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Post by burke on Jun 17, 2021 19:31:55 GMT -5
This looks like fun. I will post a poem every week. Let's start with on a light note:
On Working I wish that I were idle, And didn’t have to work, I’d sit around the kitchen, And watch the  perk, I’d watch a little T.V., And drink a lot of beer, Wouldn’t shave for days and days, And sleep in without fear, Fishin’ when I had the urge, Now that would be the life, Of course I did forget one thing, My sweet and loving wife. Now we all know that an idle man Is every woman’s curse, And I’m sure within a week or two I’d likely pen another verse, The first few lines might go this way, I’m sure you’ll get my drift. I wish that was working, And didn’t have to toil, I’d sit around the lunchroom, And watch the kettle boil . . .. |
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Post by oldarmybear on Jul 18, 2021 17:29:59 GMT -5
I like this. It is how the world works...
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Post by burke on Aug 21, 2021 18:42:55 GMT -5
Caverns of My Mind
Eyes closed,
No distractions.
I turn inward to probe,
The innermost caverns of my mind.
Excitement reigns,
To finally meet this pen pal
Who sends me scribbled notes,
Sometimes in Greek.
Honeycomb mazes,
Deep, twisting passages,
What insights will spring,
From some dark, recessed corner?
Tangled memories,
Half forgotten projects
Stand cloaked in dusty cobwebs.
What a muddle!
Burke
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Post by oldarmybear on Sept 2, 2021 8:58:02 GMT -5
another good one, thanks for sharing
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Post by burke on Sept 2, 2021 19:20:46 GMT -5
another good one, thanks for sharing Thank you Bear. Here is one of my works based on Robert Service.
THE DEVIL AND VERNON HATLEY
It was half past nine and I was passing the time at the Crystal Palace Saloon,
Mark was tickling the ivories and playing a sad eyed tune,
The swamper was cursing and swinging his mop trying to keep out the rain and the mud,
Vern Hatley was sitting at a table in back in a game of seven-card stud.
Now we all know that lady luck is as ornery and fickle as sin,
One minute you can’t do anything wrong, in a twinkling you just can’t win,
But tonight her love was straight and true, she had eyes for just one man,
Vern Hatley was the lucky stiff who held the winning hand.
I was sipping a beer, giving Rosie a leer, when the stranger bellied up to the bar,
When I took in his tack, he was all dressed in black and had the faint scent of burnt tar;
As he downed his first drink I started to think, something’s wrong and I now I know why,
For though it was pouring outside, I was soaked to the hide, he was as dry as a hangman’s eye.
His nose was too long, had a point to his chin and his hands were slender and fine,
And when he looked in my face I stepped back a pace for his eyes sent a chill down my spine,
They were as cold as the snows that a blue norther blows down from the pass and the hills,
Yet they burned like a fire on a funeral pyre that consumes whatever it wills.
I turned to the pack at a whoop from the back as the noise reached a riotous level,
Hatley pulled in a big pot, he knew he was hot, and remarked, “I could fair beat the devil.”
Now the stranger just smiled or was it a sneer as he strolled over and sat in a chair,
In the still of the room in the gathering gloom I could only stand there and stare,
He said with a grin, “so you think you can win?” Vern’s face became clouded with doubt,
For to play him one hand was his only demand and he intended to see him cleaned out.
“I’ll tell you right now, but I won’t tell you how you’ve dug yourself quite a hole,
For the game’s table stakes and for the difference it makes, for your ante you’ll put up your soul.
Vern was as pale as a man fresh from jail as the first cards started to fall,
With a six in his place and our man with an ace the stranger bet ten, Vern said, “call.”
With four sixes on board the stranger bet his whole hoard and Vern had one foot in the pit,
For though hearts ace, king, queen, ten would bring a smile to most men he had a deuce and a three in his mitt.
