~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Trapdoor groans—not ghosts,
but hinges shedding rust like snake skins,
old wood sighs beneath the weight of years,
a dry cough of timber settling into itself.
Sunlight, thick as poured honey,
warms the spines of leather-bound scrapbooks
where ink bleeds into yellowed pages.
Grandad’s trunk yawns open:
Inside, a woolen uniform, stiff as frozen fish,
still guards its stripes.
A cracked leather suitcase spills sepia photos—
a bride squinting in the Missouri sun,
her lace gloves chewed by silverfish.
Under the dormer window sits
a hobbyhorse missing an eye,
its rockers having scarred the floorboards.
In the corner, discarded Easter baskets
melt into wicker tumors filled with
fossilized foil-wrapped chocolate eggs.
The beams hum with termite hymns—
tiny jaws dissolving joists
into sacred dust.
But open the window~
catch the updraft of cut grass
from the yard below.
It wrestles with the gloom,
this breath of living things,
and for a moment,
the attic remembers the world.
Sunset Sigh
pretend it was me and not you
in love. Cupid put down his arrows,
they were aimless, anyhow -
he sees that now. still,
there’s a beauty and a cutie
so Cupid decides to shoot
his mouth off. the couple turns,
a miss…what is this…what is this…
each off their rockers, rocking away
from dusk to dusk, wondering why
they can never find love. the moon
drifts, separate beaches sunset-sigh.
Cupid reminisces about the two
who got away…did he save the day…
two fish caught in love’s net
sent back to school, then all alone.
the woman says to no one particular, but
really to Cupid…pretend it was me
the man says the same…was love
really that lame…two arrows,
side by side in glass frames…
the ones that got away.
Rock is still allowed,
Yong and old so proud,
Teen queens and studs,
Shocking olden fuds,
To old rockers, we wave,
From our youth, a fave,
Every age of yore,
Will blame those before,
No limits on rock today,
You still rocking, USA?
Within my rockers,
That does rattle and battle off the horror towards the opposites of the beauties of life, that crosses the feat over standing well above the allowed thoughts of the ignorance heard from the cold and meaningless words of those that assume that they do know me,
And yet not one would ever understand, as indeed people hear their own mouths before hearing any story. Acknowledge this as you'll then know for a reason of my silence..." -Ds-
Smirk
sweet, humorous
unsettling, fun-loving, revealing
Punk-rockers, Saints, Sharks, Jesters
enticing, manipulating, masking
salty, vexatious
Smile
norman rockers
no feet wasted
hai chairs with short arcs
----------
H/T to Milt Hankins' Crockers
Twenty-seven years of struggle and success
Was all many of our best rockers could take,
We give them a tip of the hat, for their sake
They entertained us even when in distress.
Doping, or mental illness, or a natural cause
Their lives ended much too soon, we regret,
Through their music, we remember them yet
In life, they got our love through our applause.
We keep their memories alive in our hearts
I salute the “too many to mention” by name
While they lived, they had their hours of fame
And many of them are still climbing the charts.
SEVENTH PLACE WINNER
Written September 11, 2022
Submitted to: "The 27 Club" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anthony Biaanco
BLUE STREAK
Hair dyed red with a streak of blue.
The sort of thing punk rockers do,
Not something I’d expect of you.
I wonder what possessed you to.
You say it’s time for pastures new.
But, Mother, you are ninety-two!
5th June 2021
Bite Size No. 4 contest
Sponsor - Line Gauthier
shadows of buddy
two rockers from the old school
marvin plays holly
© Harry J Horsman 2021
rockers needed wigs for a ball
cause theirs didnt fit well at all
for they dyed and cropped
and totally chopped
till they fit their daughters toy doll.
Single white vampire,
Seeks companion for the evening.
Adventurous and full of fun,
No prima donas preening.
High society's just fine,
Or simple down home girl.
No Heavy Metal Rockers,
To make my toe nails curl.
No smokers and no drinkers,
No drug abusers too.
Clean and wholesome is the key,
If I spend time with you.
We'll do whate'er you like to do,
Go where you want to go.
Perhaps we'll slip out for a bite,
And then take in a show.
We'll sit beside a cozy fire,
Or maybe dance till dawn.
Then I must take my leave, My Love,
Farewell till day is done.
The field is given a name.
Battles are about where they disappear,
the ones that walk away
don't know where the hell they are.
There’s a cannon ball under that Yew tree,
there’s a skull under that Ash.
There’s a hank of dried up hair
over there, woven into stone and moss.
After the blood, peace continues destroying barns,
insignia and belt buckles fished out and sold.
Excavated jawbones order and counter-order.
The officers that staggered away
go quietly mad, or marry well.
Surviving hell takes
a lot of stump-footed foraging.
The maimed tell their jerrybuilt tales,
cracked rockers creek along
the slipways of generations.
Hounds bayed at coons.
in the hot afternoons;
that was before the earth gaped open,
before the gore seeped sideways
into the earths wounds.
Good Generals and bad
have had their deadly play,
this scattering and salvage
of the blue and grey that day.
Silently wafting through the night air,
He hovered like the wildest bird,
He breathed the love that massaged our soul,
Seeped through our insanest world,
And it’s not leather jeans, jacket or shirt,
Not the Oxford, Twill or Plain weave,
But rather the way he sang what he sang,
When he wore who he was on his sleeve,
The enigma, a puzzle, a new force of nature,
He sang what the world needed to hear,
Light my…Love her… People are strange,
And, like the words, he’d then disappear,
Jim was the first before thousands of firsts,
Showed the rockers how they should behave,
With Jimi and Janis in the twenty seven club,
In Paris in a beautiful grave.
Written for Chantelle Anne Cooke contest "Writers on the Storm", 3rd May 2019
Sculptors carve their rocks,
With very sharp-bladed tools;
They free the art from the stone.
At many concerts are people stoned;
They come to hear great rock;
Musical instruments are rockers tools.
With their trade’s tools;
The Rolling Stones,
Never fail to please with their rock.
If you carve rock with your tools; beware sharp ones if you’re stoned!
Family nights on front porch
Fireflies with cold light as torch
Moonlight shadows on the lake
How much more can a heart take
Tepid breeze whispers softly
With creaks of rockers and swings
Wood frogs croak mostly off key
Until the whippoorwill sings
May 27, 2018
Eight Line Contest by Joseph May
7 syllable lines checked by howmanysyllables.com
AABB CDCD
Third Place Trophy
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