Those twenty-first century bluues...
So it’s morning start time at the office.
Or should be.
Red-eyed, those tell-tale diagonal ridges
from eyes across the cheeks..
we roll in late, proud, but exhausted..
our wrists flashing with
bling allied to timekeeping…
but even we ourselves don’t care;
and sore did you say sore…
By now, judging from my emails,
just about every wage-earner in the East and West
sports a fake Bulgari, Patek Philippe, Gucci,
weighing down their wrist; and
who believes or cares when we say, we keep
the real one at home?
Ah yes, at home -
where our nights are longer
and more extended and
you know just what I mean..
and we’d love to go freelance but
where but the office
could we discreetly boast, show off
our new swinging thingies,
or our pert bouncers, or simply flash our wrist,
to all those who are now equipped with just the same
by consumerism’s joyless games
and internet’s gross joyless claims,
and money now, only confers
the same as his; the same as hers.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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My Father's Hand
I like to wear a band around my wrist,
an amulet of copper, links of bling,
a hippy weave of cotton or dried grass.
Reminds me of a change my father made
as I grew up from toddler to walker;
crossing the road he stops holding my hand
and wraps his finger and thumb around my wrist.
My bracelet now is like the brag of a teenager leaving home
and flashing his cell-phone where father's number sleeps.
I wear my father's hand around my wrist.
poem by Gerard Rochford
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Red Ambulance
so that ambulance just went by
and if you were high
the flashing lights would be a show
red as the blood she spilled
red enough to let her go
she filled in the outlines with her nails
just as red as she
then there was a red circus, for sale
as she red as she would be
and the fire was just so
that the red blazes burned her eyes
i think it was the red that let her go
like the red from her eyes after a person cries
so red, so real, from wrist to lights
so red, everytime, even in the night
shes like the savior
or the sacrafice
her nails, or the nails of the cross?
was it it the cross on the red ambulance
with the red lights?
or was it the cross of the savior, the sacrifice
was it all red every night?
is this a remake or the living
from the wrists
on the nails
where the lights
on the ambulance
with the cross
of the savior
with the nails
on the wrists
in the ambulance
with the cross
of the savior
red from the nails
on the wrists
that lay in the ambulance
the flashing red lights
near the cross
of the savior?
the sacrifice?
in the wrists
red with nails
on the cross
of savior or the saved?
ambulance
or cross
the wrists
the nails
the lights
the ambulance
the cross
the savior
with all the red
poem by Kathryn Garner
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Pain and Sore
What is pain
What is Sore
Let me define the too
They mean when a soul is dead
When there is nothing left
But emptiness
Where is pain
Where is sore
For me pain is everywhere
But for the sore
Thats only in my eyes
Where I cry all the time
How is pain
How is sore
Pain slowly kills a body
Sore is worse then words can explain
Who is pain
And who is sore
Pain is the enemies-thy sisters
As for the sore that would be my heart
When is pain
And when is sore
Pain is when you call
And sore is seeing everyone cry
All these are symbolizing one thing
That thing is whats inside
What hurts and is unbarriable
So thats what, where, how, who, when
Pain and Sore are
poem by Renee Ortiz
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Small Leader, Small Values
No wonder you abuse
The high office you stole -
You're as small as your values,
I'm amazed at your gall.
Did you notice of late?
You coerced People Power,
And you have no real mandate
As our political leader.
So without much discretion
You play games with our Congress
Dirty clowns in position
Who could never care less.
You forgot public office
Entails your integrity,
It's not Greed but true Service
And genuine Love for our country.
There's no Truth in your fiber,
With your vague moral values-
Please leave office hereafter,
Don't make height your excuse.
............................................. ..
August 4,2009
Tarlac Philippines
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Man at the Bus Stop on Halloween
The others, of course,
are more rabid than he
but less apt to show it.
Whenever he strikes,
he never romps off.
He stands with the wrist
that he's snatched
from the lady
tight in his teeth
as he waits with a smile
for the wagon.
He's one of the few
wrist-snatchers still
on the streets of Chicago,
and he makes his rounds
in old tennies.
His technique is simple:
He dives for the purse hand,
gives it a whack, and severs
the wrist without slobber,
then stands like a Vatican Guard
with the wrist in his teeth
until he is certain
he has no pursuers.
At night in his dreams he sees
the women whose wrists
he has held in his teeth.
They stand at the bus stop
like Statues of Liberty,
shrieking and waving
their stumps like flares.
He prays their screams
will bring to a frieze
the patrol cars glowing
in the middle of the street
poem by Donal Mahoney
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Add It Up
The first time that I saw you, you were modestly waiting for a bus
Now youre driving around in hired limousines
And you talk so upper class.
