Long Old boy Poems
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Once upon a time I shared a cubicle with the detention supervisor.
Mr. Hell was swift and severe detention.
I was lavish and immediate positive attention.
We got along great, Mr. Hell and I, as I did not say anything to him,
And He felt equally compelled to share stories with me.
One day when I entered the school late, after the district wasted my morning
On a mandatory counseling meeting which was a complete and utter waste of my time,
And took me away from the children, which put me in a bad mood to boot
The secretary said, “Oh, it’s BAD in the detention room right now. I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.”
So of course I ran right in, with all my usual reserve and finesse.
Three grown men were standing along the walls.
Each one of them had their arms crossed and frowning faces.
An eight-year-old-boy who was regularly beaten with a belt by an angry severe father
A particular favorite of mine actually, being able to relate well to this side of him,
Was in the middle yelling, screaming, and SHRiEKING at the top of his lungs.
I said, “Tray, do you want to go with me?” To his credit he glared, stuck out his tongue and threw a vase at my head.
Having swift reflexes, I caught it and carefully handed it back to him, which I could see almost made him smile.
The arm-folded men could not see this from their vantage points, being in back and at his sides.
“What would it take to get you to come with me?” I asked Tray after he threw the vase at a now-angry-looking six foot three two-hundred and ten pound DARE officer, which means a police man, and how dare an 8 year-old bully one of them, right?
Tray thought for a long time.
I was SO hoping the men would stay out of it.
One started to talk and I gave him the HATE look, so he stopped. He was the vice principal.
When Kublai got a poo poo butt he would go and hide
the silly dog with his mess seem embarrassed and shy
But Genghis with his hind mess was eager for me to spy
he would trot in searching for me his eagerness beware
Wanted me to pick him up and tend to his dirty rear.
Off we go to clean him good and happy he would be
to have a clean behind made him playful indeed.
But Kublai would be missed after a little while
I would have to search and find my shy little pal.
His eyes were sad and his face long and droopy
we both knew he had a mess the little poopy
So I cleaned him up and trim there
for the old boy had quick growing hair
Than I would pick him up to hold
as he would lick my face being thankful so.
Sassy has short hair so that problem does not exist
but like Kublai the older she is the longer her hair gets
Having dogs is like having a little child
messy situations pop up but you never throw in the towel
Sometimes you want to cry but more often you laugh and smile.
Please take a moment and open your thoughts
As you enter my mind to the contests sought
To run as brothers one faster than the other
Running to catch up to shadow his brother
One turns the corner the other behind
Just as he turns in your eyes you now find
Through me you see a main road just ahead
You see your brother, in seconds he's dead
Listen to the impact as he is hit by a van
Slow motion now shows, as different worlds ran
Tyres are screeching, or is it my brother
For fifty yards he's been dragged, a young life in smother
To reach the opening that your past images have seen
A nine year old boy against a modern machine
To look through my eyes on that Monday night
At seven years old I turned and took fright
How I got back to my father I'll never know
In monsoon of tears under street light glow
To be so young to say your brother is dead
For the past forty two years, my dreams I still dread
Am barking like crazy
will he listen to me?
Hoping for a walk over
cliffs to view the sea.
Ha! here he comes, holding my lead
'tis my lucky day.
My owner is elderly, and so am I,
We are the perfect pair.
Slowly we walk to our favoured place,
where ocean's salty breeze
blows puffs of air upon the face.
Hungry after my morning walk,
my food bowl uninspiring.
Dried food, ugh! this will not do
will vent my displeasure with a paw
Food noisily scatters over floor.
Hearing my owner "What's wrong old boy",
I bark my frustration.
Then decided to play sick,
that just might do the trick.
Heavy breathing with sad-eyed look
rolling over and pretending
death just opened its door.
Should be an actor, that's for sure.
My plan worked the refrigerator opens
where leftovers are carefully stored.
Smelling my dinner, smelling great
Replacing the dried food that I hate.
I have watched the TV,
the night seemed long
it's time to make a move.
Sneaking up old creaky stairs,
time for bed 'tis well to be first.
Lying in comfort feigning sleep,
with one eye open I take a peek.
Sensitive hearing there is a tread,
footsteps heading up to bed.
Mattress dips my owner's arrived
Voice in the dark says" Hello old boy,
We're still alive".
'Personification- Pets Talking '
Poetry Contest
Sponsored
by
Constance La France
16/06/2022
Pixabay image by Annabel_P
When I see you,
I forget those bad moments;
When I love you,
Light comes from darkness.
Oh, God! Is that heaven
Where I wish to die?
Is that heaven where I want to lie?
Little high, little shy
Oh, Love! Say 'Good bye'!
When you come to me,
Heartbeats like to play within;
When you look at me,
My world looks for nothing.
Oh, Eyes! Are that you
Made me to cry?
Are your eyes where I want to lie?
Little high, little shy
Oh, Love! Say 'Good bye'!
When you promise me:
'I shall wait for you ever!'
When you trust upon me,
I can bide your each tremor.
Oh, Trust! Is that you
Led her to defy?
Is that hype where I wished to die?
Little high, little shy
Oh, Love! Say 'Good bye'!
You can return to earth for two days they said,
but not in that worn out body.
