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Best Poems Written by Kim Mcadam

Below are the all-time best Kim Mcadam poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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The Last Mountain Man

the eagle watches me 
from high above 
it has finally come to this 
I stand on this ragged lookout 
this jagged rock 
alone 

my friends are gone 
Bruce "Bear Paw" Perry 
Billy Fly and Blackpowder Bourgoin 
died in these mountains 
one by one 

we shouldered hardships together 
fought a winter 
that pinched three toes 
from my right foot 
and took a bite of my left ear 

I'll never understand 
those flatlanders down below 
where spring means mud 
eating pigs and chicken 
when they could be roasting elk 

but the boosway is gone 
rendezvous cancelled 
no beaver left 
heck, there's no wild Indians left 
they've all been herded 
into reservations 
near the forts 
a pitiful place 
for a proud people 

what is left for me? 
where will I lay my trusty 
Hawken gun? 
perhaps I'll work 
in a trading post 
or guide wagon trains west 

I've earned every tear 
these mountains had to offer 
battled bear, wolves, and hostiles 
but my biggest sorrow 
is leaving 

I close my eyes 
and I'm there 
spring ice melting in the river 
trading with my Indian brothers 
smoking the peace pipe 
the rustle of golden birch leaves 
on an Autumn ridge 
a misty waterfall 
soaking me to the skin 
throwing peat moss 
on the roof of my log cabin 

I think I'll just linger here 
while the birds are singing 

Copyright © Kim McAdam | Year Posted 2019



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Frankenstein's Lament

I have no spirit.
I have no soul.
I am nothing more than a terrible troll.
I’ll never see Heaven,
And this is my Hell,
To be shunned by all men and the fair mademoiselle.

I was made by a madman,
Assembled from parts
Of decaying cadavers, and life from a spark.
My twisted existence
Of needles and thread,
Malodorous materials from realms of the dead.

I entered this world
One dark stormy night,
My creator’s repugnance foretelling my plight.
I opened my eyelids
As lightning bolts zapped,
With howling of winds and thunderous claps.

I was thrust into light.
I knew darkness and cold.
I was thirsty and hungry, a sight to behold.
A blind man took pity.
I did not offend.
He was my one unconditional friend.

And then he was gone,
But I needed someone,
A partner to witness what I had become.
I wanted affection,
But all that I fetched
Was fear and revulsion for this awful wretch.

All I desired
Was someone to share
Ups and downs of a life filled with sorrow and care.
Alas! My creator
Reneged on our deal.
In spite of my honest and urgent appeal,

He butchered my bride.
I butchered his, too.
But first I killed Henry. That day he will rue.
The way I’d been treated
Only heightened my rage. 
Yet my maker perished before the last page.

Soon I discovered
That I could not die.
I’ve lasted for decades. Death I defy.
And my punishment still,
As a tragic outcast,
Is to walk among gravestones of people who’ve passed.

Copyright © Kim McAdam | Year Posted 2019

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The Tale of Betty Vautour

This is the tale of Betty Vautour 
Who took on a lover at age forty-four. 
Stormed out of the house 
With soft-spoken curse, 
In nightdress and slippers, 
Cosmetics and purse. 

What was she thinking? I'll never know. 
Into the arms of a drunkard named Joe, 
A no-good-for-nuthin, 
Unemployable bum, 
Who'd wash down a six pack 
With Seven Seas rum. 

And Darrell, poor Darrell, truck driver by trade, 
Delivering milk for the money he made. 
All for his family, 
Betty and kids, 
Keeping them clothed, 
And food in the fridge. 

When he asked her why, she did not hesitate. 
"There's only so much baloney I'll take. 
With you, there was no 
Matrimonial bliss. 
I got tired of watching 
Friends cuddle and kiss."

