Long Landlords Poems
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A nation with the southernmost capital in the globe
whose identity has constantly been bullied
by the global acknowledgement of a larger one.
A place where economic empowerment comes through films
to the point a movie employed a minister for maximum harvest.
No name longer than that of a Hill in Hawkes Bay;
no part of the country is more than
hundred and a thirty kilometer from the sea;
no nation is least succulent for the biting teeth of corruption.
And no other has simultaneously graced females in all high national positions.
Isolation has ruled over its wild life
to make them manufacture accessories for unique survival.
The alpine parrots, ground dwelling Kiwis and the Kea bird
all congregate in its center of diverse bird species.
It is a log off site to snakes both local or immigrated
and a home to the world’s smallest Dolphin species;
second to none in the species of penguins
and land to the heaviest insect ever known in the world.
Imagination comes to life in the existence of a giant carnivorous snail
while Disney embraced reality through the mystery of Pelorus Jack.
Uniqueness in history is continuous
in this last populated habitable landmass in the world.
Is it a first time father at eleven and a century old?
Or the pioneering of plastic surgery in medical history?
Is it the appointment of a national wizard into government’s cabinet?
Or the historic climbing adventures of Edmund Hilary?
So concerned about the Queen’s safety and its territorial defense
is such a region attributed to the long white cloud
with its blue lake- the world’s clearest waters
and its ‘women’s-right-on-voting” pride;
It’s still flabbergasting to realize five out of every hundred
of its population is human; the rest simply animals.
Real eyes see truth where the neon dies,
real lies get sold in the tourist guides.
I realize Harlem’s still beating inside,
though condos creep up and the rents multiply.
Real highs in the drums on a Saturday night,
real cries in the dark when the bills get tight.
Surreal eyes dream past the gentrified scene,
where bodegas were kingdoms and the block was a queen.
Reel lies keep playing on the subway wall,
but real ties still gather when the elders call.
I realize Harlem’s a poem, a hymn,
no matter who’s moving out or who’s moving in.
Real eyes catch the cracks in the concrete,
real lies get whispered where the landlords meet.
I realize Harlem ain’t sleeping—it fights,
its pulse in the corner, its soul in the nights.
Real highs in the jazz spilling out of a door,
real cries when the system don’t love us no more.
Reel lies keep spinning on a flashing screen,
but surreal eyes still guard the unseen.
Real ties in the roots of this sacred ground,
real wise in the stories the elders pass down.
I realize Harlem’s not fading away—
it’s stitched in my blood, it’s here to stay.
The people of Ireland were suffering a terrible fate
Many of them were starving at an alarming rate
Their potato crops were failing because of the blight
Bit little or no help was given now that wasn't right.
The wealthy landlords fed their faces with meat so lean
Whilst the poor people starved now I call that obscene
They could have helped them but chose to let them die
The horrors that they suffered a grown man would cry.
The heartless landlords didn't care, they showed no pity
More concerned about profits for their masters in the city
They evicted many poor dying people victims of the blight
How in God's name did these landlords sleep at night ?.
At the roadside's men, women, and children lay dead
They put profit before people that they could have fed
Landlords exported all the grain to feed the wealthy elite
Whilst the poor starving people were dying at their feet.
"An act of God "said Trevelyan, now that was shocking
To use that as a lame excuse to do little or nothing
And he certainly wasn't alone, the clergy said it too
How simple minded they all were to think that was true.
They all looked the other way, they all had no shame
And did not do enough and found others to blame
One day they'll face judgement and that is a fact
And they can all explain to God why they didn't act.
Bubbling babbling burbling banter brimming at the bar
First sup.. hush…memory lane trip rush..nicely tickled
Plush lace ebbed…lush beer swirls race webbed
Whirls..down dimpled dappled jar....nicely pickled
Pagans perch….sip druid fluid drip…Iris’s secular church
Trumpet tradition.. beacons blush in embers of the past
Cluttered classy cast of polished pewter..ballsy brass
Whimsy wafting across tobacco tinted tainted times
Parched patrons quaffing while cavorting with crannies
Carousing with nooks sporting timber flannelled panels
As sons then become dad..on the same pews with their lad
Lawyer betwixt a tyro…local employer..bumpkin on the giro
Museums of marvels.. hoodwink misplaced metaphors
Laced with a house pour of moreish memories of before
Gracious Landladies…loquacious landlords near and far..
