Empty
are the streets
of my mind
Options
Like a dry
oil well
Drifting from
state to state
In search of
Who knows
gotta stay
Sharp
Can't say
What may
never Come
Waiting for
A comet
To sprinkle
Dust on my
Pizza
at least
I'm
well fed
A darker gray pours over the horizon,
Cold and wet with a wind to subdue.
Yet with it comes a shade of discomfort,
As if energy must begin a search for a clue.
The changes we all see have been so gradual,
Where to some, it's more like no change at all.
So while the weather slowly reaches new extremes,
Our carbon footprint is seen climbing the wall.
Now it appears most of the planet is cooperative,
Attempting to alter & curtail this unwanted event.
But there's always those few who stand defiantly,
Since their belief is, there's nothing to prevent.
The saddest part of this story is unyielding,
As status and greed are the glue to hold fast.
And as long as some can keep a vise-grip on the last
Oil well, they'll just happily reminisce of days past.
In spite of this, the rest of us know the day is coming,
When our future is defined by this remarkable change.
Giving pause to our legacy and survival,
If we're unable to create a fair exchange.
Deep Southern accents
today rarely heard
except in a handful of words
But New Yorkers still manage
to talk so darn fast
their reputation as windbags
forever will last
Ivy-covered sheepskin, firmly in hand
the confident graduate, square-jawed and tan
Pulled offers from prestigious start-ups all over the land
a year later he played lead guitar, hat in hand
He, ever-grateful to his folks for those music lessons
They, bleary-eyed from all the therapy sessions
Yet Patience will out, and Time always tells
Perhaps by thirty-five he'll own an oil well
Once I was a spring -
words and art flowed forth from me.
But now inspiration is an ooze -
a slow and tortured trickle.
No longer refreshing, cool water,
but a sticky, sour sap.
So the leaves and pages wither.
Like an oil well drilled in shale
so abundant at first -
yet so quickly does it fade.
But surely creativity is not limited -
except by time.
I must find my way back to the source.
I need rescue from this nightmare -
of being awake, yet unable to delight in life.
Far more terrifying than boredom is interest
without the will to pursue it.
13 June 2021
Donald Trump says he'll never tell
When drones set on fire an oil well
Because when Iran
Plays Air-Kick-the-Can
The Devil just zip-lines to Shell
Friendship changes
the tone of our
sad words
and put a fresh
smile on our
dark face ...
Friendship understands
our weakness and not
rebukes and extends
a helping hand ...
Friendship shares
unconfessed secrets,
and confesses its
own secrets ...
Sincere friendship
worths further than one
gold mine or an
oil well...
and provides us extra love
than a casual
lover...!
Friendship is a medicine
for all ills,
it's an antidote
against evil
of our souls...!
Major Nelson found himself on the sand
Was off target when coming in to land
A glass bottle changed his life
The contents became his wife
And a wedding ring he put on her hand.
But then he went on to buy an oil well
In Dallas was the businessman from hell
He got himself a new name
J. R . Ewing he became
I'm a big fan of T.V. can you tell.
Written on 1st February 2019
For limerick 4 poetry contest
Sponsored by Joseph May.
With scarlet breasts
and charcoal backs
they came today
like jumping jacks
and brought our lawn alive.
They passed on by
the seed in place
plus water bath
to pace their chase
in groups of four or five.
I watch one hop
through still-green grass
ignoring me
on every pass
to bob head for his food.
That oil-well bob
to pull with beak
the hapless worm
into his cheek
is uncommonly rude.
when the skin of the structural make up punctures
when blood and tears rupture like a flowing oil well
on the crest of tidal waves
when the skeleton of human unity shatters worldwide
when our moral void carpets water and land
covers the whole planet
when the fiber of the character of world leaders
deteriorate beyond recognition
then we need
a collective correcting whisper from the masses
explodes like a flower of one trillion seeds of hope.
22~12~2014
With Love
Maurice Yvonne
Just thirteen and already hiding,
capped off like an old oil well,
ears clamped shut
with a musical flair of pink in a bush
of unkempt hair.
Thirteen and all balled up
like a tribble in a Star-Trek bin
rounded shoulders, head down tucked
nope, not, never
getting into her skin.
Already hiding behind the glass
of frames too big for her head,
legs crossed, sketchbook open
drawing the visions inside her instead.
Capped teeth with braces
if she only knew
[though she seemed to guess, I’m sure]
lots of strut was needed, swagger, panache
all of which
she abhorred.
Off she’s gone behind lashes of woe
brought on by who knows what, or who?
Like an old oil well, she sits and waits
that is unless she blows?
Ears clamped shut blaring bloody what,
who knew?
Not pretty in pink, not petite, or polite
do you know her I do.
The Cowboy
In Texas they love football and cowboys, not your ordinary
cowboys mind, the ones who herd the cattle to slaughter,
but those who walk tall in local towns and own an oil well
or two. Real cowboys are usually black or Mexicans, low
paid and smell of cattle and dust; and when the cows are
delivered to the abattoir drink lone star beer, chew tobacco
and get arrested. Real cowboys dress in fancy dresses look
a bit effeminate, when drunk on whisky ride an artificial bull
and fall off to great applause from adoring female fans who
think those ridiculous pseudo heroes are for real.
In Texas they call it Americana, have a governor who gladly
condemn people to death, western tradition- hang them high-.
When Illusion overtakes overtake truths mainly because veracity
is boring, after all a cowboy is a cattle herder and reality lacks
the romance of a pearly studded dud.
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