Long Tightened Poems
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All those High School years, she stared at smiles
and would envy those, lined up in rows
shoulder to shoulder, enjoying the carefree days.
They with porcelain jewels, of sparkling white
she would have given her life to have such shine,
but was much too shy, to seek their eyes
At fifteen years old...she averted her eyes
while beneath her nose, no winning smile
would grace her face. So, to avoid disgrace, she declined to shine
or laugh with the kids in the algebra rows.
How often she'd long to star in the play and dazzle her whites
"Be patient," they'd tell her...."You'll be a beauty, one day"
And while she waited impatiently for that far away day
keeping chin down, this ugly duckling, with lowered eyes
It may seem extreme, but a few kids, with straight and white,
called her "Metal Mouth", which dampened her spirit and also her smile.
Barely could she eat the mushy fruits, passing the rows
of cripsy foods, ate mostly mashed and white, pining for a crisp apple to shine
She talked with a lisp, while awkward wires shined
and wore horrid bands. Then on those "Ortho" days
after school, while in uncomfortable chairs lined up in rows,
he'd greet, "How are you, Missy?" ..with his bespectacled eyes.
"Open wide"....(and with pliers that looked like her Dad's, but could fix a smile)
as, with all of his might, he adjusted and tightened....correcting her whites
Branded with bands across the whites
Correcting the gaps, the lapse, the crooked shine
A few like her with awkward smiles
Would count the hours and count the days
Longed for smiles to please the eye
And be so blessed with perfect rows
Finally one day, while sitting in rows
Snip-snip!, at last, he cried..."Let's free these whites"!!
With excitement, the life came back to her eyes
"I'll grant your wish, with a brand new shine!"
She was the happiest girl on the planet today
and she left his office with a brand new smile!
While sitting in school rows, she beams her white teeth, merrily joining the fun
Her eyes always shine now, she stands tall and proud, singing out loud in the sun
And during each school day, she smiles all the time, finally her life has begun!
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For Debbie's Joy contest (Sestina)
An enormous pole
made of chrome
A table set
Steve, knew he was home
With a tiny leather thong,
he swung around,
in a world he did belong,
with the rythm of the sound
Around he twirled,
faster and faster
The lights swirled
He was the master!
Stripclub Steve,
a legend of his own making
A master of the pole
There was no faking,
no by your leave
To win!
His only goal!
Word spread...
Far and wide
Stripclub Steve
To see him glide!
Such dazzling skill!
You would not believe!
Now, there were championships to be won
Stripclub Steve...
A man on a mission
A man with a loaded gun!
How he twirled
How he swirled
The chrome gleamed
The contest won?
Or so it seemed
But along came Desperate Annie
A girl with a most beautiful fanny
With her feminine charm,
it filled steve with alarm!
He tightened up his leather thong
Carefully patted it all in place
For this was the serious race!
For this Geordie lad...
The prize was to be had
So with an almighty effort of will,
he grasped the chrome
The crowd was still
With a nod to the judges,
the music commenced
Stripclub Steve was home,
the trophy in the bag
he sensed...
With a twirl here
and a twirl there
The crowd gave an almighty cheer
Stripclub Steve...
Was on air!
That chrome pole,
touched his very soul
It was in the bag
He did his best
Now it was up to the judges,
if he had passed the test
Two hundred hopefuls in town...
One hundred and ninety nine girls
Steve, the only man...
The talent to unfurl...
Could he take away the crown?
Now, Stripclub Steve is a Geordie lad...
There's prizes to be had
He waited with bated breath
Had he done enough to pass the test?
A unanimous decision!
Skill on the chrome!
Our boy Steve,
brought it home!
So there it was...
A legend in his own lifetime!
The trophy raised above his head!
With the crowd roaring,
he ripped off his leather thong
and sent it soaring!
Upwards it flew...
Like a leather bat
Down it came
and hit Desperate Annie,
right in the ****!
So let this be a lesson to all you blokes...
Stripclub Steve,
our man of the chrome
Brought it home!
So spare the jokes,
read this and believe!
The Pain of Drought
By
Kevin L Fairbrother
The road trains full of emancipated cattle roar by
Heading south to somewhere that is lush and green
For the big dry out west as tightened it’s grip
As the dry westerly winds lay the paddocks bare
--
The cows they roar and moan and stamp their feet
At the struggling calves that lay dying in the dirt and dust
The Kites on high circle the scene of death and dying
As the mothers walk away they dive bomb the carcasses
--
The cattle cluster round the dwindling water holes and shade
Their skeleton clearly visible held together by skin and bone
The heat so intense they endure .. together with the millions of flies
A scene so horrendous you just cant help the tears in your eyes
--
The lean and tall farmer looks over his dying herd of cattle
And wonders why mother nature can be so bloody cruel
I’ve nurtured these cows from birth, they are my pride and joy
And to watch this scene of my dying stock… Mate it hurts
--
To bloody late to shift this lot off, he says out loud
I must end their suffering as quickly as I can
He heads to the Toyota to fetch his gun
Walks back to the herd with a tear and a heavy heart
--
With an anguished look and tears in his eye, he fires his gun
As the last one falls he looks on with pain etched on his brow
I best bury them deeply before the night falls
And heads to the homestead to fetch the machinery
--
As he drives he mumbles to himself the bloody politicians don’t care
And the city folk, well it’s outa sight outa mind with them
They can rest easy in their homes and comfortable beds
Whilst I toss and turn with mind racing of how to survive this devastation.
