Long Social Poems
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Sh!
Don’t tell anyone; it’s a secret.
Suddenly the hidden Poetry Market became desirable to share.
Only real poets are invited, I confide.
I wrote a poem once, she whispers, when I was eight.
Another poet who was supposed to be in the secret sidles up to my left ear and hisses, “You
Aren’t telling him about….” Making me jump.
Of course not, I say, indignantly, ashamed and astonished to be caught.
My ears are hot. Deceit is written all over my face, especially between my nose and my eyes.
Hissing Poet glares at me. “I know you are telling people,” she says. My T-zone is red, pointing like an arrow to my deceiving heart that has violated another’s confidence.
The more secretive the Poetry Market was portrayed, the more appealing it was to mention it, to a select few. It’s not like I’m telling everybody! I justify to myself. Myself scoffs.
My face turns a hard right. Whisper. Whisper. I see someone point. One laughs. They look at me and laugh again. Are they whispering about me? I don’t even know them!
It’s strange but the more secretive the Poetry Market was portrayed, the more desirable it was to break this not-so-smartly-earned-confidence. We were all told not to tell!
I see another in-the-know poet share the location through a secretive language, sign.
I run up to her to point out this violation of trust.
The irony is not wasted on her.
My reputation has preceded me.
Using her finger as an arrow, she points to directions I had written down on a yellow post it note.
It was lying at my feet, in my tell-tale writing.
The next time the coven decides to build a secret market for poets, I would appreciate being
Left out of it.
This is simply too disturbing!
I have a great piece coming up. This isn’t it, I misplaced it,
but as soon as I find it, I’ll post it. This one is less-than-perfect.
The less-than-perfect summer felt like love.
There were some genuine moments of glamor
and a few new, intense, sense-memories to recall.
It wasn’t easy but we performed that magic called
holidaymaking - things in life don’t just happen.
Ok, some things just happen, like slips and falls,
heatwaves, hurricanes, accidents and aging,
but the good things, like love, and hotel bookings
usually require a little planning and effort.
On the beach there’s a sense of infinite space,
but it comes with its own kind of circumscription
You know, deep down, that it’s only summer,
and the paradise offered is slippery and temporary.
It’s the dark side of long holiday freedom, that
the discordant noises of fun soon fade, like tans.
Strips of perfect polaroid pix, will be stuck to my dorm room wall -
scenes that will act as talismans, tchotchke-like reminders of
overly straightened hair, sweet kisses and foolish shenanigans.
So, bring on the less-than-perfect hours of study,
I’ve done it before and I’m just about ready.
Bring on the weeks of less-than-perfect sleep,
It’s senior year, the experience should be unique.
Bring on the less-than-perfect social submission,
I’m a less-than-perfect girl on a less-than secret mission.
.
.
Songs for this:
Don't Forget the Sun but The Explorers Club
Feel It Still by Portugal. The Man
(08/21/11)
The days are getting longer and
the nights are getting shorter.
The economy is scaring
And the tempers are flaring.
So many people struggling to survive
And many on the unemployment line.
Military people are losing their rights
And still expected to stand and fight.
Social security checks are getting smaller
And the welfare lines are getting longer.
Yet we still throw millions of pounds of food away
And millions are starving every day.
People are crossing our borders every day
Looking for jobs with a bit more pay.
You no longer have to wonder
Why banks are going under.
The world is going through the same things as us
But in GOD we must put our trust.
If those words are imprinted on our currency
Then in that you must believe.
If we could only go back to the past
Where we could afford a gallon of gas.
Where jobs offered retirement benefits
And health care too, and we didn’t have
To worry as to what to do.
We all know that life never stays the same
And we all must go through these aches and pains.
Is this the price that we must pay
So the politicians can get their way?
From deep inside her complex nest
She rules her colony
And sees that all the others there
Her orders they obey.
Hundreds of her daughters there live.
Her strict rules they all fear.
Their fathers now all of them dead.
Only females live here.
Each one has well defined duties
And daily they must work,
Cleaning and fettling this huge nest.
But beware those who shirk.
A long evolved social structure
And all know where they stand,
To keep the colony as one
Accepting queen’s command.
Those daughters can’t attract the males
For she made each sterile
So that they have no distractions
And to queen stay servile.
Wingless, they cannot fly away
But may crawl from the nest
To milk honeydew from aphids.
Taste fresh juice at its best.
Each springtime the queen will grow wings
To fly and find the males
And so becomes fertile again,
Producing more females.
The queen ant lives for some decades.
Every spring, eggs she lays.
Each daughter worn out within months
And males last but two days.
Where does one begin to write,
away from the streets' nioses and children's screams,
forgetting those bouts of loneliness
that evade the inner peacefulness?
One starts with a pad, jotting down appealing ideas...
never having to fear they'll be lost.
I have a private place where I compose
a new poem, then read it aloud to myself;
such a place has a window that opens
to the brilliance of a blessed day,
and sunlight impinging, highlights its words
to amaze me of a would-be greatness.
After midnight I refuge to this quite corner,
when most people sleep and the luminiscent moon
projects her beams to enlighten my dreamy face,
I stare back at her and wave as I do with friends;
moon as eternal as unseen planets more colorful,
do you have the faintest idea why I indite?
Some write for fame, others to empty their souls of painful reasons,
or to glorify Heaven and love for their continous existence,
but invoking death instead of life is so detestable and inexcusable;
and from their voices I reckon the useslessness and torment...
may I never become like them, to burn hope in blazes of smoke,
watching its incineration until it turns into hot ashes!