Vern sat up real straight aware of his fate, in the distance the faint toll of a bell,
He suddenly grinned and like the rush of the wind said, “I’ll raise you the souls that are in Heaven and Hell,
The stranger stared straight ahead with a horrible dread like a man in a hideous dream,
His eyes were ablaze and from a dark smoky haze he let out a long wailing scream.
I leaped from the floor as he made for the door and followed to see what he’d do,
My hair stood on end and I’ll tell you my friend to his handle I now had a clue,
For the steed that he battled and finally straddled was as black as the blackest night,
And a crackling flame was his tail and mane and his eyes shone a malevolent white.
The demon swung ‘round to see and he looked straight at me, his mouth like a wind blown ember,
And I started to quail when he let out wail, a cry I’ll always remember,
While back at the bar Hatley spoke from afar of nerve, pure luck and brawn,
He turned around slow saying I don’t want to know the last card that I would have drawn.
Now if you ever go where the blue northers blow down from the pass and the hills,
You may see a sight that will fill you with fright and give your spirit the chills,
With flaming eyes and glowing jowls a spectre on a fiery steed,
Wailing with rage mid the shadowy sage against the fates that allowed such a deed,
He’ll be lamenting the time at half past nine at the Crystal Palace saloon,
When Mark was tickling the ivories and playing a sad eyed tune,
And he’ll utter a curse when he remembers the worst, coming out of the rain and the mud,
And having Vern Hatley break his nerve in a game of seven-card stud.
Burke
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Post by oldarmybear on Sept 2, 2021 20:43:50 GMT -5
love it...
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Post by burke on Sept 11, 2021 9:32:00 GMT -5
Growing up we always went up to my grandparents in the summer. They lived in Northern Quebec and it was an all night train ride to get there. I penned this one in 1987.
Going to Grandma Burke’s
When I ponder in these middle years,
On the summers of my distant youth,
I recall the laughter not the tears,
The trusting times, but not the fears.
The field on which we once played ball,
Or walking down to Drummond Road,
For ice cream pies on Sunday nights,
Oh! The joy of playing in the rain,
But, I think the best of all delights,
Was waiting on the Northland train;
Going to Grandma Burke’s
The noon train out from Niagara Falls,
Mom counting heads with, “all aboard,”
We nearly drove her up the wall,
And I still remember the chanted call,
Of “tickets, tickets” as we sped on,
Clinging to those shining rails,
Listening for the engine’s wails,
To Union Station, we found our gate,
It always left from old track eight.
You know we had a four-hour wait;
Going to Grandma Burke’s
We’d wait to hear that echoed voice,
On-tario North-land now boarding,
For Or-illia, Graven-hurst, Brace-bridge,
North-Bay, Rouyn-Noranda, Kapas-kasing,
The line would snake across the floor,
They checked our tickets at the door,
Then up the steps where coaches lay,
With hissing stream they seemed to say,
“Well, get aboard, let’s not delay,
For soon we must be on our way;”
Going to Grandma Burke’s
Rolling through the countryside,
Meadows changed to dull gray rock,
‘Til night would cloak our northward ride.
With faces pressed against the glass,
To see the engine round a curve,
It would always try to hide,
It made me mad, I could have cried.
I once got the window high,
Thrust out my head the prize to spy,
And got a cinder in my eye;
Going to Grandma Burke’s
Swastika in the early dawn,
To catch the eastbound Timmins train,
I always prayed it wouldn’t rain,
And it seems to me it never did.
We threw our bags up in the rack,
And strained to see the first smoke stack,
It was still a couple of hours away,
But I’d keep looking anyway,
For I knew that we were almost there,
And I’d say if someone asked me where;
We’re going to Grandma Burke’s.
Now pondering in these middle years,
Sometimes I can’t hold back the tears,
When I remember grandma’s apple pie,
And getting a cinder in my eye;
Those were the days of childhood fun,
Riding firewood horses in the sun.
When asked what age I’d like to be,
I always say that I’m content,
But I sometimes yearn with a little pain,
To be waiting on the Northland train;
Going to Grandma Burke’s.
Burke
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perk,
