Team Poetry: Arts Police

There once was said at the Tiki:
"Come on let's get freaky freaky"
But it wasn't so nice
When Frank slipped on some ice
And yelled for another beer weakly.

*****

There once was a very old hermit
Whose skin was a fuzzy as kermit's
He drank from a pan
And would only eat flan
And he said, "Here's a flag; let's burn it!"

*****

Doc and Flannery

To The States

Some Walt Whitman that made me decide that I need a tattoo.

To The States

To the States or any of them, or any city of the States,
Resist much, obey little,
Once unquestionong obedience, once fully enslaved,
Once fully enslaved, no nation, state, city of this earth,
ever afterward resumes its liberty.


Doc

Here again, I don't bring my own work to the table but a good friend has reminded me how much I love a good poem, and with this in mind, I present this piece.

When Last In The Dooryard Bloom'd


1When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd,
2And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night,
3I mourn'd, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.
4Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,
5Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,
6And thought of him I love.
2
7O powerful western fallen star!
8O shades of night -- O moody, tearful night!
9O great star disappear'd -- O the black murk that hides the star!
10O cruel hands that hold me powerless -- O helpless soul of me!
11O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul.
3
12In the dooryard fronting an old farm-house near the white-wash'd palings,
13Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
14With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong I love,
15 With every leaf a miracle -- and from this bush in the dooryard,
16With delicate-color'd blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
17A sprig with its flower I break.
4
18In the swamp in secluded recesses,
19A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.
20Solitary the thrush,
21The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements,
22Sings by himself a song.
23Song of the bleeding throat,
24Death's outlet song of life, (for well dear brother I know,
25If thou wast not granted to sing thou would'st surely die.)
5
26Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities,
27Amid lanes and through old woods, where lately the violets peep'd from the ground, spotting the gray debris,
28Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes, passing the endless grass,
29Passing the yellow-spear'd wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprisen,
30Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards,
31Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave,
32Night and day journeys a coffin.
6
33Coffin that passes through lanes and streets,
34Through day and night with the great cloud darkening the land,
35With the pomp of the inloop'd flags with the cities draped in black,
36With the show of the States themselves as of crape-veil'd women standing,
37With processions long and winding and the flambeaus of the night,
38With the countless torches lit, with the silent sea of faces and the unbared heads,
39With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces,
40With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn,
41With all the mournful voices of the dirges pour'd around the coffin,
42The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs -- where amid these you journey,
43With the tolling tolling bells' perpetual clang,
44Here, coffin that slowly passes,
45I give you my sprig of lilac.
7
46(Nor for you, for one alone,
47Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring,
48For fresh as the morning, thus would I chant a song for you O sane and sacred death.
49All over bouquets of roses,
50O death, I cover you over with roses and early lilies,
51But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first,
52Copious I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes,
53With loaded arms I come, pouring for you,
54For you and the coffins all of you O death.)
8
55O western orb sailing the heaven,
56Now I know what you must have meant as a month since I walk'd,
57As I walk'd in silence the transparent shadowy night,
58As I saw you had something to tell as you bent to me night after night,
59As you droop'd from the sky low down as if to my side, (while the other stars all look'd on,)
60As we wander'd together the solemn night, (for something I know not what kept me from sleep,)
61As the night advanced, and I saw on the rim of the west how full you were of woe,
62As I stood on the rising ground in the breeze in the cool transparent night,
63As I watch'd where you pass'd and was lost in the netherward black of the night,
64As my soul in its trouble dissatisfied sank, as where you sad orb,
65Concluded, dropt in the night, and was gone.
9
66Sing on there in the swamp,
67O singer bashful and tender, I hear your notes, I hear your call,
68I hear, I come presently, I understand you,
69But a moment I linger, for the lustrous star has detain'd me,
70The star my departing comrade holds and detains me.
10
71O how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved?
72And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone?
73And what shall my perfume be for the grave of him I love?
74Sea-winds blown from east and west,
75Blown from the Eastern sea and blown from the Western sea, till there on the prairies meeting,
76These and with these and the breath of my chant,
77I'll perfume the grave of him I love.
11
78O what shall I hang on the chamber walls?
79And what shall the pictures be that I hang on the walls,
80To adorn the burial-house of him I love?
81Pictures of growing spring and farms and homes,
82With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray smoke lucid and bright,
83With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, sinking sun, burning, expanding the air,
84With the fresh sweet herbage under foot, and the pale green leaves of the trees prolific,
85In the distance the flowing glaze, the breast of the river, with a wind-dapple here and there,
86With ranging hills on the banks, with many a line against the sky, and shadows,
87And the city at hand with dwellings so dense, and stacks of chimneys,
88And all the scenes of life and the workshops, and the workmen homeward returning.
12
89Lo, body and soul -- this land,
90My own Manhattan with spires, and the sparkling and hurrying tides, and the ships,
91The varied and ample land, the South and the North in the light, Ohio's shores and flashing Missouri,
92And ever the far-spreading prairies cover'd with grass and corn.
93Lo, the most excellent sun so calm and haughty,
94The violet and purple morn with just-felt breezes,
95The gentle soft-born measureless light,
