Long Living quarters Poems
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Snap... crackle... pop... microwave went kaput
After start button pushed
immediate auditory signal issued
nsync with billowing smoke
time saving convenient contrivance
rendered defunct trucked to dumpster.
Pre owned electronic contraption
unpredictably went on fritz
malfunction occurred without warning
luckily spouse, the Misses
she instantaneously intervened
lest towering inferno engulfed
yours truly and wife
poetic license expended
to identify latter counterpart.
Rather than dish out
(and scrape together)
scarce legal tender
strong probability resident
(housed with Highland Manor apartments)
will vacate premises within near future
abandoning useable microwave oven.
Another option? Nearby thrift stores named:
Habitat for Humanity West Norriton ReStore
sells kitchen appliances
close proximity to our living quarters
if unsuccessful pursuit...
Worse case scenario?
Shop at Bath, Bed and Behind (er... Beyond),
Bestbuy, BJ's Warehouse, Boscov's
Home Depot, Loews, Macy's,
Target, or Walmart.
Splurge (potentially breaking poor piggy bank),
plus overspend checking account funds
readily pitting yours truly into the red
money to purchase brand spanking new
cooking unit versus consuming
frozen and/or uncooked foods
remember Euell Gibbons?
Twenty first century western civilization
steeped in capitalistism
I find existence
palpable (barely), incompatible disagreeable,
yet ill prepared
to revel in luxurious self sufficiency
think sweat of one's brow
living off the grid.
We don’t need your money
But can you afford the time
Because some of us are homeless
Some of us need a sign
We don’t need your attention
But can you send some doctors
Were desperate for medical supplies
We need some caring watchers
We don’t want your money
But can you send some food
Most of us are starving here
And the living quarters crude
Most of us are scattered
Some dying in the streets
The drought has been so bad
Along with this blistering heat
Can you spare nickel
What about a pound
I usually don’t ask for money
But today my head hangs down
© Copyright KC.Leake
15th December 2014
All Rights Reserved
Eccentric Emma, third world charity advocator
Posts smiling foreground photos in mud slewn villages
Personifying inconsistency wafts remote mantra
Mind realm torrents when Followers Like - limitless!
Travels to India restore her heart's connection
Finds enhanced spirit to spruke eco awareness
Flying globally promotes environment's protection
Inspiring group loaded Moped selfie shared with us
Music festival painted face participant
Conjured creation poetry flow in cosy yurt
Auto biography depicts flatulent elephant
Busy vision mushrooms make logic inert
Occasionally posted toddler rememberings
Receive role call of awe drawn replies
Blond curled spark eyed munchkin grin
Retained young outlook, fart poem supplies
Updated page sells self painted guitar
claimed to have been owned by AC/DC
Imported stock sees profit from spirulina
Entrepreneurial shift from childhood ADHD
Nomadic yoga posing 80's born alternate
Emma, changed her surname to Everfree
Her permaculture preach has holes in it
New living quarters each month or three
Sporadic travels to soul's partner, Hawaii
Engaged by quest to marry herself
Masculine inner attributes enlightening
Complexity must be hers uniquely dealt
Keen Facebook fan of spontaneous dance
Rolling to Random Rab, office chair expressive
Arm fling brings shattering of glass desk lamp
Naming failure destiny, stalled artist replenished
Close to home exploits in essays documented
Park brake left off vehicle, ensuing downhill chase
Securing it heroically before damage (almost) resulted
Brings multitudinous comments of (unearned) praise
Originated: 14th June 2020
Subject' s actual legally changed name
rhymes with 'Emma'
Satire Saturday passed without posting,
so I went with Rip the Crap out of Someone Sunday!!
Parody speaks its flattery
Curiousity reeks of jealousy
#3 UP IN THE ATTIC
Oh! my life is chaotic
And inside my home is immaculate
But up in the attic??
up in the attic
You may want to take off your glasses
Some may think it's (a mess )
It isn't clutter
But I otta
Straighten up and organize
up in the attic those many things
Oh! my life is not pitiful
Nor am I callas to say
I have a lot of stuff in my attic
No, I'm not addicted
Or am I a hoarder
Just got a little disfuntion
above my living quarters
up in my attic there are many things
These things may be sentimental
Yeah, yeah it's not so anticquated
And honesty I just don't want to get rid of...
all the things up in the attic
I just don't want to get rid of
those old historical newspapers
vintage glass lamp, only one of them no shade
rusty tarnish old golf clubs in their bag
and I don't even play gulf anymore " FOUR"
messy vintage record L P albums
why? I keep them I don't know I don't even own a record player
boxes of crafts and all that
wall paper samples and Christmas wraps
old suitcases and folded towels many other things are all
up in the attic
One day my family and I
will climb up the ladder
leaving the living room as we gather
we go higher together
to straighten, organize, and throw away and disgard everything
up in the attic
11/18/17
For Contest: Photostory
Sponsored by > Eve Roper
Picture #3
I remember in every detail
the kitchen where my grand-mother
worked while helping out
at my uncle’s convenience store.
There was just a flimsy curtain
separating the living quarters;
a bell would announce
when customers walked in.
I remember that big window by the table
where there was a tiny 6” tv and
the far corner where once in a while
she would pull out the ringer washer.
