!!!
The man in the elevator had to get down at the ground floor
The elevator glided smoothly till the third floor
When about to get down, the man found to his great dismay
That the lift got stuck in the middle with all fellow travellers away
His heart began thumping fast, the air grew thicker
Drenched in sweat, he found his energy waning quicker.
Fear seized him and he couldn’t think of anything else
Losing control, a warmth running down his thighs, he did sense.
When the security staff finally came to rescue the fool
He was found squatting on the floor in a pool
He had peed on his trousers, and accepting all blame
Felt relieved to be out of that cage, though at the risk of shame.
Part 2 - The Great Fire of London, 1666
Just think of a town, put up with no plan,
where people build houses wherever they can.
The streets twist and dip, hugging ditches and streams,
and safety's a thing of which nobody dreams.
There aren't any rules, or best practices, codes,
regulations, fire stations, no hydrants or nodes.
The street where you live has no concrete, just clay,
and it's narrow, foul-smelling, and no light of day
can squeeze in. Your ground floor is brick-built and stout,
but your upstairs is flimsy and jetties right out,
almost touching your neighbour's. You thus form a tunnel
through which rats, cats and faeces can constantly funnel.
Well, come with me now to meet Thomas and Jane,
who live, work and worry in just such a lane:
it's always called "Pudding", which gives us a clue -
for baking is what all the people here do.
September the second, the year sixty-six,
and Old Mother Nature's been up to her tricks:
we haven't seen rain since the start of the war,
and timbers are shrinking, and drier than straw.
Tom's oven malfunctions. The house catches fire.
Our instinct, in peril? To try to get higher.
Tom, Jane, the children, and Sukie, the maid
(Sukie is thirteen, and very afraid)
climb out on the roof. Oh, the smoke and the heat!
The roof tiles are baking, and hurting our feet!
We've all got to jump to the roof to our left:
but don't glance below as you're leaping the cleft!
But Sukie can't do it. It's asking too much.
She'll be the first to be killed by the Dutch.
The signals aren't vaulting across her synapses.
She's lost from our sight when the storey collapses.
Four days blazed this greatest of all conflagrations,
engulfing some thousands of poor habitations
and scores of old churches, whether timber or stone.
The tally of people will never be known.
A square mile of ruin. A city destroyed.
A blackened and acrid and comfortless void.
Saint Paul's is a shell, its rubble still smoking.
But who is that gentleman, measuring, poking?
The spiral staircase made her high heels sing
as quickly she descended to ground floor.
She’d pulled it off! Her briefcase held the proof.
How proud of her would be her paramour!
How carefully they’d planned the pefect heist.
He’d groomed her well in all she had to do.
She’d faked credentials and gained trust in them.
Then precious relics she had access to.
From here, the City Churches pierced the mist
where they would meet. Her man made no mistakes.
She’d take a case identical from him,
return to the museum with the fakes!
While making the exchange, she nervously
had dropped the case of relics! He was there
to quickly stuff them back in their briefcase.
He closed it, and now smiling, crossed the square.
The fakes in hand, back to her job she ran,
clueless that her man she’d not see again!
June 6, 2018
for Viv Wigley's One Nine And Sixteen Upgrade Version Poetry Contest
There was a castle on a hill
It only took hours to build
Buckets and buckets of sand
Two pairs of children's hands
A vacant high spot on the beach
Just out of the low tides reach
Two kids, plastic shovels and pails
Construct a castle minus hammers and nails
The ground floor must be the driest
As water seeps down from the highest
A little shovelful here and there
Customized architectural repairs
A spectacular four story sight
The envy of Frank Lloyd Wright
Onlookers and passers by
Give congratulatory high fives
There's not much time to gloat
Changing tide is filling the moat
Once the water spills over the side
The sand will swim out with the tide
an original poem by Daniel Turner
I'm used to the dark skies
I live in the part of town
where the sun don't shine
I take the long way around
Just to find there's no turning back time
Ain't nothing here mine
Nothing was ever promised to me
So I could justify this greed
Because with it, I made ends meet fulfilled my needs and learned how to eat
I had no choice but to cheat
Cuz making it in this world proves
Thats theres nothing here for keeps
No one listens so it's stupid to speak
The strong can't admit they're weak
The demons beneath our skin preach and teach
Us that we no longer can feel the pain our scars hide
I'm used to the dark skies
I live in the part of town
Where the sun don't rise
I've come around
Only to find
I've ran out of time
Nothing here was ever mine
Happiness came
But it felt so wrong
Whose to blame ?