Copyright © Kim McAdam | Year Posted 2019

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Imagining Me

I hold back 
hiding the gifts I've been given 

the curtain opens 
but the stage is empty 
a hushed audience awaits 
but this play has no act 
just lots of rehearsing 
now actor-less 
no applause 
no flowers 
no bows 

I've always held out 
not letting go 
watching others perform 
imagining me

Copyright © Kim McAdam | Year Posted 2019

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Writer, Reader Intertwined

Begin with something positive;
no need to start out negative.
A writer needs encouragement;
it feeds their ego nourishment.
And what is strong about the piece?
Is there a spot that needs some grease?
Or did it flow like brooks in spring?
Is there a line that really rings?
Can you suggest some helpful hints
that act like after-dinner mints?
And did their writing make you cry?
Or, perhaps, it made you sigh.
Did you giggle? Did you laugh?
Do you want their autograph?
Was there a phrase that kept you hooked?
Or was the subject overcooked?
Was your perception so engaged
you couldn't wait to flip the page?
Above all else, try to be kind.
Writer, reader intertwined.

Copyright © Kim McAdam | Year Posted 2019



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Ocean Waves

ocean waves rush in
like rambunctious preschoolers
at morning recess
eager to entertain you
in goofy games of pretend

Copyright © Kim McAdam | Year Posted 2019

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The Hobby of Writing

crumpled papers 
decorate 
the rug 

sometimes 
poems come 
sometimes only words 
on wrinkled sheets

Copyright © Kim McAdam | Year Posted 2019

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I'm Hanging On To Summertime

I'm hanging on to summertime
like monkeys hanging on a vine,
like kitty cats on old screen doors,
like winter snows in Labrador,
like spiders on a silken thread,
like bellies that were overfed,
like kites trapped in an apple tree,
but Fall will come eventually.

Copyright © Kim McAdam | Year Posted 2019

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Never Bug The Ug Wug

Never bug the Ug Wug, or he’ll be bugging you.
He lives inside a cold dark cave near Douglas Avenue.
Some people say they’ve seen him swimming in the tide.
Spinning in a whirlpool, he’s quite preoccupied.

Never bug the Ug Wug. Please leave him alone.
He’s been around since Water Street was laid with cobblestone.
Some say he’s prehistoric, half-lizard and half-seal.
He’ll look at you with big red eyes and make you his next meal.

Never bug the Ug Wug, especially not in Spring
When gasperaux are on the move in an endless string. 
He’s gluttonous and greedy with a massive appetite.
When it comes to empty bellies, he’s very impolite.

Never bug the Ug Wug. He’s faster than you think.
He’ll swallow you in one large gulp as quick as you can blink.
When thunder rumbles high above; when rapids race below,
Don’t let yourself be swept away in the undertow. 

Never bug the Ug Wug. He’s why the Falls reverse.
The Saint John River is afraid of this antiquated curse.
If you’re fishing in the current, and you feel a stubborn tug,
It better be a big striped bass, and not old Mister Ug ……. Wug!

Copyright © Kim McAdam | Year Posted 2019

Details | Kim Mcadam Poem

Lost

I got lost in a book 
somewhere in between 
the opening line 
and chapter nineteen. 
I couldn't get out. 
There wasn't a way, 
trapped in a plot 
that was strictly horseplay. 

You better send teams 
who are willing to search 
for clues in a murder 
committed in church, 
where money is missing, 
and candlesticks too. 
Poor Reverend Reicker, 
found dead in a pew! 

I need a stiff drink. 
I'm as dry as a bone. 
Police everywhere, 
and Detective Malone. 
He's asking me questions. 
What? When? And why? 
My mind is a blank, 
and I've no alibi. 

Everything's here... 
all the parts of a novel, 
the setting, the crime, 
(I'm starting to grovel) 
clues for the clueless, 
a climax so close. 
I'm an innocent bystander, 
in bed, comatose! 

"If you aren't the killer; 
if you aren't the crook, 
just how in the Hell did you 
get in this book?" 

"It's the fault of the author. 
He's just too damned good. 
He scattered the words, 
And I went where I could." 

Copyright © Kim McAdam | Year Posted 2019

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