"abouts" poems
Friday marches in.
Trumpets playing serenades.
Nearly last weeks end.
Banners flying high.
It's five o clock or there abouts.
Hark,
Delighted squeals and shouts.
Buildings locked, off we trot.
To the station, week forgot.
Saturday descends with her restful smile.
Chill at home just for a while.
Wake up in the early hours.
In dream state panic.
Forgot the day.
Thought work was calling me today.
Realise it's Saturday.
Turn over.
Drift back off to sleep.
Sunday morn.
A sleepless night.
Woke up at seven.
Coffee on.
Then it dawned on me.
The weekend's nearly gone.
Make the most of Sabbath day.
Monday's coming anyway.
When back to work.
Off I'll trot.
Satisfied sort of with my lot.
I truly hope Sunday doesn't fly to fast.
Sunday waiting for Monday is never a blast!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 4:18 AM UTC
I love her.
Basic in it's being.
As such is the keeping of it.
A thesis to the "ins" and "outs."
The "ups" and "downs."
The "all abouts."
An equation of this and that.
In direct proportion to the simplicity of directional momentum...
So do we conclude,
equal complexity
to that which was not spoken.
To that which was kept.
Only relenting to a factor of time.
From which
the variable of existence
can evolve itself.
In and of itself.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 6:55 PM UTC
I was sitting on the steps of the wrong building —
two blocks over from The Vermont
awash in gold and the noble lights of the Avenue.
I was drunk,
or, there-abouts.
Isobel was coming.
I was sitting on the steps of the wrong building,
pulling the collar of my Burberry coat against my jaw and ears;
it was November and the concierge came out to ask me
if I’d like to come inside and wait —
“No, I’m good, Sir.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
What was two blocks?
I pull out my cellphone —
“Where are you?”
“My mom’s drunk.”
Code for: “I’m playing therapist.”
I’m almost out —
out of brain cells (really?”
out of patience
out of love
out of “it”
out of time — but,
the curious thing is,
I’m never almost out of money.
I notice him when he stops on the step
I sit on.
He’s a sterling silver chain,
the thin, delicate kind that breaks with a soft tug.
He looks down at me, eyes
the colour of darkened ice,
not softened by the yellow lights
raining down from under the awning.
“Do you live here?”
“Where is “here”?”
He laughs. Smiles. “The Florence.”
He’s beautiful,
the way a poppy is beautiful,
transparent,
saying so much with his flushed cheeks
and dark eyes,
so full of life and resembling something or, someone, dead —
“Lest we forget,” whispered the corpse,
ouvert,
in the slush of Alsace-Lorraine.
He sits beside me, shoulder warm,
firm — he’s a guy, but he’s so ******* beautiful —
I want to touch him,
brush his cheek as if he’s a rose protruding
from the briar, the thorny path —
not pick him, because he’s too beautiful,
too tragic, and I don’t want to **** him; —
“Where do you live?”
He’s smoking like a flower.
I want to lie. I don’t.
“The Vermont.”
His expression doesn’t change,
remains soft, his eyes stay ice.
He looks away.
I’ll uproot him and plant him in richer soil,
I won’t be looking into ice,
no more mirror,
but, the sky after rain,
the soft fragrant grey,
so much light.
“What’s that? Two blocks?”
“Yeah.”
He rubs his face.
He has sensitive skin,
red upon contact with the cuff
of his wool coat.
“I’ll walk you.”
“Please.”
I stand up slowly and breathe in cold air
and vapour.
Out comes alcohol.
“You’re drunk?”
“I was.”
“Your laces are undone.”
“Are they?”
I look down at him,
he’s laughing,
lowering his head at my knees
and I feel something despite myself —
warmth in my chest,
accompanied by a warmth in my abdomen,
tensing.
“I’ll fix them.”
I watch him, shoulders moving under his coat,
and I imagine him higher,
on his knees and,
a little higher,
stop myself with:
“I’m not a child.”
He stops — I stop him.
He looks up;
his lashes are like glass.
“I want to kiss you.”
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 5:08 PM UTC
Having washed her doll
Battered Betty in the baby
bath, Helen dries it in an
old towel her mother gave
her, rubbing it with her
childish motherly attention
to detail. That done, she
dresses Betty in some doll's
clothes her father brought
home from a junk shop
on his way home one Friday.
