Lately my mantenna are twitching more than usual folks
the prophecies are surely uncloaking
time to batten down the hatches
the second flood is lapping on the doorstep
clutch your loved ones to your chest
Its nearly midnight, the world is on full tilt
nuclear pinballs ricochetting off
bent flippers of black hearted madmen
They will not lead into battle
they'll just push a button to begin the cleanse
They want to speed up the blender of Armageddon
In the meantime, enjoy the day
have a lick of your favorite ice cream
watch the fireworks display
God bless, most of us anyway.
Categories:
pinballs, earth day,
Form: Free verse
When death said "Hello", a chest was opened wide.
A serpent sashayed in, toward a heart and its gloaming.
Spitting black pinballs between the brain and soul.
A flock of night biters moved into sanities narrows...
I pulled a little amber cross from mahogany shadows.
Praying with the might of storms, to a God just out of sight,
to free the mind from the pit viper pissing out lye.
Two seasons have past, all but a half pinball have left.
The mercy of amber has filled the crack in the chest.
The movement of moments is the only constant...
Death is so unabashedly, timeless - arrogant.
Categories:
pinballs, death,
Form: Rhyme
Town Full Of Sound
I use to live in
A town full of sound
With Roller Coasters
And Merry Go Round
Horns would blast
To sound an alarm
I use to live in
A town full of sound
I use to live in
A town full of sound
Pinballs were zinging
And barkers would hound
Foghorns were blaring
A mournful fog song
I use to live in
A town full of sound
I use to live in
A town full of sounds
Salt water taffy
Came clacking on down
The bandstand was swinging
Those Glen Miller songs
I use to live in
A town full of sound
I use to live in
A town full of sound
Where all sorts of music
Played all over town
Screech of the crowd
As the Comet roared down
I use to live in
A town full of sound
Bill MacEachern May 2, 2024
Categories:
pinballs, nostalgia,
Form: Rhyme
A milling crowd (aren't they all),
I call my name
then try my real name
then a made-up name.
The crowd separates reluctantly,
A man with an ever changing face steps forward.
I intently recognize myself,
a self of many ages, some even before birth.
I am emotional, this is a cathartic moment
my eyes are pinballs being flipped
in a lit-up cosmic game.
The person is my personal
imago/, amigo, avatar,
my part-time impersonator.
This is no time for self analysis,
I take him by the hand
lead him into my mind, claim him,
show him as I am now
in the eye of a cracked mirror.
His face has stopped fluttering through time,
his eyes are now moth orbs
as golden as an astronauts visor.
I reflect upon them like the sun.
He tells me that all of his personas,
all of his faceted me-ness
revolves around an inner star,
then walks absent mindlessly
back into the crowd.
I turn to look at the rest of the world,
it is a radiant carousel painted upon
an endlessly nocturnal canvas.
The canvas and the painting
were created by an unknown artist,
one still waiting to be discovered.
Categories:
pinballs, poetry,
Form: Free verse
Pina colada?
Pinky said sure.
Pinafore dressed
She looked truly pure.
Pin curls and pinballs.
Pinky provided proof
Pigtails non-withstanding
She was an odd little poof.
Categories:
pinballs, 1st grade, 2nd grade,
Form: Alliteration
Pinballs
Flashing lights cacophonous torment
silent blindness screams of nothing
Plunger lost in apathy comfortless striking void
pistons firing on empty
Flippers halted in stagnant mid flight
motionless surreal delusion
Sensors tilted upside down and further
making no sense of no meaning
Bumpers like icy mountain’s thin air
pick axe forgotten on the descent
Sink holes covered in quick sand
vacuous craters enveloped madness
A ‘level’ play field and yet where are those balls
of courage to tell them how I really felt?
09th August 2018-08-08
Written for the contest: ‘I wish I had the balls to tell them how I really felt’.
Sponsored by Line Gauthier
Categories:
pinballs, depression,
Form: Free verse
Outside, the sound of two children at play,
she pushed a pram, he kicked a yellow ball,
a van approached, he scuttled out the way
'scrap iron!' came the monotonic call.
My childhood, I remember on this street
the rag 'n bone man, cart pulled by a horse
my football clattered, bounced between its feet
like pinballs on their strange erratic course.
The old man took scrap iron, steel and lead,
would sharpen household blades and garden shears,
take them back to his workshop in his shed,
flat cap on head, pencil behind his ear.
With all his best intentions this pair's job
would never earn a living year on year
it seemed to me pin money, a few bob,
the greater need his cigarettes, or beer.
Did he consider packing it all in
his future at that age counted in days
four legged partner old and tired like him
so close that time when they would part the ways?
On the school building, sunset washed the wall,
their passing shadows cast answered it all.
For contest 'eight word challenge', sponsor Robert Haigh
14th march 2018
Categories:
pinballs, age,
Form: Rhyme