We will find the dat when we fall over
To toss ’bout like a turtle on its back.
The pedestrians will stop and gander,
Taking away the dignity that we lack.
Will they hear the beg for a helping hand,
Or will they look for a viral picture
That will help them sell their personal brand
Because they wandered on our exposure?
Do they not understand they will be here
In this sad compromising position
After they start collecting all their years,
Diving in their own foolish transgression?
They will never look up to the top shelf
Because that goes against their honest self.
Tag: Poetry
Cultural Duality
It is hard to balance our heritage
With current religious beliefs we hold.
But how do we forget the ancient age
And the romantic stories it unfolds?
It has been buried deep within the sand,
And we take the time to brush it away.
The monuments revealed are so grand,
We still worship the secrets that they say.
It goes against the most sacred of texts,
But tourists help to make the argument
That the life we will experience next
Will forgive the energy we have spent.
We are troubled by our duality,
But by embracing both, we are set free.
The Mummy
After looking into those closed eyelids
That hold the memories of history,
I think of the secrets that they once hid,
And how they have endured the trickery
That took them out of their burial place
And encased them within this modern tomb.
Visitors forever stare in his face,
Wondering what lesson there are to learn
From his wrapped body and leathery skin;
The curled lips always showing his smile
Of battles he lost and lands he did win.
At one time, he was the king of the Nile;
Now, he lies in a glass sarcophagus
To put on a show for the rest of us.
The Self Appointed Monarch
Why does one generate so much hate
That a person across the vast ocean
Will throw a vicious tirade on the state
Of the world h made on a personal whim?
Does he believe in the mass destruction
Of mankind is something we can sustain?
Does he think economic production
Is better than what relationships gain?
He will sit on top of his mighty throne,
Pissing off an Irish man in a bar,
Thinking his popularity has grown
Since he has not seen the inflicted scar.
We will have to listen to his loud blare
As long as money is our only care.
It Belongs in a Museum?
There’s never been a better collection
That showcases the world’s history.
We will keep it under our protection
In a place that’s easy for us to see.
Any culture will never disappear
Because they have lost their relics of yore;
From this point on, they can find it here
Though the voyage might be a little chore.
We will catalogue every gotten piece
With the story of its discovery;
Its original import lost its lease
When the colonists set its people free.
Don’t call us a group of thieves on the lamb
Because we brought your stuff to our museum.
Another Rainy Day
Sometimes the land turns into a puddle
That we must stomp our thick rubber boots through.
A whisper from our rain-slicker’s cuddle
Keeps us dry from the water the clouds drew
From the wintry coast right down the street.
I can watch the drips coming from my hood,
Making a waterfall down to my feet
That is the start of the path through the wood.
At this downpour, the trees don’t give shelter,
And we will eventually get soaked.
We will live according to the letter
As to what God considered having joked.
They predict the sun will break through the cloud,
But for now, it is the rain that is proud.
Why We Game
Some may only see plastic and cardboard
Bound by a thick, complicated rulebook.
They can’t comprehend why it’s so adored,
But then again they do not really look.
They do not see the shared story unfold,
Brought on by an agreed set of guidelines
As the colorful meeples fight for gold
While evading the engine’s greatest fines.
It brings our laughter from all who attend,
And they do not care if they lose or win
For the only care they have in the end
Was that the tale was able to begin.
So do not bring to us your hate and shame;
Instead, join us for our little board game.
Delayed
We have arrived at the land of the delayed
Where we have joined the herds found at the gate.
All of our travel plans have been frayed,
And I am sure we will arrive a day late.
Still, there is our priest with a microphone,
Preaching a sermon that may give us hope.
It helps to know that we are not alone;
A congregation allows us to cope.
You find us collected in airports
And terminals across this great nation.
Though we may seem, at times, all out of sorts,
We understand each’s indignation.
We ask for safe, timely arrival,
To never again go through this trial.
Fifty
As my brittle bones start to creak and moan,
And my joints pop with every movement,
I stare at the next morning with a groan,
And wonder where this half century went.
I have gained plenty more bathroom visits,
And they seem to take a little longer
Because not ev’rything wants to exit
Though my resolve to do so grows stronger.
The skin around my eyes begins to sag
Because I have to squint to see these words.
To recall my sharp wit takes a long lag
Where the replay comes so late, it’s absurd.
Nobody told me it would be nifty,
The day after I have become fifty.
Happy New Year
Have we accomplished all we wanted to
Before that final ticking of the clock?
What are the burdens we will carry through
That we could not rid ourselves from the stock
That we collected through the course of the year?
Is this something we must really endure
Or should we look for a life full of cheer?
Maybe that is where we will find the cure
To the tiny moments that bring us down.
Maybe we should leave those problems behind.
We do not need to wear that heavy crown,
For to its weight, we did not have to bind.
We can enter the day with a new start,
Taking with us a joyous and free heart.
John Collings 