Members
New England
Writer, photographer, burrito advocate. I also write short stories. Check those out here: http://www.booksie.com/whatsurgentsays
Find me where the earth meets the sky
M/Ireland
Jamie Frances Edward Nugent
Poems
SøułSurvivør Sep 2014
Hats [10W]
SøułSurvivør
Sep 2014
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lady lady lady gent gent gent
lady< @>lady gent<@>gent
lady lady lady gent gent gent
ady lady lady gent gent gen
dy lady lady gent gent ge
y lady lady gent gent g
lady lady gent gent
dy lady gent ge
lady gent
I played with my brother's GI Joe.
Is that okay?
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lady lady lady gent gent gent
lady< @>lady gent<@>gent
lady lady lady gent gent gent
ady lady lady gent gent gen
dy lady lady gent gent ge
y lady lady gent gent g
lady lady gent gent
dy lady gent ge
lady gent
I played with my brother's GI Joe.
Is that okay?
SoulSurvivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C) September 24, 2014
You don't need to answer
that question ^_=
Catherine Jarvis
(C) September 24, 2014
You don't need to answer
that question ^_=
Mark Penfold Sep 2018
The Pigeon Gent
Mark Penfold
Sep 2018
The Pigeon Gent,
He woos and coos around the river bent.
Pursues his muse with artful dance and skillful prance,
With inflated neck and ruffled plumage, until his energy or luck is spent.
He then resides by ebbing tides to ponder on his next advance.
"Now Now", "Whats This" the gent exclaims,
A shadow looming from the skies.
With ***** and claps he glides and lands with full surprise,
He spies the intruder, "A fellow Brooder".
Pigeon gent cant believe his eyes.
Pigeon Gent cannot believe the sauce,
The scurge seems intent on taking his prize by force.
At once he knows he must respond,
And force this illbread vagabond to abscond.
At once chest puffed and muscles flexed,
With wild eyes he jabs and pecks.
To teach this ruffian respect,
So on his actions he may later reflect.
He stands his ground both large and proud,
To make example of this foul winged burglar from the clouds.
"You insult me sir" he shouts aloud,
To make his intentions clear for all the crowd.
For several rounds they fight and scuffle.
With intruder retreating, feathers ruffled.
Then bested suiter fairly parted,
The quarrel ends as fast as started.
The vanquished victor displays and grooms,
As peace and honour now resumes.
Soon the ripples upset the green,
An armada of ducks come on the scene.
Alerted by the heightend coos,
They race to see what act insues.
The mighty mallards, Kings of the river,
None contest their right of way.
Their ways of conduct such generous givers.
Majestic river royalty, the law is always what they say.
On bank or shallow pebbled river they have always been,
They love to feed and breed amongst the river scene.
There royal cape made up of browny reds and shimmering greens,
reflects and intejects on mirrored water skies and evergreens.
To their mates for life and lady lovers,
The mallard gent is like no others.
Such loyalties are seldom seen,
In modern times and different dreams.
Fine and lean with striking features,
Best examples of river teachers.
But at any moment no matter how abrubt,
A river duel may easily erupt.
Battle can ensue and rage,
As both apponents approach and engage.
For they mate for life as duck and wife,
A rarity in any age or life.
He woos and coos around the river bent.
Pursues his muse with artful dance and skillful prance,
With inflated neck and ruffled plumage, until his energy or luck is spent.
He then resides by ebbing tides to ponder on his next advance.
"Now Now", "Whats This" the gent exclaims,
A shadow looming from the skies.
With ***** and claps he glides and lands with full surprise,
He spies the intruder, "A fellow Brooder".
Pigeon gent cant believe his eyes.
Pigeon Gent cannot believe the sauce,
The scurge seems intent on taking his prize by force.
At once he knows he must respond,
And force this illbread vagabond to abscond.
At once chest puffed and muscles flexed,
With wild eyes he jabs and pecks.
To teach this ruffian respect,
So on his actions he may later reflect.
He stands his ground both large and proud,
To make example of this foul winged burglar from the clouds.
"You insult me sir" he shouts aloud,
To make his intentions clear for all the crowd.
For several rounds they fight and scuffle.
With intruder retreating, feathers ruffled.
Then bested suiter fairly parted,
The quarrel ends as fast as started.
The vanquished victor displays and grooms,
As peace and honour now resumes.
Soon the ripples upset the green,
An armada of ducks come on the scene.
Alerted by the heightend coos,
They race to see what act insues.
The mighty mallards, Kings of the river,
None contest their right of way.
Their ways of conduct such generous givers.
Majestic river royalty, the law is always what they say.
On bank or shallow pebbled river they have always been,
They love to feed and breed amongst the river scene.
There royal cape made up of browny reds and shimmering greens,
reflects and intejects on mirrored water skies and evergreens.
To their mates for life and lady lovers,
The mallard gent is like no others.
Such loyalties are seldom seen,
In modern times and different dreams.
Fine and lean with striking features,
Best examples of river teachers.
But at any moment no matter how abrubt,
A river duel may easily erupt.
Battle can ensue and rage,
As both apponents approach and engage.
For they mate for life as duck and wife,
A rarity in any age or life.
Richard Riddle Apr 2014
Noah Zane
Richard Riddle
Apr 2014
The store would soon be closing-
it was fifteen to the four-
When the bells began to jingle-
as the old gent came thru the door.
A "dapper" chap with a bowler hat-
a three piece suit, to look his best-
And when he turned, you could see it--
a watch fob, draped across his vest.
With a pale, and wrinkled fist
in his hand, he firmly grasped-
A black, and polished "walking stick",
which added to his class.
He stood there, as if frozen,
poised upon the floor-
As his eyes perused the displays,
neatly placed throughout the store.
