Lug Poems | Examples

A Walk with Father

He leads me through East London,
docks, pubs, among the stray dogs, the
River Thames lapping at low clouds.

We find the second-hand player in a street
where the shops are dusty holes under the arches
of viaducts and railway bridges,

Me carrying the portable Dancette record player
in its hard Bakelite box,
lifting it by its leatherette handle, and I,
small for my age
but wanting so much to lug it all the way home.
The plastic cuts my fingers,
sharp corners bark my shins.

Father talks of his life here, the blackouts
and bombs, rationing,
and the bloody Saturday night street fights.

He whistles tunes
from a songbook of dead crooners.

That evening sitting together, with Sinatra -
watching the dark blue Capitol label
spiral and blur,
hearing the unseen belt under the bobbing needle
as it chewed vinyl -
reliving the clunk-clunk of our boots
as we pushed back fog-muted miles.

Years later, finding that player again
in mother's attic, lifting the machine
feeling how light, it is,
willing to take another walk with him
yet not knowing how to catch up.

Bitsy Bailey Bug and Rodneys Poodle and Pug

Bittersweet bitsy Bailey bug
Rock and rolled in Rodney’s rug
Had he partaked of a daily drug?
Rodney was sick of Bailey’s crazy mug
Time to go home, he told the lug
Just one more chug, said Bailey bug
He was chased off by Rodney's poodle and a pug.

Hiding Alone

   I always wanted my own dog.
   Someone to sit under the table with me.
   Fuzzy warm animal to hug,
   When too much shouting from above.

   "You can't have a dog!
   Too many fleas,
    Ticks you may not see!
   As for a fuzzy warm to hug,
   Go get your teddy bear.
   He's a big lug!"

   I've hugged all the fur off my old teddy bear.
   He only has one eye.
   The other in a corner,
   Over there.

   I still want my own dog.
   To sit under the table with me.
   Warm and fuzzy to pet,
   While the shouting continues from above.

Missing the Cranes

You were sharp|ning grass
With your eyes | sit & fixed
Again | a substitute for mow|n
Machine chug|ging along lug
Nuts, molar friction | u - r - n .
Lawn stretches of up|beat
Beach | was there even wind?
Filet a cannonade me | see
The crayons fly | in a circle
A head | towards blu|er | stretches
There | where clouds resemble.
Light is a commodity, scream!

Silly | man | omnibus no teacher 
Not even a man. Well still: Lorine
Niedecker e|merges like new 
Breath, pulp come together
Mis|hearing cranes, a making 
Multicolor wax, bending fuse 
Forge |X| fissure for left foot |
Right foot,—we'll find a job a kind 
Of game | it’s just planes turned
Paper crane | creosote guardians
A dead lean-to shouldering volts.

the game is afoot

Did I push hard enough for purple? Asked Morse.
It is the color I wanted on my house of course
a fantasy of mine shown in kitchen fan and horse
One color is great, agreed his yes man, Borse.

What kind of game is this, if you please?
This question came from the sandwich of cheese.
I think purple is wonderful, the butler said.
Looking fine in glossy and flat, it makes a fine bed.

Keep sucking up, the lettuce promptly said.
I will lug you around and bump your head.
You all sound mean to me, the monkey croaked.
the key to getting along is playing, frog joked.

Who to hail for help

When doubts rage, who to hail for help,
Lug own luggage, hail not for help.

Man has lost sage who might well help,
Saved savage, hail not now for help.

Self centred, man has if lost out  
In this age, hard to hail for help.

Created a sorry image,
Own damage, now hail not for help.
 
Hedging, aloof on alien’s edge, 
His own cage, who to hail for help?

If hopeless has turned his marriage,
A mirage, who to hail for help?

When life’s play is turning a page 
Right on stage, who to hail for help?
_________________________________________
Ghazal |05.05.2024| life

Rags

RAGS
You have rags
Of rags
Some bragging rags...
Must be your rag,
Because you have rags
With nothing in them
Except a bifurcate rag;

You have enough rags for life,
For a billion stars in the sky__
If there was a total number of lug rags
You would tote have it
 In the rag,
I wonder why you hoard so many rags
When all you ever put in them
Are other dirty rags.

        ~Tile Tersoo

Glum Yet Grateful

Here comes the dawn
of a thoughtful Mourn. 
Month of the desecrated demise
of a Monumental personage.

Unpleasant feels beclouds the air
I consume,
My structure reconciles itself
to the dreadful wake of the dawn.

