Long Usual suspects Poems
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Every day at quarter to four
There is often a rush to the library door
The ‘usual suspects’ are often there
Sitting on a library chair
They speak to the teacher who they have upset
It may have been deliberate or even for a bet
They could have been fighting, swearing or smoking
When they arrive for their chat no one is joking
Disturbing others, using their phone or often being late
They will end up in the library - it’s not just down to fate
Some may learn and try to refrain
But the ‘usual suspects’ do it again and again
After a short time their chat is over, and to the bus they run
But I love to see the days when the library list shows ‘none’
Our staff they do a marvellous job to try and educate our youth
Poor behaviour can stop this task, it is the sorry truth.
Sleep and wake; the tide of routine
Fall and Arise; the cycle of life
These are divine, beyond being smart
That's even when you have to restart
Possibly, God is definitely in between
Which by heart makes energy so rife
I am trying
I keep moving
I need You Daddy
Be my Guardian Angel
When I am down to earth
Lord, fight fight fight
It is never so easy to give in
Father, fight fight fight
For me at the expense of Your breath
Yes, fight fight fight
To give Breath so cheap into the claim of my sin
Still, You fight fight fight
Birth and death are human plight
A life is lit and it burns really short
Man don't flip the flops of time
Which is not running often to its prime
Flames of its burn shine dim or bright like sort
Many can't help deny their own bright light
Turn off sighing
Turn on approving
Let me dwell in Thy caddy
Save me from the first archangel
When I am down to earth
Lord, fight fight fight
It is never so easy to give in
Father, fight fight fight
For me at the expense of Your breath
Yes, fight fight fight
To give Breath so cheap into the claim of my sin
Still, You fight fight fight
I can't face this beautiful madness all alone
Troubles are usual suspects trying our best
Sorrows pile up with the tough times in few
Tomorrow yet not guarantee of giving something new
Fate is to every crazy or gentle soul unknown
Yet, by luck or chance, no one dares put trying to rest
I am decrying
I keep disapproving
I need Your audience
Be my conveyance
When I am down to earth
Lord, fight fight fight
It is never so easy to give in
Father, fight fight fight
For me at the expense of Your breath
Yes, fight fight fight
To give Breath so cheap into the claim of my sin
Still, You fight fight fight
EVERYWHERE, EVERYWHERE, ‘TIS PUMPKIN SPICE!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The leaves haven't even thought about turning,
still stubbornly clinging to summer's green,
but the grocery store screams orange.
You see them, the usual suspects, transformed.
Twinkies, once golden vanilla sponge cakes,
now a suspiciously orange hue,
promising pumpkin spice bliss.
Hostess Cupcakes, frosted swirls of autumnal delight,
their chocolate depths now haunted
by the ghost of gourd.
Oreos, America's favorite cookie,
now betraying their chocolate heart
for a limited-edition fling
with their pumpkin spice centers.
And M&Ms, ah those little,
candy-coated spheres of madness,
each one a tiny, orange lie,
whispering of harvest festivals
and sweater weather.
‘Tis a pumpkin spice apocalypse,
a sugary sweet, nutmeg and cinnamon invasion.
I laugh, a little crazed, a little delighted.
Bring it on, I say,
to the Twinkies, the Hostess cupcakes,
the Oreos, the M&Ms,
let pumpkin spice reign supreme!
Yes, let's be honest,
it's ridiculous, but
I'm totally here for it.
Now, where’s the pumpkin spice Pepto Bismol?!
In the corner of the flower garden
The ugly rose
Stood alone
No shelter from blistering noon sun
Wilted and burnt
The beautiful ones mocked
The usual suspects in the garden
Gathered together in flock
The ugly rose wilted and dried
As the other flowers laughed
They became week and fraught
Not knowing their fate was interlocked
For the ugly rose fading and alone
Was not the petals nor the stem
The intertwined roots were rotted
Soon it was the other flower bushes condemned
As the rose garden rotted and died
That one ugly rose, rose again and became alive
Flourishing on the nutrients of the unsurvived
Sadly that one lonely rejected flower
Still was all alone
With no one to share her flourishing bloom
Like a lover left alone in the corner of a room
No one was there to see her bloom
The rains caressing her soul
Maybe I’m too simple
or too shallow
but I’m not angry.
