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Best Poems Written by Steve Eng

Below are the all-time best Steve Eng poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Big Foot

From Canada to California back up in the trees,
There’s a legendary creature no one ever really sees,
He’s a snow-man and an ape-man, and a monster and a myth,
But he’s no one that a man would ever dare to battle with.

On the southern side of Washington, the spring of ‘Sixty-Nine,
Now the weather it was colder, up and down the timberline,
And the monster he was hungry and he left his tracks around,
But nobody ever saw him, for he never made a sound.

And we’re never going to catch him, for he always disappears,
And the Big Foot, he’ll keep living for another million years.

He’s the answer and the question, he’s the riddle of our time,
But nobody ever shoots him, since it turned into a crime.
And they didn’t have to pass a law to save his savage hide
For a man who’d hunt the Big Foot would be bound for suicide.

But I still would like to see him, from a mile or so away,
With a camera so that I could prove the things I have to say,
But nobody’s going to see him in the woods of Washington,
And make the folks believe it, for it never has been done.

And we’re never going to catch him, for he always disappears,
And the Big Foot, he’ll keep living for another million years.

Details | Steve Eng Poem

Sing a Song of Roses

Came from California, looking for a place to fall:
Portland’s good as anywhere, and now it’s best of all;
Learned to love the roses, and the rivers full of rain;
California drove me north, and Portland drove me sane.

Leaving all my memories back behind where they belong,
Sang a song of roses, and I let it make me strong,
Lifting up my life inside my hands to make it grow
Tall as any mountain rising mighty in the snow.

Sing a song of roses,
Dreams of me and you,
Portland love encloses
Dreams of me and you, 
Sing a song of roses.

Gentle people welcoming you, with an open hand, 
Mighty people not afraid to fight to keep their land;
City on the river floating ships from overseas;
People soft as roses, people tough as Oregon trees.

Been a long time coming, but I’m here to rest awhile,
Never mind the highway, never mind the weary mile;
You and me and roses, and the salmon in the streams;
Can’t believe were thriving, Portland rain has washed our dreams.

Details | Steve Eng Poem

Your Television Set Don'T Love You, Darlin'

You’re wasting your weekends on electronic lovers,
They float by like ghosts on the screen,
You’re kissing Clark Gable and you waltz Fred Astaire
In re-runs you’ve already seen.

You’re changing the stations—you change your emotions—
From channel to channel in vain. 
The six o’clock news man is laughing at you,
And the talk show believes you’re insane.

Your television set don’t love you, darlin’
So how come you watch it from bed?
Your television set don’t love you, darlin’,
So why don’t you love me instead?

Down at the tavern my Budweiser loves me,
There’s a TV set over the bar,
And the girl on the screen, she reminds me of you,
So I get up and go to my car.

I drive through the night and the windshield wipers
Remove all the rain from the glass—
It’s like a wide screen, and our show’s off the air…
Our soap opera just didn’t last…

Details | Steve Eng Poem

Shelley (The Birth of Science Fiction)

Shelley
(The Birth of Science Fiction)

I. 
Young Shelley at Eton imbibed the mystique
Of science romanticized into extremes:
He gave his poor tutor a shock and a shriek—
Electric jolt!—eliciting screams.

II.
Explosives and fire-balloons were his joy,
Chemicals tainting his fingers and arms,
Steam engine blew-up—(another mere toy).
Mad Shelley continually causing alarms

III. 
His tutor named Walker is wholly forgot—
Blueprint for someone whose name we’ve all read—
Frankenstein’s prototype, likely as not,
Mixed up with Shelley in wife Mary’s head.

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You'Ve Taken Her For Granted

You call her without warning, late one Friday night,
She says “Give me half-an hour…,” and she leaves on the light.
‘Comes the morning after, eggs and bacon, coffee black—
You’ve taken her for granted, but she always takes you back.

She isn’t quite as flashy as those others you prefer,
But like some lonesome boomerang, you return to her.
She’s got old-fashioned compassion, that these “Nineties ladies lack—
You’ve taken her for granted, but she always takes you back.

Could it be that she loves you?
Or else got nothing else to do?
She understands you like a sister—
She’s the best friend that you knew.

Now the twisting road is narrow, when the years come crowding in,
And you look inside your glass, and see the man you might have been.
She’s got two children—she’s got a husband—and you, you’ve got the railroad track,
You’ve taken her for granted, but she always took you back
Until she found somebody new…somebody true.

