BS: Poetry Slam/Share

Subject: BS: Poetry Slam/Share
From: SamStone
Date: 21 Oct 18 - 08:57 AM

Iwo Jima reflection 1
10 December 2015

old shufflin' man aged ninety two
creaks out of bed
slides his feet into old shufflin' shoes
draggin' ass
passin' gas
eyes his old cat
stretching on the vent
"and this is how my life has went"
"not too bad for an old fart like me"
no one comes or calls
no one wants to hear
about his loves or
his needs or his fears
she died when he was eighty five
they were quite a pair
very much alive
said she'd wait for him
"on the other side"
told him not to hurry
she had nothing but time

old shufflin' man
sitting alone
at his table by the window
watching life pass him by
"ain't gonna just sit here and cry
ain't gonna just lay down and die"

he made his mark
in the big war
bringing home memories
of his old friends
and tales to tell
"life was good then
life was swell"

his old uniform hangs on the door
adorned with medals
dusty boots on the floor
"those were my living times"
he said many times before

now his days have come and gone
he has had
too many years of being alone
the darkness has settled 'round
the shadows have lengthened
his body is failed and worn
old shufflin' man
will shuffle no longer
he met his maker at ten past four

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry Slam/Share
From: Jeri
Date: 21 Oct 18 - 10:13 AM

I'll play. This isn't edited/polished/worked on, so is rather clumsy.

Sad souls sit and think
in sink holes
life collapses around them
and there's nothing close enough
to hold onto
no one knocks on the door
no one comes here any more
and if you gird your loins and venture forth
into the world that screams and clatters
seeking that which truly matters
people think you have nothing much to say
and are in the way
so you go back into your cozy lair
and watch the world play out from there
stories whirl around the watcher that is you
and you can't see the obvious - you're a story, too
you just take it all in
and wait for the story to end
or the next one to begin

Subject: BS: Poetry Slam/Share#2
From: SamStone
Date: 21 Oct 18 - 10:43 AM

observations from the barn door 17

we live in old skin
mottled
spotted
blotched
thin
each day brings some new thing
that wasn't there before
the years open us up
to every speck
to every stain
and on our hide it ingrains
itself and grows
hanging off our dermis like adorning cocoons
some bulbous as rose hips
some flat as moons
we have them cut off and frozen
we cover them and bleach them
and finally reach
the point
where there is nothing to save
except the bit that's left to be discarded
in the bottom of some forgotten grave.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry Slam/Share
From: SamStone
Date: 21 Oct 18 - 12:50 PM

reflections from my kitchen table 114

my mind does not abide
in the same place as my body
at times it hitches a ride
on a comet's tail
or sets sail
around some horn
perched atop a pirate's jib
it's been known to catch some sun
on islands in the Crib

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry Slam/Share
From: SamStone
Date: 21 Oct 18 - 12:52 PM

vietnam reflections 416

somewhere out there is a road
that took us to war so long ago
so many of our selves
walked down that worn path
and we watched them 'til
they were clean out of sight
and now that old road is gone
we spent many a day and night
on foot or being carried up and down
its length
many of us without the strength
to make the final steps
save for the help
of those who shouldered us
and then had to stay behind
we still look for the old byway
but it is long gone
covered over by flesh and blood and bones
some say this is for the best
but some of us still look
and search we always will
for some of us there is no peace
nor rest until we are done
and there never can be closure
until we bring them all home

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry Slam/Share
From: SamStone
Date: 21 Oct 18 - 01:06 PM

Grandma Mary Beth

Grandma Mary Beth is eighty-eight years old and still drives her own car. She writes:

Dear Grand-daughter Mary Jane,

The other day I went up to our local Christian book store and saw a 'Honk If You Love Jesus' bumper sticker ...

I was feeling particularly sassy that day because I had just come from a thrilling choir performance, followed by a thunderous prayer meeting..

So, I bought the sticker and put it on my bumper.

Boy, am I glad I did...what followed was truly a blessing and an uplifting experience.

I was stopped at a red light at a busy intersection, just lost in thought about the Lord and how good he is, and I didn't notice that the light had changed to green.

It is a good thing someone else loves Jesus because if he hadn't honked, I'd never have noticed.

I found that lots of people love Jesus!

While I was sitting there, the guy behind started honking like crazy, and then he leaned out of his window and screamed, 'For the love of God!'

Another shouted, 'Go! Go! Go! Jesus Christ, GO!'

What an exuberant cheerleader he was for Jesus!

Everyone started honking!

I just leaned out my window and started waving and smiling at all those loving people.

I even honked my horn a few times to share in the love! There must have been a man from Florida back there because I heard him yelling something about a "sunny beach".

I saw another guy waving in a funny way with only his middle finger stuck up in the air.