Who let us roam in our home from home we raise our jar
To every special space.. familiar face in that third place..ta
KEEP CALM AND CARRY THE CORPSE
Britain bleeds through cracked red bricks,
Rain on windows, cold that sticks.
Bills climb high, wages crawl,
We’re taxed to the teeth — can’t breathe at all.
“Keep calm and carry the corpse,” they say.
Drag it through life, day after day.
Smile for the cameras, wave the flag,
Ignore the stench in the body bag.
Politicians promise — lies on repeat,
Champagne toasts while we scrape for heat.
Immigration headlines scream in red,
But the landlords win and the rich get fed.
“Keep calm and carry the corpse,” on the news.
Britain’s being sold in tailor-made shoes.
Blame the stranger, hide the theft,
Pick the bones of what’s still left.
Borders closed, then borders wide,
Policies flip like a turning tide.
We point at strangers, curse the crowd,
While thieves in suits just laugh out loud.
Hospitals full, trains don’t run,
Knife-edge living — no place to run.
Kids go hungry, rents insane,
Everyone’s tired, numb with pain.
Britain’s “Great”? Just ask the street,
Where dreams and diesel always meet.
We’ve got flags on coffins, flags on cans,
But no plan left for working hands.
“Keep calm and carry the corpse,” they chant.
Pray for hope we’ll never grant.
But no calm, no crown, no quiet prayer —
Just tired voices shouting: We were there.
We won’t keep calm, we won’t comply,
We’ve buried too much, we’ve watched too many die.
No silence now, no bow to kings —
This is the roar that history brings.
The corpse is heavy, the stench is deep —
But we’ve woken up from Britain’s sleep.
No calm. No corpse. No chains. No fear.
We rise. We shout. We’re still here.
By Edmund Siejka
A high school English teacher
Issues a challenge
Her class
Is to write a poem.
Reading a student’s poem
Her experienced eye
Searches for
Imagery
Metaphor
Tone
Point of view
Ultimately the student’s poem
Is graded a gentleman’s C.
Somewhat surprised
The student admits his shortcomings
Indicating that poetry is a lot like writing
Disappointed
The teacher
Doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Coming home that night on a crowded train
The teacher passes up a seat
Letting an exhausted looking woman
Sit down
Thankful
For this simple courtesy
Brief smiles are exchanged
Strangers from two different worlds.
The teacher notices the smell of disinfectant
Hovering over the woman
Thick fingers holding tightly to her purse
The woman
Begins an animated conversation
With two other women
Broken English
Graceful hand movements
Words interrupted with laughter.
From what the teacher hears
She believes the women
Are cleaning ladies
The little people who clean the bathrooms
Vacuum carpeted hallways
Empty the trash
From windowed offices
High above the New York skyline.
The words ‘poetry is a lot like writing’
Linger in the teacher’s memory
One thing she is sure of
The ladies know of life
After years of
Hard work for little pay
Hungry children
Angry husbands
Absentee landlords.
The train stops
Momentarily the ladies collect
In a small group
On the empty train platform
Suddenly there is no more talking
In the awkward silence
Each of the ladies turn
Toward the direction
Of a place they call home.
They used to call it the Empire State.
But the empire isn't doing too great.
Democrats in power, big ideas they plan.
Too bad for the middle class and the forgotten man.
Low-income high rise in your village
Middle class won't escape the general pillage.
Congestion and crime, they'll surely bring,
Practical doesn't matter, ideals are everything.
Landlords, its coming, statewide rent control.
They think you fat cats should be in a hole.
Squatters' rights beat your rights, so you can't evict.
Pols keep finding new ways, troubles to inflict.
Borders wide open, worldwide crooks pour in
MS-13, Venezuelan gangs, we lose, they win.
Homeless camps appear, old diseases arise.
Politicians let a killer loose, and Laken Riley dies.
They say, "Just pack your bags, if you disagree
We don't need you, go to Florida or Tennessee
Idaho, Montana the stampede fills them in
Locals priced out, waters rise, can you swim?
Shoplifters know hundreds of items can go.
No downside, they end up rolling in dough.
For assault, arrests are made but holding is rare,
If you're the next victim, guess who doesn't care.
A store owner could ask, what am I working for,
Just to watch my goods exit out the door?
I know people who no longer walk at night.
Hard to believe pols didn't do this from spite.
They'll remove your oil and natural gas.
You can't pay the AC, but more laws they'll pass.
They'll remove merit from the medical schools.
don't crash getting out, you'll be mended by fools.
