Long Short pants Poems
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Country named land of the absurd
mix truth and lie
whoever speaks the truth is mute
falsehood here is all quite right
Lie the politician and the priest
the judge and the witness falsify
prevaricate simply and shamelessly
and indulge themselves with impunity...
lying here is a real necessity
to deserve honor, glory and love...!
II
Here the lie has long legs
here the truth wears short pants
there is further truth to the prostitute speech
than the political speech that is preach,
or the ideological word that delays...
It's worth further sincere cheating
than a tie posing to be severe...
The faker who barks easier than a dog
or wiser pretending to be a prude
to deceiving everyone just one borg...!
Abnormality
God knows I don’t want to be normal
I want to stick out in a crowd
You have everyone look at me
And have them ask, “what in the hell is that”
I never want to wear a suit and tie
I want to go out in short pants and a muscle shirt
Black in color with a big dragon head on the front
I want to go into Macca’s and order a Whopper
And drink a forty year old New Coke
While eating a whole case of Twinkies
I never want to comb my hair or trim my beard
I want to wear glasses Elton John would turn down
I want to listen to the William Tell Overture
With lyrics added from Vanilla Ice
Maybe drive the wrong way on the freeway
Or hitchhike in the middle of the road
God knows I don’t want to be normal
I just want to be me
With all my quirks and strangeness
So accept me for who I am
Because I am not going to ever change
No matter who or what
I will always be the best me I can be
I see the worry in your eyes,
That frown upon your brow,
The questions forming on your lips.
But there is no need to worry,
I'll never lose that twinkle in my eye,
The ability to try,
And try again.
Because lady I'm hooked on life,
And if you are hooked on life,
You don't have time to feel sorry for yourself,
If you can keep busy living your life,
And feeling it,
With its ups and downs'
Its good and bad times,
Its sadness and joy
And its loneliness.
Just look into my eyes and you will see,
That sparkle in my eye,
That can't and won't stop shining,
That exuberance that I give
To the things I do.
So, if I am sometimes feeling sad and lonely,
Don't feel bad,
Because a frown can always be turned around,
If a person has love in their heart,
And is hooked on life.
So, turn your frown around,
And be glad not sad for me,
Because I will always be trying,
And will never give up on the game of life.
note: (I wrote this on a typewriter many moons ago when I was not long out of short pants, but a timely reminder to my future self as life will aways give us trials and tribulations that are there to test our staying power when the ride gets bumpy).
.
Wearing a dream like sari colored navy blue
With the lilac lips at a conch shell white in hue
Would come the evening as the curve in new moon grew
From the glow wormed darkness would look on starry dew
Gradually the merchants of capital through
The path of building a modern evening anew
One day they set fire to the idyllic milieu
To make life five and seven stars for me and you
Now evening descends in many a polished shoe
The crowd in short pants and tee shirt just two-by-two
In greedy vigour the same path we now pursue
In wounded wing our birds fly in sky a bit blue
________________________________________________________
13/01/2017 :Contest 12 by 12 Monorhyme – Poetry Contest of John Hamilton
Syllable count checked via www.howmanysyllables.com
It all sparks off
With the mention of the park
Her white tail twirling
Relishing the renewal
Of her communion with nature
Her contact with her ancestral past
Then off to the park in the car
Where ,after taking her ease,
She sniffs at the sourness
Of tired vegetation
With more attractive smells
To follow.
Let off her lead,running free
Through the rustling carpet of russet,
Her paws paddling with pleasure
Until she stops ,stock still
A sentinel searching
For a lightning flash of a glimpse of grey.
Then off like a rocket in pursuit
Only to be left beaten and baffled
Beneath a tree circled several times
Letting out little yelps
Revisited every round
In the off chance
Of catching one unawares
Here it is the survival of the fastest
Off she slowly trots
Disappointed,
Her short pants the sonar
To detect where she is
When out of sight.
With every patrol around the park
Her pace begins to slacken
To be renewed at the mooting
Of a return home.
Slyly she tries to slip away
To escape having to leave
Her park paradise
With her lead finally replaced
That puts paid
To her thoughts of continued liberation
Back into the car she goes
Resignedly
And upon her return
Drifts into a deep dream
Where her ghostly yelps
And wriggling legs
Replicate her exploits
Of her daily walk.
I wanted to wear my best outfit to school
So I went in my closet and stood on a stool
Looking for my socks, I had a special pair
I kept looking, but couldn't find them anywhere
Bright ones and dark ones, three in a pack
But the ones I wanted , were purple and black
I found them, so I didn't wear polkadot or green
Wore them with short pants, so that they would be seen
Finally when ready I headed for the bus
Mom made me late with all of her fuss
I ran really fast in hopes I'd catch up
Unfortunately tripping, on my little brown pup
Down I went with force on both knees
It seems I have a kinda clumsy disease
I got up and wiped, the dust off my pants
and suddenly was doing my gotta tinkle dance
So I ran to my neighbor "Please, I gotta go pee!"
