Long Peachy Poems
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When Mortimer Manders collapsed in the street,
his daughter, Muriel, was with him.
Though now seventy-five,
he’d continued to thrive,
in spite of the irregular rhythm
his heart was now keeping. But this was quite grave.
He hit the hard sidewalk real sudden.
When Muriel knelt
beside him, and felt
to locate where his pulse was, she couldn’t.
Soon, passers-by stopped and gathered around,
but no-one had medical knowledge.
“It’s good, I suppose,
If you loosen his clothes:
I think that’s what they told us in college …”
She looked wildly around, and thought that she’d found
a willing and capable saviour.
A red firehouse lay
thirty metres away –
(might as well have been Outer Moravia!)
When Muriel pounded the firehouse door,
a voice answered back through the panels,
“You make think it inept,
but we’ll only accept
an approach through appropriate channels.”
“But he pays your wages,” she argued with force:
and, pointing to where he was lying,
“You’ve got to come quick –
he’s collapsed on the bricks –
my father is probably dying!”
“You don’t understand how these things are arranged,”
said the voice, from the depths of the station:
“You just call nine-one-one.
If we try to respond,
we are risking adverse litigation.”
Running into the roadway, she flagged down a car,
and the driver agreeably shocked her:
with a white coat and bag
and a hospital tag,
he said, “Yes, you are right, I’m a doctor.”
As the quack pulled away, he turned briefly to say,
in a voice that was suitably gloomy,
“I will not touch that man,
for if I lend a hand
and he happens to die, you can sue me.”
The ambulance came, but things got more lame,
as Mortimer started to weaken:
though the ambulance crew
looked resplendent in blue,
the responders were all Costa Rican.
“We’ve lived here some time and our English is fine,
but we can’t touch our defibrillator.
To avoid getting screwed,
we must talk to him through
an officially-sanctioned translator.”
“But you sound good to me, and it’s peachy, you see,
for my father speaks German and Spanish.”
“But your ganso is cooked.
No interpreter’s booked.”
And the ambulance packed up and vanished.
So the moral is clear. Clear of medics please steer.
Your best course, if you’re feeling nervous, is
lay on linguists each day
in Magyar and Malay
– and don’t call emergency services.
Yes, indeed,
I'm not quite up to speed,
These days, anyway...
Let me tell you, if I may...
The 20 odd meds I must take,
Each and every day...
Hope you got the space in your hard drive,
To see what it takes, to keep me alive...
First, the conditions...Ventricular Fibrillation (Life threatening heart condition,
which brought me tons of seizures...and emergency heart surgery within an
hour...they implanted in my heart a computerized "Defibrillator" miniture version
of those big electric pads you see on TV medical scenes, where they
go: "Charge! Now!!" and the electric shock makes the body jump. I was told it
was that, or be dead in a month. And when the battery dies, it starts beeping
inside my chest...no doubt I'll be in a movie theatre at the movie's climax, and be
tossed by the usher (do they still have those?)....Second is COPD, today's term
for emphyzema...a degenerative lung disease...where suddenly you cannot
breath, you literally drown in a sea of air....This is a peachy one, has me in the
hospital 10 times a year, plus far more suseptible to goodies like pneumonia...
which I have gotten several times, and from which I just recently recovered.
The prognosis is poor, it is incurable, progressive (contantly getting worse),
terminal...I will eventually suffocate...and I'm always with a variety of inhalers and
nebulizers...a plug in version I got from a ex-co-worker's wife, with the same
disease, but much better specialists than me, although she died from it 2 years
ago, oddly, on my birthday (2-28) hmmmmm.....I already have a plot for me and
my Rosie...lovely place....I've survived bladder cancer twice...another benefit from
my long ago days of smoking -quit in 1994- when this first showed up- I'd go to
urinate, and pure blood would flow...naturally it soon clogged, and I swelled up
with blood....came real, real close to dead several times...and I'm not a
recreational drug user...so the pain was aweful, and the later Dr. check-ups a
fearful affair...a fiber optic camera inserted up the *****....any male's worse
nightmare...with good reason, the pain is unreal...It's my third favorite past time to
being beheaded, being castrated (near the same thing), and being burned at the
stake. Continued...