She wraps Betty in a fading
shawl, and goes to the front
door. Where you off to? her
mother asks. Taking Betty
out for a walk, she replies.
Where abouts? probably
to Jail Park, Helen says.
Watch out for strange men,
her mother says. I'm with
Benedict, Helen says. O,
well that's OK then, her
mother says, relieved,
pushing damp hair from
her lined forehead. Helen
goes out the front door
and walks along to the
railway bridge next to the
Duke of Wellington pub
where Benedict said to
met him. She pats the doll's
back as she walks, tightens
the shawl to keep the doll
warm. Benedict is waiting
by the pub wall; his cowboy
hat is pushed back, 6 shooter
gun is tucked in the belt
of his short trousers. Helen
sees him before he sees her,
she prepares herself: licks
fingers to dampen down her
hair, straightens her thick
lens spectacles, wipes her
nose on the back of her hand.
Am I late? she says as she
approaches him. He pushes
himself from the wall, his 6
shooter quickly out of the belt,
he blows the end. No, he says,
just thinking of the Billy-the-Kid
I saw at the cinema the other day.
Got shot. Died. I wouldn’t have
done that, I'd not have turned my
back on the marshal whatever
his name was. Helen rocks Betty
in her small arms. Given Betty
a bath, she says, nice and clean now.
Benedict gives the doll a glance,
puts his gun away in the belt.
Good, he says, can't have our
kid ***** Helen smiles, no, we
can't, can we, she says. Mum
says to look out for strange men,
she adds as an after thought.
Benedict pats his gun, no strange
man will get to you or Betty,
he says determinedly. Just as
Mum says, Helen says quietly,
looking at the cowboy beside
her, his hat now pushed forward,
his hazel eyes focusing, on her
and the doll. Let's go walk, he
says, I'll give you and Betty
a push on the swings and
roundabout. So they walk up
Bath Terrace, she telling him
about a boy at school calling
her four eyes, and he musing
of putting a couple of slugs in
the kid's head: BANG BANG,
the caps will go, just smoke,
no holes, no death, or if he chose,
maybe a good sock in the nose.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 3:46 PM UTC
Clasps
Thunder
Overtoure's
Epic opening
*
Tenderness becoming
Gentility of the fragile souls
Floating upon floatable
Multi~verses
*
What's solid?
Our steps
The little
Silences?
Mild frost
Of a season
Strumming
Galloping
Into
*
Wind chimes violin
Goose bumps beauty
*
We have tinted Ink
And gave lives to
Cosmic tinkerbells
We made vows
Across love abouts
*
Across the plains
Of Josephine's
Linnen laced
double
Edged swirl dress
Swinging below
Zodiac crisp
*
Summer's
canopy
Seems
To have
A life made
Out of
Tiptoed
Barefoot origins
*
Ticklish Grains
Got into our Mild
Dreamy oceans
Terra Rosa
Pine''
Pan
Flutes
*
Come va?
Is hour ship sailing
Is our sip sang?
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 1:42 PM UTC
The old man sat in the darkness
Taking in what he could see
He smiled, although slyly
And he leaned in close to me
He said the air is different
You can taste it here abouts
Listen close to what's around you
The air is different...there's no doubt
I didn't understand him
He spoke in concepts, not in words
He talked of feeling the emotions
Of people running 'round in herds
He said, I've been here sixty years now
Seen people come and people go
I used to be the barkeep
But, then that's something that you know
I've seen Elvis and The Beatles
Seen Presidents and Kings
I've seen hearts torn all asunder
And the pain that a war brings
I saw Kennedy on that TV
That, one behind your head
I watched him drive on straight through Dallas
And moments later he was dead
This place was just dead silent
On the day that that man died
And hand to god I'll tell you
I was all torn up inside
I saw soldiers in that Vietnam
Fighting for what? I don't know
I saw them on that TV there
I watched them lining up to go
I saw them having rally's
Taunting those who had the guns
I saw them bringing back the caskets
Of the now dead, teenage sons
That TV showed me lots of stuff
It never strayed far from the news
It always shows the Tigers game
I turn it up to hear the boos
I saw King and Bobby on that set
Taken way to young
God, it would have been a different world
To see what things they might have brung
I sat back and I listened
The old man, went on a while
He waved two fingers skyward
And said, two more beers ...with his smile
My life has been a good one
I've been alone, except for here
I watch the outside on that set
It was then, we got our beer
I remember back when Elvis died
He was the best back in the day
But, me I liked Sinatra
Dean Martin, Bob and Ray
There was folks in here all crying
singing songs, and holding hands
on various occassions
from Lennons death, to Bobby Sands
I never really took part
In the lives of those who came
To spend their time here with me
I only knew a few by name
My job was just to serve them
Not to be their new best friend
I guess that's why I sit here still
Watching, waiting for the end
That set has shown me good and bad
That one, behind your head
It hasn't worked for fifteen years
We got a new one in instead
It's there as a reminder
more to me, than those still here
That life is for the living
And I'm alive while I am here
He rose and turned back to me
Said, it's time for us to close
I'll be back again tomorrow
To watch more highs and maybe lows
I watched the old man shuffle
To his room, and to his bed
Past the TV he saw life on
On the wall behind my head.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 12:04 AM UTC
There is a love no phrase defines
Eight letters mean nothing
but what you take from them.