What’s wrong with me?
I was trying to think
of someone I hate,
Jews, CIS guys, republicans,
palestinians, blacks, democrats,
the left handed, authority figures,
central americans, parents, vagrants,
the usual suspects, but I’m coming up empty
Things aren’t perfect
don’t get me wrong
I’ve got a pug nose
a flat chest
a giant forehead
and too much work to do
but I’m trying my best—
Worse yet, I’ve no plummeting anxieties
no obvious neurosis
—that one could be a misdiagnosis
no painful hangnails
no sad life tales
no addictions to defend
or hated ex-boyfriends
I have no emo hooks to pin my verse.
no current melodramas to cozen and coerce
between you and me, I think I’m off the rails
It’s really no wonder my poetry pales.
Yeah, that’s what’s wrong with me.
.
.
Songs for this:
Gee, Doctor by Dimie Cat
Sweet Lovin' (feat. Anna-Luca & Iain Mackenzie) by Club des Belugas
To the windows the students all go.
To get a closer look at the snow.
The teachers began shouting although
Santa fell down from the sky down below…
The school was in a frenzy from head to toe.
Santa was yelling his “ho, ho, ho, ho.”
The windows were filled with students who know
The snow is coming down with wind that will blow.
A blizzard is on her way, you really must go!
It is the principal with a bullhorn in tow.
The busses are summoned. Drivers are yelling “whoa!”
We cannot get out, or to anywhere go.
So we spend the night with our charges in tow.
They are hungry, so we break into the milk case and find dough.
We make up cinnamon rolls. They are tasty, so
We survive the night, with only the moon for a night-light glow.
The next day there is still a bunch of new snow.
The children are not as fascinated by the great show.
To the windows no one actually looks or will go.
Teachers are tired. Their faces are not fit for a beau.
Parents are frantic, run in to and fro,
Some take their children home early and so
Some teachers get a reprieve but as you well know
The usual suspects are there all day hanging low.
Hey, what did you think of that beautiful snow?
One of the teacher’s husbands asked, not in the know.
The staff glowered at him, this silly man named Joe.
Made him their Santa saying ho ho ho ho.
I suppose the usual suspects,
should fill up this poem,
City of lights, ancient pyramids,
colosseum in Rome,
To be honest I seen all these places,
sitting playing the slots,
Yeah we’re talking Vegas baby,
sin city, I’ve given it a shot,
Been up the Eiffel Tower,
Bellagio fountains down below,
Viewing the Sistine chapel,
in Venice along the same road,
Look across main boulevard,
I see Caesars palace all lit up,
Just outside on the strip,
Elvis sings through a begging cup,
Passing the cosmopolitan,
New York springs into view,
Must go by the crystals first,
still looks sparkling new,
On second thoughts cross over,
go shop the miracle mile,
Planet Hollywood rises above,
looking a bit retro in style,
Outside it’s baking hot,
have you felt that Nevada sun,
Cool vapour blows from
roadside bars, I do not shun,
Next day into the stratosphere,
ride the big shot atop,
A thousand feet over Vegas,
screaming will it ever stop,
Later up or down to freemont st.
cannot tell I’m totally lost,
Craziest place I’ve ever seen,
little sleazy by default,
So that’s my bucket list,
everything’s now crossed off,
World under one roof, pretty sad,
yeah well! go ahead and scoff.