I have heard a tale of the darkest forest that is known for its whispering trees,
forbidden fruits, and its dancing roses all kept in touch by winter’s hand. I seek to
confirm these facts made by delusional men, but I, I seek an even more forbidden fruit,
and a more soothing whisper that is not of the trees to caress my ears. I seek a figure
whose peachy skin is bathed in the white satin of winter. A figure whose lips that are
flushed and soft, that they beckon for a mortals lips to embrace their own. I look and I
listen for a tempting whisper, I take note to every sound that floats by my ears. One
resonance catches my intention; it’s the sound of fracturing ice behind 7 trees I failed
to perceive. O was I mislead by these delusional fools, for such a beauty cannot be
described by mere and simple words. I was never a poet but the sight of her made
poetic lines flow into my head. It went like this: “A soft and delicate petal amidst the
sea’s darkness beacons for a stem, a stem to lift it up to the sun and thaw the chains
that bind”. The ice that I spoke of earlier was not fracturing; they were simply forming
beneath her feet as she elegantly strode along the rivers bank. I questioned myself on
whether to call her or not, for I could not recall a name by which she went. So I simply
said: “O, winter’s Goddess, satisfy this mortal with the visage that obscures the hearts
of men”. She simply turned around and glanced into my eyes then said: “Who is this
goddess that you beacon so much for? I am only a woman whose love is frozen in her
own tears. A woman whose eyes, are as vast as the sea that they can drown a man
searching for love”. I replied: “Your love maybe frozen in tears of sadness, but I seek
to thaw them out into tears of joy, your love cannot drown a man who has already
found what he seeks.” With these words said, I walk towards her slowly and embrace
her in my arms; I lean in to kiss this winter queen’s lips, but she suddenly vanishes in
my arms. The shout of a mother penetrates my ears telling me to get her a drink of
water in the middle of the night. Finished with the feeble task that mother set out for
me, I venture back into my bed to fall into slumber once more.
for my ever so intelligent, beautiful granddaughter, Juliette
Waking in the garden,
she was the lone bloomer out today-
Peeking from behind her petals,
she saw a few faint sunshine rays-
Soaking in their goodness,
but wanting company-
She sang a melancholy song,
sweet with melody-
Her delicate face smiled,
when she thought she heard a lark-
But it splashed around the birdbath,
then flew off to a near-by park-
“Sweet Juliet” was strong in nature-
all roses knew that true-
But standing alone in the garden,
was beginning to make her blue-
The garden entry was opening,
she could hear the creaking gate,
And saw the ‘ole time gardener,
give his head a shake,
“Well, pretty little lady,”
he said right into her face,
“Bet you’re kind of lonely here,
inside this rose bed place“
Spring was making its entry,
very late into the year,
And “Sweet Juliet,” was finding it,
very hard to quell her fear-
She knew she’d be tended well,
by those hired to give her care-
But usually by this time of year,
there’d be flowers everywhere-
This quaint little English garden,
did not like the winter cold,
And “Sweet Juliet” was wondering,
how much longer her stem would hold-
Then for a moment she was startled,
when upon the ground she saw-
Cornu aspersum - a garden snail,
looking at her in awe-
Her beauty could not be denied,
with cupped rosette form of old-
A popular choice for brides to be,
a “Sweet Juliet” bouquet to hold-
Of 15,000 cultivated varieties,
She’s referred to as the £3 million rose,
After high costs and 14 years of breeding,
She debuted in 2006 flower shows-
She is the royalty of many gardens-
with her peachy-apricot hued blooms-
And not to go unappreciated,
is the scent of her tea-rose perfume-
Well protected through the winter,
with burlap enclosures ‘round her rows-
She’s safe in inclement weather,
and out of reach from cold winds that blow-
It took four weeks for the chill to go,
and the clouds to float away-
“Sweet Juliet” awoke to a buzzing sound,
and knew that spring was here to stay-
She glanced at the roses around her,
and smiled because she wasn’t alone-
For nothing gave her greater joy,
Then having friends to share her home-
Wednesday Evening
7:10 p.m.
