Long Nouveau riche Poems
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It is like a drunk
or addict reaching that 'so called' stopping off point. That point
where one can't imagine life with or without the fix. Writing is like that.
Obsessive, progressive, addictive. A fix. Scribes need it to 'feed the rat.'
Recently I have felt
overwhelmed reading all of the BFAs and MFAs out there, being at most an
amateur ham and egger myself. Writers all strive arduously to organize words
into some form or message that people enjoy. That touches them. That they
identify with.
I've dreamt of hearing,
"Ahh, your words meant so much to me!" And, immediately I fall into
delusional dreams of people swooning. This helplessly addicted novice would
be left to wallow, pro tempore, in the juices of their nouveau riche, yet
auspicious skills? It is simply not like that though, people!
Most of the time
writing is line by line, meter by meter, and word beside word. Then edit,
clip, and rewrite. And all of that to be a novice 'ham and egger.'
Look at
E.E. Cummings, James Agee, Carl Sandburg, Ernest Dowson, Gana Gioia.
All of them capable of writing something complete, abiding, and significant
in less than sixty words.
So significant that
one can return to read and reflect upon the words all the years of a life.
No chance of my ever
writing something compelling like one of those guys? Maybe, I could channel
an inner Dylan Thomas? Perhaps, if I touched the oxfords of Dr. Seuss?
Now, there is a good plan! That Sam I Am, That Sam I Am,
I do not like that Sam..............E-I-E-I-O!
Perhaps, if I had voted for Barack Obama I would be
more sensitive and artistic? All muses, artists, and
sensitive people vote Democratic, don't they? ---
Yes, that's it! If I change my voter registration I'll suddenly
awake one day with all of the angst and existentialist ardor
of Sartre or Dostoyevsky!...........................****, not a chance.
A better strategy might be
to write poetry for all of the right reasons. It is very much worthwhile
expression and communication in our age. It is an accomplishment if
even a handful of people every read the words. Poetry is still important
today. Its benefits enable the author to 'dig the well' of their life experience
deeper with every topic completed.
The words are there. All one has to do is gather them fearlessly!
the Manitou heathen have sunken two of your majesty's king Rupert's ships a fierce battle with in minutes after a warning of shots fired by your ships the heathen technology far greater than your majesty has ever seen even one heathen infantrymen equipped with a shiny silver bow like device which can place a cannon size hole through the bow like dragons fire the intensity was devastating straight as an arrow the fiery projectile about the same size The canons and rifle men were of little use for the heathen men appeared as grey wolves like something from a mad Merlyn's vision then vanished before our eyes we have withdrawn to the safety of the seas and moving southerly to hope a hidden cove while retreating we were hailed a voice reverberating all around us from some strange megaphone the Manitou rise seeing our plight we request your majesty orders king of Britannia - we now fear upon seeing the Nouveau riche lands of these new borders
They all pranced through some broad-like avenue
and they've placed apart from each other's course
proved they stood full of airs and graces view
from cameras balanced by those they knew
endmost part of the resplendent concourse
Those cut-and-dried to flick those cameras
for the whole world's glimpse with covetous stares
furthered their verve-like, polyamorous
stayed flamboyance and maintained glamourous
those who've known, curved away their classic glares.
They've prolonged the night, they danced, fancy pants,
on stage, showboating like catamarans
him, up-market tux, her, something from France
news crews grew silent, now they had no chance
when finance asked, they became stammerers.
Gone Hollywood, have we, fashionable
they'd be high falutin' like Fig Newton
Nick Nack Paddy Whack give that dog a loan
his old man, "La-Di-Da", a rollin' Stone!
Man-o-man, how do you guys put it on?
Nouveau riche, --hardly, old money, --never
pretentious finance witnessed and confirmed
how can they survive, leave it to wander
or perhaps it could be dumped to wonder
still, they curved away, with chuckling affirmed.
Nonetheless, leave it to them, there's something
right or wrong, hear their song, da-da-da-DA!
Be this black-and-white world so defining
"Imagine all the people," imaging
the creme de la creme and the la-di-da.
She wore a tiffany hat with a bow and six big plumes of red and white,
it had an ultra wide asymmetrical brim that rolled up to one side.
When it came to dames like this I believe God ran out of humble stock !
She wore pompadour shoes, like she had nothing to lose
and rouge so red it made the cardinals have fainting spells !
Her hair was soaked in henna, elderberry & radish extract,
and I believe her dress was stitched in the boudoir of coco-channel!
She was a nouveau riche reveling in her new found fame
and everything in her life was right as rain until that fatal day,
when her hat expanded 10 x its size, growing past her shoulders
like a great big beast, of leavened yeast!
Her hat pins strained from the strain of those great big plumes,
moaning and groaning from her lithe walk and all that perfume !
Then First World War arrived and suddenly it was unpatriotic
to be concerned with one's appearance !
She was no Rockefeller and didn't own a rupee nor a heller,
so she became a steadfast loyal dame, like dear old Helen Keller .
What happened to that big old hat, with the plumes of red and white ?
She stewed it, brewed it, boiled it down then poured it in a flask,
and yes she drank it slowly,... just in case you thought to ask !
March 30/ 2025
Decades ago, we met one afternoon
the talk was of change that was coming soon.
Betty Jean's dad gave his insightful view
that the elite life may not continue -
in his gracious estate on Cheswold Lane
across from the Cricket Club's courts of fame.
