The fog comes/on little cat feet.//
It sits looking/over harbor and city/
on silent haunches/and then moves on.
~Carl Sandburg
Arrival of fog was something
more catty with claws extended
it gripped the town with damp dreadful
shivering so even church bells
refused to ring and shopkeepers
closed their normally friendly doors
against the sudden misery
of a day gone terribly wrong.
on tv shows everyone has a gun
cops, robbers, detectives, shopkeepers
show girls, drag queens, car dealers
wives, girlfriends, mothers, husbands, lovers
In real life I only know two people with guns.
Neither one of them carries them around like TV show people
Accuse me.' I will listen..Yet in this do not abuse me. Should any take the idea i may
Be in error..Employ neither passive aggression or resort to terror.' And I will be
As equal as my faculties allow, there may
Well be sequels.? I might not be up to your
Mental status.? God is always up-rating us
No doubt i'll meet my 'overmatch' thats as it should be..' then I shall indeed shut my hatch.' And listen to learn, what i may ?although
I may be now more short on days, all love
To any reader, and oh God.!! By the way Can you grant
Us some real Christian teachers' And leaders and doctors.' Nurses bakers shopkeepers, tyrefitters and librarians
Fishermens thats more than one btw.'
Or peoples.? Oh if you as a various person
Comment thats ok.' By various person i mean a representative of humanity who might have different views
at times; other .'
I indeed might be considered such.? As i'll
Be different than the last writer you commented on.' Anyway if you think, i'm right or wrong.? Just make a comment on.'
'England is a nation of shopkeepers'
was never said by Bonaparte
but it was those self-same tradesmen
who kicked Napoleon’s ****
and
when at Waterloo they met
as he won the day
to give it a positive spin
one may only say,
"Wellington put the boot in!"
Cash
It’s king
Makes tills ring
But here’s the thing
What we call a till
I suspect, always will
According to my sister
(which, in slang is skin and blister)
In the U.S. is a register
But when tills (or registers) are ringing
Which explains why shopkeepers are singing
I watch, nonchalantly debating
It’s what I do while I’m waiting
How many words mean ‘money’
Well, pony and monkey
May be quite funky
But dough and bread
In my head
Still mean
Cash
Syria’s Christians and Haiti
The first Christian church was built in Syrian, as I write this the horror is killing them the new death cult regime in Syria, a cult we give money to, and not mentioned by Western media as Israel continues to bomb Gaza to their hearts content This is only possible when the bombs are free of charge courtesy of the USA
On the home front, we read about erectile dysfunction, no they are telling me who thought
my own problems were caused by the old age
Haiti, the sad state is in the news again, last time
I was there, Papa Doc, was in power he employed
Thugs, sunglasses, and sports shirts to keep order
but they harassed shopkeepers to hand over money, when Papa died his son took over, he was an idiot and any resembles of order fell apart
Port-au-Prince was a beautiful city, but now it is a vast criminalized slum, Haiti has always been poor and met resistance from other countries who were against a black sovereign state. It never got the help needed from white societies who said slaves could not a country make
In Moher Cliffs me wife bought some bling
A green stone and Celtic knot ring
What trilogy is this?
Three circles of bliss?
Could it be a sexual thing?
Author’s note: This limerick was envisioned near Limerick. However, we rather prefer Galway to Limerick. There are some very helpful shopkeepers we’ve met on this trip. Hats off to Sheenagh at the cliffs, Pat selling wool in Dublin, and the many calm and kind people here who have a great sense of humor.
A misty sky hovers over the bay
Awaiting the Majestic Princess
Suddenly appearing on the horizon
Like a garganuan beast plowing
Through frothy watery furrows,
Eager shopkeepers making ready
For bargain hunters their wares
Expensive doodads for souvenirs.
written November 17, 2021
in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico
A mackerel sky fillets the village
then hides it in a breezeless blear.
Heads poke out of net drapes
sniff and fish behind trawling curtains.
Shopkeepers brace for
wet dog splatter and spray
from slopping boots and salty puddles.
On the sight-seeing sea
far beyond the shore and shingle,
lost fog horns are lowing deep
like colicky cattle.
Later, misty reeks will be scoured
from groggy docks.
Hauling hands will rope together
tide-tossed tubs,
then tired feet will trudge to taprooms
where the brackish parts
of codgers and young alike
can be oiled and quenched.
A mackerel sky fillets the village
then hides it in a breezeless blear.
Heads poke out of net drapes
sniff and fish behind trawling curtains.
Shopkeepers brace for
wet dog splatter and spray
for slopping boots and salty puddles.
On the sightless sea
far beyond the shore and shingle,
lost fog horns are lowing deep
like colicky cattle.
Later, misty reeks will be scoured
from groggy docks.
Hauling hands will rope together
tide-tossed tubs,
then tired feet trudge to taprooms
where the brackish parts
of codgers and young alike
can be oiled and quenched.
I own a Korean appliance store
Protestors smashed my front door
broke all the windows, trashed the floor
then stripped the shelves, but there's more
to this story than meets the eye
I've always been the friendly neighborhood guy
hiring drop-outs, ex-cons, some drunk or high
extending bad credit to help folks buy...
The damage done just breaks my heart
to pick up the pieces, make a brand-new start
at my age makes no sense; it's not so smart
This neighborhood's signaled: Leave! Depart!
But before I go, I'd like to ask
a question that my brain does rack --
Why don't they jail criminals in this country
Where's justice for shopkeepers, like my wife and me?
Disheartened
The Dutch tourists have left
and last year’s cherries
hang unpicked as do almond nuts
that are also full of worms,
and who says the grass isn’t sweet?
The sun is a yellow ring
on a blind sky,
disillusioned.
As a 30 watt bulb in a room
with faded wallpaper,
at a rundown hotel
which calls itself Bellevue;
last stop before sleeping rough.
Nothing is more abject
then an out of season tourist town,
worried shopkeepers and tarts
even the flowers are grey;
except for a couple of retired seagulls,
birds have flown to Africa
and will not return
before the rain stops falling.
There once was a long vanished England;
Of well-spoken presenters
Of the BBC Home Service,
Light Service, and Children’s Favourites,
Of coppers and tanners, and ten bob notes;
And jolly shopkeepers, and window cleaners.
I remember my cherished Wolf Cub pack,
How I loved those Wednesday evenings,
The games, the pomp and seriousness of the camps,
The different coloured scarves, sweaters and hair
During the mass meetings,
The solemnity of my enrolment,
Being helped up a tree by an older boy,
Baloo, or Kim, or someone,
To win my Athletics badge,
Winning my first star, my two year badge,
And my swimming badge
With its frog symbol, the kindness of the older boys.
Tolerance!
From your mid-air balcony
While responding to greetings
Spread over on land below,
Drizzling on your wrist/
The waving star studded bracelets,
I don’t know why-
Reminded me
Those rough hands of juvenile kids
Picking their livelihood
Out of municipality’s dust-bins?
On wounded shoulders,
Those you stood upon to plan
Strategies of despicable scams
And so uncompromisingly
Marketed rainbow of dreams,
Resting on them
Flags of your ‘intolerance’
On prohibited roads
I don’t grasp how-
Appeared to me
To be fluttering rags,
Begging before public places?
Cushions of the facilities,
You enjoyed without having
To work in tea gardens
And in offices of shopkeepers,
In anticipation of being snatched
By the faceless folks
Coughed out the fear
Of unwarranted intolerance!
You owe them something or what?
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