Hushed his grief within,
As though He counts it less.
Burdened the hearts become.
For the weight tears apart within.

Boundary with her,
Was the sweetness of existence.
In a tick of misery
Hard to lug

Uneasy to let slip
Oh Death where’s thy sting
So fresh is the love of the parted soul
Mourning till an afterlife

In her two gems he rejoices.
As life gives succor. 
Though Growth he beckons
For an extended home, before night falls.

Life’s unplayed cards
Relinquishes-daunts my being
Fathoming its depth
Again and again

Glum yet Grateful
For the Supreme One
Alone knows all and the why
We seem still within ourselves.

Three Decades plus Six
Yet I breathe 
To make proud
This Monumental Personage.

football mug

coffee is a football mug

join us as we chug a lug

no matter the team

bring on the steam

next time serve it in a jug.

Gigs

For those of you who aren't 
Musically au fait 
Let me describe to you
How to set up gigs to play

Despite your best efforts 
And the preparation done 
Inevitably some snag 
Will bite you on the bum 

You lug in all the gear 
It weighs a helluva lot 
Only to discover the stage 
Is the size of a table top 

Only a single power point 
Is available for you to use 
Leads are strung up everywhere 
To trip on as you choose 
 
Tension is running high 
As a preliminary strum 
Causes feedback squeals 
But the worst is yet to come... 

The mics are on the blink 
The lightings really dim 
Someone breaks a string 
It's pandemonium!

Ode To An Oldie

There once was a bucket from Nantucket
[Trump*]'s aides must make time to lug it
While running for office
His sh!t from each orifice
Needs giant commodes just to flush it

*In order to promote fairness, the reader can insert any selfish politician, CEO, or other name in the brackets. Sadly, there's no shortage of good choices.

Not Our Kind

In the heat we burn for Pepsi
dangle feet from crick docks
Traipse with garage ice
to cheap motels,
watch a tv that's chained to a wall,
go home thinner then we came.

Poor possessions, pay-checked and broke
by Monday. Trailer bred,
no stock, just scrawny chickens,
free range ornery strays,
front yards overgrown
with ever grounded flamingo's.

In the cold we work on beat-up trucks
hoody-up, slap oily knuckles together
patch-up holes in our walls.
Go tree coons, play around
separate, divorce, but never leave.
Break open bar fight bottles,
chug-a-lug through the night
by a space heater’s eerie light.

We are not your kind,
we got a right to be low,
slow to show our sickness
our nearness to workaday dirt.

You who drive by radios in your head
masking your hollow conditions,
you keep on down that dusty road
go find your own damn
tumbleweed roots.

Kim Takes Full Credit

Kim’s decorations for fall are always straight out of a magazine
The rest of us visit her house and exclaim over her decisions.
Her parents are decorators, and I believe they help her with this.
She claims it is all her own idea, but no one buys it.
Because she is not a put together woman in any other area of life.
Her clothes do not match, her hair is a mess, and she looks dowdy.
Her house is impeccable; perfecto, and it happens while she is at work.
Two cars with Michigan plates are parked at her house for a week.
Her parents lug in bolts of materials, and bags of autumn goodies.
Kim takes full credit, and we let her because we adore her.
But we all know better.

What Is a Flea Market

What is a flea market? I asked, unsure.
I found all kinds of things not found in the mall.
Antiques that brought memories back
Things I have never seen anywhere else
Things I knew I would never see or find anywhere else again
Home made things from creative people
Shiny things, feathery things, things of leather.
I was overjoyed when I discovered you can lug stuff to a cashier.
She will make you a pile and give you a number.
My number should have been JACKPOT
My pile was huge.
\My sister was askance.
My car is not big enough for all that, she told me.
Not to worry, I replied as they lugged a ten foot suit of armor to the register.
I have had to rent a truck to bring that guy home.

Hard Drug a Dug Grave

Mind-Cracking, Health-Crushing Hard Drug 
Whose taker has his own grave dug:
For all the sad life’s holes it does plug,
Any helping dosing down on rug,
As though a shooter did one slug 
Or a dirty criminal one mug.

A time to up a staircase lug
The Hopelessly Suicidal on drug;
To all the questions by a medic a shrug:
No deliverance from his medical jug!

What things in life disturbingly bug 
That we can’t The Just Sensible hug; 
Drug isn’t by a little the abnormal,
The taker often a Writhing Animal!
A balderdash making a previous “it is well”,
As he continues to wrestle with New Hell.

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