The Current [New] (28 line poem)

Hey! I wrote this on the bus. Apparently it IS possible to be creative even in an imperfect environment — though admittedly I had to tweak some words over the following couple of days.


We are wading in a steam:
Some near the center
In the rushing current
Bravely standing, stumbling
Sometimes falling
Carried forward

Leaving those behind
Who are in the shallows
Clinging to branches
That reach out protectively
Impeding progress
Safe, but still

Sometimes the current
Overtakes those who embrace it
And dismiss its mad danger —
Only to fall beneath the surface
And never rise again

In the shallows, some relax their grip
And let the current take them
Slow at first, then faster
Alive, joyful
But angry that they waited for so long to let go

Most never leave the shallows
Still holding tight
Or worse, decide to seek
The cold solace of the riverbank
This time, this time
They find it

Possession [Classic] (20 line poem)

Must be ‘Demonic Day’ or something like that. Including this poem, I’ll have posted, within the last two days, 3 pieces about demons and hell.


A name from out of nowhere
A word from ancient lore
Summoning forth memories
That were not there before

The echoes don’t diminish
But fill my empty brain
Extinguish personality
Till nothingness remains

My mind cries out in anger
And then whimpers in fear
I lose control, give up my soul
To thoughts I now can hear

The purpose is apparent
It reeks of evilness
Again I fight, again I fail
Fall victim to the stress

I perform its vile actions
Then with a piercing scream
As the Presence leaves me, wondering
Was it real or just a dream?

Hell is Hell [Classic] (20 line poem)

Every day I relive
The day of my demise
My body from the gallows swings
Beneath still, cloudless skies
Hell is hell

I lived a life of ruthless crime
Throughout the old wild West
At the time I thought what
I was doing was in jest
Hell is hell

Every minute of my life
I vividly regret
I thrust the memories from my mind
But never can forget
Hell is hell

The torment’s indescribable
I wish the hurt were done
I’ve nothing to look forward to
Except more pain to come
Hell is hell

A Day in the Life of Brown The Clown [Classic] (49 line poem)

Finally, Brown makes an entrance. This poem grew from the challenge of two constraints: finding rhymes of vowel-n (-ane, -een, -ine, -own, etc.) and mapping verses to three-hour blocks of time to fill the day. I went as far as to illustrate this whole poem using basic shapes in MS Paint for Windows, then injecting noise to pixilate the result. Having problems finding a copy…

Hey! I found a copy! Look here. Hard to believe that was 10 years ago.


My name is Brown.
I am a clown.
I do my antics upside-down.

And every time I do a show,
I want the people all to know –
My name is Brown;
I am a clown.

I wake at dawn
To mow the lawn
And feed my brother’s favorite fawn.

I cut the grass down in a row;
Then churn it with a garden hoe.
I wake at dawn
To mow the lawn.

From nine to noon,
I sing a tune —
A silly song about the moon.

At times I’m aided by a crow
Who comes along at ten or so.
From nine to noon,
I sing a tune.

By three I’m seen
Out with the Queen,
Who keeps her scepter very clean.

She fills my head with thoughts of woe
By telling me I’m not her beau.
By three I’m seen
Out with the Queen.

Till six I deign
To fly a plane
About the edge of my domain.

I bring the plane down nice and low
Before I yell “Geronimo!”
Till six I deign
To fly a plane.

From six to nine,
It’s time to dine
On figs and capers soaked in brine.

I pay the waiter what I owe,
Then ride home on my buffalo.
From six to nine,
It’s time to dine.

Night finds me prone
And all alone
Upon my comfy bed of stone.

The dreams that through my head do flow
Are of the days that come and go.
Night finds me prone –
And all alone.


Originally, the evening block was this:
‘From six to nine, I’m feeling fine – with several empty jugs of wine.
I ask for more, and answer ‘no’ – but pour another one to go.’
I’ve changed this to make the poem more generally acceptable.

The related change is that I made the waiter look like my dad. He died a couple of years ago, so it’s both memorable and sad to see my representation of him.

2021 NOTE: I’ve been hesitant to move this poem forward (toward publishing) because of the line about Geronimo, and the fear that it is somehow demeaning and/or isn’t politically correct. Searching online now indicates that the US military shouts this when jumping from airplanes as an homage to Geronimo’s brave reputation. This makes me feel OK about using it.

2025 NOTE: My eldest printed out this story as a book — and everyone who reads it really likes it. This makes me interested in moving my children poems/stories forward.

Splice of the Manic-Depressive [Classic] (20 line poem)

Mania
I love the world
The sky so blue above my head
The colors of the splendrous dawn
To live is fun
I’m happy as a man can be

Depression
The world is dead
My life’s a mess, I can’t go on
I want to die
I think I’ll go and get a gun
To take my life away from me

Splice of the Manic-Depressive
I love the world
The world is dead
The sky so blue above my head

My life’s a mess, I can’t go on
The colors of the splendrous dawn

I want to die
To live is fun
I think I’ll go and get a gun

I’m happy as a man can be
To take my life away from me

Death of a Student [Classic] (48 line poem)

This is perhaps the most ‘Alice like’ of my longer poems that I plan to include in my Alice-like narrative that connects my longer poems. As I’ve mentioned, the characters in the poems would become characters in the connecting story, with the Student from this poem being the main protagonist in the larger story, and the Teacher from this poem being the main antagonist.