What they really believe they tactically hide
Till you elect them, then the four horsemen ride
No room for the little guy, the pols feel disdain.
Look out the window, you're on a runaway train.
The Night Glenfell
A summer solstice candle breezing midst the twilight air
Where aloft the dizzying height of storey twenty four
That gazed with envy upon firm Lancaster Green below
(brutalist style,) A concrete pitted monument that yearned for the great celeste
Brutalist pinnacled cage that cements the scape
Where concrete structures eradicate the green
And take their place betwixt an urban utopia
It couldn’t happen again, not after Lakanal
Same thing! An electrical fault on some cheap device
And wrong protocol that caused sad loss of life
So Grenfell Tower had earned its landlords easy money
Their affluence procured from the deprived
( one exit
Overlooked rich Kensington and Chelsea. Deprived Grenfell. Extremes of poverty and affluence.
Lakanal House fire 2009 loss of life. The deceased given the wrong protocol. No lessons learnt.)
The flames played havoc, a creeping plumage that consumed new cladding
Where silent souls submitted to the wealth of intense heat
Free light for rich Chelsea and Kensington to peruse
Across the great divide of worth
To witness this sacrificial rite of greed
One exit to free them from their plight
Secured within this night-time prison
Where embers from the debris punctured the sky
And fell like tears upon the deep below
As the blaze took hold with vengeance square
Who knows the fear behind those walls
Of those who faced a fate within this burning pyre
Stuck in the lofty heights of concrete block
Where dwelling upon dwelling saves space
And claustrophobia abounds
Charred shrine upon the sky-line gray
Sad recall for those who remain
There but for providence go….
The night that Glenfell
11/22/16
Got to get that cheese pronto
Those that talked guano
Got hit with an uppercut combo
mano a mano
I had a dog named Bronco
And landlords named Helga and Poncho
Knew this lady that lived in a condo
And worked at Costco
Cargo
Being shipped worldwide, even garbanzo
Jane and John Doe
Still trying to win the lotto
Roads smooth or full of potholes
Article after article on Monsanto
Business and vacation trips to Cabo
Valuable art pieces done by Picasso
He wanted a Gallardo and she wanted a Murcielago
Beauty can be seen from Lake Tahoe to way beyond Morocco
Regardless of it is or is not in a grotto
I like a lot of music from the DMV and Chicago
Songs made with many instruments such as the bongo
On any fish, beef or chicken taco
I'll stack toppings like cheese, tomato, sour cream and avocado
Girl didn't know how to cook anything including nachos
She called me el diablo
But never el chapo
At the end of this they're going to hate, or congratulate and say bravo
By: Dalton Ogletree
Bubbling babbling burbling banter from the bar..
Sup hush….memory lane trip...Proustian rush..pleasingly tickled.
Plushly ebbed…spidery beer swirls webbed…lace whirls..grace dimpled dappled jar..
Perch...parched pagans besmirch..sip...druid fluid drip..Iris’s secular church..
Venerate yesteryear dips…commemorate Faustian fillips....teasingly pickled..
Smug treacle toned thatch rugs hugs sturdy slabs.. shrugs..
Tugs tussling tree torn trusses and trestles....
Trumpets tradition.. crisp crumpets in flames..sedition flickering..
Like sassy strumpets calling each other names…playfully bickering..
Remember the surreal cast….gayfully ethereal echoes..
Beacons blush in the embers of the past..
Classy pubs dripping with polished pewter.. parochial paraphernalia…ballsy brass...
Crepuscular charms. splinters splicing smokey shadows..
Wafting whispers.. across tobacco tinted tainted times..
Whistles whetted..quaffing…quenching ...cavorting with crannies..
Carousing with nooks naked in timber flannelled panels..
Canoodling on fecund bulbous bales farm foraged.. freshly fashioned...
Flirtatious follicle flicks....gurgling guffaws, raffish rascals' whisky whimsy..
Courting curious covens..sporting prosecco cackle cacophonies.
As sons become dad..in turn perched with their lad..
Lady lawyer betwixt a pimpled tyro…local employer, bumpkin on the giro..
Museums of marvels.. hoodwink misplaced metaphors..
Laced with a house pour of moreish memories of before..
That without impunity the nub of a pub..
The bar.. a community hubbub hub..
Gracious Landladies…loquacious Landlords..
Sagacious stars...near and far..
We raise our jar.
For our home from home..
A public house..
Ta..