POETRY

NEW YEAR’S GREETINGS

/ Ken Finton / 2 Comments

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You made it through another year. You lionized another birthday and hoped for many more. You dressed your transgressions in purple robes, tolerated the tolerable, and dreamed another dream. That person that you were last year has passed on to become but a memory. The person you are to be this year is being contemplated as we speak.

I hope you made the proper number of mistakes and hope to make a similar number this coming year. Mistakes mean that we are doing something, perhaps something we have not done before. You are known for your blunders, admired for your accuracy, and vilified for your honesty, as are we all.

Though time flew by, you persevered. Though you did not do it all. you chipped away at it. Say, “Happy new year.” Welcome to the land of beginning again. Keep those thoughts positive, those acts causative, the mind cognitive.

FAILURE

/ Ken Finton / 2 Comments

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FAILURE

I thought we did but we don’t
I thought we would, but we won’t
I thought we could but we can’t
I thought we should but we shan’t

I thought we might but we fight
I thought we sailed, but we railed
I thought we’d bail but we failed
It came to naught and we’re shot

GRANDMA’S HEALTH

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Grandma had a headache, but she treated her brain well by drinking Coca-Cola, and then, as she would tell, she gave some to my father … and he …in turn … to me.  She had her own traditions and she kept them to a tee.

Coke elixir with her liquor. She drank it straight or mixed, ’cause she was the kind of person that liked to see things fixed. She did not total all her tees, she did not shirk her pleasures. She also felt that earthly pain should not become a treasure.

1453664534570-c11When great-grandma had a toothache, Grandma knew just what to do. She bought those cocaine toothache drops and placed them on her tooth. She liked those folky remedies, she liked her living fables that let live her life as clean and right as she was able.

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A LUCKY STRIKE

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For me, it was a Lucky Strike. I found Old Gold in Chester’s Field and fell Pall Mall down the stairs in Phillips Morris’ Place in the hills of Marlboro County. That Old Gold got me elected to Parliament where I Scored Mildly with the Duke of Winston.  I was not in Vogue, though, until the Viceroy and the Duke of Kent, Lord Tareyton, became Players in my club in Newport. That did the trick. This Maverick finally got Max exposure in Hollywood under the LA Lights. It is  Basic fact, life begins at Eve. Let the Camel carry you to the Crossroads. Be Smart and forget Salem. Be Kool.

– L&M

BIRD LIMERICKS

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by Kenneth Harper Finton

COMMORANT
What great black wings has the cormorant.
They even have some out in Oregon.
They used to be rare,
Now they're most everywhere.
They even have some in Cheboygan.



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Consider the hooded merganser
The best-looking bird in the land, sir.
You can tell by his stance
From the very first glance
That he is quite ripe for romance, dear.


A garrulous bird is the redwing.
He sings to you about most everything.
He will send you a tweet
From his sharp pointed beak
No Twitter, no rightwing, no leftwing.
HERON
Consider the black-crowned night heron.
She seems to be so all-aware and
Her glaring red eye,
Has the look of a spy.
At whom is her majesty starin'?
MALLARD
Did you know that the ducks in the barnyard
Most always derive from mallard?
They've a ring 'round the neck,
a bill made to peck
And purple-green heads,
that's what I heard.

[The above are original verses inspired by a limerick from 1912 by Dixon Lanier Merritt seen below.]

peliecan
A wonderful bird is the pelican,
His bill will hold more than his belican,
He can take in his beak
Food enough for a week,
But I'm damned if I see how the helican.
LABORS OF LOVE -AMAZON

THE HOMEWRECKERS

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“They are tearing down my childhood home today,” he said, wishing instead he were already dead. “I should not watch. It is a sad thing to see,” he said, thinking softly of the past, wishing it could forever last.

images-1“I wish I could have done more to save it,” he mused, feeling the blues as it oozed from the news.

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“I ate watermelon at the kitchen table, sweet as summer’s breath,” he said, tasting the juice that his mind reproduced.