In my mind, this takes place in an old schoolhouse full of boys — before girls were part of mainstream education. To make it more modern and approachable, I probably need to have some of the students be girls — even quite likely the main protagonist — which may require some wording tweaks to the poem.

NEW NOTE: My son recently used AI to movie-ize this poem. Link here: http://tomlewczyk.me/DOS.mov.


“Three times three,” the Teacher said;
“Plus three times three,” He cried!
“Makes six times three,” a Student said;
And with those words, He died.

“Correct,” was all the Teacher said,
And looking rather glum,
He wondered how the answer could
Have come to One so dumb.

The teacher searched His memory —
“Six apples minus three,
“Plus four more apples added next,
“How many will there be?”

“Seven, Sir,” a small Voice said,
But Most stared in dismay
At First Boy slumped down in His chair
As Second passed away.

“Again correct,” the Teacher sighed;
Another question spew
As steady rage within Him built —
“What’s thirty minus two?”

Reluctant Students squirmed in shame;
All feared this certain death.
But Someone stammered “Twenty eight,”
And breathed His final breath.

By now, the Teacher’s face was red;
He spat a muffled curse;
He thought of answers and of deaths,
Not knowing which were worse.

But then the Teacher saw the truth
Though not the How nor Why —
That All who answered what He asked
Were instantly to die.

He brought forth question after next,
‘Til finally, He tired.
That left Him there with only One;
The Others had expired.

“I’m God!” He thought, “I rule the world!”
He eyed the single Child.
He leered, He sneered, He showed His teeth.
The Other only smiled.

He delved into His inner mind,
To find His very best,
To finish-off this Hanger-on,
To put Him to the test.

The Teacher shuffled, sorted, thought,
At last came up with one.
“Am I sure?” He asked Himself…
“Indeed,” and He was done.


2021 comments:

  • I’ve reverted some wording back to how it was originally written. Slight changes, but I’m prioritizing the ‘flow’ more than the exact words.
  • Reading this over now, I’m thinking that MAYBE the poem needs another stanza near the end. It might wrap up too quickly, given the relatively long and wordy progression toward the final conflict.

Backwards [Classic] (20 line poem)

Decades ago, folk singer Steve Goodman released the song Talk Backwards (link) describing a fictitious trend where people were switching to speaking words and sentences backwards. The concept inspired this poem (which I wrote in the 1980’s when Reagan was president) which describes one man’s struggles adjusting to this new speaking convention. The poem is naughty (concepts, language), and not politically correct. Apologies in advance to the thin-skinned. 🙁 


Since the country switched to Backwards
I think I’ve had enough
My lady tailor slapped me
When I asked her for a cuff

I set a bad example
Saying mad dog like I did
My secretary left me
When I bragged about my kid

Reagan got me beaten
By this black guy I had met
I said I loved his rhythm
And he answered with a threat

When I said egg, these fairy-fellers
Chased me from the bus
I hollered back: Their fathers
Must have taught them how to cuss

But two things keep me going
As I struggle with this shit
A boob is still a boob
And a tit is still a tit


At the time, I had seriously considered sending this into Playboy magazine — and equivalent competitors — for potential publication. They definitely publish crap like this in their magazine — not that anyone reads the words. 😉

Badger Name of Tyler [Classic] (20 line poem)

Even my silly poems have gruesome endings.


Came a badger name of Tyler
be a-knockin’ at the door.
Sellin’ brushes from the marshes
he be scrubbin’ on the floor.

Dumps a bushel full of garbage
to be showin’ how they work.
Bendin’ over pail of water
he be scrubbin’ until dark.

He be done in half a minute
he be sayin’ as he goes.
I can tell he be a-lyin’
by the growin’ of his nose.

Comes the Missus from the kitchen
seein’ badger, brush, and pail,
Garbage soakin’ into carpet
she can’t help but start to wail.

Grabs the shotgun from the closet,
shoots the badger in the head.
Takes the body to the kitchen…
Badger soup and homemade bread.

Strange [Classic] (14 line poem)

Since today is ‘brother day’ [I posted some riddles written with another brother here], below is a poem written with my brother Rob when we were both quite young — early teens? pre-teens?

Silly is good. Weebles, if you don’t know, are toys from my youth [link]


the untiring sound of scraping your dog
the wonderful feel of bumps on a log
the pleasant aroma of reheated gloves
the inflatable raft of your only true love
bowling balls marching from here to Siam
the congested sinus of Lizzie the lamb
the rhythmic laughter of Weebles at play
the croak of a needle that’s lost in the hay
the hum of a hummingbird not told the words
the triumphant bugle of elephant birds
the innocent fungus infesting the crown
the munching of Freetos to Sweet Georgia Brown
the puckered-up thumbprint from sucking your thumb
the end of this poem most surely has come

Starlight [New] (12 line poem)

This was inspired by watching my lovely wife at the Russian River yesterday. I had lots of problems with this poem because none of the verses wanted to be like the others — I still have a long/extra line in the second verse that refuses to go away. Plus there were fish and slow moving animals in an earlier draft of the poem — but they kindly agreed to leave and await some future opportunity to help out.


She rises golden from the water
The current cradles her memory
Her name echoes in the depths
And is whispered in the shallows

She moves with grace through nature
Which is bettered by her presence
…..and depleted by her passing
The animals bow down
And stand silent once she’s gone

She is Artemis, Athena
She is Helen bathed in starlight
She’s the west wind from the desert
Bringing promise, bringing change