A mackerel sky fillets a fish scaled village,
an ear clapping, full sailed, fog
moors itself to the rooftops,
then hides all in a breezeless blear.
Rheumy eyes peep out from nets,
damp noses sniff abaft trawling drapes.
Cloth in hand, potbellied proprietors
battle the splatter and spray,
dabbing at mildewed shelves,
warding away slopping waders
and salty puddles.
On the sightless sea
far beyond the shore and shingle,
fog horns are lowing like lost cattle.
Later, misty reeks will be scoured
from groggy docks,
hauling hands will rope together
the tide-tossed salvage
by and by, squeaky boots
may trudge to taprooms
where codgers and callow alike
can be well oiled
and duly quenched.
At the Butter Exchange
Is grand commerce in motion
Yet be under no illusion
Of the merchant’s potion
‘Clip, Clop,’
Go horses’ shoes
On the cobble stones of Lancaster Quay
From nearby office windows
Proprietors observe with glee
The little children of Sunday’s Well
Are taught a well-known adage
That they must hold their balance
Whilst traversing Daly’s Bridge
Great ships unload boxes of tea
Outside the Customs House
Bringing Ceylon’s finest
To the financier’s spouse
When evening strikes
The Savings Bank closes
And across the river
An alderman’s motion proposes
The Corporation tram
Carries the workers to dinner
Their journey brightened
By a passing street singer
Yet throughout the city
Lies an abundance of misery
A reminder of poverty
And economic bewitchery
Images cascade before us
Strolling 'long memory lane
Lithe and supple were we back in those days
Before decades of stresses and strain
I jump high, pluck a leaf from a tree
You twirl about and fall into me
Shops seem so tiny and quaint
Proprietors honest, without taint
We stop at the drugstore for a soda
Seated high atop spin-around stools
Two straws but just one chocolate phosphate
~ Puppy lovers who play by the rules
MS. HATTIE: THE SOUL TOUCHER
Her kindness kindled the soul,
Her sense of dignity and brilliance
Permeated the classroom
Inciting logic and wit
That only a “thinker” could endure
She plunged forth in strident awe as though
Learning about God were all there was to life.
Her smile engulfed the hearts of her students
And evoked an intrigue for enlightenment.
O, the mystery of the Soul Toucher,
How well she proselytized us into believing
that all things were possible to the
“thinker” and the “doer”
She taught with providence
as she subtly glided about our gray matter,
uniting the hemispheres
so as to unite hearts
daring us to become
the sole proprietors of our destinies.
The pet store is a strange location
Where snakes run around legless
They literally run the place
Hissing is a form of foreign communication
Translations come at a cost to life and limb
Discounted by the new proprietors within
Turtles don't speak at all
They mind their business but not the register
The human stretched out on the floor is useless
With two puncture wounds in his neck he looks adorable
Not vampire cute with all that blood and guts
Foaming at the mouth he gurgles “poison poison”
I lay down next to him to whisper in his ear
“Pet meow”...”comprende?”
The new owners hate my racist remarks
Not in so many words but in the hisses
They too do not speak in meow
That shop is down the street
Where they speak English
The Spice Up Your Life Market is quite well hidden
no need to follow the arrow if you just listen
and follow the Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme tune
the proprietors favorite song that fills his market room
The irony is most folks want to go to this market to improve their love lives
and are flabbergasted when they step into a room full of spice
a sign above the door saying "we're spicy but not pricey!"