Peering out of his big picture window
and wondering which way the winds would blow.
Trying to fit in, find ways to belong
breathing in deeply, singing life's sweet song.
Who were we? Who did we dare think we were?
Chasing into life in a blazing blur.
Part of the "in-crowd", on top of the heap,
privileges afforded, no fear to leap.
Cliques became a fated cloistered class
we never thought that this could come to pass.
Nothing could catch us, or so we all thought,
futures so firm, the best that could be bought.
Main Line culture fell into slow decline
in a way the blue bloods could not define.
Wealthy old families lost their tight hold
the nouveau riche then surged forward bold.
This happens looking through the picture glass
dependent on birthright coupled with class.
Who'd thought bucolic beauty so brittle?
Certainly not us, we knew so little.
Couplet 26 lines 196 words
Color Pencil illustration by G. Gaul
Reference to the area of Main Line Philadelphia's
Merion Cricket Club
I try to imagine how it must be for you to feel this way,
rising like the undead under deep coffin skies,
when Death warmed over looks healthier by far,
lurching blindly in the dawn with pallid face and bleary eyes.
To be the nouveau riche where addict illness is concerned,
the candle burned both ends with your superficial wealth,
I flinch to think your currency is all but used and spent,
a lifestyle, it would seem, so detrimental to your health.
What if blood might streak ceramic in the toilet bowl,
your tongue a piece of liver on an acrid cocktail stick?
Would you wonder if it's ever been as bad as this before,
do you pray that paracetamol and coffee does the trick?
Is it even less amusing when you start to sweat and shake,
with the sun spraying rays of sawdust in your eyes?
Does the low hum of the 'fridge heard beyond the kitchen door
resonantly escalate into a swarm of buzzing flies?
Does the snap and thud of pumping blood go Click.Boom! in your skull,
a cerebro-vascular accident set loose within your head?
Lord I wish that you would give it up, I'm missing you so much,
see the light that leads you home, and return to me instead...
The leaves
From the trees
They fell
It was that time of year
Nature looked unwell
The sun disappeared
And out came the rain
Happiness vacated
What’s left of the brain
Festive season
The only saving grace
To lengthen the holidays
There was a case
All the hedgehogs
Went into hibernation
And those from elsewhere
Filled up Heuston Station
Temperatures turning
Cold and breezy
For putting on a jacket
The rest was easy
Autumn to Winter
And early Spring too
Thanks to the conditions
There was not much to do
Colourful lights shone
From the shop fronts
Passers by with the flu
Spoke in coughs and grunts
Don’t forget those
Who were tight on cash
For them
This ‘festive season’
Was nothing of the sort
Instead, it plagued them like a rash
Shamed by the nouveau riche
Who spent money quite brash
The media claimed
We were on the mend
And could issue more social dividend
However, some of the shareholders
In this society
Could not live
Off acts of piety
Something must give
For those who are broke
Food on the table
And somewhere to live
(a collaboration with Robert Liguori )
The rich lovers did everything together,
dressed in expensive matching clothes from
"Little Owl Boutique "
two nouveau riche of New York marrying each other
wearing an exquisite collection
of plumes, feathers and little flowered heathers
The guests sat in their velvet seats and watched
as Marie Claire and Jean D'Archaud read the words
typed on an old Corona typewriter designed for two:
For richer or for poorer I will marry you today
and love you forever for I am here to stay
"Imagine if we lost everything" she tentatively asked
"then we'd trade the lobster for mac and cheese" he said
"and if we went from riches to rags" would you love me then?
"We'd still be serene and in love forever, " he said with a smile
For richer or for poorer I will marry you today
and love you forever for I am here to stay
Thankyou Robert for joining me in this writing venture
I make a perfect dry martini,
I read and write and speak Français,
All my suits, and shirts, and shoes are custom-made.
I own a Porsche and Maserati,
A house on Acapulco Bay
With scores of floors of marble tile that's all inlaid.
I have a staff to fetch and carry,
My every wish is their command,
If I drop things, I just leave them where they lay.
All I need do is snap my fingers,
Someone's always close at hand,
And they look after Señor Jim in every way.
I host the most elaborate soirées,
They're in society's upper niche,
On my birthday and, of course, on New Year's Eve,
Where the hoi polloi and high-born
Mingle with the nouveau riche,
And they're all the better for it when they leave.
This all may seem a bit pretentious,
And I don't mean to self-inflate,
For wealth and fame, of course, do not equate with happiness,
But in my dreams my alter ego
Will oftentimes exaggerate
And make seem real what, to be sure, is pure "b..s".
What i love
further in this life,
It's woman...
woman of any
creed, race and color...:
female,
femme.
female...
long hair
firm ideas.
woman is formidable
pure mother,
sweet girl,
beast, feline that
attacks and defends,
as the panther in the vision
male...
Always present
always companion.
is occasionally fragile,
other times
she is adrenaline...
night female
fiesta girl... fatal
or simple
homemade...
Several types exist,
quiet homes,
bossy matrons,
family matriarchs,
mounted amazons
everything is wonderful...
other different types
are models that appear,
are pin up hanging,
women displayed...
Arrogant socialites,
dazzled
nouveau riche, and others
fighters...Joana Dàrc
of life...
the poor women,
the excluded poor,
no vote, no dowry
no right...
Awkwardly or not awkwardly
there is no other way...
want it or not
angry, not angry,
no dispute and no fight,
the woman is all nice
is the best in this life...!