Long Junkyard Poems
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I find my memories, to be
a collection of convoluted excursions
from every moment lived out of place and time
like the handprint of Paleolithic Art
that says... I was there
Could that my memories be manufactured
and not lived, how different they would be
With the changing shadows of age
I claim nothing more or less
then the recorded minutes
that reveal the arrogance
in black and white pictures
glued together by mold and mildew
saved in my junkyard of yesterday's rusty relics
as though they were jewels
stored for whatever reason
I remind myself...one day
I must get rid of them
10/4/19
contest My Favorite Junkyard
When I lift my eyes, the sky offers no stars,
only missiles parading with arrogance.
Before me, mountains of corpses rise,
my pupils dilated by human savagery.
Humanity has been consuming itself for millennia,
and I bear the guilt of all those cowards
who watch peoples fade away
behind screens, instructing the purveyors of war.
I arrived in this macabre dimension
like so many innocents cut down by bombs.
The Earth groans under the assaults of unbalanced men,
who plunder its entrails,
who sow hatred, death, and chaos
since time immemorial.
The oceans vomit waves of cadavers,
the hurricanes carry the scent of desolation and fear.
Nations crumble beneath the laughter of tyrants,
and children, bare-handed, learn to count
the bodies falling into the mud of oblivion.
I walk amidst these ruins,
listening to the groaning of stones,
a powerless witness to the unchained pride of men.
Crushed hearts weep for their torn roots,
death swallows secrets that no one tells,
and the sky has become nothing but a theater of fire and iron.
In this open-air junkyard,
the sparks of love persist, stubbornly burning,
like a breath even death cannot smother.
MY FAVORITE JUNKYARD
Twin Junkyards my favorite decaying drastic.
One virtual, other materialistic.
Both are almost abandoned yet nostalgic.
Nice attire once adorning me now pale torn
Gifts from loved ones, once adored now useless broken
Bunch of old letters losing touch not to be thrown.
Lost interest in treasures once desired, preserved.
Cards, Notebooks, Mementos, Albums, Prizes seeming weird.
In last phase all are destined to lie in favorite junkyard.
Forgotten Love, Lost memories, virtual aspect
Loss, separation, suffering, failure to accept
or unfulfilled wish not to discard but be kept.
Breach of promise or nasty betrayal to look
False commitment or ingratitude of a crook
Piercing pricking seeking shelter in junkyard nook.
Arden ardor of long-lost amour tending to get inert.
Impossible to rewind bygone days yet not to let apart,
all settled in favorite junkyard lying in abyss of heart.
10/19/19
'My Favorite Junkyard' Contest by craig cornish
i don't cower to death, he had me in his grasp
faltering through the sudor of illness
my heart beating slower than time's hands
like a worthless clock on the wall needing replaced
ashen flesh bore his mark, a kiss against my blueish lips
somehow missing his quarry, while i awaited my wings
he still abides in the dumping ground of memories
with promises broken, love unspoken, and heartless liars
in a dashboard of broken dreams long abandoned
that stalk my existence, awaiting to be restored
to recommence through the pathways of my mind
as more than just unused rusted out frames of thoughts
that only resurface in the outburst of downcast eyes
when the shadows of sorrow grapple my emotions
as he purloins another from existence before me
I don't cower to death, he had me in his grasp
the attrition of time has left me emotionless
unscathed by his touch yet numb beneath his kiss
through past's rear-views as i unwillingly await my wings
October 4, 2019
My Favorite Junkyard poetry contest
Sponsored by Craig Cornish
Rusty old sins burden my soul
Sending me broken parts,
Pieces of my most sinful thoughts
Lies, betrayals, grudges and hatred
So many moments of livid rage
Gripping the words of anger that
Passed my lips and colored another’s
Heart with wrath so furious it slashes
There are desperations that grip me
Confine my heart with despair and fear
Anxiety that nurses my old wounds
And commands me to simply not care
Along the walls of my heart, a line of
Wrecked emotions and irate passions
Respond to my yearning for affection
With reminders of what I have been
Sins are carefully judged and taken apart
By a heart that is hungry for a taste of hope
The savory blessing sent by God’s Son
Who died for these parts in my junkyard
October 4, 2019
My Favorite Junkyard Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: craig cornish
The mobile mind indomitable
the rider of life waves
with curled crests of fractured moonbeam
and dark agony troughs of drowned stars
spread breaking on the shore of the past.
The crushed sands carve seaward footprints
the weathering antique contours of decay
time arrow points to topography beyond the shore
away from the eroded wasteland abandoned
where landfill devours the unusurped hopes.