96The miracle spreading bathing all, the fulfill'd noon,
97The coming eve delicious, the welcome night and the stars,
98Over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land.
13
99Sing on, sing on you gray-brown bird,
100Sing from the swamps, the recesses, pour your chant from the bushes,
101Limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and pines.
102Sing on dearest brother, warble your reedy song,
103Loud human song, with voice of uttermost woe.
104O liquid and free and tender!
105O wild and loose to my soul -- O wondrous singer!
106You only I hear -- yet the star holds me, (but will soon depart,)
107Yet the lilac with mastering odor holds me.
14
108Now while I sat in the day and look'd forth,
109In the close of the day with its light and the fields of spring, and the farmers preparing their crops,
110In the large unconscious scenery of my land with its lakes and forests,
111In the heavenly aerial beauty, (after the perturb'd winds and the storms,)
112Under the arching heavens of the afternoon swift passing, and the voices of children and women,
113The many-moving sea-tides, and I saw the ships how they sail'd,
114And the summer approaching with richness, and the fields all busy with labor,
115And the infinite separate houses, how they all went on, each with its meals and minutia of daily usages,
116And the streets how their throbbings throbb'd, and the cities pent -- lo, then and there,
117Falling upon them all and among them all, enveloping me with the rest,
118Appear'd the cloud, appear'd the long black trail,
119And I knew death, its thought, and the sacred knowledge of death.
120Then with the knowledge of death as walking one side of me,
121And the thought of death close-walking the other side of me,
122And I in the middle as with companions, and as holding the hands of companions,
123I fled forth to the hiding receiving night that talks not,
124Down to the shores of the water, the path by the swamp in the dimness,
125To the solemn shadowy cedars and ghostly pines so still.
126And the singer so shy to the rest receiv'd me,
127The gray-brown bird I know receiv'd us comrades three,
128And he sang the carol of death, and a verse for him I love.
129From deep secluded recesses,
130From the fragrant cedars and the ghostly pines so still,
131Came the carol of the bird.
132And the charm of the carol rapt me,
133As I held as if by their hands my comrades in the night,
134And the voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird.
135Come lovely and soothing death,
136Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving,
137In the day, in the night, to all, to each,
138Sooner or later delicate death.
139Prais'd be the fathomless universe,
140For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious,
141And for love, sweet love -- but praise! praise! praise!
142For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death.
143Dark mother always gliding near with soft feet,
144Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome?
145Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all,
146I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly.
147Approach strong deliveress,
148When it is so, when thou hast taken them I joyously sing the dead,
149Lost in the loving floating ocean of thee,
150Laved in the flood of thy bliss O death.
151From me to thee glad serenades,
152Dances for thee I propose saluting thee, adornments and feastings for thee,
153And the sights of the open landscape and the high-spread sky are fitting,
154And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night.
155The night in silence under many a star,
156The ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice I know,
157And the soul turning to thee O vast and well-veil'd death,
158And the body gratefully nestling close to thee.
159Over the tree-tops I float thee a song,
160Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and the prairies wide,
161Over the dense-pack'd cities all and the teeming wharves and ways,
162I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee O death.
15
163To the tally of my soul,
164Loud and strong kept up the gray-brown bird,
165With pure deliberate notes spreading filling the night.
166Loud in the pines and cedars dim,
167Clear in the freshness moist and the swamp-perfume,
168And I with my comrades there in the night.
169While my sight that was bound in my eyes unclosed,
170As to long panoramas of visions.
171And I saw askant the armies,
172I saw as in noiseless dreams hundreds of battle-flags,
173Borne through the smoke of the battles and pierc'd with missiles I saw them,
174And carried hither and yon through the smoke, and torn and bloody,
175And at last but a few shreds left on the staffs, (and all in silence,)
176And the staffs all splinter'd and broken.
177I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them,
178And the white skeletons of young men, I saw them,
179I saw the debris and debris of all the slain soldiers of the war,
180But I saw they were not as was thought,
181They themselves were fully at rest, they suffer'd not,
182The living remain'd and suffer'd, the mother suffer'd,
183And the wife and the child and the musing comrade suffer'd,
184And the armies that remain'd suffer'd.
16
185Passing the visions, passing the night,
186Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades' hands,
187Passing the song of the hermit bird and the tallying song of my soul,
188Victorious song, death's outlet song, yet varying ever-altering song,
189As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, rising and falling, flooding the night,
190Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning and warning, and yet again bursting with joy,
191Covering the earth and filling the spread of the heaven,
192As that powerful psalm in the night I heard from recesses,
193Passing, I leave thee lilac with heart-shaped leaves,
194I leave thee there in the door-yard, blooming, returning with spring.
195I cease from my song for thee,
196From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the west, communing with thee,
197O comrade lustrous with silver face in the night.
198Yet each to keep and all, retrievements out of the night,
199The song, the wondrous chant of the gray-brown bird,
200And the tallying chant, the echo arous'd in my soul,
201With the lustrous and drooping star with the countenance full of woe,
202With the holders holding my hand nearing the call of the bird,
203Comrades mine and I in the midst, and their memory ever to keep, for the dead I loved so well,
204For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands -- and this for his dear sake,
205Lilac and star and bird twined with the chant of my soul,
206There in the fragrant pines and the cedars dusk and dim.

