Roosters' morning calls
like screwdrivers undoing
dream twisted people.
"... what I said was, The Tardis... and I'm the heir..."
Much more on the inside than you could ever imagine...
and Siriusly sweet with a passion
The juice in my Driver
is a River in tune
"... light speed isn't quite
what you envision..."
but it's faster than a broom
I'd say
And a smoother ride too,
you can cruise
on the inside and choose
any mind for a wind
you can be
and you can find
any one thing
in any amount of time...
I figure all you'd need
are the keys
and these,
appear
to be
mine...
"... screwdrivers are outdated
to traveling time
any way..."
By George P. Lumayag
https://georgelumayag.weebly.com/
Spending oftentimes with friends on the virtual screen,
There the lives of young minds might be seen,
Such beauties are presented by MPEG or jpeg,
But sometimes, these are stolen and corrupted.
Breaking the rules and defacing the limit,
The things for public and for private,
Whether pictures, videos, papers, and artistic works,
These need purity through the hardest fix of screwdrivers.
To eye on purity is to wire up the human system,
And your conscious clicks are measured by a pure screen.
Then a wholesome desktop could be measured by a LAN tester,
And your genuine heart could properly maintain these things.
Vague words lead poets to heady heights far yonder
If we, like Wordsworth, seek a path to’ wander.’
But words there are whose power is less prolific,
Dwindling fast the more they are specific.
Sententious and meaningful are rhymes
Which great poets have utilized at times
as when a line whose somber end is ‘womb’
finds in the next one that ends with ‘tomb.’
Or when a line that sadly ends with ‘death’
Is cheered next line with ‘heaven’s living breath.’
Poetry, they claim, is vast and universal,
But entry to it so often meets reversal.
Screwdrivers ,it seems, have failed, to join the race
What cruel fate has offered them no grace?
‘Appetizer,’ ‘sliver’ and - oh yes- ‘scuba diver’
Bring little help the shunned screwdriver.
Can rhyming slang yet save the day?
Let’s ask a Cockney on the way.
“Sorry, mate, I don’t know neiver.”
Envoi
If there’s a will, then there’s a way,
An optimist will tend to say.
Is there answer? No chance ismissed,
If we give the ode just one more twist.
The in-store music is country-slow,
the vibes twangy.
I pick through the tack and tinsel,
dig for rough diamonds.
Squeezing past other consumers,
sharp showers of oven scourers.
A toilet brush, a candy bar,
a plastic encrusted necklace –
pink or blue, all are equals here.
A potato masher calls to me;
yet another set of screwdrivers
hijacks my basket,
Treasures heap.
The ladies at the checkout
approve;
they’ve personally tested
all the mashers.
We chit the chat,
while a stringy angel rises up
to arrange high helium spheres.
I hear her call,
her a voice throaty
with the smoke of love,
a Mid-West idiom
that passeth all understanding.
In this day and age, some ailments are chronic
Sonic screwdrivers are better than expensive tonics
Would I try it, no sweat
Beats incision by bayonet
Much quicker, less painful with speeds supersonic
In this day and age, some ailments are chronic
Sonic screwdrivers are best to expensive tonics
Would I try it, no sweat
Beats incision by bayonet
Much quicker, less painful with speeds supersonic
In this day and age, some ailments are chronic
Sonic screwdrivers are superior to expensive tonics
Would I try it, no sweat
Beats incision by bayonet
Much quicker, less painful with speeds supersonic
Inspired by Sir Thomas Cunningham
Zoo Drop
Terracotta robots zapping rodents.
Ongoing Zagreb building projects.
Witches, milk floats and Vauxhall cars in Bill's head.
You got Tonsillitis from licking prostitutes’ rancid toes.
Towel used for a century; six frayed threads on its length.
Novel bus design; the driver drives from upstairs.
You drink Earl Grey tea, cold.
I so damn hate slow tardy days dragging till I get my dole for a new tattoo.
Signed on Fri, a 3 day wait till pay day.
It may not be paid right.
Twits!
Nebulous screwdrivers in the sky.
Take me away from the clouds to a desert landscape.
Tattoo my earlobe you minky moo.
TALKING TO ME
Do you ever get the feeling that inanimate objects are talking to you?
Sometimes I do, not often, but sometimes.
Like trees that seem to be murmuring in an unknown language
somehow suggesting a meaning to me.
And clouds when billowed tell me of some distant place I haven't visited.
They display portly faces that look strangely familiar and seem to mouth
broken words.