--
He returns to the macabre scene of blood, bodies and gore
The Kites in their thousands lift off from the bodies of the cattle
He digs a large hole and buries them deeply as night falls
And hopes that he doesn't have to repeat the process with the stock that’s left.
--
The farmer heads home and is greeted by his wife at the door
He sobs in her arms and she says… I’m so sorry but it had to be done
We will look to the new day and hope the drought breaks
Knowing that Mother Nature will always have her way
What does one do, when they feel forgotten?
What good are tears unseen or sobs unheard
and when the tree of liberty seems to be rotten
because they’ve been dismissed and rejected at a word?
What does one do, when they’re silenced
for viewing the world through their own eyes?
What does one do when they’re trapped and tied down
when they’re kicked and there’s no help around?
What does one do, when frightened?
When chains are thrown o’er them and tightened?
When prayers are raised but seem unheard
when one feels abandoned and alone in the world?
What does one do, when self-evident truths
get wiped away in anonymous booths,
and the winners, gloat and show no mercy
because the people have spoken
and whatever one does, will bring controversy
so tell me…what does one do?
What does one do, when threatened?
When dismayed or betrayed and their back to the blade
and the liberty bell is cracked, and rings no more
at least not for them, and not on these shores,
because for some it’s better to be right,
then to worry for others, or to fight in their fight.
So I ask, what does one do when singled out
for their religion, or color or body or mind
when the rest of the world seems so suddenly blind?
What does one do when their neighbors turn
an apathetic eye to the border wall
symbolically standing as a reminder to all
that unalienable only applies to un-aliens?
That life, liberty and pursuit of happiness
are not rights at all, but prizes to earn.
You should have chosen more thoughtfully where to be born
if you wanted rights beyond struggle and scorn.
What does one do, when freedom’s flame dims out;
when lady liberty gets smothered in a pompous mist?
What does one do to pretend it’s ok
when the rhetoric prevailing on any given day
is a torrent of doubt about their hard-earned place
and could orphan their children, and threatens to chase
them all “back whence they came.”
Tell me, from your anonymous place,
what would you do?
Would you peacefully sit and hope for the best,
and put your trust in your fellow man?
Would you “come together as one”
with those who voted that you don’t matter?
Would you wave freedom’s banner aloft in the breeze,
as your freedom was being seized?
No seriously, what would you do?
11/11/16
I once knew a girl who lived her life in a glass box
She sat and she stared at the world revolving around her
the world turned and she stayed
Sometimes she would place her hand to the glass
Seeking the warmth of the outside
She could almost taste the sunshine
The box barely fit her frame
It pressed against her back
Forcing her to crouch
She couldn’t shift for fear that it would break
and the shards of glass would sink into her skin.
Infecting her
so that she would never be free of the box
When people walked past she would tap on the glass
hoping they would hear her
But she was afraid to tap too hard
Afraid to break the box
So she sat in the box and watched
Days turned into weeks
weeks into months
and soon those who walked outside disappeared
and the girl was alone
She sat in the cold empty space
Frozen in time
her muscles cramped
her feet fell asleep
her throat grew dry
yet she still was afraid to move
Then one morning she awoke to the sound of laughter
just beyond the horizon was a beautiful boy
The boy smiled and beckoned the girl.
She shook her head
the boy beckoned again.
Again she refused
The beautiful boy’s shoulders slumped
His smile faded
And he turned to leave
The girl's heart tightened
“Wait!”
She fought her rising panic as she twisted in her box.
she felt the top of the box move
The boy was almost gone
The girl flew into a frenzy
She pushed
She prodded
She threw her weight against the glass box
Her long-held prison
shuttered
swayed
and snapped in a flurry of shards and specks.
The girl I knew
covered in glass and cuts and bruises
looked to see that the boy was lost.
She was left with a broken box
For a moment the girl sat
free yet numb
then she began to feel the sting of the glass.
The girl slowly began to pull the pieces out.
Bit
by
bit
the girl worked to finish freeing herself from the glass box.
