“Post Pep Comics”
In this time,
there are no children -
we refer to them as the 'undead'.
The young watch on
while their gods war on, it’s all televised,
committing abominable atrocities, war crimes.
Like ancient souls held in the palms
of the war machine they watch on
like zombies, vacant things
scrolling, weighing their relevance
against those dressed in designer ozempic scales, while worlds away
the third-class child attends their lessons in starvation,
surviving death and bullets
trafficked and war torn, raped and
psychologically taken,
click bait;
bleeding into the small tight margins
of Western comics where the Eagle always wins.
Archie and Jughead dispense their puerile rules,
rating us like commodities, stocks that rise and fall;
it’s all entertainment
after all.
Candide Diderot. ‘26
the band leader motioned for the men to keep playing
They were not getting off alive, but they could go down with music
confusion and yelling was heard from all sides of the deck
cowardly men were dressing like women, hoping for a life boat seat
the kitchen was breaking apart now
you could hear loud cracking and groaning
sturdy white cups for third class were falling out of cupboards
also the pretty cornflower plates for the regular passengers
in short order, the gold leaf fine china would be hitting the water
the band leader and his brave men kept playing
they could hear sobbing and screaming then another loud crack
the iceberg had torn into the middle of the Titanic
She flew up into the air, and then hurled herself down
plunging into the icy waters with an unnatural rapid force
Eight hundred died that day, and seven hundred lived
The bandleader and his men walked into heaven together.
Rushing to the third class
When I was a young student
Undertaking train journeys
Often looking for a window seat.
Amid the track's rhythm
Full of hope for the future
I saw countryside and cities
Leaving behind from the coach window.
The hawkers' calls echoed
Inside the compartment,
A counter point to the beggars' songs,
Their handicap a stark plea.
A clatter of the wheels,
Accompanied the train as it ran,
A sweet soundtrack while running
Through the fields and towns.
Years have passed today
I am a retired person .
Sometimes boarding
A second class compartment,
The third class is gone.
The clatters,horns,whistles,
Hawkers' voices,the beggars' songs-
Even today have not changed.
So I am and my pocket became thin
like when I was a student .
I well remember trying not to cry,
It was the hardest thing I ever did
All us graded boys gave it our best try,
In the third class I was the smallest kid
As to homework I was always solid,
I remember so well holding back tears
A paddling was one of my biggest fears,
But I did not have my assignment done
Any excuse always fell on deaf ears,
Believe me, the paddling wasn't much fun!
HONORABLE MENTION
written August 9, 2021
HOLDING BACK TEARS
especially for "This Or That" Poetry Contest
sponsored by Edward Ibeh
He played with the brass flute
The sound knocked him out of his boot
Symbols kicked him in his ass
Then called him third class
He thought the brass flute was a brute
Once again he tried to play the flute
His sounds were always toot, toot
Symbols gathered once again
Cauz, he wasn’t genuine
This time he was giving the boot
He dwindled with his brass flute
Which tossed him out of his boot
The symbols kicked his ass
Then called him third class
He thought the flute was a brut
They hailed her as the empress of the waves
Supreme upon the ocean’s vast domain,
Yet those who watched her launch, and bid ‘Godspeed’,
Could never have foreseen her fleeting reign.
She left Southampton heading for New York;
The sky above was somewhat overcast.
Such hopes and dreams were riding on her bow,
But this first voyage proved to be her last.
The pinnacle of luxury and ease
Awaited wealthy passengers on board,
Whilst crystal chandeliers to music swayed,
A toast to life was raised and champagne poured.
On lower decks the entertainment lacked
Yet children made the most of little space.
Locked heavy gates were purposed to divide
And keep the third-class steerage in their place.
But when disaster struck the glacial path
And frozen waters threatened souls of men,
Proud opulence and rank would count as naught;
Humanity was equal once again.
25/03/19
Titanic - Fare Thee Well Poetry Contest
Sponsor : Tom Woody
'2019 Poetry Marathon Mile 27' : sponsored by Mark Toney
A Noteworthy Ship Poetry Contest : sponsored by Robert James Liguori
12/28/18
I just received a gift from my {step}mother.
Only three days late this year.
It's a Santa Claus soap dispenser... with a twirl and a twist.
I used to own it, well over twenty years ago.
It has yellow soap still clogging the spigot...
*****, that you've treated old Saint Nick like a {step},
How true to your form and fitting that is.
{Step} Santa was more of a message than a gift.
