AlwaysHungry
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Mar 24, 2010
- Posts
- 1,512
#1. by UnderYourSpell
We set out for Madagascar where
Jimmy Fowey said we'd make our fortunes.
He was well read up on such things
from a book his Grandpa gave him for Christmas.
The boat had once belonged to his Pa,
but Ma Fowey stopped him using it when
he rolled home smelling of cheap perfume
and booze, just one weekend too many.
We never did make it, or our fortunes,
and I can still recall the look of horror
on my Ma's face when we were dragged
unceremoniously home by the Coastguard.
Neither me nor Jimmy could sit for a week
and the Hen house had never been so clean.
Years later we lost Jimmy to a landmine, and me?
Some stroke of irony fetched me to the Coastguard's chair.
***********************************************
#2 (re-write) -- Leighton's New Socks by greenmountaineer
Leighton usually uses cotton,
but tonight he's knitting with wool,
nostalgic for a road not taken
when he had wet feet, so to speak,
with Catherine, prim, proper, and coiffed,
and Leighton wore his new set of clothes
with Argyle socks, perhaps like Yeats
in a parlor with a fireplace
reflected in Maude's green eyes.
Leighton's come a long way since then,
knitting the occasional sweater,
but prefers the weaving of socks,
and he's not sure why he likes them so;
perhaps it's because they're simple
in the head down to the toes
he thinks as he tries his new ones on
before he puts them in his drawer
along with the many others he wove.
======================================
Original version: The Poem Is a Dirty Sock
Frustrated, you crumple and toss it
into the hamper but then retrieve it.
Who knows? Maybe one or two
more lines is all it needs to be clean,
something neatly folded
you'd gladly put in your drawer
by the one you wrote and liked last year
with three maybe four in the back
you hardly ever wear.
You've laundered it so many times,
and look! There's another new hole.
Christ! You just spelled "sole" as your soul!
Embarrassed, you are reminded
it's time again to trim your nails,
and then in disgust you toss it
because it really does smell,
but when you finally retrieve it,
you burn it instead in your stove
to get the stink out of your head
that's all the way down to your toes
before you grab some loose leaf paper
to start all over again. Who knows?
perhaps even the beginning of
an emperor who has new clothes.
********************************************************
#3 by AlwaysHungry
Soledad is a small woman,
but she's tough like El Árbol del Tule.
And if they let atomic volleys fly
I do believe that on the day that follows
we'll see her trudging doggedly
through fields of ash
bleating, bleating her bicycle horn,
propelling her ancient cart,
and with timbre borrowed
from now-extinct geese
crying "Tamales! Tamales!"
********************************************************
#4
Chinook by Piscator
It arises out over the Pacific, sweeping east across Vancouver Island, down the Strait and up over the Coast Range. Cooling now releasing moisture as it flows across the first summit; then warming as it descends, sucking moisture from the dry interior. Up again, repeating the cycle, first the Selkirks, then the Rockies. Pausing at the divide, poised for an instant before falling, laughing, tumbling to the continent below. Warming now, dry now, a fast warm sponge coursing through the foothills drawing precious water from the suddenly melting snowbanks.
never can forget
the warmth of her first smile nor
the blue of her eyes
the warmth of her first smile nor
the blue of her eyes
A brilliant turquoise sky arches across the western mountains behind somber gray clouds. Temperatures rise twenty degrees in under an hour; a foot of snow vanishes overnight and lake ice heaves. Life quickens; buds are tricked from dormancy; animals emerge blinking from secure dens. But all too soon, the ephemeral wind passes and winter returns.
for that brief moment
reconciliation was
perhaps possible
reconciliation was
perhaps possible
**********************************************
#5 by Minervous
Today I thought of Maggie Lynn's wedding
The time I almost caught her bouquet,
How my fingers brushed like watercolor
Over the stems when Louise
Elbowed me to the side and snatched
The bunch clean out of the air,
Shrieking like she'd slapped home a goal.
It must'a worked for her,
For just five months later, she and Stan,
Big handsome lug of a guy
Who was supposed to be sweet on me,
Walked down the aisle at Sacred Heart.
But Stan got a little rough when in his cups
And just eight years later, Lou
Was up at Muncy doing 18 years,
And her with those two little girls.
I'd found my Denny by then, a good man,
And though I never could conceive,
We lived a good and happy life
Until his car wrecked in ninety-three.
Now Lou at least has the comfort of grandkids
And all I know is an aging little hut
In Shadytown and a teller job I can't let go.
I guess God and the Virgin gave me the good
Up front while Lou had to pay for her sin.
It's funny how life works or don't
And the weird thing is neither me nor Lou
Know whatever happened to Maggie Lynn.