The cost is high, but its not the only price you ultimately pay
Add it up, you might have got some money
But you lost me on the way
Add it up, oh
Add it up, oh
Add it up, oh
Add it up, oh
Ah, gucci, gucci, gucci
Cartier, cartier
Gucci, gucci, gucci
Add it up,
You multiplied and multiplied but whats it leading to?
Add it up,
The only thing subtracted is the love I had for you
So add it up, oh
Add it up, oh
Add it up, oh
Add it up, oh
Symbols of perversion and insanity
Symbols of social immorality
Symbols of economic cruelty
Symbolize all what you did to me
Ah, gucci, gucci, gucci
Cartier, cartier
Gucci, gucci, gucci
Cartier, cartier
Money cant cover up the fact youre getting older every day
And you cant disguise your sad little eyes that give your loneliness away
Add it up, oh
Add it up, oh
Add it up, oh
(repeat)
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Wasted Life?
it's home
school home
then home
office
home
office
no other places
to go
no other places dared
some white sandy beaches
for sometime
a trek on a steep mountain
sometimes
visiting old folks
no questions asked
but only feeling also their
sense of
loneliness
or lostness in this vast
field of humanity
poetry
walk in the morning
poetry
noontime breaks
siesta
dinner with wife
and sleep
dawn breaks
stunning thoughts
arresting the self
on what next to do
home
home
home
a boring life maybe
but i think
it is not wasted.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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For The Rest Of My Life
for the rest of my life
i will take the same routine
home, office, school,
home office, school,
a straight life confined
in a certain space
too confined and too
tight for my soul
and too boring
for my body
home, office, school,
school, home, office,
you ask me if there is
something wrong with
my life? there is nothing
right in it, everything has
always been wrong
and everyday has always
been an attempt to correct
it, but nothing
nothing has fit into it
to cut the routine to
break me from the
chains of everyday
nothing comes and nothing
goes, i think, that is how
it is meant to be,
i think, i simply have
to imagine, make some
figments of stars, and moon
and sun and mountains
and seas and valleys
and castles and princesses
and kings and queens
and too they become routine
too, some poems and stories
some people that do not
actually exist, some imaginary
earth, imaginary creatures
they are all here, in this routine
of imaginations, of poetics
of illusions and allusions,
these lines, my life, these routine
and all my excuses, you and I.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Wrist Watch Man
He is marching dusty highways and he's riding bitter trails,
His eyes are clear and shining and his muscles hard as nails.
He is wearing Yankee khaki and a healthy coat of tan,
And the chap that we are backing is the Wrist Watch Man.
He's no parlour dude, a-prancing, he's no puny pacifist,
And it's not for affectation there's a watch upon his wrist.
He's a fine two-fisted scrapper, he is pure American,
And the backbone of the nation is the Wrist Watch Man.
He is marching with a rifle, he is digging in a trench,
He is swapping English phrases with a poilu for his French;
You will find him in the navy doing anything he can,
For at every post of duty is the Wrist Watch Man.
Oh, the time was that we chuckled at the soft and flabby chap
Who wore a little wrist watch that was fastened with a strap.
But the chuckles all have vanished, and with glory now we scan
The courage and the splendor of the Wrist Watch Man.
He is not the man we laughed at, not the one who won our jeers,
He's the man that we are proud of, he's the man that owns our cheers;
He's the finest of the finest, he's the bravest of the clan,
And I pray for God's protection for our Wrist Watch Man.
poem by Edgar Albert Guest
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A Tall Man
The mouth of this man is a gaunt strong mouth.
The head of this man is a gaunt strong head.
The jaws of this man are bone of the Rocky Mountains, the Appalachians.
The eyes of this man are chlorine of two sobbing oceans,
Foam, salt, green, wind, the changing unknown.
The neck of this man is pith of buffalo prairie, old longing and new beckoning of corn belt or cotton belt,
Either a proud Sequoia trunk of the wilderness
Or huddling lumber of a sawmill waiting to be a roof.
Brother mystery to man and mob mystery,
Brother cryptic to lifted cryptic hands,
He is night and abyss, he is white sky of sun, he is the head of the people.
The heart of him the red drops of the people,
The wish of him the steady gray-eagle crag-hunting flights of the people.
Humble dust of a wheel-worn road,
Slashed sod under the iron-shining plow,
These of service in him, these and many cities, many borders, many wrangles between Alaska and the Isthmus, between the Isthmus and the Horn, and east and west of Omaha, and east and west of Paris, Berlin, Petrograd.
