You made a rookie mistake, it is more than obvious
you don’t watch true crime documentaries or you would surely know
never buy murder supplies at the Walmart super store
Black Birds Flying at Wal-Mart
I see them gather, flock on flock,
At 7:30am sharp, they start to squawk and talk.
The sun peeks up, the horizon glows,
The air alive with cackles and crows.
Their feathers bristle, sharp and black,
They soar and dip, they dart fourth and back.
Their eyes, a yellow shining disc,
Reflect the light, a golden whisk.
The parking lot, their chosen stage,
They flutter, and fly in trees they engage.
Heads turn left and then to right,
When they fly the sky turns a speckled night.
They peck at crumbs, on scraps they dine,
Their steps in rhythm, a sequenced line.
Among the cars, they dance and sway,
When humans enter their territory they fly away.
From tree to light poles they take their flight,
Under the Walmart’s neon light.
Upward they rise to poles they glide,
On top of Walmart’s walls they nest and subside.
On the back of the wind, they wheel, and turn,
For insects, food, their hunger burns.
The Black Birds gather on shopping carts.
Masses of Black Birds flying at Wal-Mart.
I went to Walmart this morning - yes, it was very brave.
My dander was up - I was on high alert - for active shooters and the unmasked.
Then I saw him! A man on the cookie aisle - he looked like he had the monkeypox!
So, I kicked him in the nuts and ran - you can’t be too careful out there.
It turns out that he was just an 80-year-old retiree wearing a polka-dot shirt.
I apologized - from a safe distance - as the paramedics carted him away.
It felt like a close call.
I find myself foraging, basket in hand
among the cocoa harvests of distant lands.
A shaft of light crashes
like a Chinese paratrooper
through the store’s skylight,
rays pierce high-stacked shelves,
beam upon all-consuming shoppers,
flash briefly upon brimful spandex.
It is then I realize that all I need is you,
not cut-price plastic hole-fillers,
from this warehouse of empty dreams,
nor anything blue, green, or yellow
seen on T.V.
but then I remember the wine
and beers in aisle twenty-two -
but I still I love you.
Left toothbrushless mine pilfered along with shampoo,deodorant, razors and other such, found me wasted in Walmart, thieving Gnomes at the last homeless shelter are my suspects. His name tag said Elvis, greeting customers at the starting gate, navigating shopping cart jockeys with cherubs riding shotgun, my request for the location of items is answered Presley style "Past houseware" he Hound Dogged lip curled.
Among waffle irons and toasters in an aisle devoid of housewife print skirts, your memory purchased my thoughts, forging past bedding, linen sheets how we once tangled and ravaged, is that your image disappearing into lingerie.
Jesus on his employee name badge suffering from price tag neurosis."Love potion? We don't sell that vagabundo polo." He growled with picante breath.
You told me I could find everything I needed here, but not even Walmart has what it would take to make you love me again.
I hope Target is open!
©2019
At Walmart we're a happy group,
Our work is more like play.
We enjoy each shift so much,
And for this they even pay.
We can't wait to get to work,
So we can see each other.
We are all so close it seems,
We're sisters and we're brothers.
Of course we've had some leave the fold,
But they don't stay gone long,
For once you're here you've got a home,
A place where you belong.
We've had a tiff or two for sure,
And even shed a tear.
We don't need the T.V. set,
We've got the soaps right here.
To like it here so much I'm told,
We must be strange, some felt.
You don't have to be of course,
But sometimes it helps.
I find myself foraging, basket in hand
among the cocoa harvests of distant lands.
A shaft of light crashes
like a Chinese paratrooper
through the store’s skylight,
rays pieces high-stacked shelves,
beam upon all-consuming shoppers,
flash briefly upon brimful spandex.
It is then I realize that all I need is you,
not cut-price plastic hole fillers,
from this warehouse of empty dreams,
nor anything blue, green, or yellow
seen on T.V.
but then I remember the wine
and beers in aisle twenty-two -
but I still I love you.
Talking about aliens is a big topic today
Here's what I think for the record, I say
Of course, they exist
At Walmart, catch my drift?
Their invasion is surely already underway
I find myself foraging, basket in hand
among the cocoa harvests of distant lands.
You ask patiently: what do you need?
As you speak a shaft of light crashes
like a Chinese paratrooper
through the store’s skylight.
The ray pieces high-stacked shelves,
beams upon a huddle of overweight shoppers,
flashes briefly, illuminating brimful spandex,
The light dances over that look you have,
and I suddenly understand
that while our bodies don’t so often
pound love into speaking flames –
nevertheless, I still want only you,
not cut-price plastic hole fillers,
nor anything blue, green or yellow
seen on a T.V. in aisle 3,
not even toffee.
Here in this warehouse of hope
we have again blundered into our reality
the way Adam and Eve must have
in that other overstocked Eden,
and how like Adam ever since,
I sometimes blow you off
to pursue a pack of beer
on sale in aisle twenty-two.
The question, urgent and acute, that fashion
asks every woman daily: what does she
prefer? A Ricci’s chic, a chilly passion
of Ungaro, an ease of Givenchy?
What’s better? A dramatically black look
or, say, an all-white? A silk cape with strappy
heels or a floral-printed dress like Brook
Shields in “Allure”? The one that makes her happy.
So what if… Her glance falls upon the photo
of her grandchildren on the wall. Her heart
melts. She puts on a free tee-shirt from Moto,
old jeans and, happiest, goes to Walmart.
17.11.2019
Fashion Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Julia Ward
“Only in his hometown and in his own household is a prophet without honor.” Matthew 13:57
Sometimes, when I go shopping, I meet a strange woman.
Barefoot,
dressed only in a garland of dried flowers and an old sheet stained with bird droppings,
with last year’s nest on the head and ecstatic glint in the eyes,
she gets up on the pallet of tinned peas
and makes a speech.
I wonder who she is.
Another one crazy goddess of Walmart?
An older Ophelia the shepherds saved and smuggled oversea to the States?
Or, maybe, she is an anthropomorphic metaphor for the knowledge obscure to mere mortals?
She seems to be upset that people can't figure out a word she says.
I understand your feelings, metaphor:
even a small knowledge seems great to the ignorant;
the great knowledge seems to them madness.
08.11.2019
Last Year's Nests Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: craig cornish
“Give up trying to do anything.
nothing works works.”
From a note written by Scott Allen Ostrem
If only you came to buy
another cell phone, a pen and
note card, some crayons &
paper. Anything. Anything
that would give you a voice.
If only you bought the
fixings for a satisfying supper,
or a gift for a lost lover.
Anything. Anything to help
you express your distress.
Anything to free your
words from the prison of
your maddness, anything
to thaw your frozen tongue,
anything to return your
manhood, other than that gun!
Anything. Anything. If only . . .
By: Evelyn Augusto
For GUNS DON'T SAVE PEOPLE POETS DO 2017
If you see rhino horns for sale at Walmart
Don't buy one, to save the species must all do our part
But must confess, on my rec room wall
A collection of oddities not that small
Of weird Walmart shoppers' that I recently disarmed
TIRED WALMART EMPLOYEE
harried
married
tarried
carried
she was harried, married to a jerk
never tarried, carried on with work
20 January 2018
For contest sponsored by Kim Rodrigues
Standing in line
behind a father and
his little boy
waiting to reach
the register
Nancy hears something
she hasn’t heard
on television,
Facebook
or Twitter
where every day
she learns
something new.
The little boy
looks up at his father
and asks if what
another boy said
on the playground
is true—that
2,000 years ago
Santa Claus was born
on Christmas Day so
that’s why everyone
goes to church
and prays for him.
Donal Mahoney
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