Mrs. Smith said "sure, down the hall at door three."
Past her I ran, by her picture of Flipper
Into the bathroom but couldn't open my zipper
The rest was embarrassing I hung my head low
As the wetness on my pants, started to grow
Around me I wrapped, a towel of great size
Leaving the bathroom, I couldn't look in her eyes
She hugged me and said, "it's an okay thing."
"I have the perfect pair, of cool pants to bring."
She said they were magic, with a button fly
And could only fit a fun little guy!
After she let me wash up, I put on the pants
She said with them, I wouldn't do the tinkle dance
Purple and black with perfect matching socks
Boy Mrs. Smith that woman really rocks
With my new pants, I made it to the school
But before I went, I thanked her for being cool
Kindness is special it made things A okay
I thought of her, when I went to play
A bit of kindness turned my day bright
A friend is an angel who makes things allright
So in art class I made her a special card
Me in my special pants and us both laughing hard!
D. Trump
we dumped
Ted Cruz
you lose
Cuomo
should go
Newsom's*
gruesome
Biden's
hidin'
Faucci's
grouchy
Meghan's
ragin'
Harry's
scary
Queen Mom's
aplomb
Prince Charles
just snarls
ISIS
crisis
Iran
new bomb
Kim Jong
King Kong
Bit coin
come join
T-bonds
abscond
Oil price
up twice
Brit Spears
cry tears
Doc Seuss
cut loose
Big Dance*
short pants
Sis Jean*
Prom Queen
______________________________________________________
*Notes:
Newsom - California governor whom voters are trying to recall
The 'Big Dance' is a nickname for the NCAA basketball tourney,
which begins this week.
Sis Jean is Sister Jean, a 101 year-old nun who works at Loyola
University, which made the 'Big Dance' for the second time in the
last four years. At age 98, she accompanied the team to the 'Dance,'
sat on the bench, hugged and cheered players, even gave them
advice(!) and Loyola came made it to the Final Four! Wow! This year,
she's going back again, at 101! What a gal!
I don't have a return ticket
not sure if this train
is coming from somewhere or going onward.
In the next seat a 'mick' relative,
we converse in a grunting verse.
Rough hands caked with unspoken words
indicate long pauses.
On the move trying to recall
something familiar, a town, a stretch
of passing scenery. A once fractured memory,
Some kid is beating a tin toy drum
I think it is me, his short pants are dark blue,
they are too tight;
he is going to the seaside one day.
The child is annoying.
A journey battles on.
it whistles through the bygone:
will someone meet us in loco parentis?
I am an outgrown poet full of the Irish,
I am a jigsaw piece
for the numbed seekers of unfilled holes.
This is a video game,
this is a play station
with play passengers
getting on and leaving.
Bareboned is the bodkin that grooves
a map far from anywhere.
Passengers stare out of my window
I begin to count the eyes.
I have much time to ponder,
to wonder if this rattling line
has an end
or perhaps has been pulled up
long ago
by ice Mammoths?
I have a grey shirt, grey short pants and grey socks.
The grey school with its grey toilet blocks and grey nuns
made my mother buy them,
which was understandable, because folks like us
were supposed to only buy grey clothes, and live in grey towns
for fear of going color-blind.
If ever we had understood
that the grey faces that ruled us
were all working for the Ministry of Greyness,
we would have run.
The Queen, the B.B.C. and all our betters
felt that too much color in our lives
might lead us to seek impossible rainbows,
and so, we were taught to know our place
on the color chart of life.
At ten, mum bought me a pair of long blue jeans.
I felt like I could ride a horse, or rock and roll
as good as Elvis (he was an American who lived far away
in a world of razzle-dazzle grace).
The girl next door, without prior warning,
took off her long grey dress and put on
a red short skirt dotted with colorful butterflies.
Neither of us being grey that day,
we gravitated together dangerously.
Dad warned us not to be too flashy,
but we went to the park anyway.
As we walked in a hand-held gentleness.
We saw the flowers turn their blooms to us.
We knew then that we were in an English poem
a poem that had never been grey,
but was forced into shapeless muted tones
by those who kept all the words to that English poem
for themselves.
Every pirate west of the Caribbean had heard of Captain Gary Bee.
He was reputed to be way younger than the next captain at twenty-three.
We were anxious to meet him, so we invited him to tea.
He strutted in with short pants, that barely covered up a knee.
It is rude to ask pirate captains their age, so we did not.
But he could not have been a decade older than a tot.
He spoke with polish and finesse', was unassuming and not brassy.
After a lunch of bean curd and bean salad, he was a bit gassy.
Excuse me! He said after each burp, belch and break of wind.
We thought he was delightful; he became an instant friend.
Captain Gary Bee, the notorious pirate king of the seven Seas
I was glad he decided to stop in often for our cakes and teas.