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Best Poems Written by Fritz Crytzer

Below are the all-time best Fritz Crytzer poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Sonnet: Elegy In Blank Verse

SONNET : 
ELEGY IN BLANK VERSE

I wish I could find death before I grow
so I could miss life's pain and agony. 
A child can only feel and hear and see 
the universe with love and happiness.

A child does not fathom those cancered ills
that fog a twisted mass of foundered souls
nor understand the horrid self one needs
to govern and succeed in society.

Nor does it care; it only wants and needs
an unencumbered path to happiness,   
a guiltless trail to heavenly frolic;
a road that's lost when grown ones rule the world.

I wish I could find death before I grow
so I could miss life's pain and agony.

Details | Fritz Crytzer Poem

A New Country Song

A NEW COUNTRY SONG




I was ravaged today
by

three country songs 
on the truck radio 
each moaning the lyrics  
". . daddy's pickup truck"
and "the Georgia mud"
while whining that
"she was leavin' me!".

(God! What woman
would not leave if that was
all she ever heard from him
or ANYONE ELSE!)

I reckon he lost 
because
the fourth song I heard
had ". . . drink a beer!"
finishing each and every line!

Is there no shame no style
no class no original music
anymore?

Even David Allen Coe trashed
better, with his "The Perfect
Country and Western Song". 
At least the drunken pickup
driver was meeting his jailbird
mama, not daddy, in the rain
and crashed his own pickup 
into the train!

Oh Waylon, Kris, Willie, Tom Paul
Chet, Loretta, Bill, Lester, Roy
and all you others un-named un-tamed
legends!  what have you 
let happen?

Where are the lonesome, snow white
 doves, the mule train sorrows, 
the wildwood flowers, the Tennessee waltzes,
the shotgun willies or the Luckenbach wails
 of songs gone by?

Why was I ravaged today 
by

The flashing neon sign 
re-echoed ghosts
of disturbed country music, 
not re-assured by soulful 
originality?
Are we no longer able 
to compose, to play 
in a twitterless world
of art, creativity, quality?

Alas we have lost; I want 
to scream!
"Turn off the radio, the IPOD, 
close the door!"

I will spin my LP's once more,
crash my pickup into daddy's garage
and listen to Les Paul and Mary Ford,
. . . end my culture, and

. . .  "drink a beer!".

Details | Fritz Crytzer Poem

Ugliness

UGLINESS

  There is an ugliness out there
an ugliness that screams 
an ugliness that rages
an ugliness that whispers

  It's whispers say everything is all right
everything will resolve
everything will be dreams, heaven
when you vote for me

  It was always this way, right?
To lead was to hate, fright
those uncommitted to say
protect me sir, from the death

  you preach as the brass bands play
and sing your praises in a timeforgotten world
while the world marches on, crazily
without a leader

Details | Fritz Crytzer Poem

Country Music

COUNTRY MUSIC

I was ravaged today
by

three consecutive country songs 
on the radio while driving
each moaning the lyrics  
". . daddy's pickup truck"
and "the Georgia mud"
while whining that
"she was leavin' me!".

God what woman
would not leave if that was
all she ever heard from him
or ANYONE ELSE!

I reckon he lost 
because
the fourth song I heard
had ". . . drink a beer!"
ending each and every line!

Is there no shame of style
anymore?

Even David Allen Coe trashed
better, with "The Perfect
Country and Western Song". 
At least the drunken pickup
driver was meeting his jailbird
mama, not daddy, in the rain
and crashed his own pickup 
into the train!

Oh Waylon, Kris, Willie, Tom Paul
Chet, Loretta, Bill, Lester, Roy
and all you others un-named
legends!  what have you 
let happen?

Where are the lonesome, snow white
 doves, the mule train sorrows, 
the wildwood flowers, the Tennessee waltzes,
the shotgun willies of songs gone by?

Why was I ravaged today 
by

The flashing neon sign ghosts
of disturbed country music, and not
pleasured by delicate originality?
Are we no longer able to compose,
play in a twitterless world
of art, creativity and valued songs?

Alas we have lost I want 
to scream

Turn off the radio, the IPOD, 
close the door

I will spin my LP's once more,
crash my pickup into daddy's garage
and listen to Les Paul and Mary Ford,
. . . end my culture, 
. . .  "drink a beer!".

Details | Fritz Crytzer Poem

The Crystal Palace

THE CRYSTAL PALACE


The gods awoke, as they occasionally do,                 
and found Fred Cross in multitudes, alone.           
Unconsciously aware of their unblamed fault,
they dreamed for him an appropriate abode,                            
a crystal palace flawed through and through                         
with veins of earthy, dark hued stone.                                  


Sequestered by battlements of coldfiery ice,                            
concealed, it towered over existence below.                            
Fred Cross, through mirrored portals viewed                              
the warm chill of life from his lofty abode,                     
and despairingly content he quite often died
exploring the chambers of his intricate home.                             


By midnight's blaze through vacant corridors                   
he paced, stumbling on cobwebbed unrealities,
and contemplated empty passages scrawled                                
in volumes shelved in wormwood libraries.                         
To bed he went at darkened dawn, tired by lore                             
read studiously of man's strong willed frailties.                 


On sunset mornings he slipped boldly outside                      
to sense the roses he could not smell, to bare
his soul to one who cared.  But alas, he could       
not find a single one of all those there
that knew him well enough to share.  He cried
and fled to his castle gate, hopelessly secure. 


The gods returned to their perpetual rest.
Fred Cross lived forever in a palace of death.

