A Country Sampler

nonukes1

 

For such a born and bred Bronx kid to wind up out in the sticks in South Carolina is one thing.  But to write poetry about the country life?  I guess you just never know! Below find some of my works that I am considering for an upcoming chap book. Also please, if you have been enjoying my work please consider helping with any amount at my GoFundMe. This really is all I have until we can figure out exactly what can be done to fix my back. As you can see it has just been a meager amount over the whole life of the campaign but all our savings and anything that could be sold have been exhausted with several months left until my disability hearing is scheduled. Enough said. Enjoy the writes.

 

Carnival Craze

ahead dots color hill tops afar dark
yellow, red, blue. and white bulbs
a slow drive rounding easy curves
chants of glee sounding the escape
voices expecting exciting an evening

sour the sweetness knocking gently
as windows rolled down feel a sniff
ahead now neon lights circle the sky
parked the station wagon in a field
smiles falling out the old rear door
pink fluffy sugar whipped on a stick

corn scented popping grandly new
sticky sounds of sneakers skipping
mirrors and teacups join a sway too
the hot dough shaped ears powdered
join parade in turn at ticket booths cut

prizes of royalty reach up drooling eye
wheels spinning higher recall butterflies
bops and pops abound in wild carousel
loose change dribbles clanging on down
gum, hats, glasses and feathers scatter
back to the old Buick we return, smiles

Carrot Seeds

growing up in the city
carrots came in a can
you peel back the tin
and out they came clean

concrete gardens sprout
hard the seedlings rise
a transplant now am I
turning soil mixing poop

tiny the seed of a carrot
rolling off my dirty hands
after sun and water shines
a little green pop appears

when the green grew tall
I had to check have a peek
so poke around did my hand
just a skinny root now ruined

another day another check
months end the crop is gone
let the seeds grow undisturbed
the fruit will show when ready

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A Picture In Grayed Boards

Mothers words grip within emotions
in the way dads old pickup drives
the treasured rides dirt swirling
behind us faster than the rabbits
fleeing through the peanut fields
startled does bound the fences
wire sagging and barbed gives way
her apron blowing softly seen
from the porch she waves smiling
it’s peach pie this evening sister
hanging out the washed sheets
giggling cute as the chipmunk
watching her from under the barn
grayed boards perfect the scene

perpetual the change that remains sweet

muffled giggles in blooming flowers
spark light the butterflies cool rise
yellows, oranges, and blacks scattered
in a blinking musical whirlwind ballet
lilies and crocuses spinning a melody
delicate antenna mimic a child’s wave
May shadows at noon disguise liquid
puddles skated smooth froze as ice
floral scents carried along spring winds
perpetual the change that remains sweet

Turnips Beside The Road

bunches of turnips spread out
an old country table of boards
dents and gaps showing age
soil dry now crumbles off as
each pile is shook before packing
the old vegetable boxes stacked
hurriedly in the bed of that old
white pickup that sat years in the
field back of the old slave cabins
it’s another hot day out there for
selling turnips beside the road

 

 

 

The Oldies Station

old the filling station half stands, a rusting show place lost
once bustling in brightness, weeds poke up asphalts cracks
peering around, periscopes riding in the crumbling black wakes
entertainment in a desolate place, silent country Bowery reruns
pumps hand driven, virgins they were to plastic cash sliders
in reflections shadowed, chrome glared of manner’s suited
oil checks, pop in glass bottles, coin driven phone call booths
change rides in, wearing glamour mostly, leaves some dusted
streetlights bent in prayer, touching the abandoned lot distressed
their wiring hangs limp, cut to fraying the darkness answers not

Southern Shine

Blue skies reflecting off southern eyes
Sight that is sweet as fresh pecan pie
Georgia peaches and Muscadine wine
Honey suckle and the sweet bye and bye
Carolina moonlight drinking down the shine

 

 

