Long Sharp eyed Poems
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The phone app said "unhealthy"
To describe Denali's air.
The sky was gray and smoky
All the hours we were there.
So we were disappointed;
Thought the day would be a bust
'Til somebody hollered "Moose!"
Our brakes kicked up a heap of dust.
A mother moose and baby
Ambled by in camera range.
Then an antlered caribou strolled close -
Our luck began to change.
More caribou were spotted
In the distance, in a herd,
Then a sharp-eyed passenger yelled out
That much-awaited word:
"Bear!" We all looked over
And a grizzly came in view.
He lumbered in the bushes
Seeking berries where they grew.
Our fortune held - the driver spied
A most impressive lynx,
Who crossed the road both back and forth.
(Just showing off, methinks.)
A final sighting- quite a brood
Of willow ptarmigan
(They're the state bird of Alaska)
Got the cameras out again.
We saw no sheep or eagles
And the sky was far from blue.
What a treat, though, watching wildlife!
(And they never even knew...)
Imagine ... our continental divide,
seen by nose lengthers who are not sharp-eyed.
The Yellow-Bellied Marmots, host the most,
from the northernmost down off the west coast.
There are six varieties of marmots
that live in the area, and what parts
them from the other five marmot species
are that they are polygamous? Unease
males, penance ... more than one mother-in-law.
They're gamey, thought by some that use a claw,
and squirrely; their defining term. There's
a cousin whose shadow's in the crosshairs.
Late winter, early spring, Yellow Bellies,
seasons bring ... the nights, Machiavelli's.
A buzzard from his vantage point of sweeping lofty heights
Enjoyed a cornucopia of captivating sights.
He soared above the rolling hills, the meadows and ravines,
His bird's-eye-view encompassed ocean blues and forest greens.
But once, a splash of colour made his sharp-eyed vision blink;
A stunning apparition dressed in fine flamboyant pink.
And like a ballerina it performed a pirouette
Then took a slow bow downwards as the sun began to set.
A beautiful flamingo in a lake of cobalt blue
Had brought a touch of magic to a buzzard's scenic view.
15/01/19
'Buzzards And Flamingos Poetry Contest' : sponsored by Anthony Slausin
2019 Poetry Marathon Mile 18 Mark Toney : 3/13/2019 N/A
Na Re-Run Poetry Contest : Sponsored by John Hamilton
22.06.19
Perched high upon the escarpment
of sandstone rubble, the boy sat,
shaded from the rising of the sun
in the shadow of Kings.
Sharp eyed he preyed
upon the tourist below, and to his God Allah.
His path was a treacherous one
looped and twisting like the snakes of ochre gold
shone cresting the brow of Ramesses
in the unearthly Valley of the Kings;
far from the osprey and marsh grass
of the beloved Nile.
Below the boy, on a zigzag path
between the mouth-like openings to the netherworld,
tourists swarm, ants on a mound of honey stone
suckers of sweetness, oblivious,
as they had done for centuries.
He sat as his father before him
hunkered down knees to chest
the vulture heraldic creature of Upper Egypt
death eater, little had changed except
now the robbers wore blue jeans and not the hajab.
He had earned his small bit
of the twentieth century..hawking
Might help explain how fruit
full this harmless poetic brute,
(a Methacton School of hard knocks
grad), who sports astute
demeanor with ample
brew netted locks,
vaguely androgynously cute,
his trademark signature hirsute
unstyled wavy hair
tell tale characteristic,
not that I care if anyone
gives rats ass and/or hoot
bummer attire acceptable since
long unemployed and
recipient with meager loot
receiving social security
disability to boot,
nonetheless can while
away unlimited numbers
of wee hours into morning
yea ideally best time to sleep,
but also most optimal,
while the missus thrashes
in bed thankfully mute
unless ya don't count
flatulence she doth toot
disrupting and derailing
train of thought
courtesy trumpeting glute.
An unexpected whistling
unlike Christopher Robin
hi ho... hi ho exiting
their wooded den
(think Snow White and
her seven dwarf men)
off to work they go to earn cents
(unbeknownst conversion into) yen
boot just enough to undergo
gastric bypass surgery
to shrink abdomen,
plus grueling boot camp regimen
guaranteeing bullseye
hit courtesy artillerymen
nsync with honing
sharp eyed acumen
joining (rather leading) civilians
carrying out coup d’etat
putsch ching aside feeble,
inept and lame
president to step up
and augment pen
ultimate last ditch effort
to halt climate change
to stave turning planet Earth
into self destructive oven.
All joking aside horrific,
née apocalyptic crisis doth loom
perhaps even unleashing mushroom,
clouds (thrown in for good measure)
encompassing entire planet
assuredly spelling doom,
where liquidation and fire sale
at all brick and mortar
stores will bloom,
(just ash at the front desk)
charcoal burnt offering skeleton crew
pointing blackened decker
index finger boom
meringue literally every black
Friday, Saturday, Sunday...
until every tomb
morrow until end of time.
Is it Epson Salt?