September 16, 2015
Kansas City, Mo
Stephen Becker pen Brian Stoaks
"Flying Freely"
Depression is a deadly disease for even those that are treated
It only takes one night alone for the world around depression to fall apart
If you think that depression is a sign of weakness
Please come into my mind and live for a day
Suicide is often a thought of those who have never truly felt happy
While writing I cry for the secretes inside my mind are enough to die for
So you think the world is peachy and I believe its rocks of lava
Will you remember those who slowly die around you and pretend you didn't know
Love songs bring back memories of days gone by and loves never forgotten
Some songs remind me of those I miss that can only be seen in dreams
Like in the arms of an angel my mom has long since gone
But yet here I cry these tears of pain while her pain no longer exists
So don't ask me if I'm ok for I'm never ok even while smiling
Most comics make others laugh to soothe their pain deeply hidden from you
They beg to laugh with you but inside they're slowly dying
Tonight I am not trying to cry but trying to find a reason to smile
As I live for tomorrow my brain haunts me with visions of the past
Not believing that your sun will always shine on me but burn me like hells fire
No wrecking balls can tear down these walls to free my spirit to fly
I can only shed tears of disasters that have caused this brain to fight for death
So with twelve days from forty four I struggle to find a reason to breathe
I have made videos to be noticed and written poems and stories to be heard
I have helped the stranger find their way home or the sad to find peace within their heart
Still here I sit alone in my mind wishing all this empty space would finally close around me
I ask your forgiveness ahead of time whomever knows me for me
Although my heart may no longer beat for your ears to hear it
Know where ever I may land, heaven or hell, I'm always watching you
I ask that you smile knowing that star above your head is just me flying freely from the pain of being alive
They may come stealthily, with barely a sound, almost silently.
Most everything that comes to pass, does not come to stay or to last.
They may stop very suddenly, and then depart rather quickly.
One winter, a boat was my home base.
Let's just call it a rock and a hard place, with the rock being my home 100 miles away,
and the hard place being a boat docked at the Bay.
That winter I rocked and rolled all that stormy night. I arose early the next day to go to work before daylight.
Yet dark, the wind was still strong as I slowly exited in fright. Electric lines had fallen, and I had to crawl around them and pray.
I'm grateful to have lived to tell the story about going to work that day. Through the years and the fears, life cast upon me many a memorable tear.
Through the shock and the awe, our world will sometime roll and rock. Like my stormy wind on the Bay, at some point, things stop, and we dock.
There have been stories, some were bad, some good, and a few were ugly. But I would not trade a single story, because life is not all peachy and pretty.
06302017PS Contest, And Then It Stopped, John Lawless, NA
junkavore
Sophy’s mom sent her a giant case of “Fun dip” - a thousand packets of sour, fruit-flavored sugar. Is there anything more junkavore a parent can buy a child - well, ok, an 18 year old?
She LOVES them and so does Leong who’s from China where, apparently, you can’t get useless, non-nutritional snacks. The two of them are running around, all sugar hyped with their emo-grape-chemical-lips, sticking out phosphorescent-green-tongues and threatening to tickle everyone with cherry-red-fingers. It has me wondering, should I switch to dentistry?
Our college prep has moved to a new phase - with just 16 days until classes begin. We’re suddenly sleeping-in. It’s nothing we planned or even discussed, it just started happening. We go to sleep around 10pm and sleep until 10am - or later. I think we all subconsciously realized that soon we’ll be back to sleeplessness.
I’m peachy - in a great mindspace - these days. I’m well rested (see above), we’re killing our sophomore prep - even the physics, my period was a nothing, we spent over two hours in Ulta sampling perfumes, I have a new Macbook M2 (see below) and I painted my nails in tropical colors.
The FedEx man rolled up yesterday. “Anyone expecting something?” Anna asked the crowd of roommates attracted by the driver bringing packages to the door, two at a time. No one was expecting anything. Eventually he’d delivered 8, back to school, M2-Macbooks (2 in each color) - one for everyone - from my Grandmère.
If that sounds needlessly ostentatious, then you’re thinking she went to the mall and paid full price, but she probably just traded Tim Cook a half ton of lithium or something - one of her companies mines it - in Chili - I think. But still, my roommates were blagabloo.
I picked a starlight one. An odd thing about the new, flat Macbook-Air design is that you can’t pick it up with one hand - unless you hook it underneath with a long fingernail - what are guys going to do?
.
Slang:
junkavore = someone who eats completely unhealthily
peachy = happy and healthy
blagabloo = ecstatic
Many Christmas stories are told every year,
and many songs are sung with pure cheer;
do I have a good story, at least one, I can tell,
or a simple song I can hum and spread good will?
When Lisa's grandmother passed away unexpectedly...
by her dying bed she kept an ivory music box,
and to her lovely granddaughter she gave it
to saying," Take care of it, and smile when you think of me!"
The day after granny died, she went down the dark cellar
to hide the ivory music box in an old dresser's drawer,
and once in a while she would open it and play it and listen to it sadly;
the pretty angel swirled...and Silent Night played as Lisa touched it tenderly.
