Long Hauling Poems
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The reindeer folded their hooves in protest
demanding no more rooftop dashes,
no hauling toys in winter’s blustery blast.
Picket signs read: No More Sleigh!
Dasher, his loyal and faithful reindeer servant,
even burned his harness! What should Santa do?
A desperate Santa, opened ZipRecruiter with a click~
Urgent: Sleigh Team, No Flight Experience Okay.
The squirrels showed up with acorn résumés,
gnawing the reins and forgetting the route.
Team Squirrel was speedy, but slightly unkempt,
cheek pouches bulging with ill-gotten tempt.
They zigzagged the skyline, dropping acorns like coal.
Even Santa’s sleigh wobbled left, then right~
At dawn, the squirrels parked crooked on a power line,
cheeks stuffed with stolen candy canes, utterly divine.
A mackerel sky fillets a fish scaled village,
an ear clapping, full sailed, fog
moors itself to the rooftops,
then hides all in a breezeless blear.
Rheumy eyes peep out from nets,
damp noses sniff abaft trawling drapes.
Cloth in hand, potbellied proprietors
battle the splatter and spray,
dabbing at mildewed shelves,
warding away slopping waders
and salty puddles.
On the sightless sea
far beyond the shore and shingle,
fog horns are lowing like lost cattle.
Later, misty reeks will be scoured
from groggy docks,
hauling hands will rope together
the tide-tossed salvage
by and by, squeaky boots
may trudge to taprooms
where codgers and callow alike
can be well oiled
and duly quenched.
In the maelstrom…
Black inferno machines are one.
In the belly of the maelstrom, they rise,
And nothing is compromised
Black inferno machine
Shadows against the night,
Engines of hunger, devouring, a heavy sigh
An iron orchestra playing a requiem to the stars.
They are born from the marrow of oblivion,
Grinding gears forged, forgotten gods!
Sparks that kiss the void, and it grinds back!
Breathing fire through the hallow wind.
Whispers of rust and iron sang like prayers.
In languages of smoke, oil & rust
Their pistons pump a heartbeat of chaos,
Unseen, unfelt, but everywhere. At once!
Men in black cloaks,...suspicious eyes,
lords of crimes, and dire deeds....
of the broken god mended,
ride atop the blackened machines!
Each one is a cathedral of darkness, & dominion!
American Empirical madness never ends.
A labyrinth of wires, burning veins of desire—
Lurkers in the void, chasing echoes of eternity.
On roads paved with the bones of suns.
Haunting, they drift through the thick tar sky,
Tires crushing the silence, grinding ash.
Night bends beneath their weight.
Time is a brittle thing, shattered, erased.
A storm, painted in cracked coal and amber flame,
Pulse of the apocalypse wrapped in steel.
Wheels turn like the ticking of a dead man’s clock,
Hauling the endless dead behind them.
Only the blackened n ruined sun knows the truth,
Hidden deep in the furnace of creation.
Black Inferno Machines feast forever
Turning
Yearning
Burning…
Just a little snack, some crackers
and some peanut butter
Wholesome delicious treat to eat
There ants the assaulter_
They had assaulted the whole jar
Working like red wigglers
Entering the jar, eating 'til filled
Hauling off their weight_chiselers
There must have been thousands of them
Those small black sugar ants
They were inside tightly sealed jar
None stopping to sigh or pant
One thing sure about their work
Ethic, it's long and hard
They cooperate to get done
Well_I had a trump card
Getting out that insect spray fast
Spraying inside cabinet
Just a little cleaned them out soon
Offering no casket
Learn from those slippery small ants
Do your job and do it well
Take into account their success
Don't steal avoid jail cell
Back in nineteen hundred and three
I working with a logging crew,
cutting and limbing mighty trees,
be they hemlock, pine, or spruce.
We worked for the Nowell Paper firm,
in the shades of the Adirondacks,
spent all winter in Camp Seven,
sending full sleds down icy tracks.
One morning in late December
we got up before the dawn,
that was just par for the course,
our work days were rather long.
We made it to the cook-house,
where waited the salt pork,
with flapjacks and potatoes fried,
we ate until enrgorged.
Then with a nod to the bull cook,
to let him know he’d done good,
we grabbed our axes, our crosscut saws,
and headed out into the woods.
By noon we worked a stump garden
we’d cleared back in the fall,
when we’d cut down the spruces
though a few still stood tall.
Those ones are the seed trees,
to make sure it grows again,
but the ones we felled we had cut
into fourteen-foot lengths.