I'm sorry for the length and the line numbers and all, but I just can't type that much. I only use two fingers. Walt, like President Lincoln that he is writing about, mean alot to me.

Doc

Nonsense Song

It has been quite some time since I have contributed to this site, and for that I am ashamed. I really need some high powered inspiration to let me write poems, and frankly, I have been running a little shy as of late, but to rectify that somewhat I would like to share with you, not a work of my own, but some of the poetry that I have been reading. The poem is by an englishman named W. H. Auden. Perhaps some of you have heard of him. I had not, until recently. Without further ado....

Nonsense Song

My love is like a red red rose
Or concerts for the blind,
She's like a mutton-chop before
And a rifle range behind.

Her hair is like a looking-glass,
Her brow is like a bog,
Her eyes are like a flock of sheep
Seen through a London fog.

Her nose is like an Irish jig,
Her mouth is like a 'bus,
Her chin is like a bowl of soup
Shared between all of us.

Her form divine is like a map
Of the United States,
Her foot is like a motor-car
Without its number-plates.

No steeple-jack shall part us now
Nor fireman in a frock;
True love could sink a Channel boat
Or knit a baby's sock.


(I just love the line about her rifle range behind.)

Doc

A Poem of Love

A Poem of Love

Beneath a planters moon,
My love and I do abide.

The stars of the Heavens stare down unblinkingly,
They cannot look away.

We are joined by a gentle breeze,
That has come to caress us and to celebrate the oldest dance of man.

The morning doves nestle in the pines above us,
And sing of a union immortal and wondrous.

The grass rises up to hold us tenderly,
As We draw together in this leafy bower.

All of Nature holds its collective breath,
As two mortals prepare to collide,

With a power greater than holds,
The planets in their eternal coil.

I draw my Lover closer and feel the beating of her heart,
The warmth of Her kiss; the gentle touch of Her hand.

I try to tell my Love of the feelings that overwhelm me,
She silences me with the soft touch of Her finger to my lips.

“More Rock, Less Talk, stupid!”



Thank you for this small indulgence, Dear and Gentle Reader. I have tried to commit to this site nothing but “serious” poetry, and try as I might, I just can’t do it. It ain’t in me. I have tried to take a worthy subject to reason and rhyme and it always turns into a joke. I start with a dirty limerick and try to veer away to the noble and sublime and my poetic compass spins like a dervish and I find myself meandering back to Boy’s Room graffiti. So very, very sorry, Dear and Gentle Reader. Perhaps I will muster something more for my next entry……….but don’t count on it.

Doc.

How Did I Get Here?

It is odd sometimes how things come to me. It is always from some source that, at face value, has no connection whatsoever.

An unfamiliar face in a crowd will have me asking myself, “Do I have enough life insurance? ”.

Or I will glance at the weather forecast that calls for rain, and it will cross my mind that perhaps I should wear the gray underwear tomorrow.

Or I will smell the earthy smell of freshly overturned, moist dirt and it reminds me of the first time I ever saw a woman naked.

Mind you, these are all very poor examples, but somehow, my brain makes these connections. I cannot explain it. It is as if my mind has been wired with silly-string, through a maze of cracked mirrors by some drunken, misbehaving Mad Hatter, and he is giggling to himself all the way.

I quit trying to understand this a LONG time ago.

With all this being said, Dear and Gentle Reader, I would like to say that this poem was inspired by an article that I read on Thomas Jefferson.

(P.S., this has nothing to do with Thomas Jefferson.)

Untitled

You are always looking, always seeking,
Yet never finding.

Questing, shrieking, twirling,
In a way that would make a Dervish dizzy.

You brush my cheek with the gentle touch of a new lover,
Then rip the roof off my house.

I have watched you play with your toys,
Leaves water and trash.

