Of all the folks you know who makes you smile?
Jokes that stokes strokes your soul for a while
In a poll who would stroll to the top of the pile
Which peeps we love heaps leaps over the stile
Candour so rich scratches that itch does beguile
Hatches humour that does bewitch off the dial
Fresh as glacial air their rare own homegrown style
Another year of more sneers tears jeers than cheers
Can't rile never a bit*h even if the subject of vile bile
Alana our nirvana she can handle any scandal or trial
Religion worthwhile Fezz would walk her up the aisle
A good witch you are the best gal & pal.. no denial
As magical wonderful as the winding spellbinding Nile
You’re blinding (London lingo) doff our hat
To maybe the coolest cat that we’ve met yet
On this Isle.. let's begin with your cheeky grin
Which is why you win the bet by a country mile
Oh, to live the life of a fashion faux pas
Cursed by the anathema of dress codes
Choosing blindly the closest hanger
The shirt on top of the pile
That lonely pair of shoes
Hidden amid
Those “too comfortable” to toss
Ratty sneakers and feral boots
Jeans that had holes
Before it became fashionable
T-shirts that mumble comments
In a far corner a shirt with a collar
A lonely pair of pants with a crease
A tie that has been in and out several times
A quiet sports fan he wears no logos
Although he roots loudly
Alone in a drawer somewhere
Are the many attempts at “conversion”
Sweaters, pullovers, and a few
Extremely “elegant” Christmas monstrosities
He wears jackets older than his children
Believing that fraying is the fashion statement
Of the flannel nation
Everyone knows that if he takes the children out
They are coming back dirty
With a new bruise or band-aid to brag about
His granddaughter once asked:
“Papa, why’d you wear that!”
He replied: “cuz it was on top”
I saw it there and stopped for a while,
perched dainty at the top of the pile
of crockery, grubby, crazed and old
at the yard sale, waiting to be sold.
A teacup; white dots on baby blue;
the same my mother would sip her brew
of pale Earl Grey, in her Sunday best,
though only on days we had a guest;
usually her mother, my gran.
On matching plate, a strawberry flan
they ate, poured more tea, smoked cigarettes
talked about their woes and rising debts.
Other times, the cups were put away
in a glass cabinet, on display.
My sister and I would take them out
pour pretend tea from the teapot’s spout.
We always thought our mother didn’t know
she did; we found out a while ago.
“How much for the old blue cup,” I say
“ten cents,” he said, took it right away.”
Markets smile, deep pockets make fat pile,
And when frown, fortunes come tumbling down.
In play of plump coffers
There’s no place for paupers—
Sophomore Dumpty’s tend to crash crown,
They prosper that possess wile and guile.
_________________________________________
Happenings |24.12.2022| Humour, Sestet
Poet’s note: It was as if only yesterday Elon Musk was crowned the king of fortunes at top of the pile. Today, his net worth has dropped by $ 135 billion. The rest of the tech tsars also watch their net worth getting depleted. India’s Gautam Adani at $110 billion has risen to third place. From almost nowhere in sight now appears Louis Vaitton to claim first place at $ 159 billion. The sestet is set in anapaest meter, and a mirror-like rhyme scheme. What we have here is just a Sestet, not a Sestina.
The flaws I see so easily within myself tend to obstruct my view of what I know could be. They float to the top of the pile and cover up better characteristics that others seem to find. I look hard some days and dig through the stack. I know they are there, hidden beneath yet among some of the cracks. Within deep crevices sometimes they hide, those special things, and wait to be brought back to the top of that pile they've been buried under for so long. Being too hard on myself takes a toll on other days and I leave the pile alone, knowing there is light at the end of the tunnel, yet too exhausted to finish searching and looking. Struggling is worthwhile as it gives life a reason to thrive and going on to the next day promises hope for another chance to look for those qualities that help me survive. Life is all too real most days and sometimes I would just as soon cover it up as a flawed event and forget it ever happened. But then something comes along and gives me hope, and I smile in spite of the imperfections.
A loveable man was Janitor Stan
Ever willing to help to give and serve
A gentle man of modest plan
With never a protest, frown or reserve
Always saw the brighter side of life
Though his cards were not dealt from the top of the pile
In that testing game of blood and strife
Played them with a cheerful acceptance and smile
When his ship foundered in the South China Sea
Then held guest by the Empire of the Sun
With hosts of stern hospitality
He confronted his fate ‘til the contest was won
Later asked about pain and hardship faced
His reply: “it was a beautiful place”
To blow my own trumpet is just not my style
But could you please place me on top of the pile?
My inbox is bulging with NAs galore
I'm begging you, Bobby,don't give me one more!
02.03.19
'I am a winner Poetry Contest' sponsored by Bobby May
I climbed to the top of the pile of hearts
Marching softly over each quivering mass
As I ascended, I crushed each thought bubble
Eliminating doubt
Continuing up a sheltered path that swallowed my shadow
Stepping over wild flowers that knew I was coming
I was visited by awareness
If I vaulted from this pile I could fly
I leapt, soaring with a new sensation
Of possessing my own wings
I was nervous before I first posted
Apprehensive what people would think
Would my poems be lauded or roasted
Hit submit and then grab a stiff drink.
My words on the screen looked so helpless
I had exposed them for others to see
And there I sat nervous and clueless
And concerned to a certain degree
What once lived in solitude musing
Was now laid out for others to see
Would they find it obtuse and confusing
If you love, then you must set it free.
When I got my first formal review
It produced a big heart warming smile
I still don't know if that kind person knew
I had picked from the top of the pile.
Then I got one of those "I don't get it"
And admit I was knocked for a loop
Different folks, different strokes didn't sweat
I'm so glad to be part of this group.
the bed was small, she barly fit
the poka-dotted comforter, a gift from her father
the bookcase above the bed supported by two concret blocks
strewen with books big and small
stuffed animals above the shelves a griaffe in the center
the chair beside the bed overflowing with papers and few school books
a stuffed biker tiger sitting on top of the pile
windows covored in blue cotton cloth.with a poster on each side
the desk sits by itself on the far wall
across from the bed thats too small for the teen girl
a bratz safe and random papers crowd the small space
on the end is a smal boom box radio with Avril Lavinge still playing
and the dusty miror behind the door rarely looked unless the girl was going
somewhere special
a small closet with dresses skirts and shrits that she never wore hanging inside
without a door
three shelves sit beside that stuffed with her jeans and sweaters
finally the plain dresser sitting beside the bed that was too small for the teen age
girl.
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