In the village: Bonnets, waistcoats, candy-sticks, Taverns, pickets, (politics,) Schoolhouse, church, Walnut, birch, Fireplace bricks, Very uncomfortable bed, More uncomfortable chair, Book that will never be read, Merely always sitting there, Replica musicians’ perch, From time to time a county’s fair, And (on the table) a wax pear.
From the village: Past the church and unkempt field, Old dirt path and open weald, Graveyard, fenced, Trees to lean against, A place to yield, A moment with the graves, And then the first drops of rain, And then clearly the county paves The road behind, reaps the grain, And burial here has always been pretensed, And then once more the village lane, And (flying overhead) a plane.
Last Edit: Jun 30, 2020 22:22:10 GMT by Salzmank: Changed the title.
I must go down to the sea again, to the vagrant gypsy life…
In the 1950s and 60s in the UK most cinemas would give a movie matinee for the kids every Saturday morning, price 6d. They showed cartoons, Stan & Olly and other shorts, and always one feature movie, usually (but not always) a western with the likes of Roy Rogers and Hoppy Cassidy. One day my memory went back to those matinees and I scribbled down this little ode.
In days back then, when I was ten, Roy Rogers rode the range, just one of many cowpoke men our grand-kids would find strange.
`Spite fleas and heat, the silver treat, would thrill us all with glee. Stampede of feet, sixpence a seat, the Sat`day matinee.
In awe we`d gaze, when six-guns blazed (which never were reloaded), in boulder maze, the bullets grazed, and dynamite exploded.
A quip, a song, a shoot-out long, as outlaws weave and cower. Such raucous fun, as horses run at eighty miles an hour.
From ricochets hot lead spat past, (the baddies always missed) The goodies got their gals at last, but only cissies kissed.
Tom Mix, Lone Ranger (Tonto too), those names from days gone by, Gene Autrey, Hart and Lash Larue, our heroes never die.
The army scout who sloped among the warring redskin`s dance, Old Cassidy who hopped along to sprawling Bar-B ranch.
`Neath fiery sun a masked man dashed (where Spaniards ruled the horde), and white teeth flashed as Zorro slashed graffitti with his sword.
Four-legged friends, so fine and true, like Rin-tin-tin and Rebel, Trigger, Topper, tricks they`d do, and all without a quibble.
Popcorns, nuts and choc-ice bliss (designed to spoil your meals), projectionists mid jeer and hiss, attempt to change the reels,
A swift restore, tumultuous roar, and champions win the day, slick on the draw, defence of law, come sunset, ride away.
That cinematic morning flick, was over all too soon, then came the trick, to get out quick, survive without a wound.
From silv`ry screen, to noon-day scene, we`d barge, sun testing eyes, we`d cock our thumbs, and slap our bums, then charge home western-wise.
There is a particular word, all poets consider absurd. this couplet they say can`t be done in a lay, and in fact it will never be heard. An elegist girlfriend Solange, frustratingly sucked a phalange then let out a curse "An impossible verse... Just can`t find a rhyme for `Orange`"