After all, I've been a half-assed {step}son at best.
But {step}mother, you must admit, I was always your third-class citizen.
From the brackish affection, impish rags you stapled to my rear,
Minor infractions, met with a strap called; I'll reduce you to tears.
You were the metal-toothed snapper in the pond of my youth.
Mother, if you deny this, you're just another abuser of truth!
For the most part, I've freeze-dried your slipperiness,
I think {step} is glacier cold, but a most accurate prefix.
Alas, the world has changed
As the humans take control.
They, for their own likes and dislikes,
Have defined you, just as they please.
And now, you witness the creation of great walls…
Separating mankind.
By the comparison… of colour, of language, of the way of life.
The beautiful, the clean, the classy, the rich…
High class, low class, third class, middle class…
Splitting the world: once split by geographical circumstances.
But remember, your definition lies within you:
In your honesty, purity, tenderness and virtue.
They are to be measured, evaluated, and to be improved…
So to win the heart of man as a rightful citizen.
Remember; do not define yourself by those futile factors –
For with them, only the stupidity of mankind shall rise.
12/20/2018
ps. is it at The End that giants have no fear of shrinking,
do giants mostly sit and rest on their giant chairs,
then hunt like a dancing gypsy elephant.
Governments promoting good paying jobs, (not Calif.,Texas, etc.)
boosts the economy,
governments promoting low paying volunteer jobs,
attacks a developed economy,
add to that,
your smelly, filthy big feet,
and you end up with a less amount of small town hospitals open,
due to big foot infestations,
quit destroying our hospitals,
quit attacking our economy with your big foot army,
wait a minute,
where did our infrastructure go,
oh I see,
when you say infrastructure spending,
you mean big city infrastructure spending,
big foot infrastructure,
from the big foot bank,
well then,
start loading " The Threes " on the back of the truck,
like a Mexican taxi,
then take them to the big city for " treatment ",
and don't forget the attitude adjustment,
you don't want to have to do any informative talking,
what kind of maniac sets the stage on new worlds.
The Schutzstaffel
Pluck the stars, pluck the stars
and stack them on a train,
rip them from their sleepy beds
and march them through the rain.
Pluck the stars, pluck the stars
and stow them in third class
gather them from heaven
and toss them in some gas.
Pluck the stars, pluck the stars
pluck every one in sight
feed them to the furnace flame
let smoke plumes fill the night.
Pluck the stars, pluck the stars
'til naught but ash remains
we’ll change the sky forever
Earth will never be the same.
10/14/16
Written for contest: My Take On The Holocast
Hosted by: The Seeker
THE REVOLUTION WILL BE TELEVISED
All the news you can use is no longer completely controlled
by CNN, ABC, CBS OR NBC,
The new GATEKEEPERS because of our cell phone, web cams
and these new toys have become you and I.
Cops killing Black Folks, put on social media and the news
spread all over for the world to see
That the land of milk and honey does not follow its own
laws, and that Black folks continue to die
So the rich and famous will live off the sweat of our brow.
I am tired of being a third class citizen in a land my people
helped to build, design and form,
Tired of walking on eggshells, being leery of people that my
taxes pay to protect and serve.
Slavery still exists, subservience in the mind of our people
is reaching the level of a class five storm
And we want deserve and demand our “HUMAN RIGHTS”
and we also want to preserve
The dignity that comes with being born in THE GOOD OLE
US OF A.
Reid J Lewis 11/30/2014
life is a train.
it has many classes
like HAPPY,SAD,ANGRY,PATIENCE,etc.
HAPPY is the FIRST class.
(i.e) our childhood.
SAD is the SECOND class.
(i.e) when something happens against our wish.
ANGRYis the THIRD class.
(i.e) our adulthood.
PATIENCE is the FOURTH class.
(i.e) our old age.
anyhow all want to come across there life
the above four CLASSES.
that is LIFE.
LOVELY.....
A lonely soul lying in the carriage
driving by the Grim Leaper is Pierrot,
the third class theatre performer who pretended to be happy
though he was sad hiding his loneliness behind thickened white makeup.
Pierrot who lying in the plain wood coffin,
not even a stem of flower on it, tears for the first time;
each time the carriage jolts, though it was unthinkable
to those who knew him, tears clearer than early morning dewdrops
roll down his cheeks.
[While he was alive,
tears were the luxury that were
way, way more than he could afford.]
in a first class train
third class passenger travels
due respect's not tuned
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