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Morning has broken,
a borning worth mocken.
Warden Sun slurks
up, looking for all the world
l/ lastterm's teabag still on the kitchencounter
of student who spent her summerjob corporatively
manslaughtered.
Splendid morningsafter are Sky
Fawkes's housewarmings of no fixed abode,
but this mildew morning drizzturbs
sans amber clamour, dockwork
orange & aubade-bleed into poetic carparks.  

O aubergine azure!
Lumbers me w/ a langour impure.
Busman's holiday for Helios in Goshen,
unlike Lyartsander fullofwoe & Wednes-grey,
who would choose chota hazri
of vit.d, at least  
a monkey's
wedding, over yet another hyetal heist
of a perfectly fine day.
At chirruped shatter of Tirralira FM,
who was up in a haze
of coffee & tea, smuggled miracle days?

Begrudged continuous miracle, rife
w/ nice lives, but life's
not such a luckyfind, merely
the strife galling forth pluck that
binds lackies to cells
& latchkey legacies. Habitforming titration
to the tritical, the trivyelled
9-5 shadiness, 24/7 extinction,
our most unapish aspirations working their notices. Rats
sinking to the bottom of the ballast dew. Shagnasty
nescafelife, REALInotmycupofTY. Good
Morning Godot Depot Of Affoisted Dusthood!

FYI all jentacular pollyannas,
lastnight I watched a doc or 3 on ******'s pyjamas,
as well as a reality show on the morrisband
from
Broadmoor.
Then News
24 till 4.
Now scooze
me if some
seminal television starring Rowland
Rivron has got me allsentimental on being cynical:
TV listings tomoz promise small hours of cultural miracles.

Summer in the city should be
mongogenic as Mungo Jerry's
'Summer In The City'. It is in a way:
the glaw, it glaweth everyday.But
the sun still lit up a
mole l/ a fox - scintillatingly flinches Jupitertawn,
Jupiter-
fawn.
The Hyades stayedput,
so best return to stertor, study
a gaseous sleeperhold in the sandman's yoga class,
heuristically: carpe diem cras.

Pesky petitbourgeoisie
in their lobrid SUVs
transport portliness to transport
links, once sofas & fruitbowls
relinquish jingly
ignitors. Balance due to the diurnal toxins, the dismal poisons,
the regnant moral obscurity:
the outlook looks bright for those who'd like one
last great fireball
gig, globalised vespertine slagheap
of Kali Yuga. Endgame encore is ongoing
bomb of -yawn - sameold brandnew obnubilant morning.
Black moss and flower pots.
She cometh not, she cometh not.
Lonely and moated,
Rusted nails broken.

Dew with tears,
An hour before sunlight.
Cold winds wake,
A greyish mourn.
Clustered marish-mosses,
Silver green bark.

In a dreamy home.
Among wainscot,
Door hinges creak.
Like a mouse,
She shrieked-
She cometh not, she cometh not.
Rebecca Jan 31
The ocean, consume me.
I hear your call to me like a mother cow to her calf,
A low drawling echo that grows with the hour.
Or the calf to its mother,
you call me home
to suckle on my breast where in it my heart beats.
Drum, drum.
Be still the drums.
Laying deep in dark abyss.
The drums, the drums.
I smell the salty air
It haunts my passage, staining my dress
with crusted, crystallised foam.
Will this heart ne'er be clean?
To be filthied by shame, now unworthy to him
by the sea and what it has done to me.
I wait for you.
You growing pains, you. You wisdom teeth pushing through.
The dust settles in my candle light.
The little white flecks fall together like prancing dandelion seeds
as fragile as children who have been wasted in your hands like white gold,
thrown away.
What they could have been had they fallen to my hands.
Rosey and blue-eyed with marjoram soft hair.
So I wait, breath now freezing with the in and out
steadying as the tide rises.
It calls me to consume me.
Dare I step to it? Submerse my feet within the waves.
One more hour, one more day - tick, tock, tick, tock.
But what if this hour he comes my way?
Descending from heaven, knocking at my gate.
The crash of the ocean against my hull.
Wait, wait, for my life and forever, I will wait.
The ocean, consume me.
A response to Sir John Everett Millais's 1851 painting 'Mariana', Inspired by Alfred Tennyson's 1830 poem 'Mariana' "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"
Lawrence Hall Oct 2018
"The old order changeth, yielding place to new” 1

On that cold night Sir Bedivere looked long
Into the dawnlight where three Queens gold-crowned 2
With Arthur passed at last into the West
And the sun rose, but not upon the King

Then in the silence of the raw new year
A masterless knight turned unto the hills
And after wanderings there took the cowl
And among new faces told the beads of worlds

For us – our old year too is someone’s new
With quiet grace and faith we pass from view


1 This line appears both in “The Coming of Arthur” and in “The Passing of Arthur” in Tennyson’s Idylls of the King, framing the arcing narrative.

2 The three Queens, too, appear in “The Coming of Arthur” and in “The Passing of Arthur.”  They are perhaps symbols of faith, hope, and charity from 1 Corinthians.
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.

My vanity publications are available on amazon.com as bits of dead tree and on Kindle:  The Road to Magdalena, Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play, Lady with a Dead Turtle, Don’t Forget Your Shoes and Grapes, Coffee and a Dead Alligator to Go, and Dispatches from the Colonial Office.
BeckyH Mar 2018
"Cannons to the left of them, cannons to the right",
The boy exhales deeply,twirling dust motes in the light.
His pencil moves laboriously as his notes limp to the end,
And he shifts back from his studies and grimaces at a friend.
The girl gazing along the row admires his boyish face,
The frown lines from thinking have left a shallow trace,
So she whispers across to him that he needs to smile,
And he grins at her and stretches, adds annotations to the pile.
I observe him from the whiteboard,
Feel a rush of maternal pride. Young, strong and full of hope,
The world is open wide.
Then emotion clutches at my throat, sins forefathers have done,
A hundred years ago he'd have been,
In the trenches with my son.
BeckyH Oct 2017
He sat in his chair with his back to the fire,
He deliberately sought to make the air chill,
His hand on the paper lover's pink with desire,
But his method of savagery not lust but the quill.
His starchy stiff collar was tightly ill-fitting,
His shoes chafed his ankles but he did not care,
His breathing was hot in the cool of the evening,
His fingers streaked ink through his long wavy hair.
He scowled at the pen and he frowned at the paper,
The writer accursed his impotent art,
He wrote with great ease those magnificent ballads,
But useless he felt at affairs of the heart.
He rose and he cast all the sheets of fine paper,
Into the fire and he winced at the heat,
He lit up his pipe, eyes smarting at the vapour,
And bitterly cursed this impossible feat.
For who but a fool smitten for a princess,
An admirer for now but soon to be queen,
When he just a poet and a poor one nonetheless,
And dandy Prince Albert just arrived on the scene.
He slouched at his desk and once more made a scribble,
Decided to write the biggest lie he could call,
For who but a fool would believe in such drivel,
“Better to have loved and lost than not loved at all.”
Roo May 2017
I wish I lived in Wayne’s World,
where Wayne and Garth are real.
I wish I had Cassandra’s curls,
and her *** appeal.

I wish I dated Jason Dean,
and coloured him impressed.
I wish I had the killer gene,
but never ever confess.

I wish I went to Ashfield Hospital,
and looked a little on edge.
Explored shutter island in the spittle,
and made the Marshall pledge.

I wish I lived with Yeats,
or in the lonely moated grange,
I wish I danced on table tops,
my body for money,  fair exchange.

I wish reality didn’t exist,
or better yet just me,
all those opportunities would be missed,
and at peace I’d finally be.
A few of my favourite films/poems/poets incorporated into what started off as a uniform poem but soon disintegrated.  (a metaphor for my life)
Dark Fjord Dec 2016
to everyone you risked
with a confidence
to everything your pulse
that has progress

and to a badge of aggression
risk it all with a fidget, i have an
thing for delicate things
a girl in a clutch can push
with a punch or maxims
to each one, she is sweet and mixes well.

a beating of each wing, and with what she does
    swings opent' me
to a few of my favorite things, and such are
angles,  the best fans of heaven!
love 1
Nightingale74 Oct 2015
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
No—
That bard Will has beaten me to it.
Half a league, half a league—
But the Light Brigade gives its thanks
to my Lord Alfred.
I know why the caged bird sings!
Oh wait—
That’s what Maya knows.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood.
I’ll take the road less traveled,
but only cause that’s what Robert said.
What’s left for me to write?
Thoughts swirl in my head,
and out through my pen.
Art has taken written form.
I know what I’ll write.
The world will love it.
I will love it.
And I’ll keep writing,
I’ll keep writing till the sidewalk ends—
Really, Shel?
You had to take that one too?
But no matter…
I’ll show you,
someday.
Mel Harcum Aug 2015
“Half sick of shadows,” cried the Lady of Shalott,
half sick of darkness growing, doorways
twisting, with faces grotesque on yellow wallpaper

and speaking woe in whispers passed
dream-thin through limbs and veins and minds
because a window is a stop sign until

opened, and locks are stitches sewing chapped lips
tense as the web woven, intricate designs
layered vibrant color on a lonely loom in a tower

otherwise lightless, heavy with pressure,
bearing down on the Lady of Shalott and her art--
made up in the image of Camelot.
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