Poems and Songs You've Made
Better Finds
I once new a man who wrote one minute poems
and it showed. No one would look at them
or be read to. They were not even fun.
Frankly, I told him, train conductors put more
into punching out tickets with their own
special die cut punches, all kinds of varied
and wonderful punchout shapes, than that.
My son and I used to pick the little punchouts
off the seat cushions and floors on the New Haven,
better finds than pennies or chestnuts or flowers,
to play games with riding back from weekend
visitations, although we never saved them.
-1980
Originally posted by Grampy BobbyI didn't make that!
[b]Poems and Songs You've Made
Better Finds
I once new a man who wrote one minute poems
and it showed. No one would look at them
or be read to. They were not even fun.
Frankly, I told him, train conductors put more
into punching out tickets with their own
special die cut punches, all kinds of varied
and wonderful punchout sh ...[text shortened]... o play games with riding back from weekend
visitations, although we never saved them.
-1980[/b]
ðŸ˜
Artificial Bacon
Some of the smiles
I see seem like
artificial bacon.
It looks like bacon,
wrinkles like bacon,
fills the morning
kitchen like bacon,
even tastes like bacon.
There is really
no memorable difference
between manmade slabs
of laboratory bacon
and the real thing,
according to those
who say they know.
Maybe I am at fault
for holding out
for the genuine article,
for acquiring a taste
for rashers of lean.
Maybe I find joy
in the idea of being
honest with the eggs.
Maybe I just appreciate
pink little pigs
putting something
of themselves into it,
pink little men
and lady pigs somewhere
giving their all.
Boston, 1978
Candy Store
One autumn Sunday afternoon when young
I drove my tricycle through the plate glass
window of our neighborhood candy store,
then hid in the garage. Barely thinking,
abandoning the scene, behaving recklessly
so as to endanger and travelling
much too fast:clearly, guilty as charged.
My longsuffering father was exasperated.
The spanking he administered was brilliant,
probably one of the finest ever received.
Now I am no longer young, not exactly,
and my dear parents are no longer able
to spank me, even though my circumstances
and actions may occasionally still be
shattering sacred glass. Thinking things
through thoroughly, remaining at the scene,
acting thoughtfully and moving slowly:
in the face of perceptions to the contrary,
still vulnerable to a verdict of guilty
as charged. No attempt shall be made
to explain or to justify or hide.
No measured responses. No social noise.
I have signed off on the declination
option of entering any final appeal.
I shall go quietly, accepting full responsibility
for the penalties and privileges of exile.
Dad, this time it's more than penny candy.
You know I'll be careful of the glass.
Houston, 1983
Grampy Bobby
It seems to me, Gb, a universe away,
you play with words
as a child might touch his toys,
with wonder and delight,
a boy's dream,
a mighty empire of foot soldiers
syllables of pleasure,
Tip toeing delicately across the page,
in armies they gather well-chosen adjectives
and adverbs,
bringing to life to your verbal skirmishes.
It seems to me, Gb, a continent away,
in your new found lofty high rise retreat,
your poignant poesy, like the soaring condor,
transports and fills with wonder,
like a child with his favorite playthings.
2012
So, Damien Hirst, you've got a fish,
Killed it, pickled it, ridiculed it,
Drowned it in formaldehyde,
Hung it in a see through box,
A clean rectangular glass box,
And called it Art.
And children come from miles around
Stare, boggle-eyed, starry-eyed,
Just a bit frightened-eyed,
Trapped, awed, hurt inside,
Raging at the cruel inhumanity
The sham, the shame of your Art.
But in the dark the shark awakes,
Its eyes aglint, its streamlined body
Streaking through the warm wastes,
Its silvery and lethal lines honed to kill,
Once more a thing of beauty,
A thing of wonder, a work of art.
2012
The Blue Ones
Your jean play on the banisters.
of my sleep.
I hear footsteps sometimes.
Your last blue pair of sneakers
walk around
in the parks of my dreams.
I see new grass stains on the toes.
Your white socks
are inside out, I am almost sure.
I wonder if they need pulling
up, again,
right now wherever you are
and if you are running easy
and if those
yellow laces are still untied.
1995
The lyric to one of my songs:
MOTHERS
White horses whisper on the sea
Seagulls are clinging to the breeze
Straight line where the steamships
Meet the sky
Waves are welling
Like mothers' teary eyes
And they'll break for evermore
On this green and rocky shore
Mothers are clinging to their flesh
Farewells whispered and all were blessed
Seagulls screaming
Now they're bound
For America
Rolled away by the waves
And they're gone for evermore
From this starved and tearful shore
Don't rush me, the steam can still be seen, she said
White horses roll my babies back to me, she said
Fresh turf is burning sickly sweet
Her bruised kettle brews bitter leaves
Steepling rocks of Galway and Donegal
Peering westward
Like the mothers who gave their all
And they're alone for evermore
With their blood on distant shores
Don't rush me, I want to hear the seagulls scream, she said
White horses roll my blessed babies back to me
Don't rush me, I can still see some steam
And white horses are whispering things to me
Originally posted by FMFNice.
The lyric to one of my songs:
MOTHERS
White horses whisper on the sea
Seagulls are clinging to the breeze
Straight line where the steamships
Meet the sky
Waves are welling
Like mothers' teary eyes
And they'll break for evermore
On this green and rocky shore
Mothers are clinging to their flesh
Farewells whispered and all were blessed
Seagull ...[text shortened]...
Don't rush me, I can still see some steam
And white horses are whispering things to me
Another song lyric:
HOTEL FREEDOM
There was confusion, there was some pain
Who owned what and who would gain
Hotel Freedom stands so tall and proud
They built it on some common ground
The biggest deal in this town
No one could stop it going down
A sullen native brings me my fries
Some foreign coins should raise a smile
Perhaps he'll show them to his children
And watch this world spin in their eyes
It could change their lives
Little white graves behind the school
A fitting end for stubborn fools
Hotel Freedom goes from strength to strength
They say its chains are gaining ground
When those that count they speak as one
Then all the cranes block out the sun
There is a wall around this pool
And little iron bars on every room
This thing called Freedom is a noble cause
But we must take steps to contain
The common anger that remains
Originally posted by sonhousehmmmmm, Jim Morrison-ish.
We huddle in our cave, those of us left
Big stone in the sky drops its sons and daughters
punishment for leaving our shaman
Roaring at us by night fire shrieking in the sky
closer and closer when we killed him
We huddle in our cave, those of us left