Your sister, Mary Lou, was in the car with me so I asked her what that gesture meant. She said it was probably a Hawaiian good luck sign or something.

Well, I have never met anyone from Hawaii, so I leaned out the window and gave him the good luck sign right back.

Mary Lou burst out laughing.

Why even she was enjoying this religious experience!!

A couple of the people were so caught up in the joy of the moment that they got out of their cars and started walking towards me.

I bet they wanted to pray or ask what church I attended, but this is when I noticed the light had changed to green again.

So, grinning, I waved at all my brothers and sisters, and drove on through the intersection..

I noticed that I was the only car that got through the intersection before the light changed again to red and I felt kind of sad that I had to leave them after all the love we had shared.

So I slowed the car down, leaned out the window and gave them all the Hawaiian good luck sign one last time as I drove away. Praise the Lord for such wonderful folks!!

       Will write again soon,
       Love, Grandma Mary Beth

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry Slam/Share
From: SamStone
Date: 21 Oct 18 - 01:50 PM

observations from the barn door 16

recently we have begun to feel our age
as if some kind soul thought it best
to remind us just who we are
and just how far
we live from true reality
we made our oath of fealty
one to the other
to out live and out run the human truth
as its sheerness is cold and
makes it hard for us to breathe
that's why we choose to leave
those not of our kith behind
they are the others
we are of one mind
we are one mind

some wise old sage
said it was time to act our age
in this time and space
reflect our faces
for the world to see
why does this have to be...
our youth is our refuge
from times gone by
we have decided never to grow up
until it is time for us to die

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry Slam/Share
From: SamStone
Date: 21 Oct 18 - 01:54 PM

vietnam reflections 417

she sat by the phone
for hours
alone
waiting for the call
"maybe he is ok
maybe there is a way
he made it through the night"
but try as she might
she knew the call would come
agonizing seconds turned into agonizing minutes
until she could no longer wait
as she reached for the phone
it rang
the wait was over

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry Slam/Share
From: Jim Carroll
Date: 21 Oct 18 - 02:57 PM

CONCERNING THE INFANTICIDE, MARIE FARRER
by Bertolt Brecht

Marie Farrer, born in April,
No marks, a minor, rachitic, both parents dead,
Allegedly up to now without police record,
Committed infanticide, it is said,
As follows: in her second month, she says,
With the aid of a barmaid, she did her best
To get rid of her child with two douches,
Allegedly painful but without success.
But you, I beg you, check your wrath and scorn,
For man needs help from every creature born.

She then paid out, she says, what was agreed
And continued to lace herself up tight.
She also drank liquor with pepper mixed in it
Which purged her but did not cure her plight.
Her body distressed her as she washed the dishes,
It was swollen now quite visibly.
She herself says, for she was still a child,
She prayed to Mary most earnestly.
But you, I beg you, check your wrath and scorn,
For man needs help from every creature born.

Her prayers, it seemed, helped her not at all.
She longed for help.
Her trouble made her falter and faint at early Mass.
Often drops of sweat
Broke out in anguish as she knelt at the altar.
Yet until her time came upon her
She still kept secret her condition.
For no one would believe such a thing could happen,
That she, so unenticing, had yielded to temptation.
But you, I beg you, check your wrath and scorn,
For man needs help from every creature born.

And, on that day, she says, when it was dawn,
As she washed the stairs, it seemed a nail
Was driven into her belly.
She was wrung with pain.
But still she secretly endured her travail.
All day long while hanging out the laundry,
She wracked her brains until she got it through her head
She had to bear the child, and her heart was heavy.
But you, I beg you, check your wrath and scorn,
It was very late when she went to bed.
She was sent for again as soon as she lay down.
Snow had fallen and she had to go downstairs.
It went on till eleven. It was a long day.
Only at night did she have time to bear.
And so, she says, she gave birth to a son.
The son she bore was just like all the others.
She was unlike the others but for this
There is no reason to despise this mother,
You to, I beg you, check your wrath and scorn,
For man needs help from every creature born.

With her last strength, she says, because
Her room had now grown icy cold, she then
Dragged herself to the latrine and there
Gave birth as best she could (not knowing when)
But toward morning. She says she was already
Quite distracted and could barely hold
The child for snow came into the latrine
And her fingers were half numb with cold.
But you, I beg you, check your wrath and scorn,
For man needs help from every creature born.

Between the latrine and her room, she says,
Not earlier, the child began to cry until
It drove her mad so that, she says,
She did not cease to beat it with her fists
Blindly for some time till it was still.
And then she took the body to her bed
And kept it with her there all through the night.
When morning came she hid it in the shed.
But you, I beg you, check your wrath and scorn,
For man needs help from every creature born.

