Long Lots of fun Poems
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So I joined the " social committee"
because they said it would be lots of fun.
But after barely an hour
all I wanted to do was run.
I suggested Friday night poker.
they said "we'll play bingo" instead.
I said "how about group bungy jumping".
They said I was sick in the head.
So I started to yawn and to fidget,
my patience had run out the door.
I held up my hand to ask about wine.
They said I no longer had the floor.
Apparently I am not social.
There are bartenders who would disagree.
I haven't given up on my ideas.
I'll win them over, you'll see.
Margarita Mondays will soon be here,
Tequila Tuesdays as well,
'cause if the committee doesn't like my ideas
they can all go straight to hell.
Fifty Years
(To Barbara, with love, on our 50th wedding anniversary)
By Franklin Price
11/21/2019
It has now been fifty years, of love, and work, and play.
Seems that when we first began, was only yesterday.
I know God had a voice in it. I'm glad he had a say
He still is watching over us, as we move along the way
Could not have done it by ourselves, we both had tried before.
Had already played the game, three to nothing was the score.
I asked if you would marry me and try this thing once more
We threw caution, to the wind, and opened up the door.
We should have known, our wedding night, that we would go the mile.
You were looking beautiful, as you were walking down the aisle.
Our wedding vow of sickness, was one that made us smile.
You were ill that evening, no consummation for awhile.
Through the years we've done a lot, and shared the race we've run,
Proudly raised a daughter, she was our only one.
Blessed us with grandchildren, they're grown and lots of fun.
We tell anyone who listens, about all the things they've done
Both our parents gone, we're the elders that we've got
Our house and cars are paid for, there's roast beef in the pot
Our parts are all still working, that's saying quite a lot
We're not done until we're finished, and we certainly are not
I can't imagine anyone, to even think I will refrain,
That could have made me happier, to come in from the rain,
To fill my life completely, so I never missed the train,
I'm ecstatic, your my loving wife, and best friend, Barbara Jane
Take out the trash,
it's so rude to bash
someone who deeply cares,
showing you the way out;
you must listen to wisdom...
before you start rocking
that baby in your lap.
Kids who do horrible things
greet rage into their kingdom,
digging their own grave.
Hanging out late past one,
getting drunk on cheap wine
and come home shaking
is bad for a beauty queen.
Earn your crown,
keep your grace, get noticed
for your loveliness,
don't live out harmful fantasies;
there are many dreams to chase.
Daddy is on the way home,
he'll put you in a corner
to count the length of hours
without computer and phone:
deep silence and a tale of horror
to remind you of obedience.
It's the age to have lots of fun,
not to mess around with boys;
you must earn your crown,
every single rule applies:
never following the crowd,
make mom and dad proud.
Earn your crown, aspire to glory;
wasting life is not realizing dreams,
tomorrow can wait, write your story:
nothing rewards more than memories.
Dustmen were dirty
Shoes had holes
Typewriters qwerty
Clothes were old
School was tough, kids were rough
Summers were always, quite cold
Three-day week
No power at night
Week after week another union strike
Nothing to do, so early to bed
Wake the next day to no loaves of bread
No central heating
Winters were freezing
No phone tweeting
Less coughing and sneezing
TV was great, watching films late
The Friday night Hammer, the best to see
British bulldog we played,
as gangs in the street
The shop round the corner,
had all the best sweets
And despite everything, when all’s said and done
The discontented decade was still lots of fun!
I must have been around seventeen years old
when I went to the Coney Island Fair,
not for the tasty hot dogs and burgers cooked on coal
but for the thrilling ride on the Cyclone Roller Coaster!
I put on a brave face, but wind and speed made me feel horrible,
I wanted to scream and yell, " Stop...this is hell! "
And embarrassed, I kept on riding it turning pale
and unable to breath...I was surprised how others looked bold!
It should have been lots of fun, but it didn't make me laugh;
I vowed to myself to never ride it again...
some kids told me that they were afraid too and choose to surf
as the tides rolled in and promised much fun!
BeeTV
What is that Dude? That’s the TV Son.
What does it do? Oh it lots of fun!
There are these bees, you see, they act and stuff.
It really is quite good! Shall we have a look?
Ok, I guess. Humble didn’t know what to expect
And as BeeTV came to life, there were little bees inside.
Humble was surprised and ran to the screen.
He tried to reach inside, but nothing was happening.
There was something in the way, but he could not see.
Dude said they are not in there Humble,
They are far away bees.
They are in the studio in another part of the Hive.
