Long Well heeled Poems
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How close it was but sadly not to be
with chosen numbers falsely provident -
deserving no such serendipity
lest I remain reckless and delinquent.
Mine are the sins of a Protestant son
whose dream ticket near made me well-heeled,
but my wheel of fortune has been spun
and my jackpot eyes hermetically sealed.
No luck, no pockets of silver and gold,
no libertine joy till O’ happy dirge!
Now my Faustian spirit that sold its soul
will not my blunted senses purge.
No wild debauchery drunk and depraved
and no fast women in fast cars to abscond.
O' well, I'd only be badly behaved
with some giddy perky pneumatic blonde!
Written: December 1996
It’s lovely here especially in the Fall,
the Maples are tall and burning bright.
The graves and crypts are ornate and marbled,
old money made them.
I thank them all for being here before me;
for me though, a cremation
and a river journey awaits.
I imagine fishes nibbling at my ghost,
abandoned truck tires
accommodating my swirling ashes.
Eventually a karmic wheel
may turn to my turn.
In generations perhaps, I'll be transformed
through new seeded dreams
into a beautiful Maple tree
in an autumn cometary for the well-heeled
and long planted.
I have dreams and goals to fulfill,
Longing for a wife to join me.
Hope for a place to call my own,
The confidence to stand alone.
We all have one fear at the least,
Whether or not you choose to believe.
None of us should trek in fear,
Live in hope not your greatest fear.
When I think I’m getting it together,
Glass shatters by life’s wrecking ball.
There’s always something I don’t get,
A detail that seems impossible to miss.
When revelations finally dawn on me,
Everyone is already seven steps ahead of me.
Will I ever be the well-heeled man I want to be?
Or will I always have an Achilles heel?
The exodus is on course
Homeward bound, full force
Christmas and New Year cheer
Of the pandemic, we have little fear
The well heeled among us, lead the pack
Who knows what they will take and bring back
Those who can, alone, stay home
Trying to preserve their human microbiome
Shades of post- war nineteen twenty
Soldiers brought Spanish influenza aplenty
Hit us hard, many died - we had no masks
Our Doctors and nurses this time, not at their tasks
Like then, we rush to send wishes true
To the political and CoVid millionaire crew
Next year, if we are here to tell the tale
Their fortunes will move further from the pale
Buzzards on the Infamous Hill
Always sitting at the edge of my seat,
When, oh when, shall truth finally come out…
As a true,American splendiferous treat!
But buzzards of cravish deception,
Fill the political, pockmarked skies.
Leaving us forever, with questions.
These carnivores reside on The Hill.
Where truth and goodness perish.
Americans left with lies, hope is killed.
Ethics lay as pricey,broken sunglasses.
Crushed beneath deceptive, well heeled feet.
“No news, just pure propaganda for the masses?”
Now, an amoral ,upside down, nation,
Where cheating and lies are given full reign.
And all good folk, dubbed as “abominations?”
Indeed, tis the poison Swamp’s entire purpose.
To establish a frightening totalitarian future.
Where depravity is honored, in their very sinews.
7/21/ 2023
THE RACE
In a rural
country vale
Aylesbury's forgotten tale
a steeplechase
from memory long gone
the four mile hunt
from Waddesdon
Twenty
weighed in at the White Hart
the old windmill
.. the place to start
riders famous & the well-heeled
racing across
ditch &field.
each carrying
twelve stone seven
the starters flag
dropped at exactly eleven
across brook spinney &
the Thame
seeking the prize pot & fame
in long furlong field
the leaders showed
to the roars
from the turnpike road
the well backed grey
became the toast
winning
by a length
at
the red flagged post
Year Posted 2007
The Door Wolf.
And, what of the waxing Moons
Its flood, of relentless tides, that time
of scar faced pit dogs, long sharp toothed,
their belly grumbling handlers, eager
to chalk a death line, on cold ale stained flag stones hard.
While in bleakness yard, belly tumbling hags squeeze, last drops out of well gripped ****, for the blind pups bellies,
babies must wait, in so many ways they are a benefit, against the door Wolf.
