A poet at the supermarket
At the supermarket, yes, we have one near Faro. I met a poet.
The mall is nicely built and has two bell towers.
From time to time, they chime to remind us why we are
Here, not sit on a bench in its courtyard looking up to
The sky is seeing mind-blowing cumulus configurations.
The poet I met had a white beard, wore an old black suit,
a tie with red wine spots on, a black beret that whiffed
Of garlic, I think. You could see that it wasn’t really there.
His eyes scanning the ground, he bent down, picking up.
Half-smoked butts of cigarettes. Ok, not so rich
So what? Haven’t you heard of a poor poet before?
They are not all idle sons of the rich, and with a university.
Degrees in literature. A notebook in the side pocket and
Two pencils in his breast pocket; so he was a poet, ok.
As so many shoppers
consistently doing all manner of wrong
fail to return their trolleys
from whence they came to where they belong
it really irks when I leave work
drive my hybrid to the supermarket
circle the car park for what seems hours
and can't find a place to park it
the question may seem odd to some
and yet I have to ask it
why don't those self-same lazy people
do to it what they'd do with a shopping basket
Shopping today was a right pain
Stopping in aisles, searching again
Trying to guide useless trollies
Buying stuff like chips and lollies
Strained up high to the topmost shelf
Drained all my strength, frazzled myself
Standing in line to pay the bill
Landing back home, ready to kill.
The sudden eighties music craze
had gone beyond the norm
the local supermarket
was swept along by the storm
as more and more of the shoppers
joined in with the revival
filling up on nostalgia
from t-shirts to CDs and vinyl
Reaping the customer whirlwind
for Boy George and Eurythmics tracks
some smart Alec from head office
said “This is no time to Relax!”
the mullet headed store manager
he looked a manic Midge Ure
a sarcastic lad on the tannoy
said “Sorry, but we’ve got no Cure”
Over at customer services
I said a mistake’s being made
“The seventies had John Lennon
Bob Marley, T. Rex, Slade!”
the guy claimed to be sympathetic
towards my point of view
then asked me to go on a website
and give him a Five Star review
A wise woman sat at the checkout
smiled to me as she said
“When this fad blows over
they’ll still want milk and bread”
so the moral to this story
is one of wisdom not sadness
that everyone’s entitled to
their little bit of Madness.
We’re away from our home for a wedding
So we drove to explore a new town.
Found a cool-looking shop
And decided to stop
But, while strolling the aisles up and down…
We heard music and noticed a singer
Belting tunes with a mic in his hand.
Shoppers didn’t take heed
But we loved it, for we’d
Only known songs in stores that were canned.
We stood rapt ‘til he wrapped his performance
And we thanked him for making our day.
Guess you just never know
When some talent will show
To bring smiles in a never-seen way.
I hear girlish laughter beyond the bagged onions.
Imagine her swimming naked among green ripples.
Her white arms are lily stems, hips as sleek as an otter
flow in a neon moonlight.
A sound system promotes discount cookies.
Visions of idealized females fill the dairy product section.
A courtly love of grapes spreads to the potatoes.
In the toy aisle, Avalon, Camelot, and Tintagel
appear in plastic miniature together with rainbow painted ponies.
Between the crisp covers of Guns & Ammo and Cosmo,
Annales Cambriae, Historia Brittornum,
and the writings of Gildas shimmer in periodic reality.
I should turn the old legends off, but the Kimble audio
keeps me walking with Malory and Tennyson.
In toiletries and cosmetics, I find her.
A teenager shyly laughing as she texts a boy.
My imagination reaches for the forbidden,
a fruit that was fresh this morning –
a thousand years ago.
You scream for my attention in the checkout aisle
With tales of infidelity and sordid guile.
You pique my curiosity with spicy clues.
Gives me those supermarket tabloid blues.
You document the glamour of the silver screen
By trumpeting the rise of some new movie queen,
Then interview the hooker who her husband screws,
Exposing supermarket tabloid blues.
You hear a scandal splash and then you go to press
And document the details of the whole damn mess.
Your hottest stories simmer like delicious stews
To feed us supermarket tabloid blues.
You swear to any rumor's truth, however vague,
By spreading sordid gossip like bubonic plague,
Then quote the Bill of Rights if anybody sues,
Exploiting supermarket tabloid blues.
"The Pentagon communicates with UFOs."
"Archbishop blesses little boys without their clothes."
You’re churning out more headlines than my head can use.
Gives me those supermarket tabloid blues.
There's just one small confession that I have to make;
I’ve got a funny need to hear those stories break.