Details | Fritz Crytzer Poem

Violet Lipstick

VIOLET LIPSTICK



She was . . . smiling into me,
Her eyes, in mine, asking me
"Sir, what do you want to order?".
I could not speak
I could only see
her violet lipstick.
I quickly, shyly, adverted my eyes.

I did not see that she was tall, shapely,
black-haired and pretty -
did my racial mind blink?
Not.
What does race matter
when it comes to beauty
and violet lipstick!

I have never seen it before,
violet, this exoticpassion hue
on a woman, a goddess,
or a black angel.
I thought she must have
beautiful eyes, but I could not
stop looking at her lips.

I mumbled my order
and fell
in love
with life
again.

Details | Fritz Crytzer Poem

Of the Common Seas

OF THE COMMON SEAS
  "We must come down from our heights, and leave our straight paths, for the byways and low places of life, if we would learn truths by strong contrasts; and in hovels, in forecastles, and among our own outcasts in foreign lands, see what has been wrought upon our fellow-creatures by accident, hardship, or vice."  ** 

Truth need not be found
in philosophers' musings,
or complicated by thoughts bound
with theorems and words, fusing, 

nor within the intricacies
of mathematical proofs,
as one and one may indeed
not equal two; un-truth is truth.

Truth becomes vast in life,
and like the pearl, can be found
as beauty captured, in seas rife
between the common oyster's gown,

Or found within the common leaves
of books written by common men,
discovered by those literates who read.
 Truth is simple, now and ever been.  

I stumbled on such a prize
In Dana's autobiography;
of common men on common seas
living truths of common humanity.



** Dana, Jr., Richard Henry, Two Years before the Mast, World Publishing Company, 1946, p. 283
1

Like a moth to a candle flame
I pondered the perceived right 
of those of wealth, culture, piety and fame
to control and lead the common blight -   

(the average, struggling and forsaken souls);
yet have never descended to the lowly station
to learn the culture of these earthly ghouls, 
their dreams, their pleas, their damnation.

As gods atop their cloud draped mountain  
how dare they, in their empiric quackery
force the masses to their impure fountain 
to drink of the laws and life that they decree,

yet having not trod the tracks of the plebian path,
having never felt the sordid plebian passions,
but worshipping instead their comfort and wealth,
adorned in decadence and richly clothed fashions,   

how can they govern those they do not know,
minister to anguish they have never felt
or heal their sickness of body, heart and soul?
How can they play the cards, to them never dealt?	

Are they leaders, statesmen, kings and lords,
or simply counterfeit men full only of themselves,
vainglorious peacocks, strutting hordes
deceiving not a common man, only just themselves?

We have them here, in this land of the free,
politicians, preachers, corporate men and judges.
None have suffered and worked, you see
yet dare to rule, when by common men begrudged.

Details | Fritz Crytzer Poem

Blue Bell Passion

BLUE BELL PASSION

Pound, pound, pound!
my melting feet move 
a rhythmic sound
I feel, I feel, almost soothed.

My chocolate chip sweat drips
over me.  Almost done.
my butter pecan steps trip
to what I have won.

Another creamy day 
of health! But!
Now I pray
for a pecan touch

a creamy touch
of ice cream!

The cat days of summer
have tightened the chains
of restraint, overcome 
by vanilla refrains

"I scream, I scream, I scream!"
sounds on the rocky road,
first, as faint as a dream,
then building, building, then, explode!

"you scream, you scream, you scream!"
Into a crescendo choking my soul 
yelling neopolitan dreams
like a pistachio ghoul!

the dreamy scary cold
of ice cream!



"we all scream, We all scream, We all scream!"
My very cherry pores quiver
I am naught but a pecan stream
of desire on a hurricane river!

"FOR ICE CREAM!
I am addicted, lost 
to the American Dream
of a freezer filled with milk-creamy frost!

There is no help
for me, it seems
there is no butter brickle help
just melted Blue Bell cream

melted mental bowls
of ice cream!

Is there no toffee hope
for my coffee-flavored desire?
a twelve-step Pope
for me to tastefully hire?

An Ice Cream Anonymous
somewhere on Earth
once a week, or month
a chocolate re-birth?

Strawberry, blueberry
I admit it all
I am hooked, Ben and Jerry,
it is my downfall!

the sweet addictive passion  
of ice cream!

Details | Fritz Crytzer Poem

Dead Snake In the Middle of the Roadaf

DEAD SNAKE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE TRAIL

SNAKE!  I see you!  
I see you tightly curled around that rock
waiting, in your evilness
to attack a man, passing.  Why?

I walk this trail, daily, almost.
It is something I have to do.  I
did not see you yesterday. Were you here then,
 lurking evilly to get me?   

Or were you hunting, as God intended,
to secure your subsistence?  Perhaps you were
enjoying Nature's radiance on a sunkissed
asphalt trail, a creature's bliss, sustained by God?

now, here you are - - 
DEAD!  That rock killed you.  It
lay on your head, immorally thrown
by one who hates, or fears you.

It could be nothing less
that caused your death, oh snake. 
Primordial fears, shaking hate 
casts man into a reality of . . .  

Killing snakes.  Because . . .

The snake was feared,
The rock was there
and loathing man, 
knew no better.


REFRAIN:
(Who else would wantonly kill the creatures of God 
until the scent of their beauty,  the taste of their bounty,
has dissolved into a wistful dream of barrenness?
Man, the hating antipathy of Nature's burgeon.)

Details | Fritz Crytzer Poem

Haiku

HAIKU - THE CAT LEAPS ON THE COUNTER 

The mid-day cat leaps
onto the counter, meows;   
I am making lunch.


HAIKU - POLITICS "A LA TRUMP"

The winter ass brays,
rolling in its excrement.
God loves a joke.