I knew that; and I was glad; it was almost blind,
and had a touch of dementia any way.
You have to go incognito, they told me.
They were stern, and stuck up angels,
Not the kind I was expecting to meet my
first hour in heaven. Assertive even.
Here were my body choices: fourteen year old boy,
red hair, freckles, square chin.
Eighty-nine year old body, old lady, wrinkled,
spotted hands, sweet smile, looked serene.
Or two-year-old female, blonde hair, plump and perfect.
I could not see their eyes, for the eyes do not appear
until you enter the body suit.
Two-year-olds can be dancy-prancy. But that would mean
I would have to have gatekeepers in the form of parents,
probably, and I wanted two days of freedom not naps.
Being eighty- nine did not appeal to me at all.
I have never enjoyed arthritis in my feet or a humpback.
“Fourteen year old boy,” I told them. They nodded,
being smug angels, and my self-chosen-spirit-guides for many lifetimes.
All of my relatives stared at the giggling freckled
red-haired teenage boy at my funeral.
They speculated that he had escaped from the
boys’ group home on the corner.
Every time one of them got up and said something
nice about me, the boy burst out laughing.
They did not escort him out, because weirdly enough,
he had my witch-laugh, and it comforted them.
I'm Eric Cartman and I'm an evil little *****.
My mom is poor, she certainly isn't rich.
She posed nude in a magazine because she's a Crack Whore.
She couldn't afford to buy me an IPad and that made me sore.
After I lied on DR. Phil, Apple was about to give me a Human CentiPad.
But they got an order to disassemble it and that really made me mad.
I started cursing God and he struck me with lightning.
I won't ever mess with him again, he's too frightening.
Many people hate my guts because I'm a racist punk.
When I offended a girl classmate, my ship was sunk.
She beat me up because she's a tough little Lass.
I tried to fight back but she kicked my sorry ass.
I certainly don't have a heart of gold, I'm a terrible lad.
People wonder how a nine year old boy can be so bad.
If you do something bad, I'll rat you out because I'm also a snitch.
I will not change my ways, I'll continue to be an evil little *****.
(This poem is based on the South Park cartoon.)
I can touch buds on spring flowers as they open to greet the sun
Smell a sweet scent in the breeze, as the darkness starts to run
feel on my cheek ray's of the sun as life emerges from their bed
I taste the salt from my tears, GONE, is that what they said?
If come spring my time on earth, should be ended with one word
I will do my best for family, to teach reason and spread your word
How do I teach family of my knowledge, hope God will please employ
How can this man teach his family, when he has lost all hope and joy?
Can the only one on earth to love or share this sorrow with be you
Lost like falling leaves of spring, moving only when a cold wind blew
Realizing I'm caught between dying and dead just as these leaves
No happiness or joy just asking why, when, what or if I have to leave
Make good use of this man but, children dying take hope from this old boy
grand-child can't live, why should I survive without love, hope and joy?
Death is a thief of a child
"If spring is all the time I have to finish teaching what I know
I'll teach what I can of life to my family without shedding tears"
Little Jack Horner was sent to the corner
For sticking his thumb in the Christmas plum pie.
The guests were also not pleased when he sneezed on the peas,
Or sang nursery rhyme ballads while fondling the salads,
And then tried to lick consommé spoons on the sly.
But what got him bounced was when he announced,
"Hey, look everyone, what a good boy am I!"
"No, you're not!" one guest spat,
"You're a horrible brat,
And I demand that you be reprimanded!"
So Dad gave him a pat on his bum and then sat him
Away in that corner in utter disgrace,
Where he pouted awhile 'til a sly little smile
Soon was spreading all over his little brat face.
Little Jack had one final surprise up his sleeve.
I hesitate to relate it, it's so hard to believe.
It seems that the lad, while his dad said the blessing,
Had peed in the pudding and pooped in the dressing.
Now, why someone would do such a thing is confusing,
Just something a three-year-old boy found amusing.
But the guests dug right in and both dishes did savor,
And exclaimed, "What unusual texture and flavor!
But what made them taste so exotically pleasant?"
Mom said it was love…
But Jackie knew that it wasn't.
If you think that was gross and disgustingly murky,
It's best that I hid what he did to the turkey!
It was one day in December,
another day in the calendar,
but for him, a different one.
That day his life took a turn,
fed up with his misery,
wandering alone in the streets,
a poor young man had enough.
He didn't have Santa Claus,
but he heard his echo,
what was his best Christmas present.
Haron, a nineteen years old boy, living in a thorny country,
prayed while he was deciding.
Abandoned to his fate
he had nothing to loose,
but Santa Claus' echoe.
He was offered a new life,
a new country, a new beginning to make his dreams
come true.
No doubt, nothing to loose,
he bet everything to one card.
He left his land with nothing,
jumping into a boat to be sailing for days.
He saw the undesirable,
the eyes of the evil's opportunists taking the rest
of the ashes from him.
A boat arrived on a beach,
alive but with little life, he conquered among many others that they didn't have the same chance.
Lights were everywhere,
the ambulance took him to a hospital. It was the season of lights and miracles.
Haron survived well enough,
he heard that echoe, the right one to be chosen this time.
Haron was adopted by a family, by a village, by all of us.
He is studying as the same time that he is working as a fisherman on a boat called Liberty.