****************************************
#6 (Re-write) - Lichen on my mind by Ishtat
Lichen grows grey green upon your stone
and in my mind, remembrance fades.
I remember.... remember your love.... our love,
so many years ago.....
So many many years.... too long.
And if our child's not busy
I'll come again to see you.
To sit, to watch the lichen grow
so slow, so very grey green slow.
=========================================
Orginal version: Lichening.
Lichen grows grey green upon your stone
and on my mind, obscures.
I remember as I visit with you.
I remember remember .....
your name?
so many years
so many, many ..... Joan!
And if young Joan remembers.
I'll come again
to see you, see the lichen grow,
so slow, so very very grey green slow.
******************************************************
#7 (Re-write) -- My Father's House by GuiltyPleasure
Here’s that tree-lined street
of stunted, sorry sycamores,
struggling in this city setting.
Summer sees them dusty, drooping
and in winter simply in the way,
their stubborn trunks, sentinels
dodged by cell-phone saps.
And looming above,,
threatening, the brown stone
that was once my home,
disadvantaged, dysfunctional,
dishevelled. Past its due-by
but it always was.
Fourth floor walk-up, sway-back
steps worn weary by feet
wanting to be somewhere else.
The door’s still shit brown
and flaking.
I don’t knock
preferring to remain a stranger.
=============================
Original version: My Father’s House
Here’s that tree-lined street
of stunted, sorry sycamores,
struggling in this city setting.
Summer sees them dusty, drooping
and in winter simply in the way,
their stubborn trunks, sentinels
dodged by cell-phone stooges.
And looming above as if to
threaten, the brown stone
that was once my home,
disadvantaged, dysfunctional,
dishevelled. Past its due-by
but it always was.
Fourth floor walk-up sway-back
steps worn weary by feet
wanting to be elsewhere.
The door’s still shit brown
and flaking, I don’t knock
preferring to remain a stranger.
********************************************************
# 8 Sun Danced Filmed Festivities by Magnetron
So anal he was
about performing rehearsals
Just one more pass, Robert!
that encore presentations of
pain in my ass sensations
were coming to a theatre near me
Though, I wasn't nearly as bad off
as the crew who insisted upon
drinking the water
WARNING! DANGER AHEAD
Explosive diarrhea everywhere!
But there were periods of respite
we were thankful for
like when Paul ceaselessly
argued with George over
incorporating the Bledsoe Scene
or was brainstorming recipes for
his new "man themed"
salad vinaigrettes
Sam, Katherine and I chilled
in our trailers chugging soda pops
between downing tequila shots
to beat the desert heat
and
The Great Dehydration of 1968
************************************************
#9 (Re-write) -- The Flat Side of the Earth by Piscator
On the prairie, there’s a special light just before the sun peeps over the horizon, when it’s easy to believe that the Earth is flat.
Grandpa used to say, “You could see your dog running away for the next three days.” although our dogs always came back after a few minutes chasing the rabbit, coyote or deer they were after. Then they’d lope back for an ear scratch and occasional treat.
He didn’t talk about it but for him there was an edge to the East, where our boys went over in the two World Wars and never came back. “It’s all in your history books,” he’d go on “along with the grain elevators which lined the railway tracks across the prairies and were the center of all those small towns and the people who lived there.” In the winter, there would be dances, ice skating and shiny. When the ice was solid, he’d sail along the river in an iceboat he’d build from old sled runners and scraps of wood. Then he’d paraphrase Bill Mitchell, “There was always the wind, even when you closed the doors and covered your ears, you could still hear the wind."
The towns and elevators are almost all gone now. The people have crossed another edge and moved to cities where there are other sounds. When they come out in the winter, if there is any snow, they buzz along in their noisy snow machines with the Bluetooth earbuds in their crash helmets turned to max and they don’t hear anything.
The railway tracks are still there but they don’t carry people anymore, just grain, canola and tar sands oil. Convoys of trucks trundle down the Trans Canada; eighteen wheel herds following the trails of buffalo, which had disappeared even before Grandpa’s time. The spaces in-between are lonely and desolate with only the occasional filling center and every now and then a sideroad to an oil field, mine site or an Indian Reservation. And no one hears the wind.
=====================================
The Flat Side of the Earth (original version)
On the prairie, there’s a special light just before the sun peeps over the horizon when it’s easy to believe that the Earth is flat.
Grandpa used to say “You could see your dog running away for the next three days” although after a few minutes, our dogs always turned back from the rabbit, coyote or deer they were chasing to lope back for an ear scratch and occasional treat. He didn’t talk about it but for him there was an edge to the East, where our boys went in the two World Wars and never returned. “It’s all in your history books” he’d continue “along with the grain elevators which lined the railway tracks across the prairies and were the center of all those small towns and the people who lived there.” In the winter, there would be dances, ice skating, shiny and he’d sail along the river in the iceboat he’d build himself from old sled runners and wood scraps. Then, he’d paraphrase Bill Mitchell “There was always the wind, even if you closed the doors and covered your ears, you could still hear the wind."