I write out of an urge, which swells inside and needs to burst out,
leaving my psyche, to let it land on prude hands that welcome my gift,
until I pulsate with satisfaction, and purging those who show dissidence...
might raise questions for them who are easily aroused to anger;
I create more in quietitude....not being disturbed by airplanes' roars,
or trains speeding on tracks making all windows vibrate.
From the ancient to the modern poets, their intellect is stimulated
by urban or rustic sourroundings, and I have choosen them both in my writings,
and they manifest themselves glowingly, enticing this reason for existing;
open my pages and read all the passionate verses exciting the eye and pleasing the soul:
these are from the mind to the heart, a testimony of an enthustiastic life...
streaching out to every boundery and race, making everyone savor my delights.
Copyright 2010 by Andrew Crisci
It was such a simple melody
Composed that very day
Only to be hummed as
He wandered on his way
And to everyone he met
He hummed until they caught it
And they all did the same
And soon the world was taught it
It had many different variations
Maybe had more than one name
But everywhere it went
The message was the same
Of very simple things
That all remember most
Like newly baking bread
Like hot buttered toast
Early morning rain
Spring’s cool dew
When flowers burst forth
In a frenzy to renew
It told of love and laughter
The joy of every breath
The cycle of renewal
For each birth a death
In time it returned to him
In many ways unchanged
But many little variations
And some notes rearranged
So he listened to its humming
Until he knew he’d caught it
Then to everyone he met
He hummed until he’d taught it
If I become a liberal will I create a society dependent
Will I step on a rape victim just to protect the defendant
Will I raise taxes to make the working man pay
Then take Social Security and give it away
Will I help our congress create a country of fear
Will I have my head up my butt so far I can’t hear
Will I seek total dependency across the nation
Giving out welfare checks instead of education
Will I smile discreetly and tell you that I’m on your side
Then take away your incentive and take away your pride
Will I spend your money freely in any way that will suit me
If I become a liberal, will somebody please shoot me.
I heard it from the internet,
we’re now living in a new age,
and all twinges of racism
and oppression should go away.
We have to change our sports team names,
we have to tear down the statues,
let’s target the problematic,
I think I know more than a few.
Now this might seem quite strange to some
since I’m a fan of history,
but I’m talking really evil stuff
so take a moment and hear me:
The first thing that we must look at,
a political party of old,
who’s done such damn horrific things
when the whole of the tale is told.
They cheer-led southern slavery,
protected misery for decades,
then stared a damn civil war,
six hundred thousand in their graves!
Then they created damn Jim Crow,
said folks had to keep out the blacks,
then reenslaved with the welfare state,
it’s far time we cancel Democrats.
There also is another group
that hates half of the human race,
yet folks associate with then,
it’s an utter, absolute disgrace!
They claim they’re nothing but toxic,
all rapists and pedophiles,
blame them all the world’s problems,
and all sorts of things quite vile.
But men don’t deserve all the hate,
to treat them so is quite sexist.
Are we to tolerate this crap?
It’s time to cancel feminists.
Finally, we should talk about
a prophet of a major faith,
Who warred, kept slaves and concubines,
told his people this was a-okay.
Many still do it to this day,
and they point to Muhammed’s words,
they treat women like lesser things,
can you just imagine their hurt?
Sexist, slavers, intolerant,
what a grand cavalcade of wrong,
Ii we really want a better world
we might have to cancel Islam.
I know, I know. But social justice demands it. You wouldn’t want to be called fascists, would you?
Can't run out into the world around you
It's all ashes now
Can't hide from those things that confound you
Our sins will consume us all
Where's the finger pointing at now
One flick of the hand like dominoes we all fall
One by one under inspection
The skeletons in our closets exposed
How could she ever go out wearing those clothes?..You ever heard of self respect?..Words are weapons can't you feel those angrily typing fingers wrapping ever so tightly around your neck
There's no more room to breathe in social media comment sections
Losing sight of humanity
Surrounded by lack of compassion, aggression and lack of empathy
By day she's a math teacher, at night judge, jury and executioner
We're cruel creatures we've invented a million ways to hurt someone
No need for torches we got memes that will light you on fire
Modern mobs
The thirst for blood never expires
Never ending until you've made sure someone feels as broken as you
how clever a peck on the cheek, a kiss on the head
a hug with a boa constriction for the parents i love.
how cruel this fate of social isolation, to stunt the breath
of this illusion, that i might have them more and more times.
the kiss off of a mother’s day and all things pretty and wrinkled.
a jolly show of faces — did i once think the actors could slink
through a small or large screen. we haggle with time, dressing
up in effects, wrapping backgrounds, like furs, around caricatures
of ourselves — astronauts, cross-dressers, punk. my mom
holds a very dry martini — six olives on a skewer in empty glass.
we kin do amuse one another and the claustrophobic togetherness
where a normal situation would have us wandering, appetizering,
sidewinder-chitchatting, fobbing the keys of a remote control,
checking seconds and minutes for appropriateness of slipping
out the door — that of course, for bored spouses, who love
the in and out of screen time and beg to screen all holidays this way
while a bored housewife wants for the drive that spurs one on
toward childhood — a link between life and death, playful
joy of trinkets and melodious voices soothed by the setting years;
the wrinkle of time sells all anger, judgment, unkindness —
the baggage that weighs down elephants, the infantile crawl
of bondage. Now the rocking of Brumbies, snail’s pace of sunset
grace of a gray nest, cascading shoulders, ears out of tune
but pure-gold’s love — the plinking strings of a plentitude heart.
Mom and Dad cheer with glistening glasses, their merry martinis
marvel at their wealth — one olive, three olivettes grin at them.
5/11/2020
Non-rhyming couplets