August 2017 Poems – 31 Daze: “Combo Poem”

Poem 31, and done!

I’d like to take this opportunity to thank all that have contributed to my month-long project of writing poems. Whether it was in offering a word of inspiration to seed a poem, in visiting my website to view a post, or in commenting and sharing the work I’ve created; I appreciate your patience, consideration, and encouragement. This has been a huge personal success and has allowed me to generate strong momentum for other projects that are in my harbor at present. This is an important year for me academically, as I embark upon my Master’s Thesis in Literature and Creative Writing. I’ll be a busy hobbit, but will surely use my blog as a measure for procrastination.

I shamelessly ask for your continued support of my blog, and look forward to offering you fresh content and a slightly different perspective on things. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!

*The poem below is composed of  the 30 words or phrases (all bolded and italicized) that were used as poem titles for the past month. It is a bit of a stretch in some places, but I hope you’ll forgive my indulgences. As I have mentioned before, although I had 30 disparate ideas suggested for this project, we all seemed to keep coming back to our current society and world events as impacted by the election of the 45th President of the United States. Regardless of your political affiliation, I think we can all agree that we are in a very auspicious period of American History, and that there has been a huge shift in how many people view the world. I think it important that we all try to give voice to our experiences as we navigate these events and remember to be kind to each other. At the end of the day, we are all human and can only benefit from the grace provided by the tolerance and patience required of striving for a better world together.

 

 

*August 2017 Poems-31 Daze: “Combo Poem”

 

We are a newly dissident archipelago, adrift on an unknown sea.

The days of cotton candy, ice cream, and sharing are gone.

We’re being force-fed a slippery meal.

Sunshine, perpetually blown up our moist bungee bungs.

We’re being had, by the greatest flim-flam artist of modern times.

The current POTUS is a malevolent behemoth.

His administration is a circuitous circus,

a failed foofaraw.

A cabal of caustic craftsman lacking compassion.

A cattywumpus of calloused care and constant commiseration.

A disheartening Donnybrook of daily disillusioned despotism.

Desiccating durable desert roses,

daring to believe that they can MAGA.

False!

The greatness of our grand experiment resides in the imagination of intelligent people who work hard to sustain fairness, and strive for a better and more perfect union.

The serendipity sought can only come when there is equality for all.

Someone suggested Universal Basic Income in the U.S.

Perhaps, it is more than that?

Bravery and valour are soul mates in the scheme of resistance.

Liberty, is an unrequited love.

It must be paid for, with blood and life,

in the friscalating light of the dawn of a new age.

No one knows better than me.

Because a moron that professes that he is the GOAT,

is not a paper tiger, but an orange buffoon,

that will harm, hurt, and handicap us all.

Grabbing pussy,

and wondering when are we gonna get to some under the shirt stuff?”

drives this black hole.

Self-aggrandizing.

Egotistical narcissism.

The end is near…sometimes,

but perhaps that is how America is made great again,

Rising from the ashes of its hubris after hitting rock bottom.

I offer you out!

Think critically, with empathy and compassion.

Winning freedom is easier than sustaining it.

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“POTUS or Poor Us!”

Poem 30 is for Cousin Jack. Never before, and hopefully never again.

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“Patriotic Sanitation” © C.P. Hickey 2017

 

“POTUS”

Puzzling, puttering, partisan putz.

Painful.

Paternalistic prick pardoning prejudiced police.

Putin pet.

Prattling pariah pushing pedantic palaver, perpetually.

Pushy, pussy paramour.

Proud, portly, pandering peacock, producing prepackaged pageantry.

Possessing petite pygmy palms.

Pugilistic, pestilent, provocateur, preventing, primarily, prohibiting principled press.

Pathetic, perishable presidency, passing precariously.

 

“When are we going to get to some under the shirt stuff?”

Poem 29’s title is a bit of a misnomer, in relation to how I went with it. I suppose you can take it to mean whatever you want, but sometimes you have to work with what is given to you. As I’ve asked friends, acquaintances, and known felons to contribute to my project, there really is no standard or judgment for acceptance. Life is juicy, messy, and full of things we’re told we can’t talk about. I will create with what has been given. So, a phrase like this helps me to see things in another way. I won’t reveal who suggested such a provocative topic, but needless to say it is likely they will not being getting to any under the shirt stuff anytime soon for lack of tact, not lack of trying.