The towns and elevators are almost all gone now. The people have crossed another edge and moved to cities where there are other sounds. When they come out in the winter, if there is any snow, they buzz along in their noisy snow machines with the Bluetooth earbuds in their crash helmets turned to max and they don’t hear anything.
The railway tracks are still there but they don’t carry people anymore, just grain, canola and tar sands oil. Convoys of trucks trundle down the Trans Canada, eighteen wheel herds following the trails of buffalo which had already disappeared even before Grandpa’s time. The spaces in-between are lonely and desolate with only the occasional filling center and every now and then a sideroad to an oil field, mine site or an Indian Reservation. And no one hears the wind.
************************************************
#10 End of Autumn by Piscator
leaves crunch underfoot
grey white clouds scuttle above
skeleton trees
it is the end of autumn
the wind’s cold but still no snow
*************************************************
#11 Chilled Party Favors by champagne1982
The pause to place a hand in the small
of the back where thoracic meets lumbar
speaks of muscles and skeleton left
sleeping too long before bestirred awake
out of procrastination's nap to push
and lift the detritus of angelic pillow fights.
The dog wallows in the fresh fall with ecstatic
rolls and tumbles through shoveled snow
showers provided for just this perfect treat.
Who knew the revels of a heavenly sleep over
could provide such an earthly delight
and eclipse the brief discomfort of heavy lifting?
I would not trade this labor for the damp
of west coast winters. Not when I can toss
the brilliant crystals into the air and cause
such joyous leaping and an expression
of such pure animal fun right outside
on my now not so pristine front lawn.
***************************************************
#12 (re-write) by UnderYourSpell
Pa said I was named for a great statesman
across the pond, but I never came across
any other Winstons at our fishin' hole.
Perhaps he was away makin' laws
with no time to go fishin'.
I felt sorry for my namesake.
====================
Original version:
Pa said I was named for a great statesman
across the pond, but I never came across
any other Winstons at our fishin' hole.
Perhaps he was away makin' laws
with no time to go fishin'
and I felt sorry for my namesake.
**************************************************
#13 (Re-write) -- Cold by GuiltyPleasure
He watches her walk away
then trees hide her progress.
Still he stands silently at the edge
of their life together until
the distant “clunk” of closure
as the car door slams shut
and she’s gone.
He turns back
to the sunlit kitchen
and the two cups of cold coffee.
===========================
original version -- Cold
He watches her walk away
then the trees hide her progress.
Still he stands silently at the edge
of their lives together until
the distant “clunk” of closure
as the car door slams shut
and she’s gone. He returns
to the sunlit kitchen
and the two cups of cold coffee.
*********************************************
#14 (Re-write) -- Near the Fiddler's House, 1998 by Angeline
In Kazimierz buildings sit close
to cobbled streets which teemed
with tourists at noon, but now
are empty save two pensioners
in a courtyard, shuffling similarly
white headed and bowed, a pair
of old watches ticking toward
one another and winding down.
Meeting is a blessing--it shows
in their outstretched hands
and delighted pink faces; the mother
tongue is sweet in their mouths.
May you live one hundred years
is no small wish from survivors,
one who sailed to an uncertain dream
of nationhood and one who stayed
to resist and prevail against the dark.
A gaggle of ragged musicians arrive
to play the for the old men, for greening
stones, gap-toothed in the adjacent yard.
A clarinet giggles and a waterfall
of notes pour out. Two fiddles
and a concertina join in, welcoming
the coming night.
===========================
Original version - In The Fiddler's House
Here in Kazimierz buildings sit close
to the cobbled streets, which teemed
with tourists earlier but now are empty
save these few old gentlemen
who come to meet in a courtyard,
shuffling toward one another similarly
white headed and bowed as if related
by more than culture and tradition.
Meeting is a blessing, a triumph--look
at their broad pink faces, how they smile
and clasp hands, greet in the mother
tongue. May you live one hundred years,
no small wish considering their histories:
the immigrant who fled into uncertainty
and helped build a nation; the survivor
who resisted, prevailed even as his family
perished and who says "There are 200
Jews living in Poland today."
A gaggle of ragged musicians arrive
with the old songs. Perhaps they play
now for only the greening stones
in the adjacent graveyard but the clarinet
giggles a waterfall of notes and fiddles,
an accordion join in as if to awaken
the cool, falling night.
************************************************
#15 Kathie rides the bus by Piscator
Kathie rides the bus an hour each day to reach
the club. She's saving her pennies, last week the
phone company shut her off. Less than a month
overdue but they keep single mothers on edge.