A guilty little pleasure that I freely choose.
Bring on those supermarket tabloid blues.
Supermarket blue
After a splendid lunch of goat chops
With salad, my mood was dreamingly contented
To she got the idea of going to a big supermarket
Except for vegetable, fruit, meat and fish
I trapesed miles after miles in this insanity
Of trashy food, sugary food and horrendous
soft drinks laden with sugar,
Also, the juice that said zero had a sign telling
Me that sugar had been added.
Went outside no bench provided nor inside
You are not supposed to sit down, but shop!
I hear girlish laughter beyond the bagged onions.
Imagine her swimming naked among green ripples.
Her white arms are lily stems, hips as sleek as an otter
flow in a neon moonlight.
A sound system promotes discount cookies.
Visions of idealized females fill the dairy product section.
A courtly love of grapes spreads to the potatoes.
In the toy aisle, Avalon, Camelot, and Tintagel
appear in plastic miniature together with rainbow painted ponies.
Between the crisp covers of Guns & Ammo and Cosmo,
Annales Cambriae, Historia Brittornum,
and the writings of Gildas shimmer in periodic reality.
I should turn the old legends off, but the Kimble audio
keeps me walking with Malory and Tennyson.
In toiletries and cosmetics, I find her.
A teenager shyly laughing as she texts a boy.
My imagination reaches for the forbidden,
a fruit that was fresh this morning –
a thousand years ago.
Had she looked back at me
Even for just a second ...
Our encounter might have been the stuff of tabloid frenzy.
But she left quickly a coffee in one hand,
A shopping bag in the other,
And I waited for my turn next in line.
Supermarket celebration
shoppers are cytoplasm searching
for cellulose, muscle, photosynthesis.
Oils, petrochemical and vegetable
love: faith and trust
for instance, the Food and Drug Administration.
In America, the custom is
to avoid meeting the other shoppers' eyes. We graze
like cows or wander as zombies to the oldies played over the aisles.
I've always liked it here.
Cornucopia, yes. Also
a place to be alone and depressed, or cool off.
Water and bone
and the known ingredients. Neurons
for remembering, calculating, touching stuff.
I have a favorite bagger
who has the smile of a lover,
wouldn't rather be elsewhere.
Like glamour stars in bikinis
(but unlike tomatoes and bananas)
cashiers and clerks are admired from afar.
Joe says What's not to like? Ice cream, yogurt,
profit, tofu.
To eat your fill is a blasphemy against God.
She was next in line and was in a real hurry
And was about to whine as she had to scurry
It was a big day and a lot needed to be done
She had to get on her way, she had to run
Then looking ahead and seeing the lady's face
As the cashier said you're a bit short today Grace
And as Grace dug looking for just ten more cent
In being so smug this woman would soon resent
When suddenly from behind a man stepped forward
Miss, if you don't mind ten cents is what I think I heard
Giving it to the cashier and then getting back in line
Now finally she was so near and all would be fine
But instead she turned and motioned him ahead
Something inside yearned as the voice in her head
So simple yet so kind it was something she had missed
Maybe again she could find at least she had wished
No matter where I wander
Home is the other way.
Whoever pushes me
Always has a lot to say.
I am just a trolley, no brain, to resist
So why is it that I act as though !?!!
As I have been drinking.
Card around my handle says
Oil me please, for I have sinned.
Last trip out hit the litter bin.
03/03/2013
Read About this Poem
Will it be crackers or detergent?
A brick of cheese or some creamy mayonaise
Cash or check
Right or Left?
Stop or go reflecting on god's ranch dressing
The windshield wipers screech to a halt
Bifocals clouded, I reach for my wallet
No lettuce in there.
I guess the crystal light
Ran away with my low fat heart
Every week in the post they come .
Supermarket Specials with a boast
Of prices low I hear their call.
To make me rush to the Shopping Mall.
I can’t stop now, I may be late.
Must get there before the closing date.
There are many bargains I could enjoy
I’m a sucker for their sales ploy.
I always get there within the time
To make sure they’ll be mine.
All the specials I’m going to buy
They’re all so good, they catch my eye.
In the store around I’ll dart
Pushing fast my trolley cart.
At each shelf I’ll quickly stop
And in the cart the items flop.
Round the corners I’ll sharply turn
Wheels will spin, tyres burn.
Down each aisle I’ll travel fast
I am always first, never last.
But now each day when the pamphlets come
I throw them all in my big black drum.
For why should I upset myself.
About those specials that I’ve no cash to get.
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