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“We had many a memory in that house,” he understated,

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watching as his reality was castrated.

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“I wonder it I was happier back then than now,” he exclaimed, unashamed that he had no fame. “Probably not,” he said to himself, knowing he had not mastered laughter in the face of disaster.

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“Some folk’s homes become museums,” he pondered as his thoughts wandered. “I was never that important,” he concluded, as he brooded.

 

 

 

A SHADY SPOT WHERE I WILL NEVER SIT

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I did not write this caption, but I could have written it. 

I believe in planting trees in whose shade I will never sit.

We would all be happier if we all did this.

The artist within us strives to perfect for perpetuity.

The writer within us knows that most of their words are not read.

The caregivers within us know that their efforts will not be returned.

We know we cannot take our efforts and our concerns with us.

We plant seeds for tomorrow even if tomorrow does not come.

Likely, we would likely go mad if we did not do this.

A good parent is a parent that gives to the future.

The future is about the quality of life of the child and the grandchild.

Yet there are those of us who do not believe in the future.

There are among us those that believe the world is ending.

They believe that the end of time is the will of beings greater than themselves.

There is no factual evidence that their beliefs are correct.

Riches are better than poverty. Wealth provides comfort.

Health is better than illness. It maintains our being.

Contentment is better than depression.

To know something is much better than believing something.

To know is a personal fact. To believe is a personal wish.

And every word I write is a shady spot where I will never sit.

PHONE LIGHT

/ Ken Finton / 1 Comment

©2016 Kenneth Harper Finton

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Her elegant face was lit

by the soft light of her smartphone.

She sat alone on the bar stool on Valentine’s Day

searching for someone or something

she felt she lacked.

Rock music pulsed around her,

but she was not aware of it.

Romance had eluded her.

Why this pretty girl sat alone

in the dim, noisy bar,

her face illuminated by

the white scream of technology,

is unknown.

Perhaps she expected a companion.

Perhaps she was calling check on them.

Perhaps she was catching up on distant friends

she has never met who lived hundreds of miles away.

Like two fish in a dark sea,

she sat on her stool and he passed her by,

not confident enough to disturb her isolation,

too shy to generate an inquisitive introduction.

It’s Up to Me

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Poem from “LABORS OF LOVE” about the loneliness of tasks when suddenly living alone again.

 

 

It’s up to me to pay the rent.

It’s up to me to fix the dents.

It’s up to me to clean the house.

It’s up to me to catch the mouse.

It’s up to me to fix my food.

It’s up to me to chop the wood.

It’s up to me to feel the plants.

It’s up to me to mend my pants.

It’s up to me to drive the truck.

It’s up to me to make my luck.

It’s up to me to mend my socks.

It’s up to me to set the clocks.

It’s up to me to clear my head.

It’s up to me to make the bed.

It’s up to me to make a wish.

It’s up to me to wash my dish.

It’s up to me to rub my ache.

It’s up to me which road to take.

It’s up to me to make my mind.

It’s up to me to schedule time.

So much to do, so little time.

How do you do? It’s up to you.

 

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BITTERSWEET

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by Kenneth Harper Finton

Bitteresweet

 

 

 

 

 

Maybe I am jaded now

or just too old to cry.

All the tears I’ve shed before

Have left my eyes quite dry.

Friends have come and friends have gone, 

how bittersweet is nature.

Work is really never done,

wars are really never won, 

lives are always left undone,

success is never measured.

Blisters used to pain my hands

’til callouses replaced them.

Caring always filled my days,

’til lack of it displaced it.

Friends have come and friends have gone, 

how bittersweet is nature.

Work is really never done,

wars are really never won, 

lives are always left undone,

success is never measured.

Living always pleasured me

and sorrow seldom ailed me,

but Father Time has dried me out

and left no room for wailing.

Friends have come and friends have gone, 

how bittersweet is nature.

Work is really never done,

wars are really never won, 

lives are always left undone,

success is never measured.