Details | Steve Eng Poem

Anne (3)

Love’s more than feeling, it’s will-power strained
Tense as a wire, so pleasurably-pained.
Love is decision, as firm as our God’s,
Daring, defiant of all earthly odds.

Love is a flower, but fashioned of stone,
Rugged, unwithered, petals unblown.
Love isn’t poetry, love isn’t song.
Love’s in your heat-tempered soul…steely…strong.

Details | Steve Eng Poem

Yellow Rider

Now the villager’s are waking from the dreams inside their heads,
They’re locking doors and windows, and they’re hiding in their beds;
It’s a yellow rainy morning with a mist across the sun…
You can hear the hoof beats coming, terrifying everyone.

It’s a legend sprung to life, and it’s a horror story true,
You listen in the silence and you know you hear it too,
And the sound is getting closer till it’s beating in your bones,
And it’s hammering and clattering upon the cobblestones.

Yellow Rider coming
Through the early light of day,
Hear the hoof beats drumming…
Too late for you to pray.

And the Rider’s coming closer still you stay inside your room,
You’re looking at his saddle, and his giant hat and plume,
But you cannot see his face because it’s hidden by the brim,
Still you recognize his saddle so you know it must be him.

For it’s silver-mounted leather from a Gypsy caravan,
His uniform is yellow silk imported from Japan,
And his sword is Spanish-crafted, and his pistol made in France…
And there’s nobody escaping, everybody’s had his chance.

Yellow Rider coming
Like a bandit through the rain,
Hear the hoof beats drumming…
Till they echo in your brain.

Now the Rider is departing just as swiftly as he came,
He’s taking someone with him and I will not tell his name,
But it’s either you or me or maybe someone else we know…
Now the Yellow Rider’s leaving as the sun begins to show.

And the people are appearing at their windows and their doors,
The merchants all are opening their markets and their stores,
And the villages will make believe he never came at all…
But away out on the high road you can hear his mournful call…

Yellow Rider going,
And he’s taking someone new,
Someone we’re both knowing,
Is it me or you?
Is it me or you?

Details | Steve Eng Poem

Something Comfortable

Come to my room,
Wear your perfume,
Take off your tears,
Hang up your fears,
And slip into something comfortable,
Like my arms, like my arms, like my love,
Something comfortable.

Come here, sit down,
Take off your frown,
Remove your pain,
You’ll see things plain,
And slip into something comfortable,
Like my arms, like my arms, like my love,
Something comfortable.

We can lock the world away, our love is like a key,
Come a little closer, let’s unlock some ecstasy,
Step into the light and let me look into your eyes,
We can make this last until the morning sun will rise.

Here’s what to do,
Let me take you,
And you take me, 
And then you will see,
Me slip into something comfortable, 
Like your arms, like your arms like your love,
Something comfortable ,
Like our love, like our love, like our love.

Details | Steve Eng Poem

The Boston Massacre

In Boston they threw ice and oyster shells
As the British troops marched coldly by.
Till soon the streets were ringing with the yells:
“Lobster-backs!” the righteous raucous cry.

The troops retreated till they could retreat no more,
Nine men against one hundred strong,
Till suddenly the muskets made their roar,
Scattering hot lead amid the throng.

Ant though the Boston public howled in outraged hate
Someone softly spoke the soldiers’ case:
John Adams arguing their very fate
Seeking justice in that hostile place,

A patriot who helped us spurn the British crown, 
Rescued six lost British lives,
Against the sentiment of his own town…
One more reason Adams’ name survives.

Details | Steve Eng Poem

There's a Little Girl Inside of Every Woman

There’s a little girl inside of every woman, you can find her if you try:
It’s not in her figure, and it’s not in her hair…it’s right there in her eye.
She plays with the boys, but not in a tree fort—she’s out on that hardwood floor—
That girlish giggle—but the way she dances, she ain’t a tom-boy no more.

Cinderella fell for a truck-driving fella, but he left on a rainy night.
The morning comes and that damned fairy godmother ain’t anywhere in sight.
Instead of a doll, she’s got a real baby—he cries and he coos and he wets.
Instead of a tea-party, it’s called life, and love’s late-night regrets.

There’s a little girl inside of every woman, you can find her if you try:
It’s not in her file at the welfare office…it’s right there in her eye.
She locates employment in a fried-chicken palace, and she’s working for the minimum wage.
She keeps her eyes open for the next Prince Charming, but she never volunteers her age.

There’s a little girl inside of every woman, you can find her if you try:
It’s not in the date on her birth certificate…it’s right there in her eye.