All those nice villas along the coast are empty save for stray cats
and those too poor to live inland because the sea stinks like
bouillabaisse gone off. Marine life and sea plants have died out of too much
acidity caused by industry, and now it is too late to clean up the mess.
Fish in tanks are guarded and so expensive only the very rich can afford it,
say, bacalao; we have to eat fishcakes consisting of ninety-eight percent
mashed potatoes, and the rest is cod skin. Cod liver oil is the cure-all medicine,
it’s too expensive, and only the well-off can afford to buy it,
and they, the rich, live years longer than the poor.
This has raised concern and social unrest, politicians on the left,
insist the poor have the right to be given a teaspoon
of the healthy oil every morning;
Mind there is synthetic cod liver oil, but it tastes awful.
Seagulls and terns have adopted well have earth-hued feathers,
sit in carob trees, sharp-eyed keep an eye for scraps of food and
scare tiny tots with their inane pirate shrieks.
From a safe distance, when the wind is calm, and on moonlit nights,
the sea looks as beautiful as written in fairy tale books, by
a marine biologist.
*WE ALL LIVE IN A ‘NUT SUBMARINE’
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In a park where the oaks stretch tall,
four bushy-tailed lads heed the call.
With acorn guitars and a nut-shaker beat,
the Liverpudlians scamper on stage
John Lemontail, sharp-eyed and sly,
scribbles lyrics that question the sky:
*“Imagine no birdfeeders… it isn’t hard to do…”
Paul McNutty, the crooner so smooth,
sings *“Yesterday, my walnuts were gone—
Now I need a new place to carry on!”
George Harristripes, mystic and lean,
chants *“Within You, Without You, Walnut Supreme.”
He meditates deep ‘neath a mushroom cap’s shade.
Ringtail Starr, on a hollow log drum,
thumps out a rhythm: “Boom-chicka-bum!”
His cheeks bulge with pecans, a percussive stash.
They thrill on the Ed Sullivan stage,
*“Twist and Shout!” they harmonize causing quite a rage
leaving female squirrels with nutty desire.
Is it Epson Salt?
All those nice villas along the coast are empty save for stray cats and those too poor to live inland because the sea stinks like bouillabaisse gone off. Marine life and sea plants have died out too much acidity caused by industry, and now it is too late to clean up the mess.
Fish in tanks are guarded and so expensive only the very rich can afford it,
say, bacalao; we have to eat fishcakes consisting of ninety-eight percent mashed potatoes, the rest is cod skin. Cod liver oil is the cure-all medicine,
it’s too expensive, and only the well-off can afford to buy it,
and they, the rich, live years longer than the poor.
This has raised concern and social unrest, politicians on the left,
insist the poor to has the right to be given a teaspoon
of the healthy oil every morning;
Mind there is synthetic cod liver oil, but it tastes awful.
Seagulls and terns have adopted well have earth-hued feathers,
sit in carob trees, sharp-eyed keep an eye for scraps of food and scare tiny tots with their inane pirate shrieks.
From safe distant, when the wind is calm, and on moonlit nights,
the sea looks as beautiful as written in fairy tale book, by
a marine biologist.
Remembering Achill island where:
landscape so barren echoes with loneliness.
Remnants of harsh winter slowly receding,
leaving terrain behind burnt from elements.
Will spring bring a green renaissance?
High on cliffs inquisitive Peregrine Falcon,
sharp-eyed and watching ocean frenzy.
Arrogant bird of prey, with attitude,
indifferent to Achill's weather.
Sojourner birds will return with spring.
Glacial island's intriguing domain.
Atlantic storms forever sculpt prospect,
as bitter winter sun skims land playfully.
Creating elusive shapes and shadows,
like a kaleidoscope of mystery.
These impressions stay with me,
when returning to my concrete existence.
Instead of screeching soaring seabirds:
the endless roar of traffic.
Closing my eyes I remember.
I HAVE BEEN TWO PEOPLE
I have been two people, maybe more,
devised ways to meander through the
lives of those I’ve touched.
These encounters have not all been pleasant.
I have been defender, protector, anger’s liaison,
pained deflector of the sanctimonious rhetoric
of the shameless.
I have been lover, consort, friend, mentor,
comforter and comforted, stood strong in
the face of weakness, my own and others.
I carry the beatings of life’s whipping post,
lashes applied in my youth, consequences
of lasher’s lack of conscience.
I have become a divided house that
must stand alone. I have cowered
courageously, stood defiant in cowardice.
I am the hard muscled sentinel,
sharp eyed searcher, scanning
for the signs of evil’s stealth.
I am the hands that hold a baby’s breath,
the eyes that see not what might be, but what is,
the voice that hums a gentle song of peace.
I am the steadying shoulder for the old to lean on,
the unknown snow shoveler in the night,
the song of comfort in an old man’s dreams.
“I have looked at life from both sides”,
enjoyed loves clouds and rain,
I have been two people, maybe more.
John G. Lawless
7/23/2014
contest – Both Sides Now
sponsor – Alfred Vassallo