And some take none.
So I'll take a few more letters
cos' eight seems not enough,
to tell of a love that rests
high above the lust
of a high school romance.
This is a love where you dance
through the night
with your shirts off
to music that doesn't even play.
You sneak abouts here and there
and hit bowls against the grass
and glance on lakes at night
the ultimate paradox shining
in mankind. Belligerent fights
with brooms ensue to be ended
by boxes of cardboard pizza
or red pepper pita and hummus.
Your parents say, "those guys again..."
And you say, "Hey! you're talkin' bout' my friends here."
So you go.
You take rides endless it seems.
Take trips to places before unseen.
Talks of blabber and sensibility.
Snuggle seshes end in wrestling matches.
If you wake up and your jaw hurts,
you and Maxy probably got drunk again.
If your clothes smell a bit,
chance that Andy dropped by.
If your mind's been blown
Mack and Will laid with you
by the pond for hours.
If you feel a love stronger
in your soul, Dbake's nearby.
If you laugh your *** off for days,
Dusty probably told a joke
or pulled his pants down.
If you can't wrap you mind
around some fact or story,
Bankman must have sprouted
out some MIT engineering bull
you wish you could understand.
But who gives a hey when
you're out chilling with the bros,
brews or not, smokes or tokes or nokes,
there is always a brotha out to chill.
And to you, I say
NAMASTE
Sep 13, 2010
Sep 13, 2010 at 11:52 PM UTC
And i walk on, with less luggage to way me down, i've sold my house, said bye to my friends, i send sentiments to family with my pen, i've given up on transport, i just use my thumb, i've taken to poetry, portraying the world is more fun, i've stopped getting dole, I live hand to mouth, I don't do convention, it seems like an alien sensation, i spend less money on tins of the spree, sometimes i go anywhere, and ware anything, I lost the will to care about the judges poking out their heads, i dont care abouts people thoughts of my hobbies, they come and go for years, but hobbies go on
I've broken into an old house that was lying in the street, i dont pay no bills and the water is free
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 7:32 AM UTC
looking across time
from my etheric perch
or was it a pike
as I sat on my flounder…
as I was perched on a flounder…
perched on a pike I floundered
pike perch flounder
flounder perch pike
pike flounder perch
mike’s rounder peach
like sounder greetings
tricycle ground feet
triglycerides around meat
polymorphic lounge ****
people forget
poetry is expression
silliness for its own sake
nonsensical whimsy
for laze-abouts and lollygaggers
with unicorns and dragons
nothing is more magical than language –
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 1:02 PM UTC
Lydia
sat on the
red tiled door
step of the
ground floor flat
looking out
at the Square
one morning
one Sunday
her father
was in bed
her mother
preparing
Sunday lunch
listening
to music
on the old
radio
her 15
year old big
sister was
asleep with
her boyfriend
her brother
Hem was out
looking for
spiders
to pull off
their legs
one by one
the man with
his boxer
dog walked by
then she saw
Benedict
in tee shirt
and blue jeans
armed with his
6 shooters
in holsters
wearing a
cowboy hat
where abouts
you going?
She asked him
clean up Dodge
he replied
why? is it
***** then?
She called out
sitting there
in her green
flowered dress
Benedict
walked over
to where she
was sitting
you ok?
He asked her
pushing back
on his head
the black hat
no I'm bored
and fed up
she replied
come with me
we can both
clean up Dodge
Benedict
said to her
so where's Dodge?
She asked him
on the big
bomb site off
Meadow Row
can I have
one of your
6 shooters?
Sure you can
have to tell
my mum where
I'm going
Lydia said
Benedict
nodded his
head and said
best not to
mention Dodge
or she may
not let you
go with me
so she went
indoors and
asked her mum
where will you
be? she asked
we're going
to clean up
Dodge City
who are we?
Benedict
and just me
her mother
stared at her
o I see
mother said
be careful
of the roads
and that was
all she said
carrying
on with the
preparing
of the lunch
Lydia
went off with
Benedict
borrowing
one of his
6 shooters
tucked in the
green bow of
her green dress
her eyes bright
her straight hair
unbrushed
and
quite a mess.
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 3:20 AM UTC
You rode bikes with Milka
to the bridge over the river
and stood looking down
at the flowing water
and talked
of the latest
Elvis Presley film
you’d seen
and she said that she
had wanted to see it
but her mother
had forbidden it
saying it was not
the type of film
for her age
then you talked
of the film you’d seen
while working
as a cinema projectionist
called Ben Hur
and the great
chariot races in it
she leaned close to you
as you talked
her hands
on the brick bridge
her hips pressing
gently against yours
she said she like it
when you came
to their farmhouse
and practised judo
with her brothers
and she could watch
and as she spoke
you studied her
her short fair hair
her large blue eyes
her delicate hands
the fingertips rubbing
against the bricks
of the bridge
the simple
green shift dress
she had on
and do you remember
that time you had them
both on the grass at once
in that karate fight?
she said excitedly
and you noticed
maybe
for the first time
her small firm bust
her figure
kind of huggable
although you hadn’t
hugged her
and she went on
about wanting to go
out with you
but her brothers
had said
Baruch won’t be
interested in you
he likes pretty girls
and you looked
at her eyes
as she spoke
how large they were
yet not unbeautiful
the orbs blue
portraying
wide worlds of you
and how old are you?
she asked
because they
keep saying
you’re too old
for me
16
you said
well
she said
I’m 14
so that isn’t
too old is it?
no
you said
seeing her eyes look
kind of watery
like small fish bowls
then she talked
of having seen you
in her dreams
and that in her dreams
you had kissed her
where did I kiss you?
you asked
on the lips of course
she said
no I meant
where abouts
was I when I kissed you?
o
she said blushing
in the barn
by the farmhouse
o I see
you said
never having been
there with her
only with her brothers
to do judo fights
she looked down
at the water
her eyes wide
and watery
a bird flew by
a bird song sounded
you leaned close to her
and kissed
her ear
through her
fair hair
and she looked at you
and you saw
new worlds
being born there
amongst the blue
Milka smiling
at an older you.
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 1:59 AM UTC
Hand me down children
breathe off borrowed air
born from slip ups
out of the womb they come
into the arms of guilty parents
and into this world of musical chairs
where everybody's fighting for a seat
too many kids?
or not enough chairs?
hand me down children have a way
of looking at the world
a little differently
they ask why and can take a beating
they admire the shades of their bruises
they are made of the same stuff as firecrackers
they know when they are being lied to
they even know why
Hand me down children will always find each other
and love each other
Hand me down children sat in the back
and couldn't spell too well
they did stupid dares and almost died frequently
they got socks for Christmas
and made them into puppets
they weren't scared of the dark
or at least that's what they say
they slice up the night like birthday cake
and pop tires to make swings
and the world is their playground
monkey bars of lead pipes
swings of driftwood
slides of cement, toppled building halfpipes
sidewalk chalk stolen from substitute teachers
Paper cranes made out of pink slips,
merri-go-round-abouts, bikes without brakes
Hand me down children play
in mommys old sweater
daddys old socks
brothers shoes
and sisters scarves
and they play after the flashlights burn out
and after the fireflies die in their jars
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 3:55 PM UTC
Elsie was a stubborn girl a willful thing at first
I watched her grow. My sister's daughter
My niece if you will
She had a way about her even then but time would carry change.
Today I can not place a moment .
something brought a change.
Elsie was an angry child.