"Gentlemen, I would like to see,
your "time pieces" of variety-
Pocket watches, by which they're known,
and since a child, I've always owned."
From his accent, he was English-
with a bit of Scottish brogue-
Perhaps, here on a visit-
or on a trip around the globe.
"Allow me sir," the clerk replied-
to show you all our stock-
"Some pieces are rather old and rare-
and kept under key and lock."
He laid his hat atop a case-
and propped the stick against a wall-
Then began an examination
of those "time pieces", one, and all.
The mantle clocks began to chime-
and a cuckoo came alive-
The old gent seemed astonished-
that his "time piece" noted "five."
"Gentlemen, I must apologize",
showing a little red upon his face,
"But, I'll be back on the 'morrow'
to this fascinating place."
With hat in hand, he placed it-
hiding hair of solid gray-
Then doffed his hat, and smiling-
stepped through the door and walked away.
At closing time, they still weren’t through-
for they all had a job to do-
They had to clean the entire shop-
and each had a choice, broom, or mop?
Shades were drawn across the doors-
as each began their chosen chores,
When one called out, in a voice so thick-
“that old gent forgot his stick!”
There it was, the "stick", often called a "cane",
for their use is much the same-
Standing *****, against the wall,
with a shaft, a half inch thick, and thirty-six tall
But, it was the "hilt", the handle,
also called a "haft”-
That was the perfect compliment
to that "straight and perfect" shaft.
It glistened, and reflected-
and a joy to behold-
For that haft was fashioned
in 18 karat gold.
Oh, it was beautiful, don't you see-
from a pharaoh's treasure, it could be-
How could such a piece be left behind,
a piece so intricately designed?
On many accessories of it's kind-
there is a space, that is designed,
Either on the top, or on the side-
to which a name can be applied.
Ah yes, a person, perhaps someone of fame-
for in old fashion, style, and script,
Was etched the name of
"Noah Zane."
The cane was wrapped in jeweler's cloth,
and placed inside the safe-
For the "old gent" would be returning
to this "fascinating place."
With a sigh, I have to tell you,
tho' sad, but it's a fact-
That "old gent" who had the stick-
he never did come back!
Shops of like were "queried"
both jewelery and the pawn-
And neither hint, nor clue was found-
for that "old gent" was gone.
So, what has come of the "stick",
or "cane" you wish to call?
I'm sitting here looking at it-
for its mounted on my wall.
(Thanks folks, for your patience)
copyright-richard riddle- April 15, 2014
it was fifteen to the four-
When the bells began to jingle-
as the old gent came thru the door.
A "dapper" chap with a bowler hat-
a three piece suit, to look his best-
And when he turned, you could see it--
a watch fob, draped across his vest.
With a pale, and wrinkled fist
in his hand, he firmly grasped-
A black, and polished "walking stick",
which added to his class.
He stood there, as if frozen,
poised upon the floor-
As his eyes perused the displays,
neatly placed throughout the store.
"Gentlemen, I would like to see,
your "time pieces" of variety-
Pocket watches, by which they're known,
and since a child, I've always owned."
From his accent, he was English-
with a bit of Scottish brogue-
Perhaps, here on a visit-
or on a trip around the globe.
"Allow me sir," the clerk replied-
to show you all our stock-
"Some pieces are rather old and rare-
and kept under key and lock."
He laid his hat atop a case-
and propped the stick against a wall-
Then began an examination
of those "time pieces", one, and all.
The mantle clocks began to chime-
and a cuckoo came alive-
The old gent seemed astonished-
that his "time piece" noted "five."
"Gentlemen, I must apologize",
showing a little red upon his face,
"But, I'll be back on the 'morrow'
to this fascinating place."
With hat in hand, he placed it-
hiding hair of solid gray-
Then doffed his hat, and smiling-
stepped through the door and walked away.
At closing time, they still weren’t through-
for they all had a job to do-
They had to clean the entire shop-
and each had a choice, broom, or mop?
Shades were drawn across the doors-
as each began their chosen chores,
When one called out, in a voice so thick-
“that old gent forgot his stick!”
There it was, the "stick", often called a "cane",
for their use is much the same-
Standing *****, against the wall,
with a shaft, a half inch thick, and thirty-six tall
But, it was the "hilt", the handle,
also called a "haft”-
That was the perfect compliment
to that "straight and perfect" shaft.
It glistened, and reflected-
and a joy to behold-
For that haft was fashioned
in 18 karat gold.
Oh, it was beautiful, don't you see-
from a pharaoh's treasure, it could be-
How could such a piece be left behind,
a piece so intricately designed?
On many accessories of it's kind-
there is a space, that is designed,
Either on the top, or on the side-
to which a name can be applied.
Ah yes, a person, perhaps someone of fame-
for in old fashion, style, and script,
Was etched the name of
"Noah Zane."
The cane was wrapped in jeweler's cloth,
and placed inside the safe-
For the "old gent" would be returning
to this "fascinating place."
With a sigh, I have to tell you,
tho' sad, but it's a fact-
That "old gent" who had the stick-
he never did come back!
Shops of like were "queried"
both jewelery and the pawn-
And neither hint, nor clue was found-
for that "old gent" was gone.
So, what has come of the "stick",
or "cane" you wish to call?
I'm sitting here looking at it-
for its mounted on my wall.
(Thanks folks, for your patience)
copyright-richard riddle- April 15, 2014
The walking stick/cane has been in possession of my family
for 83 years. In 1932, San Diego, California, my father was employed as a jeweler/watchmaker, and was working the day the "old gent" visited the store.
for 83 years. In 1932, San Diego, California, my father was employed as a jeweler/watchmaker, and was working the day the "old gent" visited the store.