Long Leather Poems
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Some are broken teeth in a hollow tree,
some are humped and beached,
breached by moonlight.
Nothing comes out of an old barn
without smelling of oil,
the oil is for the fur that grows
on weather-beaten iron,
for the mouse hairs that rise
on horse leather;
for tin cans when chill winds slurp
their green metallic wine.
For the tractor and its parts,
a devolved acropolis
of gaskets and camshafts.
Nothing goes in
without leaving its print
nailed to the air.
Possum pelts patch-work timbers
into skin-deep quilts.
Tobacco smoke and sweat linger
to tinker,
as if time could be fixed -
and shadows mended.
Put up your wire fences, the Mask polizei, too!
Or holy than thou neighbors who call the police to report you.
Such immoral, weak Gestapos, they!
They need leather SS jackets, I say.
Try me! Put up your fences!
I'll get on that beach and hug my love on benches.
Since when do bold Americans fold?
Where's your backbone gone, has it turned to mold?
Tell me, why do you really think,
A mayor can force you to stay home, or drive you to
the brink?
Lockdowns apply to prisons, not to homes.
You paid for your home, get out and roam!
Look outside, is there a obese, burly guard there?
No, not even one, nor a cute fuzzy hare!
Sanitizers, masks, paper products made truckloads
of money.
The rabid fear has cost you money, honey!
Stop the insanity, All, do defy.
Or~ you may have to keep shaking inside.
With CNN, as your most negative,
Anything but spiritual or hopeful guide!
Till the day I die, I cry:
"Defy~ Defy!"
May 20, 2020
10am PST
Poem#1281
"It's just dust," he said, kicking the dry ground
With a worn boot,
Toe pointed cowboy style
But with none of the flash.
"This could be grandpa," he said,
Shoulders rounded, eyes to the ground.
"They didn't bury too deep in them days,
And no boxes or vaults out here.
He could've just rose up after a while.
Could've just shook off the dirt
And blown off west again,
Just another dust storm
Trailin' bits of himself behind.
He wouldn't of thought twice
About breakin' grandma's heart
Just one more time."
I watched the sun pick shadows
Off his worn chambray shirt.
He looked hot, weary,
Big hand taking his frayed straw cowboy hat
On and off and on,
Either the fidgets or his way
Of air conditioning his head,
With its damp hair that could stand a cut.
Suddenly he looked straight at me:
Leather-tanned face
That had run up some mileage;
Pale eyes the worn blue of his shirt,
Meeting my eyes then sliding his gaze
Off into the dirt-colored distance.
"You're the one's got all the degrees,"
He said.
"Why do folks say 'just' somethin'?
Like 'just dust' or 'just no reason'?
Myself, I don't see justice is much involved."
"I could make up an answer," I said.
"I have no earthly idea.
I just know we do."
He snorted a laugh,
Shook his head,
Turned toward the house.
"You just come on in, then"
He said, something inside him
Sounding a little less buried,
His shoulders a little less hunched.
"I'll just make us some cold sweet tea," he said.
"That's just what grandma would've done."
And then, just then,
I knew it would be all right.
If you look closely, you will see,
Yep, sure enough, that's me -
on the cinder block wall ledge,
or by your front door, near the hedge.
But I ain't warm, cuddly or fun,
as I sit here, basking in the sun.
Ol' Sol is something that's still free,
and I'm the scaly lizard that you see.
I must say it's great weather,
for one whose hide is quite like leather.
I suppose you're thinking that my skin
could make a purse to put things in,
or maybe some shoes or wallet.
How did I become this whatchamacallit?
Was it the work of witch or warlock,
and how, is it you can hear me talk?
Thus, in this sun, while I'm nicely warmed,
I ponder why I've been so transformed...
into this creature small and wary.
It seems a fate, unordinary,
and though I may appear inelegant,
I'm really most intelligent
as I stand still and ponder the universe,
simultaneously composing this beautiful verse.
Do you think a bunny or a puppy is more fun?
In a short race, those creatures, I still outrun.