Once I heard running water in a stream ripple in nomadic sounds, it told me
the secrets of how to go with the flow.
Flowers often, when in full bloom gossip and say "look at me, aren't I beautiful?"
But when dying cry out say "I was younger then, but now I'm old and frail!"
It seems when picking out socks to wear, I imagine them vying for my attention.
Pick me.. no pick me. And when I do, feel a little guilty that I didn't pick the other.
Once I took out and put back pliers from my tool holder on the wall. One cried out to me saying that I shouldn't put it so close to the other one (considered far inferior). And of course, the screwdrivers made it known that Phillips do not belong with Flatheads.
Should it be, do I have to endure these insults to my sensibilities?
As I said, sometimes.
As I walk around,
I find:
2 windows flawless with absolutely no bugs, spiders, creatures of any kind
2 hanging blinds perfectly dusted and cleaned
1 red toolbox entirely organized by wrenches, hammers, and screwdrivers
1 blue toolbox with little sliding doors utterly sorted by nuts, bolts, and nails
2 shelves with gardening tools separated by size
3 boxes individually labeled “Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas”
and the reason for all this:
I am bored.
©Holly P. Moore
November 2012
PALADIN
Expert but understated taciturn lone hero
Sherlock Holmes fiddling with a violin solo
Then James Bond then Richard Boone
Then Terminator and Bruce Lee (died too soon)
But today’s hero is the computer guy
Who can fix your machine easy as pie.
Unspeaking, he arrives in casual jeans, with pliers
Small screwdrivers and a pocketful of wires.
Wants no chit chat, just fiddles with motherboard
And such for a half hour without a word.
Then he disappears in a white van -
Say. . . who was that silent man?
Your problem he can unravel :
Have mouse will travel.
stubborn at the most
unfortunate moments
and quick with a
flabbergasted wit
he ambushes me from
the alleys in his mind
from behind
where four strikes
are uncommon
and frequently
commented upon
let's try to ignore the
inane flattery and take
into consideration
three screwdrivers deep
the fantastic premise this
is situated upon
apart-heid
has rendered my fat
and substance unfit
avocados are for brains
still, lavender for calm
we come together
in spite of
differing points of
perspective
expatriated breaths
gasped and sighed at
in the dwelling I somehow fancied
as a home has suddenly become a
jail/reformatory/pilgrimage
a complex and refracted
reflected gallery of smiles
and countenances
not discourteous
simulateously entertained with quips
and the locking of eyes
with the neighborhood bulldog
he arrives again
with breath like linament
stale tobacco and promises
we bicker and yell
no promise as of yet has transpired
above a certain hell
of vacuous emotion
Calypso, Bèlè, Limbo, Reggae
And a Pool Boy, Called Lonny Ray
Margarita and Coolers, by The Bay
All With Umbrellas at Seaside Café’
Like Caribbean Pirates, Taking A Chance
Shaking Our Lala, Wining-Dance
Vacation Adventure, Love-Romance
Worth Every Penny of Check-Advance
Barbados, Tobago, Jamaica, Fun
Songs, Soca, Sand, Surf and Sun
Float To The Bar, in Another Run
Frozen Daiquiri, Screwdrivers, Coke and Rum
Xylophone, Steel Guitar, Cymbals, Steel Drums
Almost, Made Us, Want To Be Beach Bums
When Asked, Were We Happy, We Did Come ? …
… Yeah Mon, Yeah Mon, Yeah Mon, Yeah Mon !
Jimmy
Caring; Funny; Sneaky; Loving
Son of David and Roberta
a Special Blending of Both
Brother to David; Trudy; Mary; Frank;
Patsy; Reuben; and Martha.
The Fifth Child~ the Feisty one!
Father to Ashley and Cody.
Grandpa to Taylor.
Friend to All who know him.
Good Cop? Bad Cop?
Depends!
Are you the victim? Or the perpetrator?
Lover of his Family and Hunting;
Screwdrivers and Ropes!
Hunting Dogs and exotic Beasts.
Collector of Guns and Knives.
Teller of Jokes and tall tales.
Who fears only the kisses of sisters.
Who needs to make the rest of us Laugh.
Who always does an outstanding job.
Who would love to Out~fish Frank;
Out~hunt David Out~talk Patsy;
And Lasso Reuben just one more time!
Who loves to uphold the Law
and to Hold up his grand~Daughter.
An Old Man today~ Half a hundred!
a resident of Ulmer.
Black
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