Long Proprietor Poems
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A Volume of McClatchy
(on reading "The Ten Commandments" by J.D. McClatchy)
- Cheryl L. Higgins @2001
I picked up your book. No, I ordered your book
special hard-back from the local shop
a neighborhood place where literary types and
Yale professors stop on their lunch
where the proprietor came round from behind
to check his shelves by eye
and called you 'our local boy'.
Our local boy.
I almost looked up when the bell jangled
and the door banged shut.
Six slow steps that stopped on the fifth.
The paper-shred scent of ink and pulp
draws the senses to the walls. Old brick dust
sealed with thick paint sets the books, your books
a censer among them, somewhere.
Do you come to see them? Four copies down to one?
Down to none? In the hands of a new reader, now.
Or a writer.
Now your truths become ours in these poems, your own
veiled soul a sacrament for the masses
a confession of wafer-thin sheets
whispered on the tongue.
Behind the stacks your penance becomes
our own absolution, writers murmuring your absolution
as they read you write themselves
how desperate blood-sport can be made of lives
at the liver's expense, nodding, yes I see
this happens, this is how it should be told.
But then, we catch
on your candor
and comes the dry
choke, the flush of
embarrassment
swallowed, for
aren't these the
self-crucifixions
for secret sins so
like our own
laid open with the
power of blood and
passions
the writing which
readers covet
and we feel the
jealous prick, we
writers as readers
for not confessing
first, and then
contrition, and then
that recurrent
seduction of maybe
becoming so bold our
selves one day
the titillation of
fashioning our own
sins with such truth
oh, no! Then, yes,
and then,
Yes!
For when we write in
half-truths
does not some better
truth lie just
beneath?
And here, you've
given us yours.
The man on the
stairs steps behind
me
to wait in deference
to my purchases
your book tucked
away, already mine,
now.
He leans in to get a
look at the title
thin polite smile;
fellow lover of
words, to care what
I might read
so I tip it back
that he might more
easily see
his face open in
slight surprise and
what might be
approval, but has he
read it? I can't
tell.
He steps to the
counter.
"McClatchy," he
says.
"Have you any copies
left?"
Laundering wealthy clothes and other valuables,
baptizing moments and grand white-washed events,
scrubbing dissonant deposits
into healthy places and times,
laundering life with transcendent love.
When we're done sitting in solidarity with Earth's laundry,
it's probably time to start over,
or succumb to our own stinky mess of pseudo-wealth
Therapeutically baptizing body-minds toward resilient health
may require soaking in resonant eco/ego co-awareness,
eco-herent
eco-operative
ecompassioning co-identity.
Clean chi-body clothes cover
and uncover,
discover,
recover would be co-redeemers of healthy mental wealth
rediscovering spiritually naturing systems.
Corporate-sponsored competitive detergents
of urgent LeftHemisphere enculturation
have blinded too many to a more polycultural Received Tradition:
human nature evolved through interdependent mentorships
of caregiving and nurturance and cooperation
between
within
among
inclusive of all Earth's tumbling Tribes
learning natural relationships
in environmental systems
stabilizing through mutual solidarity,
like air with fire,
soil with water.
Too often Left-Brain Dominance
has confused our designer attire and attitudes
facilitator scrubbing functions
mutual mentoring
co-redemptive economic EcoLogical Co-Operative Vocations
with those we have labeled
"Sole Proprietor"
and "Owner" of Nature's Laundry.
These labels tend to come off
during a healthy multicultural stone-washed thrashing
of decompositional analysis.
EgoCentrism,
like traumatic AnthroCentrism,
and its oppressor cousin, RacialElitism,
and MonoCultural SurfaceCleaned Tolerance
fail to wash well
for achieving long-term EcoCentric
PolyCultural
Health-Wealth Optimization Outcomes.
HumanHubris confuses ourselves,
scrubbing down our Beloved EarthHost
as if She were a monopolistically-intended Flea,
resulting in great misfortune
especially for Earth's future grandchildren
drowning in over-populated toxic pain in the everywhere.
They could have been our much Beloved Community,
if we would regenerate this drying out revolution,
permaculturally washing
with Earth's Nature-Balancing
decompositional soap
of ecological intelligence.
