gsmonks Poetry (8)

Underneath the basement floor, I buried old McGee,
When I was young, just twenty-four, and he was forty-three.
Fifty years have passed by since he met an end so grim;
I've often thought to move his bones, and what remains of him.

Yet even now the townsfolk watch this little house, and stare;
And speculate upon his absence, and his daughter, fair.
Fair she was! And all who knew her, knew what he had done!
Yet they left her pleas unanswered; help, they offered none!

I was young, an able hand, new travelled from afar,
A green and willing stablehand, my guide a western star.
His daughter soon was known to me, as was her evil plight;
McGee then learned about our tryst, and came to me one night:

He thought to beat me like a cur, to kill me if he could!
Broken, bleeding, bloody, I grabbed up a stick of wood!
Oh, McGee, how I recall your face, corrupt with rage;
Your coarse, unshaven jowl, your breath fowl as Sodom's cage!

Struck, the first blow sent your yellow teeth about like dice!
Struck, the next blow laid you low, and scattered wee straw-mice!
Struck, the third blow shattered every wit inside your head!
Struck, the fourth blow to be sure your wicked soul was dead!

The peace that followed, like her life, was short and bitter-sweet;
Her grave lies near a meadow-stream, where grass and sunshine meet;
Wildflowers grace her place of rest, the tears of angels glimmer;
As rainbow-dew upon the grass, their iridescent shimmer.

The slow, long years have worn away her pain, her flowered barrow;
A stately elm now marks her place, a place for lark and sparrow:
Forever she will breathe sweet air! And how the bright sun longs!
While old McGee in darkness withers, trapped where he belongs!

Your sigh is carried away upon the warm breeze that stirs the palm fronds-
Green herringbone shapes that sway irrhthmically against a timeless tropical sky;
Dusky tiger-striped shadows play across your face;
The sun is a tiny mote in your almond-shaped black eyes;
Your shy endearing smile fills my heart with a yearning that has no name, that is indistinguishable from grief,
My Latin love

Your serene restlessness must have been learned from the sea in which you play;
Translucent breakers curl into cream, lighted from within;
An ever-changing rainbow of sea-colours;
The beach clings to your legs, your dress, is part of you . . .
Your unblemished skin is of no earthly colour, and like the rest of you is too perfect to be touched, except by sun,
My Latin love

Your placid urgency at day's end is the premonition of a flower's closing;
Fiery reds and yellows fade to bruised purples and blacks, the cooling embers of our last tropical
summer's day.
The coming night is mirrored in the blackness of your eyes;
With a child’s laugh you have slipped away through the shadows, leaving still, aching emptiness in your wake,
My Latin love

I thought I'd always be alone
back when I built this house of stone;
It was a still and empty place,
my life dragged at a weary pace:

A fateful urge came over me
to plant a sapling apple-tree;
My thought 'twas then to mark its climb;
a living thing to measure time:

For six long years that tree did grow
and ne'er did a blossom show,
But on the seventh, to the day,
blossoms opened early May:

'Twas then my love came passing by,
delighted with my tree, and I;
A year soon passed, then YOU were born,
one sunny, happy, hope-filled morn':

I thought I'd never be alone
as laughter filled this house of stone;
It was a happy, lively place,
where dwelt your eager, elfin face:

And every year the apple tree
grew hale and strong and fair to see;
We marked the time by harvests red;
with ropes and swings in branches spread:

For eighteen years that great tree grew,
and you, my dear child, so did you;
No more that happy child one day;
a woman now . . .

And gone away.

My wife untimely died last year;
my heart aches for her presence, dear;
A sight I can not bear to see
is that of our old apple tree.

The back yard's quite dishevelled now,
the old tree sags each weary bough;
Still marking time as e'er before
as though it could wait evermore . . .

I thought I'd end my days alone
inside this empty house of stone;
Until one eve in early May,
I heard your voice . . . raised in dismay!

'Twas then you came to live with me
and brought your brand-new family;
A bright-eyed, sunny, little elf,
the spitting image of yourself!

My time grows short, I can't walk far,
but seated `neath the apple tree,
I'll watch your daughter for a while,
I'll tarry with her for a while;

What joy to see your mother's smile,
if only for a little while . . .
In one so sweet as she
beneath our dear old apple tree.