Now in that deep chill of winter
we worked with our pike-poles,
hauling the logs to big sleds
drawn by horses, rather cold.
We stacked them for the ice road,
in air that made all shiver,
the teamster waited to haul it
all the way down to the river.
Now lumberjacks always work in pairs,
and my partner was Guy Montreaux,
a Quebecois better with an axe
than any farmer with a hoe.
He was quite an entertaining man,
lifted spirits in our shanties,
and knew the words to every bawdy song
ever sang in the north country.
On that grim day he huffed loudly,
having been put through his paces,
as he loaded up the last big log
a horse jolted back in its traces.
The equine kicked, the pile shook,
the teamster cried,’Get clear!”
Me and the boys all dove away,
filled with a familiar fear...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
Cowardly this loathsome fellow
In old west they’d call him yellow
I guess that was his biggest flaw
Jealous greater than Othello
He wanted more, the more he saw
Hauling around his gaping jaw
What’s to come of this man of greed
Lied until his scruples were raw
He stole from innocents in need
It would run green if he did bleed
So a deal with the devil struck
To warnings he refused to heed
After years of passing the buck
It seems this man ran out of luck
His broker dragged him down to hell
One more trade up a sleeve to pluck
Scamming incoming clientele
He found a job he could do well
Now he is Satan’s man in charge
Of telemarket personnel
The water well
There is near the houses a deep well
you can´t stick a bucket on a rope many ropes are needed.
They used to hire a man usually the village idiot
to spend his life hauling up buckets of water.
Villagers believed the water came from the Yanjing river
A man who had gone to school disagreed; it is a deep
underground river, he said. For this, he was disliked.
One day he fell down the well, but since it was not
manmade and smooth a big stone sticking out saved him
from falling all the way down.
Broke his leg in the fall, he did.
With a dangling leg he had to claw himself up, however
they gave him water to drink, his struggle made him thirsty.
When he got out, he spoke a strange language
the villagers, thought was Chines, it never struck them
he was stark raving mad.
Now, an electric pump was installed, they saw him limping
out of the village talking gibberish.
An outside garland green and white
across our porch top glows by night.
In the yard, heads nod on reindeer!
Welcome to my holiday home at this special time of year.
Inside my house, see right away
the greeting cards that I display
on the hall wall, near the mirror.
Welcome to my holiday home at this special time of year.
Inside the living room, you’ll see -
trimmed red and gold - our handsome tree
where all our loved ones gather near.
Welcome to my holiday home at this special time of year.
One table has the manger scene.
The shepherds and the Magi lean
to worship Him God deemed most dear.
Welcome to my holiday home at this special time of year.
Another table, fun to view,
holds figurines, more than a few!
There’s angels, snowmen, Santas here!
Welcome to my holiday home at this special time of year.
Inside my kitchen, smell the treats!
There’s Chex mix and a lot of sweets.
Let’s make a toast to Christmas cheer!
Welcome to my holiday home at this special time of year.
For "HOLIDAY HEARTH" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Linda-Marie Bariana
(Hope you don't mind me hauling out this oldie, Linda,
inspired by you before!!)
Trucks hauling away defunct Malls.
One city has been transported to another,
until superimposed, only the name are different.
Freeways chase endless miles,
looking for more things to shift,
shlep and shoulder.
Ninety per cent of everything movable
is assembled by 100 percent of new renters.
Oil, cattle, and inflammable gaseous toxins,
are handled by cab radios, satellite commands,
and shredding rubber.
The main drags compete to be anonymous,
wear the same masks, many disintegrate
or morph into closed forever signage.
In the concrete encircled,
whittled-down woods,
lovers try to imagine a better place to live,
one that is not yet on the road.
City across the water, night by violet aurora
Los Angeles, we're further south than I thought (than we should be)
I take a strewn-bark trail to get a better view
Hand me the camera, Polaroids in quick succession (when is this?)
It's not quite capturing it, never the depth of field we need
Daybreak (remembering, there's no bay in LA)
Scores of Chinese workers emerge from pores in pagodas
Hauling, cleaning, young mean men, old pig-tailed women, children too small to see clearly
Faces are rusty, resolutely worn
I can zoom in but can't get there from here
Night again, back on the trail
A man appears from the palm brush behind
Could pass for a 1930s Okie hobo; faded salmon shirt, crushed felt hat
Something in his beard
He just wants to feel the lights and see the palms
Gunshots, on my side of the water
Okie flees, I hear whispers, overlapping
This is good stuff, though unnerving
I should be writing this down
Ushered from the scene, to somewhere I didn't expect to be