The taste of language is like a pudding with countless varieties,
A sense of togetherness,
A home away from home.
The taste of language reflects the beauty of culture,
The pride of our fathers,
The glory and stories of our mothers,
The wonder in the eyes of children.
The taste of language brings people together in a foreign land,
Welcoming the newcomers,
Reciting deep-rooted slogans.
The taste of language guides the lost in finding their paths,
Enables the untaught to learn and blend,
Offers a way to look back and find missing pieces,
And provides an understanding that leads to answers.
February 21, 2025.
A Holly Day in May
the building is eerily empty today, everybody
has gone to the beach, even those in wheelchairs
I sit on the verandah in the hope of tanning
my scalp looks so white in the bathroom mirror
I used to sit in the sun and get a deep tan
which gave me skin cancer
Do the Gaza people sit in the sun away from their
tents, now bombed, because Gaza has nice
beaches and turquoise water.
The Israel monster regime keeps killing Palestinians
daily, 60 here and 40 there
It has been noticed, that more Jews are leaving
Israel, then newcomers to this Paradise of evil
I went to the pharmacy yesterday and wanted to buy
a self-tanning product, the person who served me
came from Congo, shamefully, I lost my nerves
and bought aspirins.
My wife, born in Kinshasa, said I was a racist
Once, when she was a stewardess, she met
the fabled Roger Moore, I say no more but has
a nice-looking daughter
I read Joe Biden talking about ********, maybe
he wished for one
We all have sexual fantasies, a curse for old men
Senile Stork is out of control again
He brought a full sized eight-year-old to the newcomers
They were irritated to the max
Why don’t they retire that old bird?
It is not easy getting rid of these old-timers
Especially when they are not willing to go
He bit the hand off the last person who tried to boss him
“We can get used to her!” the new daddy said after hearing this.
“She is darling!” said his wife.
In Corn Hollow, Ohio, where the tall corn grows
There is a giant corn cob, that everyone local knows.
It was fabricated and created by Mrs. Me Ma Mose.
Back in the day – it has been featured in many shows.
Newcomers to town sometimes try to step on toes.
Saying it should be replaced, but at night it glows.
Neon yellow, as designed by our friend MeMaMose.
We ignore their suggestion, for it kind of blows.
Skips in a line of Customers
To attend to some newcomers;
A long good patience running out,
A long silent voice to soon shout!
"Why aside a guy in need wave"
While he does same attention crave?
CCTV does bear witness,
People's acts judging their fitness...
He could seller call A Bastard
Or for humor Tasteless Custard;
A claim he ate her this morning
But has, since, been sadly mourning.
The king was fair but he chose his wives in a haphazard way.
Subjects of his kingdom said king would one day “rue the day”.
It happened after wife number seven, an awful mean queen.
The ones who watched it happen, said it could not be unseen.
She wiped the throne room with the king’s decapitated head.
Who did that? Asked newcomers, but no one already there said.
For the red queen was a terror, who loved mopping the floor.
With others emotions, and she had more devilish deeds in store.
The bishops and knights ran off to other kingdoms, over the lawn.
There were no rooks in sight, and one crippled horrified pawn.
If chess was the game, I guess the queen had won, but not fair.
The last time I saw her she was climbing high on the stair.
The bargain master peddler man rides into town two times a year.
We gather at the road, begging him to come to our house first, “please dear!”
He is riding a persnickety particular parenthesis caravan walker without fear.
The PPCW makes all of the decisions, the BMPM follows to avoid a big jeer.
He will be here when he is here, our ancestors tell us. Relax. There’s a cheer!
PPCW has chosen a house, somewhere down the road. I lend a clear ear.
They are newcomers to town. They are rude, impoliite and they drink beer!
The PPCW has stopped at their home, and the BMPM is unloading his gear!
Once the “go to guy”
I linger, ever hopeful
Of a need to fill.
Long for the
Tickle
Of long grass
Crackle
of fallen leaves
Scent
of the garden.
I am older
my handle
slightly splintered
my tines
bent
several missing.