(yes, I done writed a song what goes with this)

McDonald's is the place for me, I wear a paper hat!
I wear a silly uniform and man the french-fry vat!
My face full of zits because the air is full of grease,
And the food they serve has made me very fat! Oh,

McDonald's is the place for me, I wear a cute name-tag!
I wear a silly hair-net and the girls think I'm a fag!
My plumbing's full of plaque, one day my heart it will explode,
And my manager's a geeky, four-eyed nag! Oh,

McDonald's is the place for me, it doesn't pay the rent!
I dropped out `cause of poverty that takes my every cent!
My nerves are shot because I see the writing on the wall,
And my rent's past due, I am about to lose my a-part-ment! Oh,

McDonald's is the place for me, I bought a frickin' gun,
With my rent money, ho-ho hee-hee, I'll kill `em every one!
It's kinda sad that in-no-cents will die in the cross-fire,
But how can you tell when life is hell who is the guilty one! Oh,

McDonald's is the place for me, I didn't fire a shot!
Some rat-faced spy was on to me, and now I'm frickin' caught!
They're carting me off in the white bus, but on the bright side . . .
The rent is free where they'll send me, and I like that a lot! Oh,

McDonalds was the place for me, until I went McNuts!
McNurses and McDoctors can't McFigure my McRuts!
But I don't care because McMeals are all McFree my friend,
Don't McGrieve for me, the rent is free, I am a McHappy Putz!

a parody of Charles Lutwidge Dodgeson's (Lewis Carroll's) Jabberwocky

'Twas mid-day, and the Chinese wok
Did beckon from the store display;
Alluring was its nickel-sheen:
It was on sale today!

Beware the stir-fry world my son!
The oil that smokes and catches fire;
Beware the chicken breast that burns,
You are no chef for hire!

He heedless bought the deadly thing,
Long time the odd utensil sought;
And purchased, he, from a grocery,
Needed Szechuan stuff, new bought.

And as he fired his stove of gas,
The wok with smoke and tongues of flame
Did roar to life like some dread beast;
Hell on this Earth its name!

Braise one, blanch two, we're almost through,
His new chef's knife went "snicker-snack!"
With fresh-made bread, fire out, wok dead,
He kicked a cold one back.

"And hast thou lived through wok cuisine?
Come to my arms, my squeamish goy;
O use that wok no more again!"
He pleaded with the boy.

'Twas mid-day and the Chinese wok
Did beckon from the store display;
Alluring was its nickel sheen,
It was on sale today!

Your sigh is carried away on the warm breeze that stirs the palm fronds
Green swaying herringbone shapes against a blue sky; dusky tiger-striped shadows play across your face
The sun is a tiny mote in your almond-shaped black eyes
Your shy endearing smile fills my heart with a yearning that has no name, that is indistinguishable from grief
My Latin love

Your serene restlessness must have been learned from the sea in which you play
Translucent breakers curl into cream, lighted from within, an ever-changing rainbow of sea-colours
The beach clings to your legs, your dress, is part of you
Your unblemished skin is of no earthly colour and like the rest of you is too perfect to be touched, except by sun
My Latin love

Your placid urgency at day's end is the premonition of a flower's closing
Fiery reds and yellows fade to buised purples and blacks, the cooling embers of our last tropical summer's day
The coming night is mirrored in the blackness of your eyes
A palpable ache marks the place you occupied with life and movement; I find myself standing alone in the dark
My Latin love

I am the son of fishermen,
Gnarl-fisted men of the sea,
Who throw their garbage overboard
And stand on the poop to pee.

I am descended of fishermen,
Who lie in the merciless deep;
Could be that they fell overboard
While drunk or half-asleep.

I am no more a fisherman,
They took my boat away!
They think the world is safer- HA!
I bought a plane today!

The Fallen, by gsmonks

"Stand your ground!" their leader thundered,
As they bled in foreign land.
"Give your all, or Freedom's sundered!
"To the last we'll make our stand!"

Eerily the with doth sigh, now,
Through the grass upon the plain;
In their quiet graves they lie now,
Sullen is the falling rain.

Small, the child is, bright sou'westered,
In her hand a wilted flower;
Gone, her father's presence shielding,
There's no solace for this hour.

Still, the air, like angels list'ning,
Nor to speak, nor for to breathe,
Waiting vainly for an answer,
Yet no Word doth He bequeath.

Wordlessly the stricken girl-child
Takes her mother's nerveless hand.
Soon these flowers have departed,
Victims of this fallen land.