On the dreary streets of a quaint but callus steadfast hamlet
A pearl in the bluster carries a handwoven sweet grass basket
The umbrella' d tinge of the tiny town was opaque and gray
As the girl in the blue dress out shined the break of day
A beauty comparable to the first hint of light after winters darkest night
Emerging from the black ashes of peril like a beacon in your sight
Walking a well beaten footpath to town that was forged by frequency
She seemed to float on the earth's surface with affluent translucency
With a quick cut through an alley she'd enter a market in the center of town
Where farmers, hucksters, and traders peddled their wares till the sun melted down
There was a hastening hum to the hurry and hustle of the bustling crowds
But she stood out with a deafening silence as does the sun amongst clouds
My ears quelled the chaos as my eyes froze the scene like a loyal horse waiting
She was the sole proprietor of movement in my eye's still life painting
From the first instant I saw her, many pairs of years ago
She implanted herself inside me as a seed with a need to grow
Her smiles were the rain that perked me up when I was wilting
Life is but a patchwork of blocks the gods must be quilting
And if the large design of life were sewn together pieces of fabric effigies
I'm the stitch in the ditch of the piece work that she will never see
When our eyes made contact It was the sunlight I needed to thrive
For I'm but the sapling in the forest fighting for some sun to survive
To survive the cruelties of nature is a feat far from a cinch
Formidable giants must fall for me to gain but an inch
Generations of time pass till the present season is all that I got
And one by one all the old growth must rot
And the timbering of my brethren in the past has been fine
But now I creek when the wind blows and I'm next in the line
Time cannot age youthful thoughts that are as sweet as honeydew
As my mind travels back to that pretty girl in the hand sewn dress of blue
The handful of times our hands touched strengthened me like the winds from the west
I'll never forget the girl in the pretty blue dress
OBLIVION CAN STILL BE OURS
Others may come after the white man
to scratch another notch on that metal post of history
and seize resources to help their people avoid extinction
ideas other entities have been aware of for a long time
But the end of this struggle will not be known in our lifetime
the unknown, ominous thoughts that frighten the white man
living inside his brain dictating his fate
yet he is not the proprietor of his conscience
In whispered tones he speaks in riddles couched in hypocrisy
trying to understand him as he speaks his intentions
his actions confuse the rest of America
his superficial mind bursts with fake facial gestures
Like his trying to teach the brown man to live without greed while
his actions belie his words as he is the prime practitioner of avarice
the white man is certainly no deity regardless of his pretensions
he is not adroit enough to possess the wisdom of God
In giving advice to brown people
he survives by his own fake list of accumulated wealth
but America will know his false façade is not worthy of respect
and maybe his comeuppance will be what he heaped on Hillary
This is a time when the world needs more brotherhood and camaraderie
the survival of people is looming large with egocentric politicians
hell bent on mass murdering its neighbors and its collateral damage
war is not good for the planet or its living things
People are begging for peace hoping egotistical leaders will listen
but extinction looms large in our futures and it’s serious business
if this madness continues I dare say we will know oblivion
indeed humanity demands ultimate self-control from politicians
Man purposefully ignores the reality staring him in the face
he proceeds as if he controls time and resources
but time and resources are not finite
politicians grow old and fat as people live and die hungry
The world is literally falling apart and humanity is starving
Man’s own greed and hunger for more profits is devouring the planet
but unable to stop his insatiable, selfish appetite for more
he has created a path to our extinction and oblivion.
Anchors Aweigh...Destination Unknown
Weather beaten cap'n,
and watertight bewitched craft
time tested since maiden voyage
(circumnavigating the globe
back in the day
of my youth),
I ranked tough as a pitbull,
when severely pitted
against raw elements
of swiftly tailored,
harried stylish nature
against leathery faced
reptilian skin, hard drinking
(actually as corked
poetic convenience - vermouth
arbitrary bottle of choice
if for no other reason,
than to rhyme
with the above line),
and tobacco spitting, while
colorfully swearing as an uncouth
Furies (of Agamemnon) fighting (tooth
and nail) Pirate,
where rickets, scurvy,
and thrice unconscious,
currently ample proof
could not forsooth
bring me to
Davy Jones's locker,
cuz I never wanna
get relegated to an underwater
whale schooled booth,
this raconteur can nonchalantly,
glibly, and blithely attest,
with braggadocio, despite
no warm welcome will
ever greet mine tinnitus
pained ears, I can plainly
imagine acrimonious retort
upon me behest
his far more'n lifetime
bobbing (like a sponge)
buoyed atop crest
longing e'en for
(carping, caviling, hen pecking,
or shrewish) wife,
and loving family
forsaken, sans living
antisocial upon briny deep divest
many opportunities to
experience wedded, webbed
and whirled bliss,
and hence for everest
as bachelor, especially
at present junction
of twilight years,
my crude manners
makes foreign (for
an) ill suited guest
boot e'en if yours truly
became inured to life on land,
(as a "FAKE" father figure
feathering his nest
my coarse behavior, as basic
electric koolaid acid test
would force even
the most tolerant proprietor,
perhaps a bank
manager at Univest
would utter VAMOOSE,
e'en if eye covered up
my heavily pierced,
and tattooed breast.
