Long Manhole Poems
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12/06/2020 03:41 PM.
Imagine a long and winding line
all the way to Jabip
upon the handle of small grocery cart
envision mine white knuckle grip,
as the misses commandeers
moseying up and down every single aisle,
whereby an electrocardiogram
would indicate spiky sinusoidal blip.
I experience social anxiety
and feel like screaming aloud,
particularly when series
of unfortunate events
finds your truly
within onrushing madding crowd.
Unfortunately courtesy divine comedy
one erstwhile indiscriminately
cast out obsolete player
creator endowed him
with his trademark shaky spear.
One hapless generic garden variety guy
plagued with panic attacks
accursed lifetime providence
hellacious interminable suffering
until permanent escape
quasi vacation deliverance regarding...,
when grim reaper doth
cometh and taketh me away.
Oh savior enshroud impotent mortal man
at long last terminating suffering
welcoming me into portal
I willingly surrender
and welcome release...
beckoning death be not proud.
Impossible mission to describe
how fast paced life in general
generates utter confusion
analogous to floundering trout
besieges mine mental redoubt
mental helter skelter all about
as if mine entire body electric
forced, kickstarted, subjugated...
to perform (yes folks) hokey pokey
mental gears and cogs
snapping, crackling, popping
inside tumbler like noggin
purportedly linkedin hashtagged
with schizoid personality disorder.
Onset of emotional paralysis
stops me dead in my figurative track
metaphorically wishing me to skuttle
back into hermetically sealed manhole
invisible among interleaved bract
where within mine secret cubby hole
I play knick knack paddywhack...
to idle away leisure time
as well as solve crossword puzzles
meditate (on the gift of a watermelon pickle)
while listening to natural soundtrack,
and self hypnotize courtesy biofeedback.
Written August 18, 2025, for contest Sponsored by Vanya Evangeline
****************
Orpheus in the Underpass,
strummed not strings but a tape untied,
melodies muttering on weathered stone,
beneath the urban sprawl—
where shadows reign,
And graffiti whispers tales of kismet.
Eurydice donned her headphones,
When the cab clipped her soul,
She tumbled into the subway’s maw.
a place of silent echoes
and flickering fluorescents
where moments unravel asunder
And names are beshrewed.
Orpheus, longing for her breath,
descended through the gates
with a melody woven from dopamine
and duct-taped dreams.
His voice, a soothing fracture,
a dulcet ache
That brought tears to the rat's eyes.
and set vending machines to a mild harmony.
The dead convene—
Witches in bedazzled hoodies,
shops of bygone lovers,
cursed symbols of erstwhile delight.
They listened.
They set her free.
But the rule remained:
“Don’t look back.”
He wandered forth,
Her footsteps were a whisper.
trailing in his wake.
The city above was auric.
a chalice of light and sirens.
He felt her breath.
such embrocation on his neck.
And then—
a flicker of doubt,
a furtive glance,
a single turn
The horizon loomed ahead.
She vanished.
such steam from manhole mouths,
such serotonin in sorrow,
such a melody
before the last note fades.
Now he plays.
in the underpass still,
a demure Amorist
with a voice that rends asphalt,
waiting for a world
where love
Ask not for shadows of memory.
Bruised and broken time and again
Loved and tossed away lover and friend
Innocent and free and lovely you
Now battered and worn what can I do
I weep for your woes and wipe your tears
But love your Blackheart after all of these years
You've fancied the rum, the ale and the wine
Your bodies worn out abused over time
Narcotics for pain washed down with booze
Infections ignored that blatantly oozed
And the women who loved you in your youth
Run from you now because of the truth
Your smelly and dirty you never wash
Your teeth are all rotten you only eat squash
And what of the sperm that you let grow
They are adults now but alas you don't know
Blackheart the heathen, unkept selfish soul
Waste of life and of body a big manhole
So scatter and run and part a wide path
For Blackheart the stinky won't take a bath!
I am watching 3 inches off of the floor,
The man outside waits at my door
I know the screams from within the box
Howl and call upon your order upon the rocks
But I know you can hold your tongue 'till the end of the night
And I know you can wait until I seem right.