Marie Farrer, born in April,
An unmarried mother, convicted, died in
The Meissen penitentiary.
She brings home to you all men's sin.
You, who bear pleasantly between clean sheets
And give the name "blessed" to your womb's weight,
Must not damn the weakness of the outcast,
For her sin was black but her pain was great.
Therefore, I beg you, check your wrath and scorn,
For man needs help from every creature born.
For man needs help from every creature born.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry Slam/Share
From: Donuel
Date: 21 Oct 18 - 04:59 PM

Analog man in a digital world
Organic as the grain of old school burl
He knows the lessons we need to relearn
He curses his new hearing aid and burns
What he thinks he hears is very funny
He hates the thing, it cost too much money
He was told his hearing aid's digital
like saying it is 100% biblical
His teeth are man made from digital scans
Don't mention his eyes they're made in Japan
Analog man still hikes natures green trails
He worships science but not fairy tales
He curses age and not the inventions
He pays dearly for these with his pension
Science continues to go through changes
but fairy tales remain the same
As analog man ages

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry Slam/Share
From: SamStone
Date: 22 Oct 18 - 11:15 AM

vietnam reflections 419

how awesome it is
this thing called death
it stands and waits
‘til the last breath
leaves the body
of those shoddy
in dress
and
of those well heeled

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry Slam/Share
From: SamStone
Date: 22 Oct 18 - 11:18 AM

vietnam reflections 431

we are heading north toward the high country
light footfalls on the thickly carpeted jungle floor
laying miles of ground behind us
heading to where we were before
not one word is spoken
not one leaf is broken
our silence intact
we are all of one mind
this time no one will be left behind
we are heading back
to where it all began
before we so hastily departed
we are going back
battle scarred and hardened
we are of one mind
and that being
that this time
we will finish what was started.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry Slam/Share
From: SamStone
Date: 22 Oct 18 - 03:47 PM

reflections from a front porch rocker #7

recently we have begun to feel our age
as if some kind soul thought it best
to remind us just who we are
and just how far
we live from true reality
we made our oath of fealty
one to the other
to out live and out run the human truth
as its sheerness is cold and
makes it hard for us to breathe
that's why we choose to leave
those not of our kith behind
they are the others
we are of one mind
we are one mind

some wise old sage
said it was time to act our age
in this time and space
reflect our faces
for the world to see
why does this have to be...
our youth is our refuge
from times gone by
we have decided never to grow up
until it is time for us to die

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry Slam/Share
From: beardedbruce
Date: 22 Oct 18 - 04:52 PM

Sonnet 07/10/18                        MCLXXIX


The time I spend with muse is priceless, filled
With chance to see smile, and look into eyes
That I wish held my future. This time flies,
Seeming seconds as evening passes. How
Might I make moments days? Would she allow
Long conversation about her desires?
To know dreams: I might find hope that inspires
Work worthy of this muse, if Heaven willed.
May the words of my verse, and dreams in heart
Be acceptable to you, my muse and
Inspiration: Forgive me my longing,
And share your time with one who dare not start
Alone on path to hope. Might muse let stand
Desire, and give chance of dream prolonging?

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry Slam/Share
From: Amergin
Date: 23 Oct 18 - 01:16 AM

Reaganomics

In fifth grade, I’d stand for hours on Saturday mornings,
in damp hand-me-down clothes as the drizzle clouds
flowed through Portland streets, waiting for a five pound brick
of government cheese, baby formula, diapers, beans, and cornmeal.

Monday to Friday, I’d walk a mile to school, rain or shine,
to eat the free breakfast, the canned fruit medley, powdered eggs, milk
and the free lunch, the salisbury steak, hot dogs, institutionalised pizza,

Supper’s baby formula and corn meal mush glued to our ribs,
to smother our bellies’ tears, to muffle their weeping from
having to be buried in the same old shit as the day before.

All the while dad worked sometimes two full time shifts
to keep this decaying roof, these rotting walls up around us,
blocking out the winter, so we wouldn’t have to huddle
in the back of the old car, warmed by stale breath and blankets.

The floor beneath the Christmas tree was naked in the flashing
red and green lights strung between plastic branches,
while the stockings hung unfed, crucified by thumb tacks
to cracked barren walls, to pollinate the truth that Santa Reagan
doesn’t give a fuck for children nurtured in poverty.


© September, 2017-Windfall A Journal of Poetry of Place

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry Slam/Share
From: Amergin
Date: 23 Oct 18 - 01:19 AM

The Cocoon

When the moment came
and the word received
gripped in our own convulsing hands

we heard our hearts stop all four chambers,
to give a brief moment of silence

and we felt our eyes film
with the mourning dew.