She wiggled
Tugged
And yanked
until each shard was freed from her skin
she rubbed the feeling back into her feet
And bandaged her cuts
at last stood
weak on her feet
She was covered in cuts
Scratches
and bruises
and limped when she walked
but still she set out
In search of the beautiful boy and the sweet summer sun
Leaving the box behind
The Lost Art Of Composition
too often my thoughts and the ability to express them
are taken hostage without a clue to the cause
this is an affliction familiar to many a writer
as if madness wasn't enough
it proves to be immune to every method I've used
to relieve my minds constipation
it enslaves your ideas and duct tapes the mouth of your soul
binds your fingers and hands so you are unable to write
I Whiskeyed and Scotched it self medicated with drugs
the addiction that resulted I thought could be bribed
held a knife at its throat threatened, bullied and beat it
poked and scratched at the eyes
Kicked it in the balls
pleaded and begged even got on my knees and prayed
all my efforts were ineffective
it only pissed it off more and tightened the grip
around my Muse's neck
I had exhausted my resolve to this disease that consumed me
there was no other option but to surrender
I decided to give up , knuckle under call it quits
not answer the bell for the next round
I disconnected my computer and turned off my cellphone
the typewriter on my desk just for show
I've had since college every once in a while I have at it
so I stashed in the closet with books by Sexton, Wolfe and Burroughs
Cisneros, Bukowski and Gonzo
I turned down the lights and lit some candles
sat at my desk to prepare my suicide note
what happened when the ballpoint touched the papers surface
was the key opening the front door lock to home
an energy manifested that I had known long ago
before Technology had deadened it's nerves
it sparked the transfer of thought into a word
forming the shape of a sentence
this cosmic electricity flowed into my hand holding the pen
then designed a paragraph the child of chapter
I touched every noun felt each verb envisioned the adjectives description
heard every "ly" in the adverbs reply and ignored the rules of punctuation
I had discovered the remedy to restore my inspiration
the cure I possessed all along
The lost art of composition was my salvation
my own prescription is what I wrote
the poet is an artist that paints in the darkness
a poems words the colors that create light
a writer is blessed with all of the answers
cursed in the search for what questions to ask
Judge Burdon
I went out with some guys for lunch
we ate all we could find.
We ate like we were starving
and I must have lost my mind;
I had a salad with bleu cheese
and ordered extra fries,
I ate a plate with extra beans,
I must have had big eyes.
The waiter asked if we would like
some sweet things for dessert,
I ordered up a slice of pie
and spilled some on my shirt.
We drove back to the office
which is when I think it hit;
my stomach started growling
and was throwing quite a fit...
I figured it would go away
and ran to join a meet,
I soon learned just how wrong I was
when I sat in my seat...
I loosened up my belt a bit
to take the pressure off,
and when my stomach growled too loud
I hid it with a cough.
The pressure kept on building
as the meeting went on long,
and that is when I realized
that this could all go wrong.
I stood and said "excuse me"
'cause by then I had to go,
I tightened all my muscles then,
and hoped it wouldn't show.
I waddled to the conference door
and quickly stepped outside,
I knew I had mere seconds left
to find a place to hide.
With privacy just out of reach
and pressure far too great,
I had to let a little out
before it was too late.
I took a step to get relief,
relaxed and let 'er rip,
but then I couldn't help myself
and felt the whole thing slip.
The sound I made was deafening,
it shook the office walls,
but that was not the worst of it,
as smell filled up the halls.
I couldn't hold it in no more
my body lost control,
I had to make a break for it
before it took it's toll.
Perhaps too late I made a break
and finally found a door,
I pushed on through and found fresh air
and let loose with some more.
I found my car and got inside,
and drove fast as I could,
It wasn't long before I found
I let more than I should.
My day was done, my time was lost
and so my dignity,
the moral of this story
should be more than plain to see:
go out to lunch and take a break
but don't eat the whole cart,
'cause you might find that if you do
you may do more than fart.
.
.
.
Poem Info:
1. Written: 12.25.18
2. Written for the "Let 'Er Rip" poetry contest on PoetrySoup.com sponsored by John lawless.
The company wishes to research an idea.
Creating slotted aluminium frames that
Would be 18 inches thick centered between
Two areas.the external area would be double
slotted to house a poly thermal fiberboard which
Is housed behind a weather sealed plyboard. Which would be tightened
A sealed with weather resistant sealant.
The interior would be a weather sealed
the fiberboard internal plyboard would be to
exposed to create an interior wall. The idea also is designed
To use rough untreated lumber both interior and
External. With in the 18 inch cavity sand, cob, concrete
Or strawbales could be used to create the complete
Wall. An aluminium frame using the same dynamics
Would make the roof creating a pocket to be filled
With dirt, rammed earth, or cob to create a roof which
Could use external roofing to complete the project.
The structure would sii on footings and a concrete
Slab would be poured internal to create a floor.
Using rebar in both wall and ceiling is make uniform
Structurally sound walls to protect you from the elements.