Feel your spite, wait for the burn
For we all want, we all yearn
Wait 'till the rafters waft clear air upon your neck
And slither the silver lined tears that slipped as I begged for you not to check
Went as you dreamt and I wept as my days fell to waste
In haste as the rafters breathe my name and a lack of accosted face.
Calm the wolf from within the box
As it grazes your poisonous flesh to protect my infancy from the fox
And I know its not time to let go
But the manhole beneath my feet pounds at my door, as I fall slow
The stars dont seem so far, I have found
Wait, for the words beneath the world may fall down.
This cant last for much longer, not anymore
But there's so much water pooling beneath the door
I wait for you to pick up your head from the floor
Before I fade away and fly
Further towards the future prediction of faded grave
And engraved words that spoke of one, and none that forgave.
Wait for me, wait as I wave, hold upon my lacquered oak door
And hope your unsustained kisses sing the words slipped beneath the door
In my heart I had a place for you
In my mind, I thought you knew
through and through, your fist would always break through
Before the chain of the swing broke and the manhole only grew.
The poem never ends heartfelt
We forget this flesh, blood and bone was borne to be felt
Forget this sad life, for I'll slip by silently
And we can separate separately
Before your order is recieved
And my door can recede.
Treat the right side of face, made up and out of place
Criss-cross down and turn before the water can swallow what is left of the face
Lullabies left to ripple across with words sang through a silver lined haze.
An easy- go-lucky man passed by an open manhole
And thought of putting back the lid after his dance at the hall
He partied all night long 'til hardly drunk before dawn
Passing by the same manhole... swooped deep down.
An ambulance siren was heard before sunrise
Paramedics pulled up his body twice then thrice
His mom came running to hug his injured body
Mom, I didn’t wash dishes then cover a manhole. Sorry.
“Mom, please help me. I’m in great pain,” he added
I think, I’ve broken my arms, leg then cracked my head
“You procrastinate things always my son, Lee Thor.”
Suffer the consequences. Res ipsa loguitur!
Jan. 16,2022 2.21pm
Social Security Electronic Deposit ruff lee = A Dog Send!
Node out if Trump
pad hiz way...
this scrivener would
batten down in skidrow
with the missus,
the latter who would veto
such misery, none
the less, she would
most likely experience
a sense of helplessness too,
which poetic title just came
to mum mind, cuz panic
stricken thoughts rue
asper what if that figurative
wellspring of government
small largesse
(electronically deposited
beginning of each month)
dried up sue
sink lee forcing me out
onto the brutally cold
bleak domain queue
wing up to the next
available steaming manhole
sink or mebbe best firm
me tug hoe to Peru
walking all the
way there (devoid
of money, would disallow
choice to drive or access
public transit), ooh
such hardship would
constitute an offal
spell, which more
likely, would find me
dead aah with new
more hardship,
(yea of corpse
this chap joking,
but gallows hue
more about cease
sing to exists),
but forced at the
mercy of teenage mew
ninja turtles, or
worse...stuck in rat
infested hole in wall
smelling like a loo
hmm...juiced perhaps
rapping on the door
of a Synagogue, could allow
admittance for this
enthusiastic, basic atheistic
Unitarian, though of Jew
whoosh heritage,
though aye knew
nary a whit aboot Semitic culture,
I maze well high tail north
in search for cold
storage in an igloo
calling out across the
miles of frozen tundra
"YOU HOO...LUCY?...DESI?...
...ANY BODY HOME?" when
of course irritable bowel
syndrome kicks in putting
cramp on me glue
tee us maximus. finding
yours truly to ejaculate a stronger
expletive than "FOO,"
which utterance does absolutely
nothing to remedy, thus...
imagine this poet stranded in
the middle of nowhere
with mush aboot doo doo
on my mind, and/or
same in his pants!
