Long Handshakes Poems
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Lyrics start 0.05 - timed to the music
Pack your bags dear, there’s a Croc near
And he’s creeping, through the night
With his eye on - on our old stead dear
And it appears - we’re within his sight
You know when that Croc smiles - shows his teeth dear
Concrete jungles start to spread
Whips the grass from right under their feet dear
Scams now filling, each word he’s said
What no scruples you ask, well he ain’t got’em you should know
Seeks locations both, far and wide
Look he’s sneaking - sneaking down the alley
Is there no - place - left to hide
Another Archway, off the highway down the road
Golden handshakes, don’t go the mile
Men in black suits they make it all happen dear
Sanguine red soon, turns into bile
With our kids dear – it’s the buzz 'we gotta go'
Family meeting place, just come on down
Try these milk shakes - they're just like the real thing
And these burgers, the best in town
Bet you a fiver - oh that bun is barely fresh
Kids now falling sick - while their doctors frown
Green backs talking – they don’t give a nickel
Have our bags packed
‘Cause the Croc is
Look out Sneaky Croc is
Sneaky Croc’s back
Back in town
EPILOGUE
Oh these outlets they keep spreading far and wide
In a hurry, they just can’t wait
Food so tasty, don’t you wonder ‘bout it all
No time to ponder it’ll make you late
Good old family name – so familiar dear
Look out folks for, deceit and lies
Another archway - around the corner
Now that Croc is stopping by
Look out OLD Croc is back
Footnote:
On our recent visit to Japan I noticed the proliferation of Fast Food outlets. It is such a pity to see a country that was once so fastidious with their traditionally healthy diets and that of their kids, changing their lifestyle and falling prey to corporate fast food giants. Even the kids are now embracing this way of life.
It’s sad to see traditional food outlets also losing their livelihood as the trend takes over.
Acknowledgement:
My deepest appreciation to Chris Green on agreeing to spare some of his wonderful talent and collaborating with me to bring you this arrangement.
Thank you so much Chris.
Copyright © Maria Williams & Chris Green | 3 June 2017
For their own good and for the good of society.
They used to put the mentally unstable away.
Society evolved; they closed the asylums.
Releasing the unstable into society.
Now we've got tent cities brimming with instability.
These are strange and sensitive times...people.
Society was much happier when it was light-hearted and high.
But eventually somebody had to go back to work.
Back in the day, people were somewhat genuine.
Now its all-saccharine grins and plastic handshakes.
If you don't stay within the ever-changing lanes, they'll hamstring your life.
You've still got your soul
but your soul never put food on the table.
Here's some of my favourite pet peeves
Construction, potholes, and speed bumps
A bald person with a bad fitting hair piece
Or soup with unidentified lumps
Public washrooms that stink to high heaven
Or when someone sneezes nine times
People that pick their noses in public
Kids eating with their fingers full of grime
People making bodily function noises
On a bus, at a concert or in church
Friends that promise a late night ride home
Then get drunk and leave you in the lurch
Mosquitoes, spiders, rats and lizards
Although not necessarily in that order
Someone who totally screws up a punch line
Getting held up for hours at the border
People that talk to non living objects
Like computers, teddy bears, and cars
Handshakes that resemble a cold wet fish
Cracking knuckles, most annoying by far
There certainly is a whole bunch more
I'm sure everyone's got some of their own
It's just human nature so go with the flow
Ignore them and try not to moan!
© Jack Ellison 2013
I flew the international route
Had an epiphany, no doubt
Surrounded, the mix of folks
Of ages, languages, life walks
What if we suddenly can share
One intellection, maybe pair?
A story from a distant nook
Earth’s wisdom, ready for a book
Of money, family and love
Tradition, habit thereof,
How we can learn, and why we don’t?
Out of indifference, we wouldn’t
This plane, a sample of mankind
Hey, guys and girls, come read my mind
I long to share, trick or two
You get to wear my old shoe
But no, they slept, restrained and fed
No brainstorms or plans instead
No passing secrets, gained advice
Within our reach, free and precise
No business chat, no meeting place
Or knowledge gained in plane’s space
Polite and friendly, shut as clams
No handshakes offered, only dams
We ate, we read, had movies watched
This opportunity was botched
And as we land - “goodbye, primates”
We split and run, to transfer gates
March 22, 2025
I will not go away completely
When it’s my time and curtain call
Continue, ever-so-discreetly
Like someone’s writing on the wall
I get to linger in emails
And links I sent, with silly jokes
All those stories, chats and tales
Addressed to friends and strange folks
Like passenger who leaves the roadster
My band plays on, yet I am gone
My face, not worthy of a poster
Shows up in photos I have spawned
In little gifts I passed around
In words I said and verse deployed
Imprints on sand and stony grounds
I’ll hop along, defying void
With deeds to be recalled at random
Bygone handshakes and warm embrace
I wrote my own memorandum
On how to quit but leave a trace
July 19, 2024
MY PILGRIMAGE :
His life was like a movie,
That came in episodes.
Seemingly, it looked groovy.
And it centred on crossroads.
The journey from his childhood,
Was like a minute to his adulthood.
Where he went through heartbreaks,
Stumbled and caught in earthquakes.
He met bad people who served him headaches,
And good people who served him handshakes.
There were ups and downs,
Sometimes leading him to breakdowns.
He went through a lot before touching down.
And he thought he should have known,
Looking back at his younger age.
The issues he would face before he grew old.