The blood in his right wrist and the blood in his left wrist run with the right wrist wisdom of the many and the left wrist wisdom of the many.
It is the many he knows, the gaunt strong hunger of the many.
poem by Carl Sandburg
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My Last Breath
My blood is dripping from my wrist!
As I take in my last breath of air,
I silently say i love you.
As I start to close my eyes,
I see you there comforting me.
Then start to cry.
As i start to die I can't help but to think of the good days we had together.
But its too late to do anything now.
So there it was I was dead, in your arms.
At least I got to see you one last time.
So here's my wishes for you.
I don't want you to cry because we'll see each other again someday.
And remember I will always love you.
poem by Shannon Welch
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Exemplary And Lavish Extravagance
Aaah, Madame La Pompadour needs time off
from the office they had built her, soundproof,
air-con, and everything she wants inside, today
she plays chauffer to the children in her neigh-
bourhood and visiting her mother in the old-age
home - she condescendingly told us - though
there is really no need why we should know
where she is, she is the free incumbent
Madame La Pompadour suffers agoraphobia
at home and claustrophobia in the office, her
problems are debilitating; she needs a bigger
office of course, with user-friendly interior
decorating - I sigh in admiration, such a very
exemplary and lavish extravagance, with the
cool presumption that a James Bond would
envy her, she does what she wants
Madame La Pompadour looks down on the
mundane civil servants - us - who man the
open-plan office, why should she earn her
salary like a slave when she gets it without
ever leaving her home?
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Carry On
(myles goodwyn)
Published by summerlea music, ltd. - bmi
If the sun refused to shine
And your loves no longer mine
And if I never get no more snow
I couldnt care if the winds dont blow
She said to satisfy my soul, dont you carry on
And love me all morning, and love me when I get home
Love me all morning, and love me when I get home
You know that time wont wait
And pretty soon its gonna be too late
Still youre drivin me insane
You know I need your love again
She said to satisfy my soul, dont you carry on
Love me all morning, and love me when I get home
She said, love me all morning, and love me when I get home
Baby, dont you let me down
I think youd better take a look around
Cause if I never get no more snow
I couldnt care if the winds dont blow
She said to satisfy my soul, dont you carry on
And love me all morning, and love me when I get home
Love me all morning, and love me when I get home
song performed by by April Wine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Home Along
When days are getting' short an' cold, an' the long nights begin,
With waves like mountains rollin' high, an' the norther blowin' thin,
Oh, then my thoughts do stretch their wings an' fly across the sea,
Home along, home along, to the place where I would be!
Home along, home along, there's deep an' leafy lanes,
Where kind an' warm's the summer sun an' soft the autumn rains;
An' many a ship to harbour comes, an' sailor home from sea,
Home along, home along, in the West Countrie!
I wonder how they're farin' now, the young folks an' the old,
An' if they think at all o' me, when nights are cold;
An' what's the tale on Market Strand, the news on Fish Strand Quay,
Home along, home along, in the West Countrie!
Home along, home along, 'tis maybe not the same
Wi' no one left but old men there, the faint 'earts an' the lame;
Who'll pull my oar to lifeboat now, when the blue lights burn at sea,
Home along, home along, in the West Countrie?
I wish that 'Igh Kiel fleet would come, the waitin's cruel slow,
An' when I get my bit o' leave, oh, I know where I will go,
To sit me down beside the fire, or stroll beside the quay,
Home along, home along, in the West Countrie.
Home along, home along, an' I'd like to see it now,
The ruddy furrow white wi' gulls behind my father's plough -
A friend to greet, an' a girl to meet, an' a score o' folks to see,
Home along, home along, in the West Countrie!
poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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Coming Home
Ive not been home
For so many years
And I did not regret being gone
Please tell me when did we talk
And when did we show
That we do care for something called love
Oh no, dont you despair now
Im as grown up as can be
Cant you forget everything
And this time listen to me
Im coming home - home
Im coming home - why dont you help me
Im coming home - home
Im coming home - why dont you love me
Its time to remember
What weve done together
I guess it is more than we know
And we should be open
And turn back the wheels
As far as we can go
I know I am your son
And everything else dont seem real
I want you back like never before
I cant take another goodbye
Im coming home - home
Im coming home - please, cant you be there
Im coming home - home
Im coming home - please, dont you leave me
Whats dones done - Im your son
Ive been hurt by your lies
I want peace after all
Thats why I want you to let me come home
Im coming home - home
Im coming home - lets fight together
Im coming home - home
Im coming home - Ive so much to tell you
Home - Im coming home
Im coming home - time heals the scars of the past
Im coming home
Im coming home - to be by your side
Im coming home - Im coming home
Im coming home - Ive so much to tell you
Im coming home - Im coming home,............
song performed by by U. D. O.