While chasing after my beguiling muse
I fell into the bottomless abyss
Free falling into darkness does confuse
Despair replaces fragile happiness
This chill of loneliness I've felt before
No longer does the darkness summon fear
Cause hope is like a beacon on the shore
And love of friends provides a net of tears
But getting out is not an easy task
It all depends on just how far I fall
And when I reach the top I'll don my mask
To hide the shame and stigma of it all
Then once again I'll strive to reach my goal
To find a cover for this damn manhole
an original poem by Daniel Turner
He said, "Old folks ain't worth a damn. I'm thirty, and if you're
over thirty you ain't nothing."
I said... "That's a lie! I'm seventy-one and young at heart.
He hadn't seen me sunning alone around the bend
by the elevator, he stood waiting with his friends.
And I saw that his Counselor was my age
And I thought of my nine-to-five days
And volunteering in snow, sleet, wind, rain and grime
And the sidewalk manhole in Brooklyn I climbed
And the emotional horse I fell off
And some folks may have had a good laugh
And the skylight I looked up to
And hands that healed and renewed.
And I say, my age is none of my business
I'm seventy-one, and life and me is not yet done.
*
Navigating the sidewalk
up 9th Avenue from 34th Street.
Busses, cars and trucks clank and clatter
on their noisy way north
over the manhole covers,
ignoring lane markers.
Horns volley insults.
Bus fumes shove me aside.
Doorways have a voice of their own,
Some have not opened in decades.
Business hopes gone down.
Rays from the sun reach the shop window.
Fading the intent,
Fading the will,
Fading the future.
Trash groans by the curb.
Crushed and torn coffee cups,
Empty and sighing
Some sinister liquid drooling
from the plastic trash bag
The smell lurches out,
Shocking my composure.
The butcher shop displays
animals hanging upside down.
Dead, skinned and up for sale.
Eyes of the owner as he packs up a pound,
Unyielding, surviving, longstanding,
sad, strength.
Around the corner,
the studio rises,
inside, off the sidewalk.
A bright classroom
where breezes of learning swirl,
moral strength ascends
Passion and aspirations compel
intricate, thoughtful scenes.
“The play is the thing…”
Hope permeates interactions
and street trash is
left far behind.
Away in time and space from that sidewalk
Thriving artists, mature now, reflect the full,
confounded lives
of the bus driver;
of the failed businessman;
of the unyielding butcher.
From the learning room,
where a discipline was studied,
to the cosmos of the proscenium,
mortal stories are brightly revealed.
Connections and delight,
Triumph over trouble,
Catastrophe and diversion
These motley, glorious
tales are celebrated,
unveiled with magnificent scripts,
lights, costumes, music, sets
and they lift the audience
far above the mean streets.
As I walked down Mulberry Street, my pack and the shoes on my feet.
I see a nickel, penny a dime an empty bottle of wine.
Fletcher the old drunk, smelling a bit of a skunk still I smile and wave.
Punks have placed Graffiti on a wall, claiming ownership of this urban sprawl.
I stop for a bit and have a quaint sit on the remnants of a flower box.
I light my last smoke, watch some odd folk, they walk to the beat of their drum.
Exhaling the sweet mist of nicotine addiction, happy this is my only vice.
A dandelion grows through a crack screaming for me to take poetic note.
A Mercedes parked in front of the attorneys office, ill gotten gains.
Trash blown into the inner recess of the arched doorway in which I sit.
A drug store receipt a note perhaps a declaration of love or don't forget the milk.
The cast iron manhole cover states proudly, Made in Chicago.
Ahead lies the Mulberry Street Mission a line already forms.
Where dinner and biblical mumbo jumbo are being served.
The old woman greets everyone with a smile and tells them Jesus loves you.
I'll wait until she goes inside I don't want to argue.
The wind blows and sunshine falls on my face.
I notice out of the corner of my eye a normal folk (Non-Homeless).
Taking their own cigarette break enjoying the same sweet addiction as myself.
Our eyes meet in acknowledgement of we are the same, for the moment.
The Mulberry Street bus rambles by spewing noxious fumes.
The city's wind artwork slowly turns hoping someone will take notice.
My last long draw on my cigarette, I grab my pack and pull myself up.
then One foot Two foot I resume my journey to the Mulberry Street Mission.
(In Memory of Fletcher Campbell 1940-2015)