Because wonder has morphed
Building an edifice of beauty
Is no longer magnificent
The plan in going to Mars
Communicating with others
From around the globe in real time
Are to believe all miraculous
Because all technology
has robbed humanity of imagination
No more sense of creation of marvel
With our own two hands
Capitalism killed dreams
Human lost trades
Few artisans left to carry on the concept
Plus very expensive materials this time
Everything is prefab and build boxed type structures
All artificial beauty are in science and technology
We no longer look for organic beauty.
Tumultuous excitement to think of actually having an
address on the moon. Needing to be quite self sufficient,
as there will be no ordering Take-Away from ground control.
Prefab housing and inflatable furniture will be all the go.
It will have to be weighed it down, as we don’t want it to get up
and go with no gravity. Tubes of food and drink, will need
to be stocked by the mile. Living on the moon will cause
quite a smile, thanks to those first brave astronauts.
their mission was soon
it was to land on the moon
came more to explore
could we build a colony
where we could all survive there
they promised to find him
among mortal
they wished to find him
one spoke of him
as if he had
seen and spoke to him
then he reported that he had been
deceived and called the
person a true Satan.
When he was among folk that he could
understand and
who's faiths had
values to believe
he made query into those
tomorrows that would
the todays of Times
well spent
they planned events together
and rherst together
they sorted changes together
and made time
for one another and
the need to be as one
there strength came
from there alliances
neither dispute
or decisive tongues
could speak them apart
that they stood strong
to trophy what they had achieved!
The Fugue Song Aria
They poured a slab and bui retaining wall in the enbankment
they used cynderblocks to make a room with a chimmey. They covered it with stones and concrete.
They buried the prefab house and sprayed insulation around the windows and base of the building and sprayed whole unit to create a large stone!
Textbooks,
chalk dust,
young men
full of lust.
School bus,
school bag,
mathematics,
what a drag!
Woodwork,
English lit,
some pass,
some quit.
Autumn leaf,
summer sun,
playin’ truant
on the run.
Fibrolite
prefab,
bunson burner,
science lab.
Trampoline,
gym rope,
girls flirt,
boys hope!
Written: 1992
———
I attended “Rangi”
1974 ~ 1977.
Rice cakes? Domestic or foreign?
Domestic – aisle seventy-three,
Foreign – aisle seventy-four.
Hearing aids?
Let me look at my map.
They are in aisle twenty-eight.
Lima beans? Kidney beans? Garbanzo beans?
I believe all beans are in aisle fourteen.
There is a display of ham and beans on an end cap.
All electronics are between aisle two hundred
and aisle four hundred and twelve.
I do not have that breakdown, but here is a cheat sheet.
Motorcycles?
Aisle four hundred and sixty two.
Houses? Prefab or stick built?
Dawning needles darning needles
Everything prefab hole in my heart
I've always said no one cooks meat from scratch
Everyone so in a hurry in fact now no one knows where one is at
Put it in a microwave
Push super X times 2 quick and fast
No time for Grandpa
Nothing left for Grandma
Darn ole socks torn in the drawer
Children leave their holey shirts on the living room floor
One good thing bout' being old
You only have to listen to God and no one else, cause...
of those darn old socks in the Maplewood cedar drawer
No one has time anymore no time for each other
07/31/14
from anthology "Poetry to Bridge Generations Contemporary Age and Poems"
by James Edward Lee Sr.
Civilization?
See the verdant farmland
rolling softly through the hills,
just before construction crews
move in for the kill.
There's the tiny country church
Perched up in the wood,
Bounded tight on either side
By prefab neighborhoods.
Behold the vanishing herds of cows
and their wistful lowing calls;
I'll miss their curious, quizzical looks
When pasture becomes a mall.
See the pretty little bunny
Standing by the road,
just before the pickup truck
provides reason for this ode.
It was just another December day
Not cool yet - due to global warming they say
I’d taken leave and was feeling restless at home
A bit depressed and all alone
Stepping outdoors would do me good
Walking some miles would change my mood
As I stepped outside and turned right
The sun was bright and gradually reaching its height
Past the kids I walked, who were out at play
And headed for the busy highway
Walking along the asphalt road
Past the hospital crowd of anxious faces of young and old
Crossing giant pillars rising from the ground
Supporting prefab blocks and tracks on which carriages would move around
Changing gradient and plunging underground
Carrying masses to work or passengers homeward bound
Not finding my rhythm, I retraced my steps
And headed west, to a lake which comforted me in bygone days
The park around lay ravaged by our man made ways
Trees which survived and construction equipment were cloaked in a dusty haze
The Metro eventually would connect the city’s east to the west
For now, winter’s migratory birds have forsaken this haven of roost and rest
And we are anxiously awaiting this work to end
Allow time for Mother Nature to heal and mend
Shadows of a life, past the ore piles,
Vaguely knowing the world beyond this place,
Prefab homes tended with pride,
Struggling to maintain some semblance,
Of life as shown on television and magazines
Snowmobiles and quads decorate lawns
Chasing a dream they have never seen,
But often hear off in the future
Digging dirt for dollars, worn out before their time
At day’s end the cafeteria, speaks of junior high school,
Relived every day, a place left years ago as boys
These men who can never graduate beyond,
Mere shadows who never had a chance.
the wheels just thumped
a jazz beat
(and it woke me
from sleep- with my Lunch
Poems) that made me think
I was somewhere else
like the drug-
stores
that all look the same
inside
only nothing like that nausea.
(not the sweat I get
from the stale air-
conditioning
not that prefab
disorient
from offwhite
prefab aisles
that all twist
in the same direction, all
born in
weak perfection).
the startling rhythm displaced
me;
its syncopated thump
contused me
and left these little ugly rainbows
on my arms
and that tattoo really goes
at the start from each station
but here
the cadence has slowed
(like the wagon wheels in an old movie
that spin the wrong way)
as we move backward it sounds more like a train,
more humane.
The wheels catch their groove and the pace relaxes
the bumps disappear -
it sounds more like a train.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.