We lit candles, drank whiskey
while we listened to her spirit escape
at last from the titanium prison
of her struggling lungs

her daughter’s touch
her daughter’s voice
leading the way.

Cancer was her cocoon,
death her butterfly.

Nathan Tompkins


© February, 2018-Quail Bell Magazine

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry Slam/Share
From: SamStone
Date: 23 Oct 18 - 03:12 PM

vietnam reflections 832

My old cat sits at my feet
thinks its time to eat
by the tilt of her head.
she'll wander off to bed
after a few bites
leaving me to think about what might
have been.
tonight I will bury my friend again
as I do each time I dream.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry Slam/Share
From: SamStone
Date: 24 Oct 18 - 12:34 PM

A Scholar At The Helm

We put out to sea
the Captain and me
and I marveled at the artist
as he painted
a thousand years of wisdom
on his canvas of seashore
and ocean and sky,
laying on decades of colors
and layers of all things passing
and of all things passed by.
He spun me some yarns
of seafaring men, of heroes and louts
(and of a pirate or two lurking about).
He showed me the ghosts in the marshes
and the haints in the sound
And where dead ships abound
that sail quietly through the night.
We saw thousands of flights
of millions of birds.
And I marveled as I listened
to the sounds that we heard.
I saw the catches of silvery fins
pulled free from the deep
to grace the tables of paupers and kings.
The Captain has shown
these wondrous things to me.
Through his mind’s eye shines
the depths and its boundless glory
and herein lies the endless story.
So close your eyes and open your heart
and within these images you will find
a lifetime of treasures
that still live on
in the hearts and minds
of many a treasure hunter

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry Slam/Share
From: SamStone
Date: 24 Oct 18 - 02:44 PM

vietnam reflections 432   

there is this place that we all come to die
we wait for the right moment
when the world is not looking
then we slip into obscurity
into our own history
which is personal
private
not open to scrutiny
or prying eyes
when we are dead
we close the doors
the windows are locked shut
so that we may live out
our death in peace

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry Slam/Share
From: beardedbruce
Date: 24 Oct 18 - 03:00 PM

Sonnet 19/10/18                         MCLXXXI

How can heart for this muse not passions feel
When her smile feeds my dreams, and lights the room
As if angel were present? Might hopes bloom
When I have sight of Beauty? Muse seems all
Of heart’s desire, though I dare not muse call
More than lines’ inspiration. If she wills,
In her glance I might find what of dream fills.
Yet, I cannot muse’s affections steal.
Muse does not allow lines to tell what I
Would offer to one who holds heart in thrall:
I cannot ask she more than glances share.
Should I abandon hope and let dreams die,
That I cannot more than friend this muse call?
I fear I cannot not for my muse care.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry Slam/Share
From: Amergin
Date: 24 Oct 18 - 05:58 PM

Burning Lemons

Once your name felt
like 25 year old whiskey,
smoky, warm, seductive,
as it drifted between my lips.

Now, your name leaves
a bitter residue on the edge
of my tongue, as I sit
on this fucking bar stool
slamming shots of Cuervo,
sucking lemon wedges.

When life gives you lemons
you must saturate the trees with gasoline,
light the whole goddamn orchard afire.

Nathan Tompkins

© June, 2018 Five2One Magazine

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry Slam/Share
From: SamStone
Date: 24 Oct 18 - 08:08 PM

vietnam reflections 437

we came to this place
which was our parting of ways
for some of us
it was the end of days
for the rest of us
darkness

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry Slam/Share
From: SamStone
Date: 24 Oct 18 - 08:17 PM

vietnam reflections 440

"ain't no time to grieve
'cuz we gotta leave"
we took him with us
in our hearts and minds
we never left a brother behind
even in death
he is still with me
and always will be
until i have drawn my final breath

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry Slam/Share
From: SamStone
Date: 26 Oct 18 - 10:30 AM

vietnam reflections 417

the baby was still attached to her dead Mother sprawled in a ditch beside a rice paddy. doc separated them as best he could and tied the cord with cotton thread from his kit. the field was close to a VC controlled village we were sent to reconiter north of Da Nang. Lt Jason layed down his weapons and raised the little girl above his head and slowly crossed the field from the treeline into the village. an old Grandmother came jabbering up pushing two raised AKs out of the way and reached for the child and motioned for a younger woman to come take the little one. Grandmother took Jason's hand and walked him back to us at the edge of the treeline fussing all the way. she gave us a toothless grin and waved us away. an order we promptly obeyed. she turned and reversed her course once again scolding and pointing her bony finger at the AKs.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry Slam/Share
From: SamStone
Date: 27 Oct 18 - 03:33 PM

vietnam reflections 435

the enemy has breached the gate
no longer must you wait
to know him
he has been inside you all this time