Over lapped roofs to rid water run off.
Door and window kits designed to create a designers appeal
The structure to be priced under $10,000; with connection
Packages to create the mansionary roommate of your personal desire. Wealth determinational appendicitis dwellings. Using earthy materials to lessen the price of
Construction, allowing the aluminium and wood to create the
Desired look. Stain and shellac the plyboard. Scorn and oil
The untreated lumber. Create the perfect look.
Research and development.
Idea two...
Use untreated lumber to create 16 inch agaped boxes of fill
With a mixture of dirt and cement with rebar; of make the boxes with plyboard exterior attach rebar,fill two inches of cement fill with straw and.mud and cement mixture cap the top with cement.first you have to drill holes for bolts to attach new sections of the same material. Use plyboard to cover the area. This walling process can be used with a tracoring plan to allow the walls to be site receivable once cured.
Or creation of an aluminium frame with fiber walls walls
With poly insulation boards agaped and filled with earthen matrails priced under $10,000 to be attached to a trailers chassis.
Once thy future spouse (Abby Zison) found herself in the family way
(with what would turn out to be the first of our two daughters – i do say
determined and sealed the decision per our rolling in the figurative hay
to wed said mother of thine deux female progeny
on an agreed (in Linkin Park) upon a green day.
Both of us happened to be older grown offspring at ten times thrice
Or three plus decades to be generally precise
our fate sealed sans no hup hauling clay dice.
Said age difference approximately a year and a half between us two,
and miserably living with parents, which o’er the years rancor grew.
I agreed to pledge my troth on the premise this writer
(christened Matthew Harris) aka king o one scott the lighter
found himself in the throes of becoming a potential mister mom)
per one dominant seminal striver a darwinian foo fighter.
Since neither of us took any precautions and thru caution to the wind
the inevitable (i.e. a so called bun in the oven) nonetheless
tasting supposed verboten fruits branded us as having sinned
took us by surprise and got us necessarily biologically pinned.
Even though a decision to tie the gordian knot (more like a noose)
per donning the role of future father tightened and n’er got loose
an inner conflict jostled thine inner being
against forming a legal wedded union – the deuce.
Prior to taking that legal vow to be husband and wife
until death doth us part before the justice of the peace
(which building matter of fact, happens to be
a hopper, skipper and jumper
from where this seat experiences posterior strife
because this gluteus maximus constitutes on bony ****
as if being cut by a knife
matrimonial bliss seemed like a pipe dream
in subsequent years only to spiral into a maelstrom of chaotic life.
In truth, the prospect to marry
in general mills and aforementioned gal in particular
hardly filled yours truly with giddy excitement
but a decision this troubadour wished to defer and tarry
even as of this writing thoughts meander envisioning
the bachelor life - since daughters grown and I feel self confidant
to manage the unforeseen challenges of life, and hence less wary.
When I met the tall and amiable Vietnam War veteran,
my shyness showed,
yet, my throat dried and tightened when he softly
spoke the words, "The war never goes away."
All these humanity destroying wars never cease,
soldier's names, faces, their eyes so well-worn.
Their love letters sent home never faded in their
immortality.
The soldiers who made it home alive weren't
given a hero's welcome.
Their nightmares flashing as they wake up
sweating in their sheets in the dark,
yelling for respite from still hearing and
being in the firefight, still seeing the VC,
and witnessing the life breaths leaving
mortally wounded brothers.
Descending into the night's loneliness,
the blue-gray of the t.v. on low volume,
the sobbing of a loyal wife.
Some marriages, families split apart
with crushing sadness,
many veterans homeless on U.S. streets,
such a heartbreaking shame shadowing
over the face of America the beauty.
Surviving veteran's hair becomes snow-white,
war wounds achingly arthritic,
memories of their war buddies still sweetly
preserved in their mind's images.
Vietnam War veteran's reunions as their
bones stiffen, but still salute their brothers
and sisters in arms,
their hats with the name of the war,
the pride of their service.
Many barely out of high school,
with brothers of the same town,
the same state,
so much youth called up,
joining brothers from other regions
of the U.S.
Blessed by God in their fraternity,
their bravery.
The deep red poppies represent their
precious blood.
I remember the 1960's-70's searing
scars in my mind,
weeping for the loss, the hurt in our
hearts over the Vietnam War.
MIA's, POW's,
disappeared as aging families still pray,
still wait.
In the local Veteran's Cemetery,
I met a woman in her eighties,
she was a little confused,
couldn't recall where her Vietnam veteran
son's grave was located.
She told me her daughter-in-law couldn't
bear to visit his grave.
We found his grave,
his name glistening in the dew of
that gentle May morning,
as wrens and sparrows sang on
blossomed boughs.
A chance encounter became such a
gift to honor her son,
and his mother.
To let her know he was not forgotten,
but cherished,
Welcome Home. ~