Not even grief visits this place.
Only the soft slosh of my own voice
inside my skull.
The world speaks in neon,
in bills, in news tickers,
but never says my name.
I left pieces of myself
in lovers’ beds,
in rented rooms,
in smoke.
But they never bled for me
like I bled for no one.
Now I sit by the window,
half-blind,
full-heart,
writing poems that disappear
faster than the dust I swallow.
Mr and Mrs Wicker met at twenty-five
They are glad still to be cordial and alive
At seventy-three, they are set in their way
Finishing each other’s sentences most of the day
Mr and Mrs. Ticker met each other at age of eighteen
They still see each other as teenagers, which is keen
They finish each other’s sentences too
Just a reminder of “I love you”.
Tired of malicious gossip and rancid rumors
of generation X versus baby boomers.
Tired of 24/7 news tickers mixed with commercials
of politicians speeches and shopping channels.
Tired of professional liars and fake success stories
of stock market bubbles and financial worries.
Tired of living in fear and eating sugary crap
of being left in the cold without a coat or a hat.
Tired of being told what to do
of listing to people who do not have a clue.
If the end was near would we know
or would there be another TV reality show?
To fill the void to fill the gap
for where we are going there is no map.
Somebody help me, I don't understand
Why people are so damn uptight
Not like we're gonna be around forever
Aging to ninety or a hundred we might
Society needs to really mellow out
Our tickers weren't meant for this stress
The average lifespan of a healthy peep
Could be quite a bit longer, my guess
Times we're living in is surely a factor
The pace of life is astounding
We no sooner marry and raise a family
When to old age we go a-bounding
Guess I kinda rushed you through life
Didn't mean to dampen your dreams
But oh for the laid back days of the past
Or at least that's how they seemed
The silence of the Bat
The bat is silent, still
Awake in the dark, never resists the sun
Even on the human's table
or becomes auspicious decoration
It remains silent
...
Humans bestow their own eternal crown
Pave a pilgrimage with lies
Most beautiful languages are for those in the front
Hymns are followed by funeral songs
The bat remains silent
...
They hang upside down from the cliff
Guard the black hole of life
Like the clock‘s tickers stop, silent and still
But the orgy before the altar
continues
2020.2.17
hear the happy skittle
knows he isn't brittle
laughs at flying spittal
from the vicars
see the sullen dancer
living fearing cancer
seldom wants an answer
always bickers
smell the Christmas fairy
legs and arms so hairy
makes me rather wary
nostril pickers
man who's always smiling
messing up the tiling
says he's done the filing
wearing knickers
thinks he's Jack the Ripper
breaks another zipper
eats a mouldy kipper
pounding tickers
LOL, pure nonsense but wanted to try this interesting form
written 31st March
for Mick's Violette contest
windows, all of them see
through the eyes of the believer
pin a task for the machine
and ask why?
curtain draped sorrows
of dreaded tomorrows
finding a thought or two
gears running tickers ticking
like our time is so precious
enough to write down
and file away into yesterdays realm
if tomorrow never comes
what happens to yesterdays thoughts
floating in an ocean of blended hues
rich men can't buy the bag of dreams
that it would hold but the window can see
Blood inside our bodies flows
To keep our tickers ticking.
We never think about it ‘til
A problem’s up and kicking.
A tiny sample might reveal
Deficiencies or glitches,
For blood cells can’t keep secrets –
They’re like adolescent snitches.
The needle hits a vein and then
The truth comes pouring out
To let the doctor know
What all the fuss was all about.
Amazingly, one little vial
Can give a needed clue,
Which was within us all along,
But hidden from our view.
Somebody help me, I don't understand
Why people are so damn up tight
Not like we're gonna be around forever
To age ninety or a hundred we might
Our society needs to mellow out
Our tickers weren't meant for this stress
The average lifespan of a healthy male
Could be quite a bit longer, my guess
Times we're living in is surely a factor
The pace of life is astounding
We no sooner marry and raise a family
When into old age we go bounding
Guess I kinda rushed you through life
Didn't mean to dampen your dreams
But oh for the laid back days of the past
Or at least that's how they seemed
© Jack Ellison 2013
Today’s the Super Bowl Parade
And you cannot escape,
If you’re in the vicinity,
The tons of ticker tape.
The paper floating through the air,
With lots more at the ready,
No longer comes from ticker tape,
Once used for this confetti.
True ticker tape transmitted news
Of stocks on paper strips;
Machines called tickers ran it through,
With information tips.
As far back as the 60’s,
Ticker tape was obsolete.
Without it, though, a true parade
Just wouldn’t be complete.
So offices took paper waste
And, using intuition,
Just shredded it and let it fly
To honor the tradition.
It could be anything at all,
From memos that they issue
To daily printouts, newspapers
And even toilet tissue.
It all gets tattered, chopped and tossed
And flutters to the ground.
To watchers it looks magical,
The greatest show around.
Today’s a day for Giants fans
To hail how their team played.
It’s fitting that they get to watch
A ticker tape parade.
There once were two elderly vicars
Who had unreliable tickers
But they perked up no end
When they saw a lass bend
And got a good view of her knickers
To
keep our
attention-
on the bottom
line
and
wet our
appetite-tickers switch us
on
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.