And what of pale, deep eyed children
Barefoot in waste lands of snow
Thin as cotton threads, as are their ragged clothes !
Their belly grumbling quenched, by easy swallowed earth worms, to placate the parasitic worms hidden within.
Ahh, all in ! to the avoid the door wolf.
And what of the well heeled lace lover,
hovering in trinkets of silver, and cups spilling with distain, against the scroungers pain ?
With, Parisiene perfume, to muffle the drum
Hum drum stench, from a piss trench
soaked and brandyied to sleep.
Her blinkers finaly, blinked blank.
Those waxed, and wained Moons !
Now cobwebbed in long past night skies.
On the San Francisco waterfront the sun is going down
Upon a well-heeled journeyman fresh in from out of town.
The sky's been drained of color to a somber shade of gray
As a new day dawns on another continent half a world away.
In the console of his rental car he keeps a loaded Glock,
And fifty grand in cash for proving dead men never talk.
His trip to Frisco fit the adage "crime can sometimes pay."
Like that wedding swindle a dozen years ago half a world away.
There’s a shot glass on the window sill, a bottle on the floor.
A briefcase full of alibis lies propped against the door.
The walls of his motel room might be closing in today,
But it can’t compare to the hot, stale air she breathes half a world away.
He could maybe make the fever break, breathe easy for a spell.
Maybe shave a couple seconds off the time he’ll spend in hell.
He might even find forgiveness if he had the faith to pray
For a young girl burned by a grifter's double-cross half a world away.
In his wallet there’s a photo of a happy, smiling bride;
The blue eyed, fresh faced girl-next-door he’d taken for a ride
To a Southeast Asian brothel where he led her soul astray.
When he sold her ass to spend her nightmare honeymoon giving it away.
When the scholars write the history that chronicles an age,
They leave the least important things omitted from the page.
There's much that gets forgotten, left to silently decay;
Like a sex slave serving a Bangkok pleasure den half a world away.
Half a world away is as far as you can get,
But she’ll never let you spend a night in peace.
We are winded and on the ropes.
Backwater banjo boys
strum against us,
clouds prey upon our minds.
Bad days for going out
or staying in.
A time to be sleepless
to be dazed by the paltry,
nibbled by dogged uncertainties.
We must live timidly,
bargain for more
expect the unexpected
thrive with less.
Go shopping
in the poorer parts of town,
seek thrifty ways where
the well-heeled fear to tread.
When Cable News
assured us that the sky
was about to flap away
we began to dig deeper
with cheap plastic shovels.
We networked a few viral prayers
sought the company of magpies
while the nigh and near
once more took us all by surprise.
(For six days in mid-August, 1971, at Stanford
University near San Francisco, a psychological
experiment was conducted in which students
took on the roles of prisoners and prison guards.
The experiment had to be cut short, because the
guards were indulging in unhealthily sadistic
behaviour.)
"Never again," we say.
Those things can't be repeated.
"We set our face against him,
and Hitler was defeated."
Are you sure?
If sweet-talking you
could make it come true,
I would hand you the world
right now on a silver platter ...
but what would it matter?
Life isn't always Garry Keillor.
It's Rwanda, too. Sabra, Shatila.
The key you're holding
won't fit my door.
And you're not welcome
any more.
Just picture this, my friend.
Almost in sight of the Alcatraz ferry,
that sunny August of seventy-one,
a couple miles from Haight-Ashbury
something funny has begun
- and we're not talking Tom and Jerry.
You used me and abused me
till I felt like I wanted to die.
You created a need in me
that only you can satisfy.
Well-heeled campus kids
don’t quibble at the pay rates
make fifteen bucks a day
playing guards-and-inmates
- but is it really play?
I wondered hard
'tween twelve and one:
I asked my God,
"What have I done?"
These guards love Cohen, Dylan,
Che Guevarra, Mao, Durruti -
but now they're volunteering
for unpaid extra duty.
He spits into my food tray
for nothing more than spite.
Hear him whip the women
just around midnight.
You'd be surprised
what humans do.
Hippies can be Nazis, too.