Want to play at "staring war"? What do you think?
If you watch carefully, you'll see me blink.
I show little emotion. I'm not exuberant.
My eyes, if you may, are a little protuberant.
You might think I'm bland and cold.
How did I become a lizard as I grew old?
The Greatest Show on Earth
Mr. Pik lived alone, across our street -
All the kids knew him, dressed up so neat;
Mr. Pik loved the circus – every kind -
Each year, in our mailbox, tickets, we’d find;
So much excitement - growing every day -
Circus, the topic, when we went to play.
We watched the clock tick away afternoon -
Finally night came - for us none too soon.
Girls dressed in dresses - shoes - patent leather -
Boys in bow ties - no matter the weather;
Families scrunched in old station wagons -
Sounding just like an asthmatic dragon;
Seven miles from the big top we could taste
Popcorn and peanuts, oh please, do make haste;
Ladies and gentlemen, look here and see
The ringmaster pointed us to ring three;
First came the clowns with red funny noses
Squirting the crowd – water from fake roses;
Next, the acrobats riding sleek horses,
Purples plumes on their heads – never off course;
Lions and tigers - elephants, oh my -
Animals exotic paraded by;
Walkers on tightropes left us all breathless –
Covered our eyes, watching never the less;
Finally the last act – our hearts would seize -
Daring young man on the flying trapeze;
Sleepy eyes closing on the ride home -
Night at the circus so like a poem;
Rollicking, boisterous evening of mirth
Mr. Pik’s gift – the greatest show on earth.
Every year our neighbor, Mr. Pik - a widower - would treat the neighborhood to a night at the circus.
I know thought has changed about having wild animals in the circus but in my childhood they were a part of the show.
5/2/20
Morning came from behind those mountains
covered with a thin mist so void of harmony...
waking up the robins, the cardinals and bluejays,
who gladly provived the notes for my symphony.
Around eight o' clock the alarm clock rang,
I gulped down my cold glass of milk, picked up my back-pack...
making sure I wouldn't leave any books behind; I usually left
it on the leather recliner where my dad rested.
Springtime was a delight...smelling the aroma of the lilies,
I loved the whistle of the clanking train leaving for the big city,
and the lovely countryside was a garden of beautiful blossoms;
I often stuck my head out of the window and got stung by a bee.
Under a shady, tall oak tree, I spread my wide blanket
and ate delicious red apples as the hunting dogs barked from distance,
rifle shots followed...some birds fell on the thick grass;
and I thanked God they weren't those who visited me...I would have wept!
The warblers' songs have an unusual sound of their own,
I copy them down note by note with extreme anxiety and passion,
trying not to miss one...and they are happy to share it without doubt or greed;
and if we would appreciate them, they could become our very treasures indeed!
Entered in Jenette Fisher's contest, " Sounds Familiar "
Doors slam, windows crack, letter flap inhales a fatal
wind.
Breastplate rusty dragon bearing scars.
House keys, credit cards, raybans close to hand.
Faux fur on the rack for noble bounty,
footnotes to a chapter without end.
Wistfully I crane my neck in peril,
finger marks on carbon black hand rail,
sprightly dash o’er slippy granite steps.
Odour eaters clog my leather shoes beyond endurance.
Butterflies somersault in tummy.
Elm tree barnet‘s awkward wooden stump.
Wheelie bin begging for collection at short notice.
Bin tag compass grazed.
Crack of dawn ghost ship’s uncanny horn blast.
Metaphor or tip off for deaf ears.
Egg shell clouds that dance on distant peaks
quaintly beckon.
Despite my better judgement I press on.
20 lines
Date posted : 17 th December 2021
It was a still quiet night ,children were a bed
Lost in dreamland amid clouds and unicorns
The elders sat around the dying embers
Drinking and laughing about the days events.
They too were soon overtaken by sleep
Eyelids grew weary, soon snores were heard.
Stars looked down from a cloudless sky
And the moon glinted like a silver scythe.