Mocked
by motored newcomers
I wait
knowing
there are still times
that situations
will call for
The “go to guy”
John G. Lawless
©1/8/2023
Legend of goat man of pop lick trestle
prominent in the stories of mountain folk
blue grass anomaly seen by a few
chilling bluegrass spotters who become hypnotized
some local hillbillies affected jump off the trestle
landing a hundred feet below on sharp gravel
terrifying to passengers of oncoming train
he uses voice mimicry to lure many to their deaths
common story in floyd, Kentucky
known by few newcomers or interlopers
shared by old timers in hushed whispers
waitress listens and rolls her eyes at their tale
In a small Russian village
the people speak like animals
and their animals listen like humans.
Deep in a Malay forest
there are apes that love God
with a slow burning love
that turns their hair orange.
They are called. "old man of the forest"
but they are as simple as children.
In Borneo head-hunters used to eat tigers
but now tigers eat their fearful eyes.
In a Derbyshire village
they once threw stones at strangers
they knew that the newcomers
were bad news
but they had not the words to say so.
They spoke a language of salted manure
combed through the wool of a native tongue.
Foxes have dens, and men have hearth and home,
but the earth translates best that which is not said
a a roofless voice all may understand.
It was the Annual Pickle Party
To celebrate cucumbers
From dark corners of the pantry
They welcomed all newcomers
There was Dill and Green and Sour
And Bread and Butter too
Mustard turned up rather late
A Gherkin jar made its debut
Things were going splendidly
They were pickled and having fun
When suddenly, all went quiet
And the awkwardness begun
They were in a pickle now -
A stranger had crashed the party
He was smooth in his white suit
And smiling like the glitterati
It was a sticky situation
They looked about in dread
Who was going to tell him...
That he was a pickled egg!
Arizona
My home is in Arizona.
It is a hot state indeed.
That is exactly why
I am here.
It has a temperature in the summer
of over one hundred and ten,
then they stop counting,
as not to scare the newcomers
from becoming old-timers.
No.
They will run and hide,
when they find out...
the truth...
but not I.
I love the desert and the heat,
I love the way I can feel my feet.
I am always cold,
and it gets very old.
So bring the sun,
and let's have some fun.
Arizona.
I
A day I do not feel shalom
Note it, not knock it, gloat over it
Between His promises & impatient me
Time knocks on my head, my entirety
I say: the symptoms are not ME
I am somebody being remade by Trinity
II
The twin tools: detach and attach
I had it backwards; but in the bad patch
I recall: I am more than my problem
Jesus overcame so much, & pettiness
He was of Higher Ground, under duress
He seemed to bless, fewer times, CURSE
Never holding back for Spiritual address
III
Matthew, chapter 23 gives us a list of Jesus's curses especially for "religious" leaders, who excelled in pushing newcomers away: WOE
Banana trees
Most of the jungles of Sumatra are uprooted
to plant banana trees the orangutans have been made homeless.
They try to sit in the banana trees, but it is too brittle for the animals
besides, they don´t care for this type of fruit, which gives them the runs.
It reminds me of Lisbon the Portuguese are proud of.
Moneyed people are coming from abroad to settle in the city,
a wonderful place to live.
The poor cannot afford the high rent when flats are modernized
to suit newcomers.
The unfortunates are pushed out to find a shack, if they are lucky
or failing that, live in tents;
many tents, in parks and sideroads while waiting to be housed.
There are many pretty banana trees in Lisbon, but they are expensive.
It has always been like this, the poor and the uncommunicative
must take the brunt when a town goes upmarket.
Warmouth watches to the north, feeling the marauder’s eyes.
Her troops honor her stance with silence, in awe of her abilities.
The gift of prophecy is given to her prior to each battle.
She turns and looks at her lieutenant; he lopes off without a word.
This is the kind of relationship she has with her troops.
One of the newcomers is amazed at the prowess of Warmouth.
She is a force of one; the entire army respects her leadership.
She draws back her head and gives a long loud wolf-howl.
The battle has begun; the enemy is closer than the troop realized.
She draws back her dagger and heads down the hill to the north.
Her raven flies straight into the eyes of the other commander.
Screaming and slashing commence; it is a mighty fight.
The enemy retreats, recognizing the determination in Warmouth’s eyes.
She has backed off her third army in five months.
It is a record, but no one dares speak of it.
She is a leader who expects no praise.
Doing what she can to protect her clan.
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