An A-list gymnast till she had a serious back
injury, she recovered to be a provincial junior
diving champion yet never finished high school.
Two past husbands one a cop, “never marry a cop
always angry sometimes rough and after no support."
Thirteen years working one club or another
and never think it isn’t work. At first she reveled
in the attention, a smile led to a dance, perhaps
a rub as an extra and her purse was full.
It sure beat waitressing or other menial jobs.
But somewhere along the line, it too became a
job; these days dances don’t come so easy
and the liquor and drugs are harder to resist.
After the dance, she takes her money having
tickled his fantasies for this week and wanders
through the bar looking for another customer.
She yearns for a shoulder to lean on, perhaps
a ride home or at least to the subway, but these
have a price she’s no longer willing to pay.
Then at six, Katie’s on the bus, heading home
to her basement apartment and her five
year old daughter, the light of her life.
*********************************************
#16 (Re-write) A Walk in the Afternoon by legerdemer
The scent of linden flowers, trampled on the sidewalk,
mixed in with diesel and the leaded gas. Rattling trucks
rumble on cobbles, disturb the silent streets.
All that and the city's debris, rustled by wind,
accompanied by a quiet, syncopated limp:
step...draaaag...step... Grandfather's footfalls steady,
reassuring, from old, perforated-leather buckled shoes
through which beige socks peeked out.
I skip ahead, then turn back to the patient smile,
the hand bent sharply—unnaturally—held in front,
his elbow tight against his side, trace
of an injury nearly as old as his long life.
His pants' ironed crease exactly so (a woman's touch),
the brown cardigan buttoned against the breeze
off the river, wafting the delta and the sea into the city streets.
The lindens offer their shade, a cool embrace
against late-summer sun.
He tells stories from operas, sings me songs—speaks
in soft tones of people and places far away,
in lands I don't dream to ever know. It's just another
afternoon, a net bag dangling from his good hand.
And on ahead I skip, enjoying sunshine
fractured by the canopy above.
We pass the house with flowers 'round the sidewalk trees,
the roses in full bloom sharing their sweet, intoxicating scent.
I swoop and break one off to take with me
in memory of the day, and laugh with deepest glee
when, out of nowhere, whack!
The slap was loud and hard.
The wizened woman crackled with fury, roared,
"How dare you? Is this how you were taught?"
My eyes streamed tears, as much in shock as pain.
"Those are my roses! I work hard to keep them safe,
the only beauty in this godforsaken wretched land of gray.
Go home! and if I catch you tearing them again,
you'll hear from me!" And with an evil eye, she left.
I looked for my savior to protect me. But all he said
was, "If you want one, ask. They were not yours to take."
==========================================
Original version: The scent of linden flowers, smushed on the sidewalk,
mixed in with the smell of diesel and the leaded gas of rattling trucks
rumbling on cobbles to disturb the silent streets.
All that and the city's debris, rustled by wind,
accompanied by a quiet, syncopated limp:
step...draaaag... step... grandfather's footfalls steady,
reassuring, from old, perforated-leather buckled shoes
through which beige socks peeked out.
I skip ahead now and again. I'm maybe five or six,
a child unaware except of reassuring love,
the safety of my grandfather's calm smile
to dote on his single grandchild.
The rest are gone, to freer, warmer climes.
I turn to watch the weary, patient smile,
the hand bent--unnaturally sharply and held in front,
his elbow tight against his side, visible trace
of injury nearly as old as his long life.
A dapper man, his pants' ironed crease
exactly so, a woman's touch, his brown cardigan
buttoned against the breeze off the river bringing the smell
of the delta and the sea into the city streets.
The tree-shade offers its cool embrace
against late-summer sun.
He tells me stories, sings me songs - speaks
in soft tones of people and places far away,
in lands I don't dream to ever know. It's just another
afternoon, returning from a shopping trip,
a net bag dangling from his good hand.
And on ahead I skip, enjoying sunshine
fractured by the canopy above.
We pass the house with flowers planted
'round the sidewalk trees, the roses in full
bloom wafting their sweet, intoxicating scent.
I swoop and break one off to take with me
in memory of the day, and laugh with deepest glee
when, out of nowhere, whack!
The slap was loud and hard.
The wizened woman crackled with fury, and roared,
"How dare you? Are those your flowers?
Is this how you were taught?"
My eyes streamed tears, as much in shock as pain.
"Those are my roses! I worked hard to keep them safe,
the only beauty in this godforsaken wretched land of gray.
Go home and think on your mistake, and if I catch you
tearing them again, you'll hear from me!" And she stormed off.
I looked for my savior to protect me. But all he said
was, "If you want one, ask. They were not yours to take."
Last edited:
