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Eastbound sundown on the I-84, the sun in my mirrors.
I imagine standing on the beach in Klamath
watching it say good morning to the other side of the world
with the girl of my dreams cradled in my arms asleep.
But the land here is different, the grass is dead
and that girl doesn’t escape my thoughts.
She stays in there, waiting for me to fall asleep
so I can hold her again in the darkness for a few minutes.

Pocatello to the left, Ogden to the right,
where is it I should go tonight?
I heard of an Aberdeen near here, a home away from home.
Maybe it looks the same as the Aberdeen I know.
I move into the left lane, the fast one if you’d believe,
because here in America everything’s the wrong way around.
Last chance now to change my mind, final call for Ogden.
The slip-road passes by me and joins another highway
that seems to ascend into the horizon and disappear completely.

The landscape here is unbearably flat,
I feel myself longing for just the slightest rise or fall,
let myself feel the curvature of the world ever so slightly.
There is a hill on my right that looks just like my Bennachie,
rising sharply to a peak then slowly flattening out
until it joins the inescapable flatness of this country.
Raft River, American Falls, Pocatello,
fourteen, thirty-seven, fifty-eight.
Many miles to go before I can sleep,
many more miles to go until I am home.
Sixteen miles just to the next rest area.

I wanted to drive around Raft River
but I couldn’t see it from the road
and I didn’t know how far it was to Aberdeen.
What looked like a diner was by the road on the right.
The dust swirled up around the solitary pickup parked outside,
the owner looking like the guy in Nighthawks with his back to me.
There was no fancy couple there,
just him on his lonesome in Idaho alone.

Exit 36 points me in the direction of American Falls and Rockland.
This was where I was told to turn off at.
The slip road rose up towards the next road, and it felt wonderful,
finally feeling like I was actually going somewhere,
The signpost at the top of the rise
shows me the way to go to Aberdeen.
Left I go, to American Falls.

Through the city I drove, trailers and bungalows together.
There were big trees in the front and back yards
but they were not too dense that they looked unseemly,
in fact, they added character and life in this place.
A cat darted across the road, waking me up,
warning me not to keep my eyes off the road too much.

The end of the road, stop sign, no others giving me direction.
To the left, the road went around another corner
to go back in the direction I came from.
I took to the right and followed the road,
trees and houses on my right, wasteland to my left.
I went over a crossroads and stopped at the next,
exasperated at the lack of signposts.
I parked next to a long bungalow
with a red-painted ramp going up to the door.
An old woman wearing an apron covered in flour answered,
and she found my accent pleasing
when I asked her the directions to Aberdeen.
She offered me a cookie, and I accepted,
I hadn’t had food since I left Oregon
even though she said I was not far from Aberdeen.

We said our goodbyes and I turned left,
continuing on a road that curved to the right
and through a well-manicured little park.
It was unusual seeing grass this green,
having been offered greys and yellows
for most of my journey in Idaho.
I turned left at the police station then left again.
A large body of water, Snake River I think it was called.
It’s hard to call it a river, more like a lake,
the water the same shade as the lochs back home.

After a few miles, I make it to Aberdeen,
the signpost informing me the population is just over a thousand.
I have a feeling this Aberdeen will be different to mine.
The houses here are so small, but they have good gardens.
There is a warehouse with potatoes inside it.
I am a long way from home tonight.
I can’t find a motel, so I stop at a bungalow covered in windows.
A ***** gold pickup sits outside.
I knock on the front door, which is on the side,
because this is America and everything’s the wrong way around,
and a middle-aged man wearing a mullet
and a Phish tank top answers.
He invites me in and says I can stay as long as I need,
offering me food and beer and company.
They people here are nice, much friendlier than the old Aberdeen.
I like this new Aberdeen, it feels like a home already.

I dreamed well that night, the girl in my arms,
sitting by Snake River, watching it flow,
carrying away all my troubles.
Colm Jul 2016
Pouring rain,
Heavy hearts,
Human minds.

Falling down,
I remind,
You of me.

Puddling,
In the streets,
Of Aberdeen.

Scottish eyes,
Over me,
The North Sea.

Split apart,
Come to meet,
Locally.

Heavy clouds,
Pouring in,
Out of me.

Would you ever,
Meet with me,
In Aberdeen?

Be as one,
We would be,
Don and Dee.
Real place - Can't wait - I wish :D
twas a most disturbing scene
in a kitchen at Aberdeen
the details are too horrific
to disclose
let's say this
and this alone
the forensic team
had to ladle some bone
bits of dermis
were scattered around
the kitchen compound

the wife had done the deed
she'd disposed of her husband
who was a bad seed

he'd been thumping and slapping
her around
knocking her with force
to the ground
she'd contended
with his rough house treatment
for far too long
so she decided
to right his wrong

she's in prison
doing time
but it is her husband
who now tows the line

domestic violence
did him no favors

a woman was pushed
one too many times
in a kitchen at Aberdeen
gruesome was the crime
This poem is based on a true story.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2018
the earth is curved - sure y’all knew that.  
but to get to the Northwest,
Interstate 84
ain’t le route plus directe

nope curve north to Ontario,
wave to Bex as I cross over
London and Toronto, also can’t recall
which poet from Rochester hails,
or did they shuffle off to Buffalo?

Crossing Erie, Huron, and Michigan Great Lakes all,
brings to mind
my mother’s birthplace,
Last of the Mohicans,
and the three years I did in the Cleveland Penitentiary,
where sun was illegal and baseball was a pretend play
of cowboys and Indians
but by god, it made me
the penitent fella I am today

Look skyward to Montreal,
yes, there he is, the Leo Priest,
the baffled king,
blessing this poetic meet ‘n greet trip
with a smiling unsurprising
hallelujah

Apparently some US citizens still can traverse O Canada,
even if one forgot their passports,
and are not PNG’s (Persons Not so GREAT)

over Minneapolis shed a tear for Diane,
a poet- gone-missing, and wonder if you reader come from
St. Cloud, Fargo or Duluth, Bismarck or Aberdeen,
surely they still speak poetic English there
in a twangy metering methodology  - well, message me asap

wow there really is a Saskatoon!

the pilot asks us to lean left in our seats
to help turn the plane
so we go to Portland and not to Vancouver...
me thinks he might be a touch Rockie Mountain High,
considering we are at 30 thousand something Imperial,
as he walks the main cabin with an oxygen mask and a
huuuuuge grin

see the distant Cascades
through a crack in the shuttered windows,
must be close to “the coast”
(as if, harrumph, there were but one)

ah, words in the clouds, ripe for the plucking
must be getting close to Oregon,
where poets grow on trees, woody words like ****,
and log-float poems down the Columbia to the sea

gonna drink me some poets
under the table cause this
trip I ain’t no driving and I am already
“flying” ‘n scribing and arriving
on a high tide and a good wind
Mike H Oct 2012
I walk down to the quayside,
past the Pure Gym fitness centre's
plate glass window.
There is a phalanx of treadmills
facing the glass,
populated by women
running nowhere,
an image of futility,
trapped like flies at a window,
determined and doomed.

The fitness centre looks out
at the huge boats
that work North Sea
between the oil fields and the fishing grounds:

The Olympic Commander,
Normand Aurora,
Skandi Caledonia,
Helliar.

On the high decks,
men in yellow oilskins
lean over the ship rail
and watch the women run.

For a moment I stand
between them, the earnest women,
the wistful men,
feeling for both but belonging with neither.

The sun is low in the sky,
and there's an Arctic bite
to the wind.
I pull up my collar,
and hurry into veins
of the granite city.
Kelley A Vinal Mar 2015
The water's edge is near to me
With rolled-up sleeves
This tranquil breeze
I'm bringing bookshelves in with me
It's Aberdeen
It's never-seen
Nigel Morgan Nov 2013
Think of an imagined orchestra. But there is no resonance hereabouts, so the imagination gives next to nothing for your efforts, and even in surround-sound there’s so little to reflect the dimensions of the space your walking inhabits. Sea hardly counts, having its constant companionship with wind, and sand hills absorb the footfall. A shout dies here before the breath has left the lungs.

Listen, there is a vague twittering of wading birds flocked far out on the sand. The sea rolls and breaks a rhythmic swell into surf. There’s a little wind to rustle the ammophila and only the slight undefined noise of our bodies moving in this strip between land and sea. Nowhere here can sound be enclosed except within the self. There’s a kind of breathing going on, and much like our own, it has to be listened for with a keen attention.

There is such a confusion of shapes making detail difficult to gather in, even to focus upon, and to attempt an imagined orchestration – impossible. We’ll have to wait for the camera’s catch, its cargo to be brought to the back-lit screen. Once there it seems hardly a glimmer of what we thought we saw, what we ‘snapped’ in an instant. It’s too detached, too flat. So thankfully you sketch, and I feel the pen draw shapes into your fingers and their moving, willing hand. On your sketchbook’s page the image breathes and lives.

You can’t sketch music this way because the mark made buries itself in a network that seems to defy with its complexity any image set before you. Time’s like that. You end up with a long low pitch, pulsating; a grumbling sound rich in sliding harmonics. You see, landscape does not beget melody or even structure and form, only tiny, pebbled pockets of random sound. Here, there is no belonging of music. Only the built space can adequately house music’s home. We might ****** a few seconds of the sea’s turn and wash, a bird’s cry, the rub and clatter of boot on stone, and later bring it back to a timeline of digital audio and be ‘musical’ with it, or not.

Where we hold music to landscape is something we are told just happens to be so; it is the interpretation’s (and the interpreter’s) will and whim. It is an illusion. The Lark Ascends in a Norfolk field. We hear, but rarely see, this almost stationary bird high in the morning air. We can only imagine the lark’s eye view, but we know the story, the poem, the context, so our imagination learns to supply the rest.

What is taken then to be taken back? On this November beach, on this mild, windless afternoon,. Am I collecting, preparing, and easing the mind, un-complicating mental space, or unravelling past thoughts and former plans? I can then imagine sitting at a table, a table before a window, a window before a garden, and beyond the garden (through the window) there’s a distant vista of the sea where the sun glistens (it is early morning), and there too in the bright sky remains a vestige of a night’s drama of clouds. But today we shall not put music to picture from a camera’s contents, from any flat and lifeless image.

Instead there seem to be present thoughts alive in this ancient coastline, abandoned here the necessary industry of living, the once ceaseless business of daily life. Instead of the hand to mouth existence governed by the herring, the course strip farming below the castle, the herds of dark cattle, the possible pigs, some wandering sheep, seabirds and their eggs for the ***, the gathering of seaweed, the foraging for fuel: there is a closing down for winter because the visitors are few. We need the rest they say, to regroup, paint the ceilings, freshen up the shop, strengthen the fences, have time away from the relentlessness of accommodating and being accommodating. Only the smell of smoking the herring remains from the distant past – but now such kippering is for Fortnums.

We step out across and down and up the coastal strip: an afternoon and its following morning;  a few miles walking, nothing serious, but moving here and there, taking it in, as much as we can. We fill ourselves to the brim with what’s here and now. The past is never far away: in just living memory there was a subsistence life of the herring fishers and the itinerant fisher folk who followed the herring from Aberdeen to Plymouth. Now there are empty holiday lets, retirement properties and most who live here service the visitors. Prime cattle graze, birds are reserved, caravans park next to a floodlit hotel and its gourmet restaurant. There’s even a poet here somewhere - sitting on a rock like a siren with a lovely smile.

Colours: dull greens now, wind-washed-out browns, out and above the sea confusions of grey and black stone, floating skeins of orange sands and the haunting, restless skies. Far distant into the west hills are sculpted by low-flying clouds resting in the mild air. Wind turbines step out across the middle distance, but today their sails are stationary. As the bay curves a settlement of wooden huts, painted chalets then the grey steep roofed houses of stone, grey and hard against the sea.

Does music come out of all this? What appears? What sounds? What is sounding in me? There is nothing stationary here to hang on to because even on this mild day there is constant change. Look up, around, adjust the viewpoint. There’s another highlight from the sky’s palette reflecting in the estuary water, always too various and complex to remember.

Music comes out of nothing but what you build it upon. It holds the potential for going beyond arrangements of notes. Pieces become buildings, layers in thought. My only landscape music to date begins with a formal processional, a march, and a gradually broadening out of tonality the close-knit chromatic to the open-eared pentatonic. There’s a steady stream of pitches that do not repeat or recur or return on themselves, as so much music needs to do to appease our memory.

In this landscape there seem only sharp points of dissonance. I hear lonely, disembodied pitches, uncomfortable sounds that are pinned to the past. The land, its topography as a score grasping the exterior, lies in multi-dimensional space, sound in being, a joining of points where there is no correlation. There’s a map and directions and a flow of time: it starts here and ends there, and so little remains for the memory.

Yet, this location remains. We walked it and saw it fortunately for a brief time in an uninhabited state. We were alone with it. We looked at this land as it meets the sea, and I saw it as a map on which to place complexes of sound, intensities even,. But how to meet the musical utterance that claims connection? It is a layering of complexes between silences, between the steady step, the stop and view. There is perhaps a hierarchy of landscape objects: the curve of the bay, the sandhills’ sweep, the layerings of sand, and in the pools and channels of this slight river that divides this beach flocks of birds.

Music is such an intense structure, so bound together, invested with proportions so exact and yet weighed down by tone, the sounding, vibrating string, the column of air broken by the valve and key, the attack and release of the hammered string. But there is also the voice, and voices are able to sound and carry their own resonance . . .

. . . and he realised that was where these long drawn out thoughts, this short diary of reflection, had been leading. He would sit quietly in contemplation of it all and work towards a web of words. He would let their rhythms and sounds come together in a map, as a map of their precious, shared time moving between the land and the sea, the sea and the land.
cammy jude Feb 2014
I may have made a mistake when I fell in love. Your life is perfect and it’s filled with perfect mountains and forests and the grass grows tall and the rain lasts so long and the sound gives you perfect dreams. You are like the trees. Unbearably defying gravity no matter how the wind blows on your limbs, your leaves never let go. I aspire to live that way. My arms lick at the sky, and I shut my eyes because it’s too bright. I try to reach for something, and black reaches back for me. My hands are filled with ash. I’ve tried too hard for too long. Like the harder I push, the bigger the disaster. And the wind only makes it faster. I’m out of control, I’ve lost all meaning. Maybe I was light to you, maybe I was nothing. Maybe you could never love me. Maybe I’ll ruin everything. I must be a monster, because of how people look afraid and I’m afraid I’ve overstayed my welcome. I can leave quietly, I can stop breathing. I’ll do this for you, or so it would seam. I’m nothing more than Aberdeen. I may have left a few scars on stones and water turned to steam.
Because I am like fire, and you like the trees.
mandy rigby Oct 2014
please give to me a proper job
otherwise I'm on the rob
me tummy hearts n me eyes are poppin
as around the shop i go hoppin
gonna steal new shoes, leave the old ones behind
security .... I'll blow ya mind
aberdeen angus, 21 day steak
come on tesco's give me a break
gonna nick whiskey, and fine wine
I'll be popular come tea time
gonna get the dress of my dreams
a vivien westwood, with tailored seams
lingerie, make up, and perfume
i'll get some attention .. in my living room

(c) msrigs 07/10/2014
Sentosa Mam Sep 2012
without a touch
without words,
a kiss without a breath

****** expressions.
whispers.
moans.
i hear you next to me;
touches on my skin,
steal my heart
and ill appeal to you with lust

without a touch
without words,
a kiss without a breath
I
This is the night mail crossing the Border,
Bringing the cheque and the postal order,

Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,
The shop at the corner, the girl next door.

Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:
The gradient's against her, but she's on time.

Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder
Shovelling white steam over her shoulder,

Snorting noisily as she passes
Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.

Birds turn their heads as she approaches,
Stare from bushes at her blank-faced coaches.

Sheep-dogs cannot turn her course;
They slumber on with paws across.

In the farm she passes no one wakes,
But a jug in a bedroom gently shakes.

II
Dawn freshens, Her climb is done.
Down towards Glasgow she descends,
Towards the steam tugs yelping down a glade of cranes
Towards the fields of apparatus, the furnaces
Set on the dark plain like gigantic chessmen.
All Scotland waits for her:
In dark glens, beside pale-green lochs
Men long for news.

III
Letters of thanks, letters from banks,
Letters of joy from girl and boy,
Receipted bills and invitations
To inspect new stock or to visit relations,
And applications for situations,
And timid lovers' declarations,
And gossip, gossip from all the nations,
News circumstantial, news financial,
Letters with holiday snaps to enlarge in,
Letters with faces scrawled on the margin,
Letters from uncles, cousins, and aunts,
Letters to Scotland from the South of France,
Letters of condolence to Highlands and Lowlands
Written on paper of every hue,
The pink, the violet, the white and the blue,
The chatty, the catty, the boring, the adoring,
The cold and official and the heart's outpouring,
Clever, stupid, short and long,
The typed and the printed and the spelt all wrong.

IV
Thousands are still asleep,
Dreaming of terrifying monsters
Or of friendly tea beside the band in Cranston's or Crawford's:

Asleep in working Glasgow, asleep in well-set Edinburgh,
Asleep in granite Aberdeen,
They continue their dreams,
But shall wake soon and hope for letters,
And none will hear the postman's knock
Without a quickening of the heart,
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?
Lunar Vacancy Sep 2017
i am comforted by love poems,
they wrap around me like a sheet.  
they wake me in a sweaty blur,
they kiss my hands and feet.  
green.
deeply truly green
lips that taste of coffee and
sweet Aberdeen.
NJ McGourty Dec 2012
I
In a land of myths, from the jaded isle,
Great stories are told of the brave and the guile.
But no legend of druids, of hags or ghouls,
Can compare to that of our own Fionn McCool.
In the province of Ulster, before armalite,
There lived a race of warriors who knew how to fight.
And who was their leader? The fiercest of the feared?
Of course it was Fionn! With his glorious ginger beard.
He had arms like a gorilla, at an impressive 8 feet,
And lived on a diet of very rare meat.
He drank only water he squeezed from stone,
And discovered 47 uses for human bone.
It was his giant strength that brought McCool his fame,
In kingdoms far and wide people knew his name.
But what was less renowned was his mental might.
Aul Fionn had towering intellect and wit to match his height.

II
When news of Fionn's exploits reached a pub in Aberdeen,
A mammoth figure emerged from the pungent, men’s latrine.
The patrons gave a shudder as it stooped through the door,
“O...One more Ben?” stuttered the barman as his **** reached the floor.
The giant gave a shout and wretched a toilet door aloft,
“Who scrieved this scaffy drawin, sayin that I’m soft?”
Silence gripped the bar as the men examined with horror,
A crude etching of Fionn McCool thrashing Benandonner.
The men remained mute, as the giant turned carmine,
“You think this Fionn boyo’s tough, I’ll carve out his spine!”
And so the giant departed, making his way west,
But not before he slaughtered the group and downed the drinks they left.

III
A roaring voice came through the mist and reached our own Fionn’s ear,
But when he reached the Antrim coast, he near ****** himself with fear
Seeing Ben on Scotland’s edge, throwing boulders to the sea,
“I’ll turn yer lungs to bagpipes! Ye feeble wee beastie!”
Fionn trembled before the monster, twice as big as he,
With a chest as wide as a trawler and biceps thick as trees.
Now Fionn was not a coward but nor was he a fool,
As the rocks formed a bridge he saw ‘the late Fionn McCool.’
And so he sparked a plan to deceive the creature,
A plot in which his wisdom and his wife would feature.
Running to his house he rushed to build a crib,
And dressed as an infant to complete the fib.

IV
With the last stone in place, Ben crossed the sea,
With ‘murrrdur’ in his heart, his eyes mad with hateful glee.
He crouched to enter the house after kicking through the door,
Grabbing Oonagh in his hand, “Now where’s yer husband *****?!”
Fionn’s wife was calm as he held her off the ground,
But wretched as she smelt the breath of a gum-diseased hound.
“He’ll return soon,” she said as the shoes fell off her feet.
“but put me down and while you wait I’ll fix you something to eat”
While Oonagh was in the kitchen, Big Ben released a smirk,
“From the size of his wife, killing McCool won’t be much work.”
Oonagh lead the deception, returning with some cake.
But had placed rocks in the batter, before she’d begun to bake.
Benadonner was surprised, when he took his first bite,
He reached into his mouth and removed a pearly white.
Not wanting to seem weak, by refusing a McCool snack,
The giant continued to eat the stones until all his teeth had cracked.

V
Gumming back a sob, the brute looked around,
He spied the crib in the corner, and was disturbed by what he found.
A child sleeping soundly, but of such monstrous size,
Ben, now blind with tears was fooled by Fionn’s disguise.
Coughing to hide his alarm, the Scottish giant inquired.
“Is Fionn McCool the man, to whom this weeun is sired?”
Oonagh laughed and replied, “He’s his father’s son, no doubt.”
“Sure I remember he was six foot four when I popped him out.”
Now the Scot started sweating, THE BABY WAS FECKIN TITANIC!
When he imagined the father’s size the goliath began to panic.
He ran from the house, kilt flapping in the wind,
As McCool watched from his window, he kissed his wife and grinned.

VI
While Ben crossed the bridge, he dismantled his creation,
To ensure the ****** couldn’t follow, he divorced the nations.
Now centuries later, if you need proof today,
The remains of Ben’s bridge is called the Giant’s Causeway.
Victoria Kiely Jan 2014
It was midday in London on an afternoon of early spring. The streets were flooded with equal parts rainwater and people as everybody rushed through their busy lives. People easily forgot to look up, and often failed to notice the change in scenery as the bus sped along.
He occupied two seats on a lonely street car travelling down Aberdeen. One seat held him tightly to the window that was to his left, the other was taken by his various possessions. With him, he carried his black, customary briefcase, his dripping umbrella that tied just below the halfway point, and the large tan trunk he had collected from the antique shop. They sat stacked on top of one another with the trunk serving as a base for the structure. Each time the street car emitted the gentle thud that accompanied the many bumps from the *** holes, he felt tense as he readied himself to catch the old umbrella.
His hair hung down to the side, dripping slowly from the rain into his eyes, and progressively further down his face. Hands shaking, lips blue, he looked down at his shoes. The holes were visible but unnoticeable. Slicks of water formed as he pressed his feet further down off of the seat. He had known for months now that these shoes were about finished, but he couldn’t seem to find the money to replace them. He had been late to pay the rent to his small apartment for the past three months.
“I just need another month,” he would begin. “Just another month, I swear. I have interviews with a few guys this week, they seem promising.” But there were truly very few interviews at all; in fact, he had found himself without work or word for months now.  Still he insisted that he would be able to find something, anything, to satisfy the rent for the coming month.
He had been a stock broker all his life. He had worked for companies varying in legality and prestige, all of which he had done well in. Throughout his twenties and thirties, he had maintained these jobs with fewer problems than he had had in any other area of his life. Until the stock market crash, he had been successful in all aspects. After the crash, however, nobody trusted stocks or stock brokers. He had found himself without business within days.
Although he had grown to loath the occupation over time because of all of the lying, the indecency and the equivocation, he loathed his financial state more with each passing day. He was used to fine linen, tall ceilings and silver spoons. None of that had followed him to his new lifestyle. He could hardly afford the food that required the spoon now, anyway.
He looked out the window to the greying day littered with clouds. People milled about, blocking the rain with their arms. The street car came to a halt beside an old cinema.
A woman and her child emerged from the black awning that draped over the entrance of the theater. She held a newspaper over her daughters’ head, taking care to cover her so as not to get her wet. The mother laughed visibly and crossed in front of the street car holding her daughters hand. They boarded.
“How much for one ride each?” She asked the driver with a kind, simple voice that reminded the man of his mother.
“It’s three dollars for your ride, and I’ll let her on for free since it’s raining” The driver replied.
She looked down and smiled. “Thank you very much.”
She trailed her daughter along and sat a few rows ahead of him. She sat her daughter down first next to the window, and then continued to slid in next to her, taking the aisle seat. She pointed out the window and whispered something inaudible to her daughter – she giggled lightly. She continued, her smile growing, her daughters face mirroring her own. Finally, they each erupted in laughter. He had not heard one word they had said.
It was true that they seemed, in every sense, underprivileged, but it was just as clear that they were not poor. Neither felt sorry for themselves, neither seemed to care that they too had holes in their shoes, or that they hadn’t had the money for an umbrella. They laughed and smiled as though they were the ones who had had the fine linen, tall ceilings, or silver spoons.
At first glance, he had felt sorry for them – their ripped and wet clothing, their makeshift umbrella. It seemed now though, that the longer he looked at them, the more he seemed to realize the sad truth. It was he who had been poor his whole life, not the lowly people he once watched walking down the street through his office window, the type who sat in front of him on this very train.
He had never been married, as he was too busy with his work and ambitions. He had never known the joy of a child. He had missed so many opportunities to find the happiness that he saw in the woman before him. He also knew that he had never wondered about any of those people’s stories. He had never cared to.
His stop came and went, and still he watched the woman and her child. The woman sang nursery rhymes to the girl, squealing with joy and amazement, as the street car carried on. Finally, the woman pushed the button to signal the driver to stop. She stood and collected the few things she had brought with her, including a coat and the newspaper she had used previously. She took her daughters hand and exited the doors that hesitated, then shut tightly behind her.
Again the pavement began to pass beside him as he looked out the window. His eyes stirred, then focused on something resembling paper that had fallen to the ground recently; the edges were hardly damp on the soaked floor.
He slid into the seat kin to him, bent over, and picked up the slip of paper. He unfolded it and found it to be a picture of the woman and her child from moments before.
In the picture, the woman is sitting in a field with tall blades of grass that look as though they had not been cut for years. The light is dim, the sun is rising. Her teeth are showing in a brilliant smile, her face young and carefree. Her daughter, who must not have been more than two in this picture, sits in her lap, laughing at something that can’t be seen in the photograph. The mother is pointing to it, and the daughters eyes follow. In many ways, it looked like the scene he had just witnessed.
On the back of the photo in long, curled writing, he read her handwriting: “It is always darkest before dawn”.  With those six words, he knew that he had wasted much of his life in dedication to tangible riches, when the real treasures were those that you could not necessarily count or produce. By way of strangers in a lonely street car, one poor man had discovered value in things that do not hold worth.
CK Baker Sep 2019
remember the melding
of gilmore and bing
the springfield gates
and desmond ring

remember the trojans
and fools in the pack
sea fair jeans
and corkscrew flat

remember the cabin
and *****’s garage
the gary point dunes
and moncton mirage

remember the warehouse
the water logged seats
tin foil caps
and simple retreats

remember the cave
and turn on the cut
emery’s mini
and hamilton’s hut

remember the burger
and shake in the air
bubs in the back
with little despair

remember the valley
and 66 ford
burgundy lips
and samworth’s chord

remember the plainsman
a 7 inch log
the ***** old frenchmen
and bore-*** hog

remember the javelin
and mushay’s wheels
beaumont’s baggie
and jennifer beals

remember tough charlie
tossing brad rand
the belyae roundhouse
and beer in the sand

remember park polo
and scaling of firs
sleeping in rafters
at 8 bucks per

remember the mayflower
and brothers von grant
the max air follies
and chivalrous rant

remember the flipper
the floyd and the clap
banana boat sunday
and pemberton trap

remember the purples
the rasp in the street
the oliver jokers
and shady retreat

remember the gators
and brick house café
a flash in the pan
and crib cult stay

remember the church
and talbs on the bridge
goofy’s memoirs
and cypress ridge

remember smaldino
whom perry cut short
***** and a ****
and moria’s port

remember the zuker
and gilligan’s isle
the pep chew bust
and 8 tooth smile

remember the action
at blundell and one
the nauseous fumes
and pump house run

remember the canyon
and rock on the cliff
a tourniquet bind
that kept us adrift

remember lake skaha
and jvc tunes
the j bain query
and peach fest goons

remember the irons
and broad entry beads
the alexander boys
we must pay heed

remember the gates
the 12 hole stare
the hospital bed
and ky affair

remember the farmhouse
an open air deck
the john deere tractor
and cowboy neck

remember the wheat field
and jimmy crack corn
the burlington plaza
and fraser street ****

remember the pincers
and wee ***** white
the concubine fractures
and strong overbite

remember the carving
portrayed at the scene
the billy goat battles
a young man’s dream

remember lord brezhnev
and moby the ****
the second beach sun
and paper bag trick

remember the screening
the silver light show
banshee boots
and phipps’s throw

remember the epic
and baby oil block
trash can brassieres
and window rock

remember the law
jack rabbit in may
an 8 track mix
on alpine way

remember the dunes
a pig on the spit
the underarm hair
and corn bull-****

remember old frankie
and bursey head post
the koa leaves
and tiki shore host

remember b taupin
the lyrics he left
cold muddy waters
an odd treble clef

remember street regent
the trips in the night
the trailer park cap
and lightheart fight

remember kits causeway
mortimer and beaks
jk's cabin
and muscle bound freaks

remember glen cheesy
and billy the less
the frozen puke patties
and borkum mess

remember the catfish
and pickerel rock
the emerald meadows
and rainbow dock

remember port dover
with fish on a stick
wayne in a bunker
holding his ****

remember the ironside
limes in a tree
the usc campus
came with a fee

remember the duster
an arrow in heart
the frog man bug
that would not start

remember the zimmer
the ram air hood
a family wagon
with panels of wood

remember peace portal
the 33 back
the power built drive
and dangerous tack

remember the reds
the blues and the greens
the furry point island
and country book scene

remember the springs
and i 95
a lone state trooper
with blood in his eye

remember may’s cabin
and stuff in between
the frame and the picture
and morning snow scene

remember the boss
with a 302 scoop
the diamond tuft console
and back seat coupe

remember ioco
the **** and the spit
the skid road race
and hurst floor kit

remember the shore
and tents in the park
a campfire roast
and kerosene bark

remember the hooger’s
kit kat club
the colvin’s and setter’s
a man called bub

remember the creature
with silk strand hair
and afternoon flask
with little despair

remember quilchena
and robbie the mac
the rice stead box
and tap on the back

remember miss williams
a pilgrim’s salute
the fairmont sister
with all of her loot

remember port ludlow
a scotman on dock
the everett street bridge
and single leg sock

remember the masters
and all of the roar
the faldo follies
at norman’s door

remember jeff samson
tied in a tree
the robertson fastback
with white leather seats

remember the balance
and pulling of 4's
the moncton warehouse
and hollywood ******

remember the hospice
with carter in wear
the power of gospel
and magic in prayer

remember the mini
counting the crows
aberdeen villa
where all of it grows

remember the ballroom
the battle of bands
the buccaneer bikers
and front row stands