What a huge ordeal that was
a full day’s work then hanging on the clothesline.
Often we’d play cards in the afternoon
maybe have a treat
My slightly older cousin was in school.
My aunt was my grand-mother’s baby sister
and she was dying of cancer.
She never left her bedroom at the back,
mostly she slept and I was never to disturb her.
It was always a gloomy house
with every curtain drawn,
always quiet, always dark.
One day the house was filled with guests.
It was particularly somber with a lot of whispers;
they had come to say their final farewells.
Since then the house has been torn down
to widen the road and the bridge
but in all my memories I still picture it
as the house where i had never seen joy
and the kitchen seemed to be the only place
where sunshine was allowed.
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
In my lifetime,
I have observed and
witnessed some evil things.
Many were news reports, but
some were eye-witness melees.
One notable travesty was the
implementation of 'A Clearing'.
It was called ethnic cleansing,
but there was absolutely nothing
cleansing about slaughterous murder.
Like so much garbage, being cleared
from our living quarters; one people
claiming to be purer than another.
How despicable of us mortals created
in the image of an awesome and loving God
who through His son said, "There is none good;
no, not one". Clear the air we breathe of poisonous
toxins if you will. Clear the rivers and waterways
of debris and waste. But be very clear about this:
There are multitudes of undesirable things and myriads
of non-mortal despicables in need of mass clearings.
But the clearing out of people by any means deemed
less than another is not one of them. Ethnic cleansing
is mass suicide. Let us love, cherish, and care for one
another and leave human clearings and cleansings to God.
021023PSCtest, 'The Clearing'. Craig Cornish
fo'c·'sle /'fohksel/ noun deriv: forecastle
1. the forward part of a ship below the deck, traditionally used as the crew's living quarters.
2. historical: a raised deck at the front of a ship.
With the equinox illuminating a fortnight of recovery
On pelts spread like Ionian jars left askew,
My flame-keep sparked alight against the doldrums of
Greed. Stagnant and fetid.
My bark beats out a call stretched
Skin-tight over the sea’s virgin core
And sets trust aflame.
Ashes collected into the collated casks and
Corked with animus, Moon Girl pounded on.
Drumming a dirge on the tanner's own flesh.
Pounding the seed of echoing hope.
Pounding the corpus beat of life anew.
Those echoed my own harmony and emptied my ears.
My tunes would now be true and crisp.
My struggle to syncopate the middle eight
Was like on the saltchuck the time before.
Before we crossed the bar,
Breakers chasing, pounding aft of stern.
Now in the glow of the coal oil lamp
Sat The Dane who came to trade.
He mumbled a Chinookian curse and winced.
He sensed my mariner's cred, how I lit my smoke;
Muscle memory and addiction married in my subconscious.
But His eyes would never sense the venomous flow
Of the seabreak distant,
Like hounds baying to the highway of stars
And up to the dunes ran with phosphorescent faces
Fermenting the blackness.
Hell-hounds bounding.
Lungs pounding.
Driving on.
River may lick Disappointment’s shanks
But Drake’s gold remains unfound.
The cavities carved along the capes
Echo an emptied ethos and sapped spirit
Which salal and sage cannot clense.
Walk with me now Sister Ilchee.
Beat your dirge
Along the pock-marked ports of plunder
Laid before the flattened corpse of
Ebbing freedom found.
I don’t like clothes, or non-water things.
Just my boat.
And as a wave comes through, it’s as if my boat could do a flip in the air.
Ocean paths are like a safe.
There are a million combinations to try.
And in trying, I could get distracted and drown.
Which is horrible and priceless, and I would never be found.
The bottom of the ocean?
I don’t like to be reminded of shipwreck.
I used to like clothes, and non-water things.
The last time I saw them was two months ago.
That’s what happens when you like boats.
When you like waves, salt water, and even seaweed.
I wonder how many people are on a boat alone.
In small living quarters.
Navigating the ocean.
Checking my compass.
Anchoring my vessel.
I wear tattered clothes.
I don’t like jewelry, or fancy restaurants.
I don’t like the feeling of land or even thinking of it…
I don’t like my family, or friends.
Just my boat.
And the threat of shipwreck.
Which I’ve locked away.
My normal route diverted,
I walked north instead of south
And passed a man who looked like he
Existed hand to mouth.
He’d made a small encampment
Underneath a walking bridge,
Though of course he lacked a bathroom
Or a closet or a fridge.
But I had to give him credit
For I couldn’t help but look
As he knelt before a bookshelf
Picking out the perfect book.
There were maybe twenty volumes,
Neatly standing side by side,
Clearly adding to the ambiance
Of where he does reside.
We can make our living quarters
Cozy, if we are in luck,
But to do so when you’re homeless
Takes a little bit of pluck.
I take my hat off for the flag
I stand up straight; let others sag
I get all weepy for Old Glory
thinking of my family's story
They came from Russia with naught but hope
with just their wits to help them cope
No language skills or education either
Money or living quarters, they had neither
But they scraped and scrimped, and just kept going
Gramps peddled junk, grams did the sewing
And with the help of God, it all worked out
Hard work and faith -- their kids did sprout
My father an attorney, my uncle a physician
All due to gram and gramps' prescient intuition
To emigrate alone, part of no community
to an unknown land of opportunity