The Santa Monica Tales

A while ago I had to write an essay that was 1,500 words based on the General Prologue of the Canterbury Tales.

I think it turned out pretty well.

Started Wednesday October 12 @5:29pm 2011 – Ended Tuesday November 1 @ 10:04am 2011

The Santa Monica Tales

Once upon a midnight dreary,
One grim, dim, dark and stormy night
Passengers all worn and weary,
On a Greyhound bus take flight.
The rain came down and thunder crashed
And in his seat all tightly lashed,
The Bus Driver was at the wheel
Flying down roads with gas and steel.
The Passengers their eyes were wide,
And silent mouths, their fears to hide.
To Santa Monica they rode
For jobs and loves and new zip codes.
Ride until the end of the line
And then step off to what they’ll find.

At the front, sitting in his seat
A Hoodie with a long rap sheet.
Starting small, but jobs got bigger
No way back, he pulled that trigger.
Now on the run, and all alone.
He looks far back; how much he’s grown!
A runty kid with zero friends
And now he knows just how it ends.
He could have been a scientist!
A vet! A cop! A bicyclist
Who rode a bike around the world!
From place to place to place he’d twirl.
But on the bus alone he sat,
With blood stained hands and backwards hat.

An Old Grey Mare with wrinkly skin,
She’d climbed aboard, all frail and thin.
‘A honeymoon,’ her ticket read,
Without her groom who’s long since dead.
She stood quite small, with hair of blue,
The dress she wore was hardly new.
Walk by, she did, her seat to find,
Her steps were small; she looked half blind.
Old thick specs hung by a chain,
Around a neck all blue and veined.
She looked so kind, and full of grace
A red tattoo upon her waist.
And on her leg: a faded rose
An angel on her arm did pose
Below her ear were vampire bites
And on her wrist: a band of spikes.
The clothes she wore, if truth be told,
Were once in style (but now she’s old).

A Patriot beside her sat
A beard of grey, all round and fat.
He, too, was old and used a cane
High worn pants and a pill for pain
With hand on heart and reverent eye
He’d watch the troops as they marched by
The anthem he would often sing
Each word within his heart would ring
For all the men whose lives they gave
For land of free and home of brave.
A patriot in whole and part,
Yet with a pain within his heart
A boy too young to join the war
That where his father died before
His brothers, too, of whom he loved
Now all reside in clouds above.
He still awaits his glory days,
But days are short, to turn a phrase.

A Diplomat, in seat behind,
Who went from place to place to find
Someone to bribe or be bribed by.
She’d make them think that she was shy,
Then they’d agree upon her terms
And to their boss they’d each confirm
That they had got the upper hand
A victory party would be planned.
But then, not long, the plan would fail
With many people sent to jail.
The words she’d say, her words exact,
Protect herself from all blowback.
Protect herself and her alone
And not a single friend she’s known.
A Thief, I guess, she could be named,
That many ruined lives would blame.
Some words she’d say, then out the door
Have often almost sparked a war.

Beside her sat an Ugly Girl
Her face would make you wretch and hurl.
She fell out of an Ugly Tree,
And on the way was stung by bees.
A bread-loaf nose and dump truck hair,
She never had to fear from bears.
The bears would run, you understand,
And robins, too, would all crash land.
Despite all this, she’s not alone.
She had a man who was her own.
He was her love, and she was she
Pretty soon, a child makes three.
Twas quite a shock, to say the least,
A living man who’d breed with beast.
But then true love takes all in stride,
And held true beauty deep inside.

A Little Boy sat all alone
Upon his comfy Greyhound throne.
His folks in seats across the aisle
And when they’d fall asleep he’d smile.
He’d pull a book out from his bag.
It was so thick its pages sagged.
“We don’t like when you read that book,”
Had said his folks with dirty looks.
With other kids they’d make him play
Until the sun would end the day.
The other kids were mean to him
And picked him last for teams in Gym.
So deep into his books he turned
From knights and kings his lessons learned.
“It’s going on a shelf so high,”
Said parents to the little guy.
Sat on a shelf for many days
He got it back, (he had his ways)
And now he held his book of rhymes
His book of Once upon a times

A Movie Star nearby did glow
Why on the bus? I do not know.
But she was cute, and thin, and rich
With skin of snow and hair like pitch.
A dress of gold and diamond rings
Her house at home was filled with things.
She’s travelled ’round the world and back
Though personality she lacked.
This short report is not quite fair
But, honestly, there’s not much there.

Sorry if I don’t rhyme like a master
And my rhythm is sometimes off.
Beside me there sat a loud Poetaster
To whom even the kind would scoff.
His voice would grate and ears would ring,
He’d start a rhyme and wreck the thing.
His rhythm, too, was hard to keep
His pitch would switch from high to deep.
When line was lost (along with glory)
I ask-ed him to tell his story.
A word loser and forsaker,
A wandering lone word maker,
With his horr’ble deaf’ning ditties
He’d travel from city to city
But with ev’ry new song’s measure
The man in his dream took pleasure.
If I spoke up, then he would frown.
And who was I to knock dreams down?

A Man in suit and shoes and tie
Who knew exactly how to lie
His pants worth more than this whole bus
And at his friends he’d swear and cuss
But they’d come back, because he’d place
Among the tops in this rat race.
He had the cash, he had the plan,
And also had an even tan.
The world was poor and he’d be king
And in control of everything.
But then one day, the market crashed.
And in one move his dreams were dashed
The suit alone, was all he kept
And late at night (alone) he wept.
Cash all gone, (he’d win it back)
And now a plan he surely lacked
A Scratch-and-Win was in his hand
The big jackpot, he soon will land.

And many rows behind him sat
A Shabby Man with tin foil hat.
Twas caked in dirt and smelled of pee
(Had no access to soap, you see).
Caught in his beard were bits of trash.
His face was stained with soot and ash.
He took the good, he took the bad
He took them both, now all he had
Could fit inside a shopping cart,
But still felt passion in his heart.
Thus popular to those like him.
When he passed they’d stop and grin.
“Could you spare change,” would ask his eyes
To all the passing suits and ties.
From his seat he’d see them nod
To music beats from their iPod.
And quietly his lips would pray
The Lord above to bless their day.

“What did we say about that book?”
Said parents as awoke they shook.
They took away his only toy
The book away from Little Boy.
“Your reading time we now will end.
We’ll give it back when you make friends.”
“They want me to make friends,” he thought.
“Well I’ll make friends, then, with this lot.”
Soon one idea went in his head
He stood up on his seat and said,
“They took away my book of rhyme!
There’s nothing now to pass the time!
‘Cause no one speaks and no one talks
As we all sit in this steel box.
So I suggest a little game
For us to play,” he did exclaim.
“Each in turn a turn we’ll take
To tell a tale for stories sake.
Twas in a book,” he did explain,
“Which used such words like ‘wend’ and ‘wain’
It told of Knights and Wives and Clerks
Each with their own tales and quirks
So now I think we do the same;
We all tell tales and play my game.”

In our seats we sat and stared
Silently, our speech impaired.
The Driver, too, looked back at us
(Though careful not to crash the bus)
The boy sat down, arms crossed and stern
He looked at each of us in turn.
“If you all speak and play my game,
I will NOT cry with loud refrain.”

We looked at each and each to all
And then at him so very small.
A thunder clap and howling gale
Buffeting the bus, they wailed.
The man in tin stood up and smiled,
Took off his hat, his hair all wild,
“I think we’ve made our choice quite clear:
To save ourselves from ringing ears.
So I’ll begin my tale of woe,
Begin my tale, begin like so…”