Cuz it was fake all along
Believing there's a heaven only makes you think you're worthy of a blessing
Because of the belief your always second guessing
When at the end of it all knowledge is your only weapon
But people always fronting because they think they got a good thing coming
Causing them to never be satisfied with what they're working for always feeling like they deserve more
If there's no answer on your third knock on heavens door
Simply means u need to settle the score and take the elevator back to the ground floor
and forget the hope that the sky's stars disguise
Cuz now
I'm used to the dark skies
I'm from the part of town
Where the sun don't rise
It swallowed its pride
It's barely alive
In due time it'll find
That nothing's gonna help it shine
Now it knows,
What I mean
When I say
nothings mine
I am stumbling along the beaten down path and struggling to get out of the dark, there are some boulders in the way and I have to work up extra energy to roll them away. The earth wakes up from its midnight slumber grumbling about an extramarital affair while the sun, moon and the stars watches closely from over there; two newlyweds carrying a bundle on their head, moving from city to town without decent place to lay their head, and the music bellowing in the heavens kept their spirit alive. Daylight breaks with an explosion in the skies sending people running all over the street, and thick smoke bleeds from the clouds spreading a stagnant fume around the town while the universe stands on top of the Hill breathing fresh air, and I struggle to find my way around, but my instinct forces me to lay flat on the ground, and I saw the vision of how the avenue disappeared. There is an avenue beneath the ground floor where they smuggle merchandise into the town. They were naturally formed from an ancient avenue that once exist before an earthquake sinks it three hundred years ago. Everything is in tack and they have lights below the tracks they have place where you can sleep when you are traveling in the deep. The layers are so deep, you have to follow the water pipes and it will lead you straight into the open street. There are no caretakers down there just one long tunnel that leads you out of hell, you must pay a fee at the entrance, leave it in the box and ask no question, they are monitoring you from a screen that is embedded in my dreams. I have embarked on this trip of a lifetime to complete something’s on my bucket list, so give me the space so that I can accomplish it before it's too late; the merchants have gathered in the town to begin the negotiation, and there is a long line of them stuck below the ground so open the door across the street so that they can come out of the ground. Come let me show you the mystery of the avenue that was swallowed beneath the ground.
Please excuse me for trying to pre-empt the censors that now live among us. I hope that my meaning is clear.
A Much Better One
The world's always been, as it is now,
a very se***l place. Organisms, in all their variety,
be f****n'. It's what assures reproduction.
So why do so many humans in the US of A
have an unhealthy fixation on such a natural function?
Even a natural body uncovered by clothing
sets these small minds all a twitter.
A br***t bared to nurture an infant has been seen by too many as somehow obscene.
I see this as proof of our utter disconnection from the real sources of life.
And I haven't even broached the subject of pleasure. What we each feel when we play with our c***s or our pu****s. Some of us from a very young age.
Why is so much of this covered under a blanket of titters and denial? If this is a natural function who will it, exactly, defile?
Why do we choose to constantly hover above the ground floor of reality?
If I'm denied the right to speak freely about the human condition who does it save? Who is being protected from whom?
Who, exactly, are those who are killing our global sisters and brothers without showing any real mercy? And how are they still being allowed to do this?
Why isn't this seen for the utter disconnection from the real sources of life that it is?
And... when I speak of f*****g... and women baring their br***ts to nurture their babies... why is my right to speech all of a sudden denied?
Perhaps it is time that we rethought our values. And became more connected. And became less supportive of those killing our sisters and brothers. And became more proactive in finding ways to making the world we were given into a much better one.
This man in the elevator
needs to break out a razor
His beard is massively long
with aromas of Cheech
and Chong
Everywhere else this man was well put together
ironed shirt, slicked hair, polished boots of leather
but his beard was everywhere wild
like a freshly sugared up child
His face was straight forward
secretly feeling my gaze
"What kind of insects are hiding in that maze?"
I wanted to ask but that wouldn't be nice
I stepped back
Didn't want to get any lice
As the door opens up to the ground floor
we disperse
never to see him anymore
Who am I to judge?
That growth has probably taken a year
As my mom always told me
Looks aren't always as they appear.
'Twas the night before Christmas in my freezing flat
I‘m snuggled up on the sofa stroking my pussycat.
When all of a sudden there’s a knock at the door -
there’s a guy dressed in red, I’ve seen his face before
I said come on in Santa, although it’s warmer outside
my flat’s like the North Pole; my oil boiler has died
The engineer’s are booked up until the New Year
so I’m feeling quite low I’ve lost my festive cheer
He say’s ‘I’m not really Santa I’m boiler man Mike,
let me go and grab my toolbox from my motorbike’
On returning he said he lived in the same block
and he skillfully fixes my oil boiler’s air lock
Mike says he took my call and that he must confess
that his heart skipped a beat when I gave my address
I’m the girl of his dreams; he’d seen me from afar
when I drive off to work in my scarlet sports car
It’s no wonder I’ve seen his face somewhere before
he’s the new tenant in the flat on the ground floor
Mike then steals a kiss under the mistletoe
he begs for another I just cannot say no!
We arrange to have dinner on Christmas Day
this is one year I really want Santa to stay!
Inspired by The night before Christmas Contest - but not funny enough
Sponsored by Joseph May
11/22/18