But he still believed in his pilgrimage,
As he picked the pieces of his broken heart.
And converted it into a beautiful heart.
Now his life story ends as a golden art,
Which is drawn and painted to be great.
Well,this is an artistic piece of my fate,
Of which everyone can relate.
No matter what they face.
Poet will use all it takes
To travel our works all over the world
Meeting poet celebrities with handshakes
The ones figurative words twirled
Monsters of us flowing lakes
Our works will run connections in water
Illuminating the littles fishes, escape route
From sharped eyes shark hunting freshwater
Calmly steady in its hangry pursuit
But, for grace, we set in as an arbiter
To quench the supposed fruitful fire
Burning to capture the sweet corn
And fry in belle's pot off any release desire
Hosting bile duct(s) at morn
Now, left with no choice than to retire
Poets transcend above anointing
Of been referred to pastors
For the unction is beyond appointing
One a specific role of facing disasters
But our pens touch lives pastors keep avoiding
With or without money
Time knows hatred
How sweet is honey
Whenever bliss coexisted
To keep blood runny
And avoid the sand
To bury all living dreams
We paint our future's brand
Of lasting awesome themes
Test of time will certainly withstand
Even making her some teases in irony
Birthed out of culture to check her paraliepsis
And lay her presence low to my scrutiny
To balance the unexpected result; an equation of antithesis
Her waist shall turn me around in hyperbole
Like no other would cooking up imagery
My soul's eyes view colossally
To dwell in her secretive aerie
Gladly will I toast words
The day I put on the way to the altar
And put off the doubt of timing birds
Which could rent my pen to halter
Then find in my pieces buzzwords
Oh! When she shall finally accept
Our loves been one, may err
And we shall not be affected
Then poet's love for her
Till the end of time will never be defeated
They smile like church people
front row teeth, polished shoes,
hands folded over gold-plated lies.
And America—
sweet tired America—
keeps mistaking volume for truth,
keeps mistaking a salesman
for a savior.
There are towers with names carved into them
like warnings no one read in time.
There are golf courses green as envy,
ballrooms glowing like kingdoms built
from unpaid invoices
and handshakes with devils
wearing silk ties.
The father stands at the center of it all
like a carnival barker dipped in bronzer and grievance,
calling every indictment a witch hunt,
every critic an enemy,
every law another thing
for poorer people.
Meanwhile the children circle the throne
with sharpened smiles.
One trademarks patriotism.
One sells certainty in little jars.
One hunts influence
the way wolves hunt soft animals in winter.
And the friends—
God, the friends—
they rise from the shadows of private dinners
and closed hotel doors,
laughing into champagne glasses
while contracts bloom like mold
behind the curtains.
Billions.
Not earned in the old way
with broken backs and factory whistles.
No.
This is the new American alchemy:
turn outrage into currency,
turn division into stock options,
turn flags into receipts.
And somewhere a woman works double shifts
under fluorescent lights
while a billionaire complains about persecution
on television.
Somewhere a veteran sleeps in his truck
while men born into marble bathrooms
speak of sacrifice.
Pamela Harris says that corruption is not only theft.
It is the slow teaching
that nothing sacred exists anymore.
That justice is decorative.
That truth is negotiable.
That if you are rich enough
you can stand in the middle of history
and dare morality to touch you.
But history always keeps receipts.
Even empires with gold curtains rot.
Even grifters grow old.
And the loudest man in the room
must someday face a silence
he cannot sue, brand, or bully away.
I am a terrible virus, fast and wise
400 micron plus is roughly my size
I am a zoonotic, Corona is my name
Infecting unwary humans is my game
I remain on ground and not in the air
To catch careless humans unaware
On a metal surface I survive for 12 hours
After that period I lose all my powers
If I fall on fabrics I stay alive for 9 hours
To kill me, the fabrics need good showers
Or a 2-hour exposure to bright sunshine
Will succeed in sending me forever offline
I can survive 10 minutes on human hands
Handwash with a sanitizer can upset my plans
Exposing me to temperatures of 27o C plus
Will send me to RIP without any fuss
My conduciveness to pandemic brings me fame
Leaking into the human lungs is my aim
Countries get panicky as my presence is felt
Commotion everywhere to seek a safety belt
My name evokes terror in every mind
Doctors get worried as I’m a unique kind
Old vaccines and medicines do not work
Fear of my presence makes the people berserk
Race, nationality is of no concern to me
I invade places as far as my eye can see
Changing greeting customs is also my flair
From handshakes to folded hands in the air
Whosoever comes in my way I do not spare
Whether Presidents or cobblers I don’t care
People feel greatly relieved when I die away
They pray that I don’t resurrect another day
I have entered a room filled with handshakes and friendship
Sharing hugs here and there, there's a buzz in the air
Soupers queued, center stage, with a rhyme and a theme
One is reading a poem with applause from the wings
There is laughter, and sharing......and a microphone blaring
A few poems being read, but no one is hearing,
since the chatter is loud, and the crowd's having fun!
I'm checking who's here, are they cool, are they new?
Is she who I had dreamed behind her avatar screen?
Is he who he had seemed as his poetry deemed?
How great is this chance, to catch a real glance
and see all those faces, my computer just beamed
I look for a friend, who has traveled quite far
Taking trains, or a plane, in a bus or a car
I'm happy to say, they are nicer by far
than I'd ever expected.......these Poetry Stars!
__________________________________________________________
10/31/13 ......for Yasmin's Contest: Meeting the Soupers