Long Shopkeepers Poems
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unsuccessful humanness
The forest he traveled had many narrow paths, there was always something new to see, like the white tree that
once wanted to be the biggest to dominate the forest
but hubris had gotten it, and for no reason, he thought
of Israel as a wrong plant among coniferous trees.
In a glade, where rabbits sat when catching the morn sun, a group of people had occupied the clearing
their leader, an enormous woman with fake blond hair
her husband was a hateful one seeking vengeance for
slights he had suffered, it had given him an ulcer
A tall man with three legs, one shorter than the two
another leg, the short leg, had a shoe like the type jesters
wear, but there was nothing funny about him
he wore a prop gun, and his dream was to go into show business
The ensemble of shopkeepers unshaven
busy selling
dreams and stolen inventions.
They were the result of a mad scientist who thought that since he was blessed by God
could improve on his
work and create a space on land that belonged to grazing sheep, olive trees, and people who were not in a hurry when the sun said it was midday.
Clearly, he was not welcome, left and afraid for the future
A week he drove back to the parcel in the woods
the botched humanity had vanished, instead
I saw
a carpet of white butterflies, disturbed by the sound
of his bike.
Took flight and looked like a cloud seeking protection
from a cumulus on the blue sky of eternal peace.
Failed humans
The forest he traveled had many paths
there was always something new to see
like a white tree that once wanted to be
the tallest one in the forest, but hubris
had made it to lose barks and naked stand
He thought of Israel, this foreign plant
among tall coniferous
In the glade where rabbits sit to catch
the morning sun, a group of people had
occupied their leader was an enormous
woman with fake blond hair, her man
was hateful, suffering from stomach
ulcer for all slight received when he
was a boy of nine, by his mother
there was also the tall man with three
legs wore a jester hat and told jokes
There was nothing funny about him and
his prop revolver, but he dreamed of
going into show business
in the clearing sat a group of unshaven
shopkeepers trying to sell dreams and
stolen inventions, enticing big bears
with a bunch of carrots
finally, under a bush sat three cooks
who failed the catering exam because
they had overcooked Idaho potatoes
They were the result of a mad god's
attempted to create new humans on
stolen land meant for olive trees and
vines, with a soil too dry for cabbage
In the afternoon, the failed humans had
disappeared what was left, a carpet
of white butterflies and three frogs
Syria’s Christians and Haiti
The first Christian church was built in Syrian, as I write this the horror is killing them the new death cult regime in Syria, a cult we give money to, and not mentioned by Western media as Israel continues to bomb Gaza to their hearts content This is only possible when the bombs are free of charge courtesy of the USA
On the home front, we read about erectile dysfunction, no they are telling me who thought
my own problems were caused by the old age
Haiti, the sad state is in the news again, last time
I was there, Papa Doc, was in power he employed
Thugs, sunglasses, and sports shirts to keep order
but they harassed shopkeepers to hand over money, when Papa died his son took over, he was an idiot and any resembles of order fell apart
Port-au-Prince was a beautiful city, but now it is a vast criminalized slum, Haiti has always been poor and met resistance from other countries who were against a black sovereign state. It never got the help needed from white societies who said slaves could not a country make
I was raised from brick and limestone pride
in the year 1900—broad-shouldered, square-jawed,
built to guard coins like a stoic sentinel.
Back then, people entered with hats in hand,
voices hushed, boots dusted from the road,
hope tucked carefully in their coat pockets.
I watched farmers deposit the year’s sweat,
watched widows count bills twice,
watched young men borrow for a first horse,
watched shopkeepers tuck away dreams
in ledgers neat as Sunday handwriting.
Then came the roaring years~
silk dresses, quick fortunes,
men who swaggered in with cigars
and left with loans larger than their sense.
I felt the tremor of every risk.
The Depression arrived like a cold wind.
People lined my lobby with hollow eyes,
asking if their savings still breathed.
I held my breath with them,
my vault colder than winter stone.
Decades rolled on.
Checks replaced coins.
Cards replaced checks.
Screens replaced tellers.
Now people tap glass rectangles
as if money were a rumor
whispered by electricity.
I’ve seen prosperity, panic,
jubilation, war, ruin, reinvention~
and through it all,
I’ve stood here,
a witness of every transaction
of hope and fear.
Yet even now, when someone steps inside
to ask about a loan, a future, a chance,
I feel the old pulse stir in my beams~
that familiar tremor of human hope
seeking shelter in my stone.
A century has worn me smooth,
but I remain what I was built to be:
a keeper of stories,
and a witness to want.
I own a Korean appliance store
Protestors smashed my front door
broke all the windows, trashed the floor
then stripped the shelves, but there's more
to this story than meets the eye
I've always been the friendly neighborhood guy
hiring drop-outs, ex-cons, some drunk or high
extending bad credit to help folks buy...
The damage done just breaks my heart
to pick up the pieces, make a brand-new start
at my age makes no sense; it's not so smart
This neighborhood's signaled: Leave! Depart!
But before I go, I'd like to ask
a question that my brain does rack --
Why don't they jail criminals in this country
Where's justice for shopkeepers, like my wife and me?
