Long Subdivision Poems
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As I have walked pass or visited high-in rich subdivisions and gated communities, I have noticed all the homes are from the same color bracket. They are either beige, brown, cream, tan, camel, oatmeal, caramel, taupe… or a mixture of these colors, like half brown, half beige… Have you noticed that as well? I wonder if that is an HOA requirement? To me, it makes all the houses look the same and the whole subdivision looks bland.
Why can’t there be some diversity, brightness and excitement to those bland, boring subdivisions? Why can’t the homeowner have a choice or say so as to what color they prefer their 2.3 million dollar home to be? People should be able to paint their property to their personality.
Yes… Dare to be different!
If I lived in a gated community, I want a multi-level, multicolor home. My home would be teal, green, purple, yellow and red. The roof will be red, my door would be purple, the window sidings would be teal, the house would be yellow and the garage door would be green. Bam!!!
I hope they know that it is not 1914 anymore. Sad to say, but people are so stuck in the norm and the comfort level of the past, that an idea of color coordination community homes like this in rich sub-divisions and gated communities would never happen. Which means, I would probably have to buy land and build my home and paint it as I so see fit.
My dad, born today, the 17th of February
bucked fate head-on, courageous and daring
Raised in a home on a block so poor
he swam upstream, de rigeur
In 1926, all his teeth fell out
lack of fluoridation won that bout
In 1929, young brother Sidney died of malnutrition
the family couldn't afford to see a physician
In '33, he chucked religion, came to Chicago on a mission
to look for a job midst the Great Depression
His family had gambled on their decision
that my father Maury's iron-willed ambition
Would see brother Herman through dental school
which my dad would pay for, as a hard-working fool
And so he did (!) and so it went, 'till my father Maury was
sent overseas, B.A. in hand, to fight Adolph Hitler in a foreign land
When he returned, he earned himself a law degree
married his sweetheart Maxine with two pennies
or three to his name, he toiled at his law firm's bottom
'till he saved so much money that a ranch house he got him
in Highland Park, Illinois in a subdivision on a tree-lined street
my dad's rags-to-relative-riches story, a Horatio Alger throwback treat
The thick numerous shoots of grass have come out,
no more snow shovels til late autumn comes about.
I hear the robins chirp as they tend their nests,
wait....the sound of a cranky lawn mower chugging
to life from its winter's rest!
Quickly, dear, go out and mow before everyone else
does!
our yard needs to look perfect, 'cuz-
the neighborhood spring lawn mowing wars have
just begun,
it's quite serious, not so much fun.
Yard envy is so common in our subdivision,
The HOA "Yard Of The Month" prize brings derision.
If the young couple who just moved in across the
street think their landscaping is the best,
my roses and begonias will put them to the test.
Hubby can't start the riding mower,
he's cursing its parentage midst dandelions
and clover.
The other men in the cul-de-sac are already
halfway done,
as their wives bring out iced tea for them
under the strong sun.
Well, well, tomorrow is the neighborhood
block party,
I've already made an array of warm weather
dishes so hearty,
My potato salad and baked beans will surely
be the envy of the other cooks,
it is in the good 'ol American spirit-
to compete and be a smug schnook! ~
Big subdivision.
New houses on ground.
Sitting, just plonked there
with nothing around.
So close together.
How could they cry?
Without the neighbours
wondering why?
It happened before.
On our paddock too.
Homes for others,
all shiny and new.
Some might think,
About times before,
When sun hit the ground
and rain too and more.
The falling of trees
and planting of crops,
The sticks and leaf litter
no longer on top.
The house that I grew in
once wasn’t there,
but I don’t think
that I was aware.
The kitchen, my bedroom
had always been there.
Hadn’t they?
I carved a circle on the ground to search for a new path to go home, I carved a circle on the ground to find where destiny is bound. I stand on the circle time and it keeps taking me around and around, there is no end to this puzzle because the circle is unbroken.
You cannot pull a 360-degree circle apart because there is no point where it starts; you cannot pull a 360-degree circle apart when the Persian calendar and the Babylonian calendar use sexagesimal number.
This circle is a binding force that keeps pounding at you, you go to the grocery store and the shopkeeper keeps asking for more. You go to the concert hall and you have to put up with a terrible brawl, and then the agitated guest keeps stepping on your shoe, pacing backward and forth without a single clue.
The circle is everywhere but you have nothing to fear; the circle is everywhere and if you go to the top of the street and take the right angle it will lead you back to the left angle.
It is the radius that keeps us together and the arc that connects and mystifies our mind and a visual subdivision that connects us to the land.