You have seen all there is to see,
No corner of the Earth have you not passed over.

Yet You keep moving on,
Looking for the next new thing, the next horizon.

I find it comforting to lean into You as we walk together,
Until you file Your teeth to points and bite me in the ass when it turns cold.
Fickle, fickle wind,
Do You treat all of Your admirers this way?

Sense of Obligation

Let me open this entry with a quote from someone else. That seemed to stir up a lot of feelings the last time and why pass up the chance to do a little stirring this time.

In my recent reading I came across this piece that struck me profoundly. I know nothing about it, but perhaps some of you do. Just from reading it, I get the impression, that it is part of a much larger piece but I could not be troubled to research it. It reads:

Carrying Capacity
A man said to the universe:
“Sir, I exist!”
“However,” replied the universe,
“The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation.”
-Stephen Crane, 1899.

With this in mind, I humbly submit these two pieces.

In Defense of the Old C.B.

I am the one you see picking up a lone penny in the parking lot
I wear the same boots day in and day out
They are all I have.

I fix an old thing
And don’t buy the new,
If I can help it.

I hate wasted food
And move from room to room
Turning off lights as I go.

When I warmed myself by the fire
I was thankful for junk mail
It was heat I didn’t have to buy.

I wash my clothes
When they need it
Washing them too much wears them out

I buy a lot of army surplus
The stuff lasts forever and
I’m found of pockets and khaki + green are my favorite colors.

Don’t get me wrong
I am free with my money
I might be referred to as an “Easy Touch”

I am a heavy tipper
I buy leather jackets
Because I know, with care, my grandchildren can wear them.

I have no problem with buying the best
And ponying up plenty of cash,
If I know it will last.

I have been cold
I have been hungry
I would wish it on no one

Paul Newman once said
“You ever been hungry?
Not just ready for supper,

But really hungry?
To where your belly swells?
You’d eat dog and fight for the bones.”

I find hunger to be
A powerful teacher
Make no mistake.

I count my blessings
And pray at every meal
It might be a long time ‘til I eat again.

My wife tells me I have a depression-era mind
That bothers me none,
If I pay my bills on time.

So here’s to the Cheap Bastards
Ignoring Borders, Breeds and Birth
Scrimping to the last,

Though they come from the Ends of the Earth.


This is of recent musings and was only committed to paper for the sake of this forum. I make no claim of being even slightly profound. This is just one of those things that Big Orange and I have been tossing back and forth for some time.

This next piece is something that I have been contemplating since High School.
This, like most of the stuff I write, is of no redeeming value, at all.


Ode to a Well-Timed Piss

There should be songs, poems, and sonnets
Dedicated to me: a well-timed Piss.

A Blessing
From Pope to Pauper.

No inclination is more universal.

Some crave for love,
Some crave for food,

But all are familiar with Me.

I strike all Drinkers
From water to beer to tea

But when the time comes around,
And the place can be found,

All have unspoken praise for Me.



Please, Dear Reader, treat these humble submissions in the spirit that they were presented and if you find that you have any true taste at all, Please, Please, write something better.

It has come to my attention that I don't have much of a gift of brevity. It is simply just not on my list of qualities that were supplied at birth. It doesn't keep me up at night; just that I realized I don't have the basic skills to make a better than average poet, so I declined the oppertunity to join this illustriuos gathering initially.

But then, there is only just so long I can sit by and watch this much fun going on!

So, in the spirit of fun and poetry, I offer these few little gems. They are not mine and the original author/s is unknown to me.

There once was a man named McGlass,
Whose Balls were made out of Brass,
When a storm was in the weather,
His Balls clanged togather,
And Lightening shot out of His Ass!

There once was a Bar Maid from Sales,
Who had tattooed on her chest,
All the prices of Ale,
And on Her Behind,
For the sake of the Blind,
was the very same thing,
But in Braille!

A Bear walks into a bar in Boise and orders a beer.
The Bartender tells him he can't serve a beer to a bear in Boise.
It's against the law.
The Bear is beerless and breaks out in a broken barrage of bickering!
Breaking barstools and busting bottles and belts the jukebox a time or two.
Then, to top it all off, Barrels down the Bar to bite off the head of the feminnin Barfly!!
He Bolts it down, Bobbypins and all!
" I DEMAND A BEER!!!" Bellows the Bear.
Belched the Bartender,"It's against the law to sell a bear a beer in Boise, 'specially one on Drugs."
"A Bear on Drugs?!?" Questioned the bothered Bear.
"Yea," said the bucolic Bartender"What about that Bar-Bitch-You-Ate?"
I Don't have the gift of brevity, I can't write a decent poem even if I had a mouthfull of it but I do know a few dirty jokes.

Oh Well...