A Look Back at Eighteen Months Here-The Show is Over
When your poems reside in a shoe,
like mine,
pounding the pavement to nowhere.
The onset of blisters isn't imagined.
Those blisters take roots,
hindering your motivation
to move-
and to continue to write.
It hurts.
Seeing those poems take residence
in pity.
Sans the
comfort of
leather and lace,
shine and sole,
all of which would have been nice.
But all my eyes see are my poems,
tucked away in worn loafers,
unpolished,
unnoticed.
Not exactly eye candy.
But eyesores ...judging by the lack of views, here.
And undoubtedly my shoes made of synthetics
and sneakers
to the purveyors of good poetry
and good shoeshine.
I look down for good reason,
defacto
and stigmatized,
no contest wins,
no poems ever in the top 100 (new) list,
no scent of roses (or views),
nothing.
Nothing.
An abyss of sublimity,
save for the white bird
that chirps
to nobodies ears.
To wit.
For he who signs up for this site
got a handful of mixed emotions,
confetti less tomorrows,
a begotten rah, rah,
a ladle of spiel,
poems published ...
and in my case alone footnote
that I was a member
sans the shoe shine.
I really have to admit,
writing here,
eighteen months now,
has taken its toe.
I have no one to blame but myself.
Kind Regards,
connie pachecho
4/26/2018
The proprietor of the show has decided to call it quits, citing mental health issues here. The posse of black bears got to me. The guises, pretense, and hate towards me eroded my spirit. Tell her she can play with my insanity but not my spirit. To my readers, I really appreciate your patronage during this journey here even though the crops are bare and the barn fronts a blank stare.
The cows fight with the pigs, and bacon went to waste. One thing I take is the seed in me to aspire elsewhere, which I've already planted at HP under the name Logan Robertson. Thanks again. Wish everybody the best.
I WISH I WAS HEARTLESS.
I wish I was heartless to the core,
I would have unbottoned your mind
Throw them on the earth to be eaten by
The hungry grave who never get satisfied.
I wish I was the heartless lion everyone
Thought I was so that I won't feel pains again.
I wish I couldn't feel love but hatred in my eyes,
To damn those who don't really care of my existence.
I wish I was heartless to kill him
Who defiled and ate my forbidden fruit,
I wish I'd never cared about him that night.
I could have been happier now and forever.
I wish I'd not listened to those panicking voices,
I wish I was David in face of the Hynas,
I wish I was Samson in the temple to destroy,
It might be my only way than killing myself publicly.
I wish I could see someone who could
Teach me righteously how to be heartless and cold,
How to destroy and never feel bad about it,
How to change my real face to that of a demon.
I wish my blood was heartless to that man,
It could have not allow that gay to contaminate
Its purity to a bad rotten shinning blood to
Run away from in the face of goodness.
I wish I was heartless to kill all who critique to kill,
They don't understand a poet's emotions and
Feelings, what it means to write and re-write
And write again to suits your choice of word.
I wish I was a heartless teacher in a school,
I wish I was a heartless proprietor in a school,
I would make poetry writing a mandatory to all the
Students and learners in my school of thought.
I wish I was heartless in the heart,
I won't think about you and others who hurt me,
I would act as a tourist in a foreign country,
And make no standard words to them that smiles.
But now, I am not heartless because I am human;
Human with feelings and emotions for others,
Forgive me for being human and not heartless
As the jungle kings in the forest of life.
(C) John Chizoba Vincent
Voice Of Vincent 2016
It starts with just one,
Just a small one,
A delicate pinkish shooting star
Chosen painstakingly from the flash on the wall
While a girl with blue hair and a nose ring
Watches disdainfully from behind the counter.
It takes more than one trip
To check out the place
On the south side of town, on a dimly-lit side street
Between an all night laundromat and a café
With a dingy neon sign that reads “Garden of Eatin.”
Then a venture inside (to make sure it’s clean)
And a conversation with the proprietor,
A painfully thin ghost of a man
With a shaved head, a long black beard
And one whole arm tattooed
(it’s called a sleeve, I later learn)
With a brightly colored scene of a Chinese garden.
Yes, they use only new packaged needles
And all the equipment is sterilized.
It takes a few beers and one shot of tequila
To arrive on the appointed day
And sit in the cracked fake-leather chair
Trying not to look like this is my first time,
At the ripe old age of 44.
The whirring sound of the needle
Reminds me of a dentist’s drill
And I get a familiar shiver of anticipated pain
Before the very real pain of the first ink
Bites into my shoulder.