The Babylonians made a gift out of it and the Americas find it hard to accept it, the British and the Germans are catching on but the Russians and the Chinese are still wandering, moving around in a 360 degree circle
The equilateral triangle is in there too watching and talking about me and you .The Babylonians have everything on you from crock-pot to a table mat and from a bicycle to a tricycle. You have to examine your circle for every piece of evidence that you can find will clear my name from the grape vine.
The circle is big and it can see you from the hill it is moving in different direction and mapping the minute particle on the land.
Your country is a dot on the map and the circle is all that you have got’, sometime the circle goes on a long ride and the decimal point is all you can find. The subset is made of two overlapping circles. and right in the middle is where they place the bet. But the design on the library floor will take you through the final door, follow the circle.
Nimblest stick skims hit drum skin
Bring submittance to my ears afore deafened
Transmitted rhythm rips something
Transcribes fusion to percussionless essence
Slight vibration of battered recipient
Resonates hot with beat's cogent command
Arcaic lyrics kept frosted ambivalent
Snare wires wrap me tight with dire demand
Equipped persistent musician tender
Taps jazz ostinato out until my innards revolt
Sends suddenly a heart buzz centred
Haphazard feeds my ardent uncovered pulse
Simultaneous cymbal clash climactic
Existing utterly in thrum ghost note's vacance
Subdivision given in drummer's frantic
Twirled gut spasms driven by his incessance
17th October 2020
- Emperor Ultimate Music Maker, Ace -
I want to sing your name forever
Our stay in the
mushrooming subdivision
Ashley Springs
can achieve full ownership only
by meeting the developer’s
latest requirements...
six bushes and two deciduous trees,
keep your garbage can in the garage.
Such restrictions have put the whole
neighborhood in the throes of unrest.
Gears are clashing even as I write.
To sully the community spirit
in this way evokes emotions which
attempt to sidestep legality.
We more flexible newbies,
about thirty in number now
are pitted against
the established oldies
who could grandfather out of some of
the constraints based on length of residence.
Solution? It’s our property now!
Mr. Developer. Your raw power gains nothing
by the forcing of personal preference.
written May 27, 2018
What battle-worn baby boomers lived through
Gentle Gen Z rug rats don’t have a clue.
Growing up street smart in subdivision
Without much parental supervision.
Boomers devoured books and magazines,
While Gen Z distil life thrills from their screens.
Going outdoors? Too much hassle whereat
Life downloads faster in an online chat.
Boomers had to climb to reach the summit -
“Too long to bother”, say Gen Z, “Damn it!”
Boomers’ love connections - hard at first sight,
Compared to Tinder swiping left or right.
OMG! Gen Z dares to attach
To someone who, in fact, is not a match.
With boomers arduous life played hard to get:
Before achieving breakthrough, break a sweat.
Gen Z have it all savvy and clever,
Their creed is wifi speed, faster than ever.
Solutions to life hurdles? Browse the net!
Sophisticate AI - better yet.
In short, the generation gap in place
As history repeats, fast forward pace.
But we unconditionally love you,
As grandparents and baby boomers too!
A sunken tombstone lay on either side,
The wall itself enswathed in moss and fern,
Fragmented, as the bond of blood which died
Before the grave envelopped each in turn.
Two brothers who had once been closest friends
Who ran through fields and forests hand in hand,
Too proud and hard of heart to make amends,
Had forced a subdivision of the land.
Their Father, by such hatred torn apart,
With his own weathered hands had built the wall
Each brick ripped out a portion of his heart
Partitioning his sons once and for all.
Now woodland hides their memories from sight
But passers-by will often stop and stare
To contemplate man's universal plight
And wonder why the rugged wall is there.
10.10.20
A Wall In The Woods Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Craig Cornish
N/A COMPLETELY YOUR CHOICE (28)any form any theme Brian Strand JUDGED :10/18/2020
Hm's And Na's October 2020 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Just a few months ago golden grasses waved in the stronger breeze of late summer, a preview of the winds to come. The clover and alfalfa were beginning to bloom, sending a heady scent over the nearby country road and our tiny subdivision just beyond the ridge.
But then the grass became hay--golden and dry--and the strands stirring only when a strong gust accelerated over the newly sawn fields. The baler came and formed the crop into a hundred hay bales or more. Now I gaze across the fields and imagine myself climbing over the five-bar gate and sitting upon one of the bales remembering the last of the summer rays. (Yes, already missing summer)
sun-bleached sentinels
grass sweat trapped in golden coils
memory's dry scent