 

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“When are we going to get to some under the shirt stuff?”

 

Backseat salutations to you my date.

Dinner delicious, waiter exemplary.

What next?

Let’s do what we talked about.

It’s dark here and no one is around.

It’s the only place where we can be alone.

 

You are a one.

A picture primed for some magazine.

I envy your beauty.

I want you.

Watching you as you take out your metallic lipstick case.

You twist the tube, and crimson shoots up.

I”m not far behind.

You apply the lipstick.

My lips are wet and shiny.

You take off your stockings and brush them against my leg.

I”ve never been so excited.

The anticipation is killing me.

Your hands are expert,

and your clothes are so delicate.

I can smell your perfume as the articles fall off of you,

and then surround me.

My head is swimming.

No one can see us.

Well, you can see me.

I’ve lost my breath.

I shimmy your stockings up my heels, over my calves,

and they feel tight, but dazzling.

In the rearview mirror,

I catch a glimpse of another woman in the backseat with you.

The lipstick is dried.

You help to apply eye shadow.

I’ve never felt so at one with a stranger.

She’s so close to me.

I never knew.

You remove your bra and slowly harness me.

I have goosebumps.

You are as excited as I am.

I see desire in your eyes,

and feel desire in my heart.

The goosebumps on my arms could read as Braille to a blind man.

What would it say?

It would tell the world that tonight I’m electric.

You pass me your compact,

and I look at a beautiful woman looking back at me.

I see through her, through me, in me.

I’m in love with a secret.

And so happy to share the burden with another soul.

 

 

“Universal Basic Income in the U.S.”

Poem 28 has been a thorn in my side. The concept is something I know little about, and I don’t want to provoke my audience into an all out assault on each other’s sensibilities. So when in doubt, Haiku. To my lifelong friend Brian S., even Rumplestiltskin can’t weave this straw into gold. It just pricks my fahkin fingahs, and hurts wicked bad.

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“Universal Basic Income in the U.S.”

Some folks have nothing.

A few folks have everything.

Let’s divvy it up.

“I offer you out!”

Poem 27 is a day late and a dollar short, as the say. Lifelong friend Kenny H. offered up this next beaut. It goes back to our boyhood trials and tribulations. What those consisted of, I’m not quite sure, but they seemed large at the time. Luckily, life has shown me the humor of the ways of youth. Yes, they were important times full of stretching moments that seemed to last forever. Sometimes, it doesn’t even seem like they really happened. A toast to the fresh faces we were, and the well aged faces we’ve become.

“I offer you out!”

When we were kids,
long, long ago,
and honor was defied.

An offering made,
to incite a bout,
was how we recouped pride.

Gather, gather, all around.
Pugilistic masses.
Schoolyard toughs, and bullies, too,
had plans to kick some asses.

The only recourse for fighting fair,
resided in a challenge.
Showing bravado to all those near,
allowed for lesser carnage.

Mano y mano was the claim,
that rung forth with each fight.
Never really mattered which corner was in the right.

Perceived slights and grievances,
allowed for a blank check.
It all came down to rule of law.
and missing teeth regrets.

The shouting began,
and threats escaped their lips,
“I offer you out! Do you accept?”
“I do, you fuckin shit!”

A time and place agreed upon,
the tension began to build.
The last school bell released the mob,
They marched up Bunker Hill.

Combatants started dancing,
scared to see who was the less.
The crowd jeered each despite themselves,
hoping for bloodshed.

The real meat of the thing,
happened in the shoving.
Hands on chests, elbows pressed,
aggression quickly doubling.

The shirts came off, the nails did carve,
It finally came to blows.
As a matter of course, one punch landed,
and broke a poor soul’s nose.

The crowd moved in, they’ve had enough.
Time’s come to break it up.
One last burst from spent fighters.
And just like that it’s done.

Time has shown, later on,
that the ones exchanging blows,
Weirdly formed a lifelong bond,
Forged in youthful combat throes.