This autumn morning with the birds waking up
and the leaves changing is Election Day. I meet
Jane Trichter on the downtown train and discuss
Henry's upset. Her skin is soft especially her cheeks
and she is intelligent and sensitive. The subway riders
do not recognize their representative.
All week, at the office, I accomplish nothing substantive
but keep the aides and interns working
and cheerful. On Tuesdays there is always a wave
of constituent complaints, by telephone. One woman's
Volkswagon is towed and the police break in
to get it out of gear. Do they have that right,
can they tow even though no sign said Tow Away Zone?
It is an interesting question but I try to avoid
answering it. The woman persists and succeeds
in committing me.
The people at the office want to bomb Iran. A few Americans
held hostage and therefore many innocent women and children
pay the postage. It may be good classical logic to hold responsible
the whole society for the acts of a few, however, then
I must begin to expect the bomb and the white cloud that waits.
Apocalyptic visions are popular again
but we are more likely to thrash the earth to within an inch of its life
than scorch it to charred rock.
Corner of Church and Chambers,
German tourist's language, accent repels me
although I wasn't alive 45 years ago
and many sweet, great Germans opposed the crazy Nazis
but lately I've read Primo Levi's If Not Now, When?,
seen William Holden in "The Counterfeit Traitor",
have followed the argument started by revisionists
who say the Nazi atrocities never happened.
War brought many shopkeepers, bookkeepers close to their earth,
weather, seasons, death.
I see daily life as low-intensity warfare
as my father, the World War II vet, did.
Off to work we go. What is war?
Population control, mother of invention, diversion
from the work of making life permanent.
Today is Election Day and because it's a day off
for most municipal employees, the City Hall area
has been quiet and easy to work in. Henry and Jane
hold a press conference on teenage alcoholism.
Leslie, the other aide, who I'd like to draw
the stockings and clothes off of and feel her whole body
with mine, goes home with her mother, leaving me
standing by my desk with my briefcase at the end
of Election Day.
A graceful eagle soaring free;
Symbolizes our liberty.
Freedoms for which we paid a price;
In terms of human sacrifice.
Cannons, rifles, Revolution;
Bloodbath Civil War’s solution.
‘The Great War’ didn’t end all bloodshed;
On more battlefields soldiers tread.
UN action in Korea;
Containment was the idea.
Next the jungles of Vietnam;
Showed limitations of the Bomb.
Libya, Iraq, Afghanistan;
Still relevant is combat hand-to-hand.
Despite increased technology;
Conflict’s in our biology?
Nation born on “new” continent;
Freedom the great experiment.
Seven articles, ten rights, too;
Framework for our Red, White, and Blue.
Not just Founders’ resolution;
Begat our new Constitution.
Farmers, shopkeepers took up arms;
To keep liberty from all harms.
Soldiers, sailors, civilians, and more;
Also kept tyrants from our door.
The rule of law and not of men;
Safeguards rights of each citizen.
Mighty eagle can choose its way;
Strong wings, talons, a bird of prey.
Freedom, like eagles, can take flight;
From our grasp if we don’t do right.
Each generation has a choice;
Honor freedom or lose its voice.
If we don’t defend and cherish;
Oh, how quickly freedoms perish.
A person shot dead,this how it unfolds
rioting and looting,electrcticals clothes and gold
Tottenham bore the first brunt,that came undone
and spread throughout the boroughs of London.
As i sit viewing the tabloids that brings
aireal shots fires destroying buildings
mindless youths as it spreads north
Leeds,Bristol,Birmingham to Liverpool and forth
People go homeless,shopkeepers go broke
no school for children,an absolute joke
we have soldiers in countries fighting wars
they are the unsung heroes fighting a cause
Ashamed to be English? to an extent
i have never seen anything like this event
what will go next Buckingham Palace?
one word from me being absolute " disgrace".
.
Although the Christmas tale rings true,
For every child who feels slighted and destroyed,
By religious insult, pretentious token or symbolic kiss,
He shouldn’t only be wishing for Santa’s gifts deployed.
But the Father Christmas story ensures,
That every kid is worth something, equal and sure;
The morality attached to Father Christmas is quite explicit,
That all can be loved, and in that all can be complicit.
It may be that you call this semiotic of Santa Claus implicit:
A suggestion, indirect and a loose interpretation;
But I think that because all kids are included in his giving,
The inherent equal worth of all is its stipulation.
Any kids, of any diversity, difference or race:
Black, white, Asian or Australasian;
Fat, tall, geek, weak or disabled,
Whatever your facet, you are enabled.
Society so needs this Christmas story,
That a child’s interests are his right;
His hobbies are to be accepted and encouraged,
And that even the cold shouldn’t make you tight.
That the individual is considered at Christmas time,
Is on point and fully correct;
Economics and money have a high place,
In a persons needs hierarchy, you may detect.
St Nicholas first emerged in a poem in 1823,
Published just before Christmas Day on the 23rd,
By the Troy New York Sentinel to help its shopkeepers,
Multiply sales, and cheer and invigorate searching customers.
The love of a parent for her child,
Objectifies best by way of a gift;
And I just love the symbol of Santa,
Whom the lonely child from insolation can lift.