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Roll Big Mamma Home
Well, another cup of coffee
Then I'll move on down the line
I'm exhausted with this truckin'
So, I think I'll bide my time
And go on home
Go on home
Yeah, I'm fed up with this truckin'
So I think, I'll roll big mamma home
Well, eighteen wheels a hummin'
Singin' endless highway blues
I'm tired of restless lonely nights
And payin' union dues
I'm goin' home
Goin' home
Yeah, I'm fed up with this truckin'
So I think, I'll roll big mamma home
(folkpoem)
poem by Edwin Robinette
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Sight For Sore Eyes
Goin downtown, goin down, goin down
neath the city, eatin ground round
Underground is pretty gritty
I turned the screw she held the light
Thats when I knew she was a
Sight for sore eyes
She was a sight for sore eyes
Playin no fair, sleepin under stairs
Downtowns a pity, takin fair square
Under where its pretty gritty
I turned the screw, she held the knife
Oh, holy jesus, shes a sight for sore eyes
Sight for sore eyes
Shes a nitty grutty
Turnin in style, walk a mile for your titty
Naked foul while under there
Under where its pretty gritty
Hey, dont you know people
Shes a love lust hussy
She left, oh she rust me
Dear old girl
She was a sight for sore eyes
But she was sittin pretty
A sight for sore eyes
She was a nitty gritty
Sight for sore eyes
Peeled back and parted
Even at the start it was delight or demise
I feel like a leopard king
Sight for sore eyes
She was a sight for sore eyes
song performed by by Aerosmith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Letter To My Daughters
I'm sending this letter
I'll mail it today
There's so many things I've been wanting to say
Your mom sent some pictures
And my how you've grown
Rock n roll fathers are never at home
I'm writing this letter
I made you a song
I promised your mom that I'd write while I'm gone
You say daddy come home
Well you'll just have to wait
I hope when I get there that it won't be too late
Skylar I just missed your first step today
I have no excuses and nothing to say
I live on a bus with a rock n roll band
I hope when your older that you'll understand
I'm coming home soon
This tour's almost through
I promise I'll try to spend more time with you
You say daddy come home
You'll just have to wait
I hope when I get there that it won't be too late
Now Madison Blue you know I love you too
Not a single day passes that I don't think of you
I'm running on empty and a mountain so high
I can pull out your pictures and look in your eyes
I long for the day when your old man comes home
It kills me to hear you say daddy don't go
You say daddy come home
You'll just have to wait
I hope when I get there that it won't be too late
Daddy's at work now he's trying to pay bills
Ego's and assholes are part of my deal
I make some money and I have some fun
The tax man he cometh and I'm back to square one
Don't worry bout your daddy
You girls be good
Give a kiss to your mother
I sure wish I could
This life has it's moments
I'm not always sad
Take care and I love you
Your rock n roll dad
song performed by by Uncle Kracker from No Stranger To Shame
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Business is Business.
See anything you fancy? Bertha
asked opening wide her fur coat
to the guy passing by on his way
Home to his wife or maybe his lonely
apartment but the guy just walked
on a little faster with his face flushed
and his hat slightly askew and she
watched him go off into the crowds
and thought well you can’t win them
all some like the show some don’t and
she pulled her coat tight around her again
and waited for the next potential punter
watching the passing dead going off home
after a boring day at the office or store
thinking of the time some office punk
gave her a hard time and wanted the
full deal in bed and then went off taking
her purse and money and underwear
and bra while she was in the washroom
after the awful sex but as her mother
once said you can’t always get what you
want and besides business is business
and men are men one is bound to meet
some sad excuse for a man now and then.
poem by Terry Collett
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Roll Along Home!
I though I heard the old man say -
'Aye, aye, roll along home! -
Bound home for old England we're sailing to-day -
Heave up the anchor and roll along home!
The pilot's aboard and the capstan is manned,
Blue Peter's a-waving farewell to the land,
For after long waiting our orders have come
To heave up the anchor and roll along home -
Roll - roll along home!'
The sails they are bent and the cargo is stowed -
Aye, aye, roll along home! -
And far will her way be and lonely her road -
Shake out the topsails and roll along home!
Yes, long is the road through the storm and the shine
That brings me back home to you, true love of mine;
No longer I'll wander, no further I'll roam,
But shake out my topsails and roll along home -
Roll - roll along home!'
poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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