when I get a poetry critique I smile
then I race to the culprit’s page
to see if they have written more than fifty poems
None of them so far has written over twenty-two poems
I think this is curious.
The long-timers keep their snooty opinions to themselves
whereas the newcomers often think they know more
about your poem than you do.
a house of color
dressed in shades of pink and blue
and eaves iced with white
lights from outside warmth
on winter roses- sparkling
snowflakes on petals
standing on the porch
joyful children caroling
singing in rhythm
old-timers awake
to the sounds of silent night
they then watch- with love
Monday morning sneaks through shack and grime,
Bullets whirr where drug barons plot their trade,
Gatas tread gingerly.wasting hours and time.
The spaza hums,mugs chime,Rooibos Tea in the lane,
Bambinos sidestep shadows,mae geri into dustty tins,
Old timers murmur incantations under the day's first pain.
Smog sprinkles from braai stands where mamtanies fry,
Pirated Kalashnikovs twinkle in the sun's first glare,
Yet souls beat steady,declining lies.
Klevahs shuffle,wallets empty,agrrements whispered fast,
Tiny tots peep through windows,hearts throbbing loud,
Even in agony,a tenacious hope holds steady steadfast.
Through shacks,mirth trembles,sharp but bright,
The day starts with grit,with pain,with dreams,
In this dream struggle, the spirit fights for light.
Life moves time along
relentlessly
Old-timers swept along
resistantly
We sleep on each other,
lick on each other,
run around and nip on each other,
we are wholly 'each other,'
personalities
hid
in the ruff and fur around our necks
and the snaggle of our teeth.
We wag in unison
heart-timers synchronized.
When out in the big smell
we seek every scent
that sprout's
from the muddy baths and the great
wafting sky-waves that call to our blood
to come join,
come lope and snuffle.
The trails of other's drives us crazy,
we roll in bundles of ecstasy,
squat, squirt and snap at the thick odiferous airs
then inhale the news from every rump
we greet.
Under our skittering paws
leaf and grass, spatter and scatter
as we charge into each other.
What are these leaves of grass?
Each one could be a page
in poem of sniff and scratch.
The wind threads through our snouts
and we shake our heads
until our brains rattle in wonder.
Old Walt Whitman forgets to mention us,
but deep within his far pacing musings
we are there like an itch.
When he pauses his pen to nap and dream
our breathy huff huffiness
tickles his toes.
Prospecting for gold
in a mosquito-infested ravine
The junior explorers all mighty keen
to prove their skeptics curmudgeony scolds
And sure enough, they return all gap-toothed smiles
pans overflowing with rare and precious gems
The kind prospectors turn up in sequestered mountain glens
at the bottom of creeks that twist and turn for miles
Old-timers gawk at the kids in wonder
their colored stones, all shapes and sizes
containing abundant suspicious surprises
~ Whose rock garden did these little ones plunder
We kids sled
past the home of so-long-ago.
We kids wear
snow-black boots and warm
mittens. We kids sled,
on a cold sunny day,
across the Vale’s backyard;
Old-timers let
us kids sled
through flurried laughter,
cheeks frozen-red,
and out all day,
it seemed.
What was Mom doing,
I wonder? I wish I could
dust off the window
and see her
and get a tear in my eye.
The teardrop shape is frozen
in time. We kids sled
without a care in the world.
#14: Revelations 23:1
Human chain meant Starman ... breathing room trips,
H**** sapiens chose ... plus naught minus,
the apocalypse ... opts total eclipse,
self-acquaintance, he splits us, Linnaeus,
Con temporaries times, countdown it chills,
Adolph & Stalin it ticks and it tocks,
Pre temporaries times, pour down it spills,
Alexander, Khan drip sands as it stocks,
Once down on the time, leaves heaped reds and golds,
down on one-timers, the large waterholes.
Cause and effects--pause and reflect; Reserved,
Blessed manifest--Grace takes His Place; The Word.
[Bible scholars well-versed: book/chapter/verse, Reserved?]
Jim had only glimpsed the gorgeous merwomen once
But he never forgot her gray-eyed stare
She had bored pinpricks through his surprised eyes
Was her hair real or imagined?
Jim recalled coral, starfish and pearls at her crown.
Had she been a mirage, or had she been real?
His boat returned to Dolphin Bay each year for thirty-six years
He hoped to get another glimpse of the beautiful siren
We old-timers knew the story
Jim had told it in every tavern and restaurant down the coast.
Some figured he met with the merwomen upon his death
Unsure, I sincerely hoped that this might have happened for him.
Senile Stork is out of control again
He brought a full sized eight-year-old to the newcomers
They were irritated to the max
Why don’t they retire that old bird?
It is not easy getting rid of these old-timers
Especially when they are not willing to go
He bit the hand off the last person who tried to boss him
“We can get used to her!” the new daddy said after hearing this.
“She is darling!” said his wife.
Caused Steinbeck reword "Mirth" known printed write,
harmony pulse conducts the marooned cell,
though breaks, wisely kept in tune with itself.
The gauge's clicks sway one to soothe its height.
"Each and All", "Earth Song" Emerson's ballad.
Unversed preexist's renewed care recalls.
Harp rhythm strings strum as the organ pedals.
Rhapsody ensures airy suite valid.
Calm reflects symmetry, pleasures belong,
deep voices grants the life-timers acclaim.
Solemn occasions psalm, heartfelt gifts claim.
Unsung Heavenly pace grow the swan song.
invites internal hope vibrates anew,
renewed life rewarded, heartbeat pipes true.
Old timers say there’s a corner of the bayou in New Orleans
Where booby footed pelicans and pink lovebirds are seen
in a totem made along with turtle who has a needle nose
and wildly colored chameleon who is wearing clothes
At the bottom of this spirited display is a large crock
Pretending to be a piece of driftwood or a purple rock
But if you see a large red eye open, you’d best be on your way
For this giant crocodile is fierce, and he does not play.
Old timers, history;4th/5th generation
The friends we knew, now just memories
A forgotten world past, new bringing
AI, technology; what is it we become
The past barely existing, rotting away
Like dust is to the wind
Particles of human flesh decay
Our worth, only the price of money
Our dignity, forgotten; lost among mankind
A broken society disarrayed in their path
Dreams of life we consume our souls in screen
Sense of hope shatter in riot hate
Morality crushed among the ruins of today
A free nation they yell as we pay the price
Still slave to man we shout for change
But to man, the reason we die out our breed
All we lived for and fought to achieve
The constitution, added/taken from like Bible
The new gen, the dying breed we become sin
Living just cause it is that we look not
But unto our own destruction we lead ourselves
Noy not by choice my last breath be it taken
Exhale of darkness my soul waits its coming
I grow weary as the days approaches end
A life forgotten, a Dying Breed once stood
A soul once soared, buried in a tomb
Down deep in the ground, the Dying Breed
The last laid to rest eternal
What do you do with a mismatched sock? Asked my dear.
The puppet squad a laughed when they heard this cheer.
Their googly eyes went round and round, in a wild way.
“We want some new friends by the end of the day!
The dear was not surprised. She remembered now.
The puppet squad included a pig, horse and a cow.
They had each started out as a mismatched sock.
Now the most vocal socks on their block.
Up with puppets! The puppets rule!
The old timers chanted outside the school
The kids came to the window and threw out one sock.
It was the most fun they had ever had on this block.
May we be blessed to acknowledge all the wonders in our life
that have, for us, thus far accrued…
and to begin each day with a word of thanks…
and thoughts of gratitude.
Today I’m thankful for baseball
and the wisdom of Babe Ruth…
(Many old-timers will remember his name)
He said, ‘never let the fear of striking out
keep you from playing the game.’
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