the customer feigns interest and purchases cinnamon and nutmeg wisely
The proprietor know's this goes on all the time
thank's to his misleading double entendre sign
the wife or girlfriend expecting a sexy gift they can wear in bed
instead they smell like the spices after baking many pies and breads
3-15-18
Duncan Hines
Long before homemade peach clobber
Just after apple pie and before fruit bowl in melon rind
Restaurateur Duncan Hines
Birth in 1880
His dad a confederate soldier
Mother died when he was 4
In his late teens attendance Bowling Green College
Later became a traveling salesman
For a Chicago salesman
Just doin fine
Duncan Hines
later, correlated compiled list turn to book
about locally neighboring restaurants around the country
a book called Adventures in good Eating
Hines wrote and cook mission completed
Ahh! more somethings to eat
Next was Duncan bread
With Durkee bakery proprietors
Later sold to Nebraska Consolidated
ConAgra, Omaha Nebraska
From bread to developing cake mixes
In the early sixties purchased by Proctor and Gamble
Mmm!! boy taste great
Let them eat cake
For a Chicago salesman
Just doin fine
Duncan Hines
At the time
Duncan Hines
12/06/17by James Edward Lee Sr.
School is a super market
the proprietor hires the premises
prepares parking yard for customers
pays exorbitantly in taxes
goods are labeled with prices
customers pick the affordable
no negotiated interactions
sales executives guide and monitor
guards check out security
ensuring no cheating
preventing any shop-lifting
rich clients eat from restaurants
the rest go hungry, thirsty
what customers carry home
is not the concern of proprietors
money must speak
We stage a dazing drama
Impetuously unfolding with scenes
Spelled by our minds and moods
Where all things happen
With the scripts discarded
We watch keenly a curious comedy
Everyone scheming for greased palms
Gone...when the rules were without exceptions
When shady kingpins bow to Justicia
And their sizzling sleaze unraveled
Now justicia sick of sightlessness
And has sold herself for Greek gifts
For the nuts of political juggernauts
We see strange scenes
Consciences sold out for their bellies
Easily welshing on their ideals
Mooching to munch around god-fathers
Who at pleasure push them around like pointless pawns
And who are they not to play their proprietors' tunes
Or dance to their rhythm?
We stage a tangled tale
A show of shame
Mindlessly becoming butts of jokes
Before our curious children
And validating ourselves with laughable excuses
COUNTRY STREAM
Gentle flow and sky blue
With a thatch hut reflected
See a multitude of ducks
And they as good as proprietors
Oh the simple wash of it all
Lazy carefree movement
A country pair stand down stream
Content apparently to do nothing
I would not disturb
My pounding heart though goes where
the stream makes its turn
Where it narrows darkens fades
Where it finds downhill and goes wild!
Dave Austin
The end of another day
came to the Ravelston Estate,
and the workers were again
making their way back from the fields.
And in keeping with the hour,
Lord Andrew and cousin Carla
lied ever so very tired
on two overly stuffed divans.
But we shall not assume
those two eminent proprietors
were in any way afar
from the earth and people
who create their abundant wealth.
They now lied in a small island,
an enclosed and luscious little garden
which was at its most pleasant
at the end of summer days.
Sincere effort they are always giving.
Those guys work hard for a living.
Good service is what their customers demand.
The proprietors wash all laundry by hand.
All of the whites will never look whiter.
Anything with color will never look brighter.
Since they came to this country,
They do their best at the
CHINESE LAUNDRY
A few kids rushed for food;
The seller-proprietors had gone
Away from the ref
Into secret places;
They hid their breathe
From the vagabonds:
The mob in intellect guise!
Food was eaten from the pots;
Those huge canteen pots, full of hotness!
O, water was drank from the taps!
Now, Sir –
The road to the forest of pantology
Received the huge flaming barricade;
It was like that flame
That bore the mark of Cain’s sacrifices:
Roaming across the earth
Evading the sacred faces of heaven –
Then, Sir –
This very road was polluted
By the roaring flame of fire;
Of course, every voice is heard,
Heard in the confusion of Sodom!
This flame burnt beside the gate;
Of course, many faces flashed in terror;
Night arrived in that day,
In this forest of pantology:
The flame and smoke reached
The shrine of old Idemili, the sacred one.
Sir –
More hailstones are hanging
Above the cracked zinc;
More flame may also blaze
On the road polluted by the smoke.