Papered With The Funnies

listening as the drops sound off one by one
coming storm raining down on the old tin roof
the falling porch leans toward the hill above
nothing fades as nicely as paint on metal does
wildflowers peak from between boards and stone
foundation sliding daily towards the eastern edge
sights and sounds returning inside this house
fools call it a shack but to me it’s ever true home
papered twice in the finest newspapers of the era
an architectural designer tribute to snuffy smith
running water is found in the creek pure and cool
the most of it found clear in mason jars shelved
among the years tomatoes and pickled okra
nostalgia grows in this holler when the rain falls
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Monday Morning Poetry

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The World From His Window /or/ the Wheels In the Wheels Go Round and Round

He sits day by day
gazing beyond the silicon created illusion
searching for something that’s left his mind
a verse, a melody, a memory
like a broken shell beyond repair
in his world of fantasy  laced reality
the old man counts the days
by the hairs caught in his comb
while multi-colored children play games
on little black boxes in the dark
a world, distinct in-distinctions groans
false perceptions push and pull
everything within the senses once vivid
now cheating for a place among
what is seen, heard, felt, and received, rather than perceived
evening and morning greet each other loudly sometimes, quietly others
rather than that burned out marionette
on frayed strings, jerking wildly,
whose dance is without grace
always out of place
being a being, lost in space
if you hear him crying in the night
reliving the battles
the ceremonious washing’s
do not look to close
do not stare to long
his handlers have left scars of great depth
the old man is splintered and cracked
with a stench of wood burned in the fire
and soaked in water, you know
the odor I speak of, a perfume not
sold in the likes of ancient department stores
not to be found for any price these days
but this (that) old man
he stays right there, oblivious to his own care
though quite mindful of a stare
despite the new world disorder
thrust full force upon that one or sum
full of brows, silvery and thin
your thoughts of him
might be dim
he is just there in that chair
filthy, stinky, useless, unknown creature
whose presence only serves,
among men and women,
in this age and ages past
befitting a scare
but every now and again,
unseen until that shell has been split open
and broken
a single ray of light will give a glimmer,
a shimmer
and beyond the shell, beyond the smell
those who, still can be still, find a pearl
In the Makers hands
what to us is beyond repair
is made new, clean, and a treasure rare.

Some Fourth Poetry

nonukes1

THE ALL AMERICAN KID FROM NYC

 

A New York City Fourth

before sticky notes
baseball cards and wacky packs
covered my eyes
brown wrappers
concealing the evil parts
born on magazine racks
a New York City Fourth

bottle rockets and bricks
beer and Southern Comfort
cover the park at sunset
bright eyed youth
captivated extra curricular education
browsing puppy love
a Bronx New York Fourth

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Welcome Home

friendly bones have left me now
the slightest movement cringes
manila folders filled with blood
mount for their final charges
this circus war in hospitals
a comedy of strangers
all hail the ones dressed in white
while we face all the danger
muscles fail, my body flails
writing the final pages
a corporate sung epitaph
dependent on your wages
mebx

[ stepping out through the bark of my dwelling ]

stepping out through the bark of my dwelling
a brief glance above the sky bellows deeply
distant stars strain through the black night misty
in darkness an echo sparking my soulishness
contrasting my manish ways nature exhales lightly
blowing the awful scent of my frailness westerly
out toward the rising pyre fiery which is mankind

Afternoon Poetry for Memorial Day 2017

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Have not been feeling well for a few weeks, here are a few to catch you up…. peace!

 

 

 

on the mantel I found your note

on the mantel I found your note
sitting, I read it by the fires light
drowning in the words you speak
arms flailing at ears flash pierced
woven inside I tasted the strings
stuck to the web of a silky trap
sniffing at branches in the dark
sprung loose cracking my teeth
die rolled lost in the floor boards
smoke or a vapor up the chimney
waking in the dark coffee chimes
drifting shale scents over fences
whiteness grows in sight reflected
blown ashes the glowing doth fade