They send pictures through waves, the collective Hive Mind
And the pictures appear; come sit over here.
We can watch them together…
And they did for many years.
As Humble grew up to become the bee he became,
There was always a place for BeeTV in his heart
And every bee in the hive felt the same.
In every home throughout the hive, BeeTV was available day and night
And as people went about living their lives,
BeeTV always remained a part of their life.
(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Form:
...I say all this as a writer
who makes narratives all the time,
I love stories, they’re lots of fun,
and when done well they’re quite sublime.
But every time I write a tale
I cannot help but be aware
that placed up against the real world
my narratives just can’t compare.
Even when I’ve thought it all out,
believe I’ve covered everything,
compared to what humans endure
my creations come up lacking.
The realness of our human souls
exceed the characters I make,
the details of the outside world
no purple prose can imitate.
The details of the narrative
don’t even match what’s in my mind,
and what I think is paltry when
compared to our real space and time.
Because, of course, the narrative
was never even close to real,
it’s just a tool we created,
it’s a thing we’ve made up to deal
with a world that our mind can’t grasp
in its massive entirety,
narrative is just our filter
because there’s too much truth to see.
To make it something we can know
we cut out most of what’s out there,
the endless details of chaos
that make the smartest minds despair.
I think all should remember that,
all of our ideologies
are narratives, and thus too small
to deal with the reality.
To forget that, to cling to them,
as if in them all was explained
reduces us, and blinds us too,
and that’s before it brings the pain.
And it always does…
I tend to my field by myself; no one knows how well I do this
This is my cloud that I harvest all my feelings and I am King
So what demands you have or think you have on my cloud?
My cloud is other than my safe haven, with hard sweat and tears
I will make it rain, and it will flood some dreams
When someone request to see my cloud it is not white nor gray
I spout out a bluish silver color with lots of fun shapes that stay
I grumble like thunder making lightning afterwards
I grumble like thunder when people seem to think my field is theirs
No way! I say, Hey YOU! Get off MY Cloud! To day
I try my best to push them off with louder thunder
With lightning flash with some god like shock
My world, my soul, my hardship and most of my entire dream
Is emptied out by one that stands wrong on my field of dreams
The silver lining becomes so dull; I hope to make them fall
My cloud is as wide as a field that I may grow and sow
Now once more, I will say if it fails to get them off my cloud so low
I may have it not low, to make the fall a hard blow
I am King on my cloud; I can make it float high
I can make it float low, but if you decide to step on it
You will find thunder and lightning that will make a great show
And I will say the same thing once more
Hey YOU! Get off My cloud!
This past year has come to an end, and it has flown so fast,
A time to sop and reflect on adventures past.
January
In January, we had lots and lots of snow,
We produced some ice sculptures, carefully and slow.
Then we had a street battle – another snowball fight,
With all the neighbour’s kids, it really was a sight.
February
It was so cold in February, so I had to wrap up warm,
It was the worst on record, whipped up by a snowstorm.
It was so cold, people shouted “geez” and “blooming heck”,
I tried keeping warm with my scarf wrapped around my neck.
March
They say March is the month of the mad, mad hare,
Hopping around without as much of a care.
But if you want year-long madness, look no further than me,
I was always doing crazy stuff – I’m way outta my tree.
April
April is for the fool; the one who likes a joke.
I really had lots of fun; sharing laughs with lots of folk.
As we played April Fools Day pranks on each other,
The best prank of all we played upon my mother.
May
May brought Spring, everywhere you look there’s new life,
A time to feel exalted, my joy and happiness was rife.
I was bursting full of energy, with so many things I wanted to do,
What also make me happier, was that I did them all with you.
June
I fondly remember my birthday celebrations back in June,
As I took a birthday gift trip in a hot air balloon.
A trip across the bright blue sky and down next to a lake,
Where we had a picnic sandwiches, champagne and a cake.
Water appeased her thirst momentarily,
would the dehydrated and weak lass
leave any dreg at the bottom of the glass?
With her lice-infested hair she strayed away,
by staring at the fence of barbed wire...
a wish for freedom scorched hotter than fire!
The teenager girl was not tied up, or held in chains;
neither she called for help, amid sun-dipped canyons
that only coyotes frequented: who would have heard it?
Years ago, she was abducted by a convict and brutally raped.
Before she drank the clear water taken from the rain-filled bucket,
she remembered how precious feedom was...having lots of fun,
running after a kite that flew higher than the blazing sun;
that was a beautiful world: this one was the ugliest place without escape.