Silence fell over the village time stood still
Cattle quietly chewed in the byre
A dog awoke and sniffed the air
Before yawning ,licking lips and going back to sleep
Shadows strangely and silently moved
Pouring like treacle over the village wall
From out of the darkness of the forest
Fiendish folk slithered in
With thought malicious and evil intent.
Within a heartbeat the village was taken
Elders groggily thrown in jail
Children screamed and dogs growled
Too late they were taken unawares.
The dark lord laughed to see
His men take over this easily.
His control was total no resistance offered
So he thought ill marry the mayors daughter
She was dragged screaming to the meeting place
Which was also used for matrimonial joining
The friar was called and brought forth to preside
The fiendish lord now had his bride.
The people wept and moaned and groaned
Where is there a hero to deliver us?
Then a stranger appeared from whence he came
No one saw and no one really knows
With his bow and warriors bold
Fought with the fiendish one and won the day
The children cheered and threw rotten fruit
At the dark one as he was placed in stocks
He lost his leather boots and stood in his socks
His men they fled as the day was lost
Chased by the children into the wild
Never to be seen in this strath again.
Redemption
I was young, when I remember my mother
clasping me with a dinosaur of a hug;
the type that would last all day!
Then she caught a bus to go shopping;
I waited ..put the day on hold.. waited.
And painfully, I am still waiting,
for she never returned – ever!
From then on, my father was home much more
but he was always vague about life,
where he was and where he was going.
I learned later…. much later,
that my father was an actual criminal on the run!
(At that time I wasn’t sure what criminal meant…..
but I do now!)
My mother was gone, so my father was home!
But there was always a fog, a blurring around him.
You would ask a question and words like
sort of, maybe, I’m not sure, would vaguely flutter by.
He was a question mark with legs.
However he was loving and caring towards me
until the police arrived several times, and Dad said,
“Time for us to be gone…..to move on!”
I then learnt that my father was both a criminal
and Mother of the Year!
Eventually I was softly told I was being fostered
(another word I didn’t know and grew to dislike).
I was put with a family but was never comfortable,
especially around my foster father with his pretend smile
and his very violent leather belt.
Each day my clothes became heavier;
I learnt to keep my eyes down, just disappear!
At night, I would lie in bed chasing sleepy sheep
until nightmares would crack open my eyelids.
Eventually, to my delight, my real dad reappeared
and we were on the road again.
Rucksack on my back and motel to motel,
drifting like steam, not much schooling
…..only in crime.
He taught me to steal and told me stories
about working dog tracks and local markets.
Then his thoughts would drift off
seeking answers in the shadows.
However, one day the police took him away
and this time he never returned.
I was put with foster parents who actually cared
until one day it was gently explained to me
that my father had died in prison.
I suppose my father was an unsolvable jigsaw,
always with a missing piece.
To this day I still wonder if my father’s love
was redemption for who he was and what he had done.
Father to son…
“I am a good man, as I am a loving father!”
Ian Souter
Somehow it seems I forgot
Why should I write each emotion I’m feeling
when no one will stroll to my side
An unending song filled with passion and yearning
now praying for one to confide
Dreaming in colors that glow in a meadow
where butterflies float on the breeze
Alongside a river of flowing desires
meandering under the trees
Why take my pen from its brown leather casing
and place it on top of the page
Spilling some ink in a nice cursive fashion
just ends up revealing my age
Where no one will read as they go passing lightly
in search of the next future star
While here I will sit at a desk made a plastic
away from wherever you are
Can you explain in a poetic sentence
why words can’t be read like they feel
Is it a style or a strange way to tell us
that lacks in enormous appeal
Comments won’t come if you stand slinging arrows
with targets right there tween the eyes
So it would seem that the retaliation
would come in the form of replies
Don’t put too much in these phrases I’m writing
for I am just bored half to death
Wondering if I would post something stupid
now pausing to inhale a breath
Would some of you come just to see what I’m thinking
or figure my thoughts matter not
I had an ending to this when I started
but somehow it seems I forgot