The weed-webbed terrain deep within
piles the wreckage of life unlived
the flushing garden turns metallic maze
the pathway paved outside its fence
waits to be walked
to the mesmeric meadow of tomorrow.
The invented alchemy of memory
glitters gold in the rusted crust of ruins
marigold blooms in the scrap heap
in the Midas touched junkyard.
October 7, 2019
My favorite junkyard is in Chariton, Iowa.
A rusty old tow truck at the top of the hill
Painted to look exactly like Mater in the Cartoon.
When I approach the junkyard, I do with anticipation
And there he is. Sitting on the hill with his big eyed
cartoon smile, same goofy teeth.
It makes the rest of the junkyard seem happy
Which is fantastic if you can overlook all of the
beautiful cars and trucks that were once loved
But are now rusting away in depressive sadness.
There he is! I think miles before I arrive.
I am not sure what I will feel if the cartoon Mater
ever disappears. Today, at this second, I do not have to worry.
There is the goofy smile.
Assuring me that everything in the junk yard is okay.
Is there a junkyard for old tiaras and outdated ball gowns?
Where does Beauty go when age has taken her crown?
Removed atop her head and passed onto the new,
smiling gracefully her rein is over her chapter is through.
The walkway has shortened the stage has reached its end
her audience abandoned her, few remembering her when.
Beauty dissolved in creases and folds.
faded pictures tell numerous stories of desires untold
lost sapphires, rubies, diamonds and lace
torn denim, short skirts and selfies have taken their place.
Roses soon wither fallen off of her pole.
Tower high stilettos now traded have soft flattened soles.
Waken one day unable to recognize this new face.
Searching for the old one but never finding a trace
of that person who was familiar, and she once knew
who was young and beautiful, without even trying to.
Haunted by yester years with memories complete.
when she held love’s attention and men fell at her feet
Commanding the room as she swung and swayed,
Beauty was immeasurable but there was a debt to be paid.
New beauty surrounds her with past souvenirs.
Reminders of time ago and broken-down years
now she’s invisible as she dissipates in the background,
with a crooked tiara and wearing last year’s ball gown.
In the junkyard of life
What do you see?
What do your eyes focus on?
Do you see the rusted forgotten?
Do you feel the presence of greatness?
Or all you recognize is the trash and weeds blowing about the ground
In life there are many relics
Glimpses of the past; present now
Are you willing to buff and clean to find its potential or do you ignore it's beauty?
Can you look past the decay?
To bring it back again with touches of love and grace
Every junkyard hides a treasure
Something forgotten, Something lost, Something discarded
But to look beyond can be the greatest sensation, the greatest belief
Reaching beyond the obvious
Seeking a different kind of richness
Can turn up the ultimate vision, the ultimate recognition, the ultimate declaration
I am here waiting to be discovered in your own junkyard of dreams.
Policy or personal
questions? In the poem Two White Wines
a child adopted from Cambodia
is a thing of beauty, and so she is
as she showed herself to be yesterday. Lovely. However
the poet implies market, i.e. economic, forces brought her to America
when, as her parents know, it was war,
the sad Vietnam War or the War with America
as I think the Vietnamese remember it.
Honor and bravery
equal courage. Reed Whittemore's poem about
a photo of Viet Cong prisoners, stoic, defiant
under an American officer's boot
expresses admiration for the enemy. Then and now
a dangerous sentiment. Your fellow citizens, denizens
of convenience stores, even your family,
may come to see you as the enemy. Once ostracized, the other,
not belonging to the loved ones, you're not long for
this world of dew.
**** and ****
Ken says, describes America's culture, not its poets
or jazz. What's worth fighting for?
Your land, your right to be stupid on your land.
Now there is one large land, one people
and many. The vote is a crude, monosyllabic grunt,
no way to express the subtle degrees of experience
our long lives represent. Thus,
it is good, when the family gathers, to talk,
each person speak
of what has been forgotten, forgiven and forgone.
Trading or taking
every family must be tithed or taxed.
Every man who finds his meaning in war
will be pained into wisdom and gentleness.
Who comes home
comes home to a future that bypassed the fighting, or did it?
The oil must be sold,
even Saddam or Osama cannot withhold it.
You can drink your quota of water
and still your heart can ache.
Empire or democracy
of nations? We can choose to be the reigning kings
between the last empire and the next
or we can implement a vision
of collective deliberation.
America the seeing-eye dog,
not America the junkyard dog.
Going question by question
toward predictable, transparent governance.
Example: How can a people become a nation
without resorting to violence or incurring violent reaction?