By
David Kavanagh
What Have You Kicked Off
On Your Bucket List Poetry Contest
08/11/2020
Sponsored by: Chantelle Anne Cooke
Less tangible than air
but they live everywhere
with an impact more real
than iron and steel
No shadows they cast
though the sun blazes past
nor substance to block
the light that they mock
Yet block it they do
and obscure it from view
with their energies dark
and their beastly mark
Sworn enemies of man
and God and His plan
They delight as we mourn
our slaughtered unborn
The usual suspects
those Heavenly rejects
contrive and conspire
and their chief is a liar
Misled to believe
the tales that they weave
We are all too willing
to join in the killing
As we watch evil rise
it should be no surprise
that insanity rules
forming thick bloody pools
And delusions abound
among people, unsound
given over to rage
in this mindless age
Don't make the mistake
to believe they are fake
Just because you can't see
doesn't mean they can't be
Even winds are unseen
yet the tree tops still lean
when the atmosphere blows
as everyone knows
So please bear in mind
though the whole world is blind
to our foes now concealed
they'll soon be revealed
Then these demons from hell
nevermore can compel
human beings to kill
one another at will
And our God shall prevail
as the evil ones wail
leaving death and despair
less tangible than air
© Mike Wise
9-29-20
"Lizzie Borden took an ax
And gave her mother forty whacks.
When she saw what she had done
She gave her father forty-one."
Whoever wrote this jump-rope song
About Lizzie Borden got it wrong.
Though she did give her stepmom ax whacks aplenty,
By the coroner's count there were no more than twenty.
Then before anyone could scold her or scoff,
Lizzie took her little hatchet,
And whacked her daddy off.
And how many love taps sent Papa to heaven?
The doc thought maybe ten,
No, better make that eleven.
What made Lizzie do it,
What caused her to snap?
Was she simply fed up with her family's crap?
Was stepmother's embrace somewhat less than maternal,
And her dad's fond caress somewhat more than paternal?
Then, of course, there's her sister who saved her from grief
When she helped her burn evidence,
And then on the witness stand raised her right hand
And very politely lied through her teeth.
The inquest was heated,
Everyone testified,
And though she changed hers often,
Liz was well-alibied.
All through the trial she sat calm and unmoved
And was finally acquitted, her guilt never proved.
Now all these years later her legend lives on,
Of the usual suspects she's still number one.
When I read about Lizzie I have often opined,
If she had been musically,
As well as murderously, inclined,
I wonder if Miz Liz would still be so well-known
If her "axe"* had been a saxophone.
*Slang musical term for an instrument such as a saxophone or guitar.
The bayou sky flies a catfish moon over swamp gators
And cottonmouth vipers. Accordions, fiddles, and rub board vests
Make their ramble through the undergrowth hot on the trail
Of a sultry midsummer house party in Sweat Neck, Louisiana.
All the usual suspects are there. Sharkskin Slim doffs his topper
To Ruby and Rose - the Harlequin Twins. They curtsy in reply.
They came to town to show local folks how business gets done.
Fast Man is fresh from stabbing Satan in the back; same as before.
Snorkel-nose Nelson lays his blackjack on the table.
Pelican-neck LeBeau considers the odds and spits.
A honeysuckle breeze wafts across the terrace.
Eucalyptus, peppermint, and pine tar grace the veranda
Where Miss Bunny Bouche, in her famous lavender velour,
Garners attention from spy boys eying Cajun temptations
With considerably hardened intentions. Several teamsters
Just in from Shreveport dance lively while a claw hammer fiddler
Plays Tee Nah Nah. Essential words are suggested in the space
Between the jug and the mason jar. They speak of collard green
Creole rice served with crayfish in roux étouffée. The snap beans
Are sure enough salted. The shrimp gumbo is suitably spiced.
Sad Hannah sits off in the corner, her motives transparent
As parish politics. She’s been rumored to have dabbled
In arson crafts she’d learned at Magdalena’s Den of Sin,
But no one ever really pays her much mind.
She’s been deliberating the consequence of a life not lived,
And sees a glimmer of hope in the eye of a hurricane lamp.
Her chance of escaping obscurity erupts through the hall.
So now, it’s last call and damn it all, take a left at the crossroads,
And be sure to turn your mattress over when it’s time to climb downstairs.
And as for Hannah, sad Hannah, well, it’s either up Ladder Lane
Then down Hemp Alley, or else it’s just a lonely walk home.