When the ordeal is finally over,
The black-bearded artist hands me a small mirror
So that I can view the “body art”
For which I’ve paid sixty dollars, an hour’s time,
And several days of agonizing indecision.
It is, in a word, fabulous.
He covers it with gauze and gives me “aftercare instructions”
(just like they do in the hospital)
And a tube of something called “Tattoo Goo”
And I walk proudly out the door,
Wondering if the young couple dressed in black
Eating hummus in the Garden of Eatin’
Realize that I have a fabulous,
Spectacular shooting star
Under this bandage I wear on my shoulder.
I wear the tattoo like a badge of honor,
A medal of courage, a sign of the times.
I love it.
And it’s only the first one.
Well boys and girls, the staff here at Lim’rik Flats is very pleased to announce the first ever GIGGLE-OF-THE-DAY award goes to:
(insert drum roll, ticking tock, annoying quasi-music and extremely annoying pause like they do on Dancing With the Stars)
WAIT!
First we have to explain. We’ve handed out “best chuckle of the day,”
“best guffaw so far today,” and “splattered coffee all over the ‘puter screen” comments for quite some time.
When we read: A Few Things That Please Me Now by Denis Barter, we commented: “Best giggles of the day.” This is a very gigglish light-hearted poem.
Then we got sparked to initiate a “giggle-of-the-day award”
(see: lim’rik flats giggle-of-the-day award by Lim’rik Flats).
guess what — SOUPTANEOUS COMBUSTION HAPPENED!!!
Three super soupers simultaneously created a “giggle-of-the-day challenge!” (credit Tim Smith for the challenge concept)
Is that cool or what?
In addition to Denis’s fine poem, I encourage y’all to read:
GOTD: DAN THE MAN by Alexis Y.
GOTD BAWDY LIMERICK WHAT A WHOPPER by Jan Allison
GOTD - ROUND ONE by Tim Smith
We’ve decided to award four GOTD’s in honor of an amazing response to our call for MORE SILLIES ON THE SOUP!!!
So, all four poems/poets listed are winners of GOTD’s for 11/27/16.
CONGRATULATIONS YOU DEELIGHTFULLY SILLY POETERS!!!
Oh, btw, the lim’rik flats rules committee is in session (watta ruckus). Some think there should be more than one award. Some, of course, are saying it is NOT FAIR to have four winners. Some want “NA” as another category (that ain’t gonna happen)
Well pooh on committees! The proprietor of Lim’rik Flats will continue to award GOTD any way he dang well pleases!
PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE visit these funny PO’s and PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE write some funny PO’s and post ‘em on the soup.
~~~~~~~~~
Evening skyline
Glow of last light;
Dark shadows creep
~~~~~~~~~
Green moss
Zen garden stones;
Calmness charms
~~~~~~~~~
Antique shoppe
Old proprietor;
Living antique
~~~~~~~~~
Cemetery visit
Angel statues stand
Guardians of death
~~~~~~~~~
Newspaper vendor
Hazards early rain;
Prompt delivery
~~~~~~~~~
World news broadcast
So many conflicts;
Violent humanity
~~~~~~~~~
Children's playground
Noisy little people;
Fun screams and shouts
~~~~~~~~~
Empty taxi cabs
Absent passengers;
Telling times
~~~~~~~~~
Economic woes felt
Here and there;
Poor job market
~~~~~~~~~
Old Kung-fu master
Long solitary wait;
No students come
~~~~~~~~~
Ginseng root brew
Potent tonic;
Energy surge
~~~~~~~~~
City skyscrapers
Over the horizon;
Pouring wet weather
~~~~~~~~~
Speeding carriages
Expressway crowds;
Sudden traffic jam
~~~~~~~~~
Ancient rooftops
Chinese architecture;
Old beauty glimpses
~~~~~~~~~
Morning joggers
On a brisk run;
Sparkling dawnlight
~~~~~~~~~
Old pavilion here
Leaking raindrops;
Wet shelter
~~~~~~~~~
Chinatown alleys
Shops with odd things;
Tourists congregate
~~~~~~~~~
Little India street
Spicy concortions;
Culture in full bloom
~~~~~~~~~
Words tell
Pictures swirl;
New sightings
~~~~~~~~~
Old hunchback lady
Malnutrition showing;
Struggles for pennies
~~~~~~~~~
Old man gathers
Discarded paper cartons;
Money for next meal
~~~~~~~~~
Fortune teller waits
Cards and incense;
Table advisory
~~~~~~~~~
Empty park bench
No one can sit;
Soaking wet
~~~~~~~~~
Cardio fitness
Gym membership;
Workout a sweat
~~~~~~~~~
Old photographs
Long ago moments;
Brown sepia scraps
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
10 September 2014
Singapore