It was almost Christmas Day and the pine tree wasn't decorated yet,
she rushed outside carrying a red basket with ornaments in it;
how could she had forgotten to adorn it with bulbs and garlands?
" Oh gosh, I feel like the Grinch!" she displeasingly uttered to herself.
There was no snow predicted for that evening and the illuminated town
was lacking Nature's magical snowflakes to make it festive and vibrant;
five minutes to midnight the choir from the nearest church gathered outside,
and waited for a miracle...silence...tranquility...every heart felt so alone.
But Lisa with an indomitable spirit ordered them to sing,
and they began singing looking up the clearest, starriest sky;
everyone seemed sad and some of them wanted to cry,
but before sadness set in...snowflakes began falling.
Lisa knew that it was the miracle she had been waiting for,
but something was missing from the snowy scenery...
she remembered her ivory music box she had put away,
and running, with awe in her bright eyes, she opened the cellar's door...
Clutched in her caring, careful hands, she carried the ivory music box,
laid it gently underneath the twinkling, scented Christmas Tree;
Lisa kissed it tenderly...until the golden angel started to swirl at midnight,
as that divine music filled the nippy air...making all cheeks so peachy.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Guess what? Another true story,
About a beautiful dame called Corrie.
Her allurement enraptured all men folk,
I did say this was a true story and not a joke?
Her tight dress and peachy ass, men would cry and plea,
Even blind Jim stopped, pulled down his glasses, willing himself to see.
When she walked the clock would stop to hear the tick tock of her heels,
Believe me this woman was dripping with sex appeal.
Every morning Corrie went into town to get her sick father’s pills,
She knew when she got them; one of the men would offer to pay the bills.
Now there was an evil merchant filthy rich had lent her father money,
It was time for him to pay up or he would take this honey (the daughter).
But to be a sport he conjured up a devious deal,
When he proposed the deal, it made her father feel more ill.
The merchant said “I have a bag and will put two stones in it.”
One white, the other black and here is the deal if you may permit?
“If your beautiful daughter picks the white stone,”
“You debt will be cancelled and you can take her home.”
“If it’s the black, I will cancel what you owe me,”
“But your daughter will be my bride you see.”
The ill father protested at first then gave in,
As they stood in town her father begged her to win.
Now while every man was looking at the divine girl,
She, the only one saw the merchant place two black stones, and so the bag he did fill.
She shook with horror as she picked a stone, thinking as she frowned
Then suddenly dropped the stone on the ground
The merchant raged “Now how are we to know which stone you took out?”
“Look in the bag and the one left will tell you what I chose” she did shout.
Everyone focused on the bag to see if she’d wed him or not,
The black one his hand reaches in and got.
Her father’s eyes lit up and he screamed with delight
His debt cancelled and she wouldn’t marry this merchant two foot in height.
She remains the tester of men’s hearts today,
They are mesmerised by her ass and they way she make it sway.
*Lateral thinking E. Bono*
Today, there are no busy little feet running through the house
with high pitched voices that threaten to pierce my solitude.
I made it clear to my lover and others with pending issues, this
is my day of interlude.
Today with a full glass of chardonnay I am breaking free.
Today I am chillin' with Debussy.
I inserted the piece to my earphone into my ear.
I turned up the volume loud enough to transport me to another
atmosphere.
The prelude moves me with the mastery of the free flowing rhythmic
patterns of Debussy Reverie.
My soul surrenders to the intoxicating arranged movements of
Arabesque
and Suite Bergamasque.
In my blissful state of mind, I conjured up an image of dark silhouette
doing pirouettes on the wall.
Nothing is so sweet and groovy as the affair I am having with
Debussy.
As a faithful mistress,I let the smooth composition of Clair de Lune
carry me to a white sandy beach, where I am mesmerized with the view
of the tide stealing the shore.
I am completely contented to linger there, but there is an intrusion of
another score.
I was soon lost to the beautiful and alluring rhythm of Trois
Nocturnes..
A consummated poetry.
I am of the same mind to the interpretation of a descending sun into
the sea somewhere in a South Eastern country.
Oh honey, please!
There is nothing so calming as Estampes
Memories of rain cascading down my window pane brings on a show.
Oh, how splendid is the flow.
I am attentive to the jubilant and stimulating pace of La Petit Negre,
and I am enlightened of the flavoring of the era of Ragtime.
A rendition of an era so sublime.
There is a tear in the time and the day has been devoured by the
evening.
Yet every minute of the day has been peachy,
chillin' with Debussy
copyright Labyrinth of life a compilation of poems and short stories