remember the steely
and 50 odd pulls
the crook in the cranny
and pilsner bulls

remember the mustang
tb paul
the ****** shack sergeant
was missing a ball

remember dear kevin
head first in the pool
a sheik in a minefield
and ****** gas fool

remember the rumble
and bats in the night
an old lady screaming
to a young man’s delight

remember cliff olsen
that sick little ****
who will be in shackles
on lucifer’s truck

remember the bumpers
and cutting in line
the mice on the ****
and bo in the pine

remember the law
stabbing the corn
a bucket of ammo
and mekong horn

remember s boras
the piercing of yes
the color line paper
sikosie at rest

remember the pinto
and seven road plants
mother’s fine pizza
a trial lawyer’s rant

remember the kennedys
with ***** painted black
a pond in the shadows
where monty looked back

remember von husen
the sea to sky test
a farm hands daughter
was one of the best

remember mr pither
and mao sae tung
helena the cougar
and egg foo young

remember the cinder
and frances road bake
***** the whitehead
would make no mistake

remember the quan
and mental mix
the java hut sister
with pixy sticks

remember j rosie
banging his head
in a moment of dr
we thought he was dead

remember the hammer
discussions caught short
siddrich and roger
and monty’s abort

remember 6 nations
and KOA
the pool hall fight
when everyone stayed

remember the skinners
and tommy the med
the lost tough china
and bubs in the shed

remember the doobies
zeppelin and cars
floyd and the *****
and shankar’s sitar

remember old dustys
the blue and red chair
the cypress hill caves
and mullet cut hair

remember the promise
and vows that we made
on the 2 road stairs
in goodman’s brigade

remember those moments
and handle with care
for the garamond stamp
will always be there…
Francie Lynch Nov 2015
On the drive from St. Andrews to Aberdeen
I stopped at a roadside cafe,
For toast and jam and tea.
The young blonde server
Took my order,
And never spoke a word.
Then her mother bellowed
From the back of the room;
And her father barrelled through the door,
And a baby cried;
She's wanting more.
This is their country;
She was their girl.
I paid for the platter,
I tipped the teen,
And continued on
To Aberdeen.
I sit counting each drop
each spot of rain
that drips off my umbrella
I'm rambling again.

Passers by
pass me by
I sit counting drops
why?
wonder why
I don't
why?
I don't,
then I don't wonder at all.

A spider is spinning a carousel web
and I watch and I watch
and
Robert the Bruce pops up in my head,
'try, try again'
(bet he wasn't out in the rain)

The Sun, an old friend,
who I knew many summers ago
puts on a flaccid feeble type show,
no applause from me this time,
the spider and I are getting on fine
both in our own space
both living at our pace
spinning, but never
winning the prize.
Simon Woodstock Apr 2018
wrap your arms around me
**** me slowly from the stench of your second hand sin
your kiss is the match that burned down the church
your embrace warm like the embers as the stain glass windows break and the structure collapses
Preach to me every sermon from your soul as we both drink too much alcohol and at 2a.m. the body of christ is a large fry  and well laugh til we cry keeping each other afloat at night drowning in the tears of failed exceptions
*** with you is like transcendence old motions feel anew
like fish out of water we bounce around waiting to breath but the breath never comes
we are faithful believers that the church is full of lies
Rose Smith Oct 2018
I came to the point where it’s over
I do not want your destructive power.
I do not want to come and do not want to love.
You. Are enough. You are enough.

Respect stays, love goes. Away.
I still come and visit your town, Aberdeen.
For the sake of Aberdeen.
Haggis, pie and architecture,
Instead of painful longing and constant rejection.

Would be nice to see you,
Would be nice to talk.
Would be pain and sour?
Or would be safe and sound?

Safe and sound? Doubt about.
Want my mind to clear out.
Want the beach to ******* away
Want the wind to touch my skin.
See the sea and its waves to carry
Carry and bury all the worries
Start a chapter with new characters.

Farewell! To you and to all the pain.
Do not let its place taken by you and me.
You and me? What dream is that?
How would it even work considering the distance?
Have all you deserve as happiness and love,
We might see each other in our next lives!
A tough
guy still
his place
relives Spanish
Inquisition and
gossamer upwind
only prorogue
yesterday with
those Oxfords
on shoes,
shirt and
Otis for
trusty returns
easily now
a ghost
ware of
his Aberdeen.
James Otis an Amercan Statesmen known for revenue impose in Massachusetes.
Alan McClure Dec 2014
Midwinter approaches.
You'd barely know it.
Galloway's soft murky skies,
Low clouds born of mudflat and peat,
don't waken the sparkling frost in me

A sudden unexpected pang
for the cut-glass winters of Aberdeen,
skies as clear as no sky at all
and the Dee all poised and crystal
descends upon me in the thick southwest smir

And I long to crunch along the riverbank
with my brother in the frost,
laughter-born clouds
dissipating in the hawthorn branches,
blackbirds startling
in the ice-bound undergrowth -
deep pink sun bursting and bleeding
across the wide blue horizon.

I could return -
follow the waxwings
reclaim my winter home
but I won't -
instead,
I'll cast a glance
of sparkling northern granite
across the fields and mulch,
see if I can clear these skies
and freeze this other Dee

And build myself a fresh white landscape
as crisp
and clear
as memory.
martin Dec 2011
My name is Dave, I'm polite and clean
I left my home in Aberdeen
To be your host, that is my task
All for the fun and a season's pass

So under the table with your feet
If you like garlic you're in for a treat
You'll sit and dine with cheapo wine
The recipes will work out fine
With fancy puds you will be nourished
All presented with a flourish

At the end of the week goodbye my friends
Next week I do it all over again.

Up the lift, must not be late
Find the ski school, they won't wait
Hello, and what's your name?
Do you think we ski the same?

Bend ze knees, don't lean back
Snake down in line, like on a track
This is how you need to be
It's counter-intuitive you see.

Under the lift, in full view
Two people collide
Ouch! I'm glad that wasn't me or you.

Stop for lunch, sit in the sun
Do the moguls, have your fun
But do take care, take care a lot
If you fall you may not stop.

It's nearly over all too fast
This morning's lesson is the last
"So 'ave you learned somesing? asks Jean-Louis
We all reply "Oui merci".
Chloe Cresse Oct 2013
February 20, 1967
When Aberdeen, Washington became home to a legend
Throwing pebbles at cops
and falling in love with Punk Rock
1985 is when it all fell apart
The divorce shattered his poor, frail heart
Then along came Krist, Pat, and Dave
Who made his life worth the wait
"I Rather Be Hated For Who I Am Than Loved For Who I Am Not."
Against judgement, racists, and sexualists he fought.
He's an inspiration to few
because of what he chose to do.

April 5, 1994
Down he feel with the gun in his hand on the floor.
"Peace, Love, and Empathy." was left on the letter
A Document that Courtney and Frances struggled to read later.
Fans left with faithful lyrics and sorrow
He always said they weren't promised tomorrow.
Rumors of conspiracies and ****** spread
Courtney finally announced that he wanted to be dead.
"It's Better To Burn Out Than To Fade Away."
and just like that Kurt Cobain had changed  my life in every way.
Kurt Cobain has been my inspiration since day 1. Nirvana has always been my favorite band. Everything he has quoted I can relate to, and that's what I love.
Alan McClure Dec 2010
We lay on a single bunk,
gazing at each other under African sunlight
not yet lovers, but going that way.

"You're beautiful," she said after a while
and I believed her
but wanting to give her credit
for all that was good in me
I replied,
"It's a reflection!"

                     Except -
Despite my tan,
despite the rainbow racket of  parrots outside,
despite my travel-broadened mind,
I still carried a heart
nurtured in Aberdeen,
that grey-granite reservation in North East Scotland
where true emotion may only be expressed
after fifteen pints and a dram.
                So,
by way of a padded brown envelope
in which to hand over this pure, unselfish thought
I said it
in a silly voice.

These days she doesn't even write.

Me?  I'm married
to a woman who finds me
kind of funny looking
but in an agreeable way.

It's a reflection.
evolove May 2021
All of the movies are the same. Watch this and have your eyes open to both the secret of world and the ending of it.

Every movie is about the stars. That's why every actor is a STAR.
KING OF THE UNDERWORLD-
OSIRIS/SIRI/YOUR EYE PHONE (IRIS). ISIS. HORUS.
THIS IS THE SATANIC TRINITY.

LION KING.
Mufasa/Osiris/ king of everything the Sun/light hits. is set up by his his twin brother Scar/set ruler of elephant graveyard/the dark. Simba/horus goes into hiding/the underworld, who then later returns to **** Scar/Set and take his rightful place as "King".

BATMAN.
Thomas wayne/Osiris is shot and killed by a criminal/set. Bruce wayne/horus goes into hiding. Then comes back and fights the "Joker" Who becomes leader of the criminals. Batman/Horus wins and liberates "New York" as a king would.
Adding. Jokers catch phrase "why so Serious/sirius" with a smiling face, just like the one amazon uses is a hat tip to the solar eclipse and the star sirius. Sirius is connected to Satan worship. It's why they made us feel sympathy for a diabolical character in the movie Joker.  The devil loves SYMPATHY!

EVERYBODY LOVES RAYMOND. (THE SUN GOD)

TRAILER PARK BOYS.
This show is so occultish you will never believe it.
Characters. (The show also revolves around Ricky/horus)
Ricky/****/horus (the symbol for horus/osiris is an obelisk aka a *****)  his father Ray/osiris. Rickys wife LUCY (Need I say more?)
and Rickys daughter "TRINITY". Notice how his daughter is the Trinity?
This is where you MUST know freemasonry to understand the rest.
Rickys two best friends are the two pillars of freemasonry. Julian/boaz/strength. Throughout the show they even brag about Julians strength all the time. Then Rickys other best friend is Bubbles/Jachin/swift. Bubbles character is known for always driving a go kart. Hence "Swift".

THIS IS THE STORY PLAYING OUT BEFORE YOUR EYES!
If you can figure it out. You know what's coming. This is the secret of freemasonry. Freemasonry is a "CRAFT"... WITCHCRAFT.
The king of freemasonry is Osiris who is Abbadon who is Appollo who's is TRUMP.
17 is the letter Q in the alphabet. And the number 17 is the number of abbadon who brings plagues unto the earth.
His son is Baron/lord/Horus is a GIANT.
Trumps ancestor from his Mother's side is the Viking "Olaf Mcleod" King of man. (Was his title)
The odds are McDonald's is donald trumps. Appollo has a golden bow. McDonald's has the golden arches. MC is 33 is Jewish gematria. McDonald's character is a clown with RED HAIR. And on his chest is the emblem of the golden arch infront of a solid red circle. That red circle is the blood moon donald trump was born on.
The odds are MC stands for Moon Child.
On Donald trumps coat of arms you will see the same golden bow.  Through that bow is a hand holding a spear. That spear is the same spear of destiny. The one that stabbed jesus is the rib cage.  It's prophecy that the antichrist will obtain the spear of destiny. Something ****** failed to do.
Donald Trump also has a gold course in Scotland in "Aberdeen"
Translates to "Mouth of the don".
A-BBAD-DON-ALD

You don't have to believeme. But the end is near. America is babylon. That's why we have "Hollywood". Hollywood is what witches make their wands out of..

And as for t.v.
Never watch it.
TELL-A-VISION. Who's vision you might ask?
The CABALS/CABLES.
You see this is why the call television shows "programs" and you get your programs from channels/channeling "stars" Who are embodiment of the "STARS". SATANIC WORSHIP!

LOVE AND GOD BLESS.
Be vigilant. Your enemy's is waiting in the shadows like a lion to devour you.
THE TRUTH ABOUT MOVIES AND TELEVISION.
Nomkhumbulwa Jan 2019
It wasn't the best birthday,
Not that 39 is exciting anyway,
But I wasn't quite prepared
For what my brain threw my way today

What is even the point?
In turning 39?
Next year Clare and I are going to Ethiopia
- to sneakily go back in time ;)

38 was old enough
But still not quite that bad
39 is a lot more daunting
For there are no more "30's" to be had

But a few days ago I met a friend
Who just turned 70 last week
What was even more shocking
- she is still much fitter than me!

Her grandson is now 17
I once taught him to bake cakes
Back when I shared her house
Duncan was at primary school for goodness sake!

I don't know if Clare feels the same
About this weird age to become
Or whether as some say its just a number
My 70yr old friends are forever young

I have so much admiration for Clare
With her determination to succeed,
She does make me feel younger
Although turning 39 is still **** - it must be agreed :/

But I was determined to make the best
Of the last year beginning with "3"
Although I dramatically failed
Got dressed, panicked, then ate grapes until tea...

I did let down Teresa
I admire her so much too
We were supposed to eat cake
And how I miss our conversations about poo..

But here I still am
Dressed for both Africa and the North Pole
Required a walking pole to get to the pub
With snow turned to ice - it wouldn't be pretty to fall...

But I finished my day with a whisky
A wee dram to still being 30 something
A single malt Aberlour came to my rescue
To compliment the huge amount of Diazepam

I shall try again tomorrow
Looking forward to seeing Carryn again
So I officially cancelled my birthday
And tomorrow I will try again

But my goodness how Im so grateful
To some very special friends
Here in Aberdeen,
Mary and Glyn are those friends

My brain tortures me frequently
And today we had so many plans
They all went down the toilet
Quite literally (!) but gladly from the right end..

So generous are my adopted family
I can never be grateful enough
For putting up with my panic
Understanding my brain says its "had enough"

It might have been a ****** birthday
But I don't know where i'd have been
If it were not for Glyn and Mary
And their endless compassion and understanding.

To all my friends - sorry for being "weird", and I really do appreciate all your kindness with all my heart.. ❤️
Well - it kind of says it all really :/ Wrote this as I come to the end of a difficult birthday which I shall attempt again tomorrow!   But also to show my deep appreciation for such good friends.
David Flemister Feb 2016
Hello, my name is David Phlegmister. I am much too self-aware. I also have no ******* idea who I am. My intestines twist and turn just like yours. I think I must have a pretentiously metaphorical tapeworm. Everything I do or say is backed by either anger or curiosity, and in spite of this I am somehow not in jail. I try too hard. I don't try hard enough. I care too much but I still don't give a ****. I wont tell you I'm hungry even though I havent eaten since yesterday. No, really, it's fine, I'm not hungry.My hands and feet are too big for my body.
Seriously, *******, I'm not ******* hungry
I drink black coffee and smoke cigarettes but I swear to god I'm not an egotistical existentialist. My mom tells me that I'm too skinny but dont worry I'm not hungry. Smells **** me up.
I can still smell your perfume and I can still smell your *****.
Your feelings dont matter because we all die eventually.
Boo hoo, get the **** over it.
Everything you stand for is a lie. God isn't real, your government hates you, status is meaningless.
Jokes on you so **** yourself.
I'm sixteen years old in an Aberdeen-esque hellhole.
I'm a highschool dropout
My old school was a cesspool of AXE body spray and ****** ****.
My friends all want to **** themselves and I don't blame them.
I'm an ******* in my own right, but I don't know about yours.
Im still waiting for someone who doesn't have to fix me to love me.
I whine and ***** about whiney ******* and wonder why I hate myself. I've come to terms with the fact that I'm going to be a ******.
Reality is not, and will not, ever suffice.
It will never satisfy.
Never bring contentedness.
Theres no denying that I will be hooked on whatever unrefined, kidney-****** junk I can get my filthy hands on. Marijuana got boring fast.
I hate routine. I hate sameness. I feel too ******* much so I punish myself for it.

I AM NOT A ******* PIECE OF ART

I'm your aborted ******* son.
My fingernails are too short.
I lie to people who care about me
and I don't know if its for
my sake
or theirs.
I'm the elephant in the room of conservative christian right wing baby boomers.
I CANNOT and WILL NOT do what is expected of me.
I don't fit in.
Thank god.
Don't wanna be a starry eyed, brain dead statistic.
Sometimes I don't sleep on purpose just because I don't deserve to.
I don't owe you a ******* thing. I have nothing to prove and nothing to give.

**IMNOTHUNGRYIMNOTHUNGRYIMNOTHUNGRY
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
The Aberdeen bus arrives, deposits and boards
the same people daily. One is the dark-haired
chambermaid at the tourist lodge, awkward
in her print dress and wearing a frown. Her
******* inspire and her long legs are
quintessence. The sun dispels moisture,

with fire-blackened face I lick a popsicle
after work and achieve a counterfactual
childhood. This is what the chambermaid’s scowl
is about, the frozen treat and smile of a grown
man. On a summer night what passions
would I find in her? We take our place in the pattern

of daily activity, pick-up trucks with crews
arriving and leaving, uniformed rangers narrow
in their imaginations. Two ravens fly low
over the clearcut like weather, in weather, there will
be weather. Felling trees in the forest, I look uphill.
The ravens float like hawks, nearly immobile.
www.ronnowpoetry.com

--ending with a line by Emily Dickinson
dew drops and sprinkler smells
flood my streets- naked in the middle
song birds hover around your halo

faking cries of distant land of Aberdeen
come as you are, hero wrapped in cellophane
does Satan love me being an alcoholic ?
Satan loves you
Despachadas las cartas y el telegrama,
camina por las calles indefinidas
y advierte leves diferencias que no le importan
y piensa en Aberdeen o en Leyden,
más vívidas para él que este laberinto
de líneas rectas, no de complejidad,
donde lo lleva el tiempo de un hombre
cuya verdadera vida está lejos.
En una habitación numerada
se afeitará después ante un espejo
que no volverá a reflejarlo
y le parecerá que ese rostro
es más inescrutable y más firme
que el alma que lo habita
y que a lo largo de los años lo labra.
Se cruzará contigo en una calle
y acaso notarás que es alto y gris
y que mira las cosas.
Una mujer indiferente
le ofrecerá la tarde y lo que pasa
del otro lado de unas puertas. El hombre
piensa que olvidará su cara y recordará,
años después, cerca del Mar del Norte,
la persiana o la lámpara.
Esa noche, sus ojos contemplarán
en un rectángulo de formas que fueron,
al jinete y su épica llanura,
porque el Far West abarca el planeta
y se espeja en los sueños de los hombres
que nunca lo han pisado.
En la numerosa penumbra, el desconocido
se creerá en su ciudad
y lo sorprenderá salir a otra,
de otro lenguaje y otro cielo.

Antes de la agonía,
el infierno y la gloria nos están dados;
andan ahora por esta ciudad, Buenos Aires,
que para el forastero de mi sueño
(el forastero que yo he sido bajo otros astros)
es una serie de imprecisas imágenes
hechas para el olvido.

— The End —