There Is Only One Shade Of Black

cling hard the colors fading
under skin loosely hanging
hundreds of green sparks
showering the open garden
palettes of shades watering
the sky an ocean of blues
powdered hues cast subtly
of reds and yellows shining

distinctly separated bows
the horizon ever changing
glazing now these doughnuts
set in facial sockets aged
scents and sounds do reign
each note has it’s own ringing
yet as night settles here darkly
eclipsing the shadows dull light

in blindness I discover harshly
there is only one shade of black

perpetual the change that remains sweet

muffled giggles in blooming flowers
spark light the butterflies cool rise
yellows, oranges, and blacks scattered
in a blinking musical whirlwind ballet
lilies and crocuses spinning a melody
delicate antenna mimic a child’s wave
May shadows at noon disguise liquid
puddles skated smooth froze as ice
floral scents carried along spring winds
perpetual the change that remains sweet

[ in that barren, dark place ]

in that barren, dark place
only those who know, know
solitude commences loudly
enemies all who pass here
self the worst provocateur
humans scampering all earth
in a kaleidoscope of shadows
swords reach just shy a slice
but the echos of words ring on
swollen, a tribute to Vincent’s ear
they rattle the brain unconscious
oh how can loneliness be so busy

chasing rabbits breaking bones
a lie, a trap set, the fowler’s snare
sanity too high a price to chase now
looking through those looking through me
forgoten groceries laid at the doorstep
or the gas never pumped, the stares
the wind strikes without royal regard
while graveyards seem a quiet place
out beyond the bustling brainwaves
no you can’t feel it just a vapor passing
here though rides a desperate cowboy
breathing this dusty trail until it’s end

nonukes1

Sunday Poems

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[ stop the crazy ]

stop the crazy
that’s all I want
when I think that
I am thinking
but I’m wrong
that’s all I want
but it’s too real
to convince myself
so I just think
and think
and it is hard
to go on like this
again
and again
but I must

[ Syrian homes piled among bodies ]

Syrian homes piled among bodies
destroyed from above and afar
a landscape painted in hues of tan
and blood on a canvas torn and soiled
left in heaps by the tourist’s bombs
poking their forces in other nations

here sovereignty’s meaning they
translate differently than at homes
they dwell in standing upright devoid
of the damage, guts, black, and red dealt
out swift in national interests unyielding
terrorism of the highest order, ordered

Snow Plowing the Classes

the plows move slowly
down this street
manicuring each spot
with a spit polish
stopping at houses
to greet the elites
eating hors d’oeuvres
and sipping
fine wines

just one town over
from the windows
of homes watching
parked cars
plowed in and covered
in the blink
of a middle class eye
two more hours
of shoveling appears

Psalm 17

 Hear the right, O Lord, attend unto my cry, give ear unto my prayer, that goeth not out of feigned lips.

Let my sentence come forth from thy presence; let thine eyes behold the things that are equal.

Thou hast proved mine heart; thou hast visited me in the night; thou hast tried me, and shalt find nothing; I am purposed that my mouth shall not transgress.

Concerning the works of men, by the word of thy lips I have kept me from the paths of the destroyer.

Hold up my goings in thy paths, that my footsteps slip not.

I have called upon thee, for thou wilt hear me, O God: incline thine ear unto me, and hear my speech.

Shew thy marvellous lovingkindness, O thou that savest by thy right hand them which put their trust in thee from those that rise up against them.

Keep me as the apple of the eye, hide me under the shadow of thy wings,

From the wicked that oppress me, from my deadly enemies, who compass me about.

10 They are inclosed in their own fat: with their mouth they speak proudly.

11 They have now compassed us in our steps: they have set their eyes bowing down to the earth;

12 Like as a lion that is greedy of his prey, and as it were a young lion lurking in secret places.

13 Arise, O Lord, disappoint him, cast him down: deliver my soul from the wicked, which is thy sword:

14 From men which are thy hand, O Lord, from men of the world, which have their portion in this life, and whose belly thou fillest with thy hid treasure: they are full of children, and leave the rest of their substance to their babes.

15 As for me, I will behold thy face in righteousness: I shall be satisfied, when I awake, with thy likeness.