She was meddlesome and vile.
She kept a vault
hidden. Deep.
Putrid and unkind roiled
about. An ugly distortion.
Why to this day.
Muted. Slithering.
An only child she loved her solitude.
sitting calmly with her hands folded
drifting to far off places with eyes
as hollow as a rotting stump
fallen long past. withered
weathered.
Elsie walked into the woods one day
seeking solitude. forlorn and forgotten.
A bird sang in the distance.
Elsie heard the song.
Now I am old and tired.
I have done all that was required.
made my mark however small
still and always through it all
I hear the mocking songbirds call
Elsie wonders there abouts
as nights grow cold
She still has not found home.
She will one day
no doubt.
dreams come
and go.
They
Tell
Me
So.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 12:28 AM UTC
Sits between twin bluffs burrowing into neon souls
long to be seen in a future frame of corpses and flipping
through the lenses of the kaleidoscope 1916 or there abouts.
Mr Edison took full advantage of the moment transitioning for all time the boundaries.Maybe Muybrige in1888.
The here and now. The real and surreal. the equation is now unbalanced.
Is seeing now believing? or is believing a reason to see.
The proof is in the putting.
Dead men long digested in soil and ground can still emit sound and point a blame-full finger
Linger if you dare in the baleful stare of the science.
quiet, silence, desist. No
even virtue can not still the burning light.
cellulose spirits on walkabout lookout from the past again and again
flickering things they be. conjure you as well as you conjure them.
The end is sight at the bottom of the hill
steel rails to nowhere still squeal to silence,
The riders swing free and lite on Italian loafers and
skulk away. padded shoulders conceal weak wills and
weaker hearts still.
Silver screen visual refraction
once there for all to admire must now bow deeply.
Curtsy?
Vanish and still remain at the pointed end of it.
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 9:48 PM UTC
Just another soft spot to bump a thump for a thud that this time finally, proudly could be the long awaited announcement I'd been searching for.
A deep and heavy voice boomed in reply, "I am Hollow, how's all abouts the Do for you today my dear?"
I was slightly taken aback by the fine display of manners.
"Oh,me oh my! So deeply obliged, you took a stop with a thought to ask so when I say, don't act surprised."
Since I surely had indeed been the party calling person, I'd better fancy making proper telling of my Name. But before I did me muster up some suiting gumption for a gab , I heard the haunting husk of a raspy kind of gasp, it was Hollow keen to ask me, "have You come about the Shaft?"
I excitedly replied, "I've been busy bumping thumping thuds all across the Land hoping I would hear a hollow kind of thud coming from the Desert Sands."
But, oh my goodness if I truly thumped my thud in the mud, I wondered must I then descend down that deeply dark and doozy kind of danger way below?
Then it appeared out of nowhere!! I had the Magic Answer in a sing along song with a pocket tight rhythm gots me dancing and a'singing, "There's a piece of a part of the seat of my soul that's awaiting my return at the bottom of this hole. And as I do recall, it was surely you with your haunting Hollow tune and endless droning echo that reverberated my vertebrae so long ago, and so much so that I lost a litte piece of my Soul."
With one final question that I had left to pop, "Is it still with you at the bottom of that drop?? Cause, I've got a grand idea that will bring It to the top. It's a funky fly vibration called Acoustic Levitation!!"
So, I cheered up and down as I swung myself around in a turn to tell to Hollow, "When you kindly wind your voice up the scale from lowest note to high, then my piece of soul will riseth, it will hear my gladdened cry."
It shall float atop the soul note that IS perfectly wrote just for me and my Soul's harmony. It's been such the perfect ending, All's happy and together, at last finally!!!!!!
So never stop bumping for the thump and the thud that is you cause it's really out there somewhere and it's asking, what to do!!!!
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 3:09 PM UTC
Della holds
tightly in
her stubby
nail bitten
8 fingers
a buttered
slice of toast
taking bites
now and then
then dips it
in the boiled
egg yoke deep
her mother
watches her
Downs daughter
with those kind
Mongoloid
bright blue eyes
how'd you sleep?
My eyes closed
Della says
sleep all night?
Yes all night
did you dream?
Had nightmare
what about?
Froggy's touch
what about
Froggy's touch?
I pretend
I'm asleep
why pretend?
If he thinks
I'm asleep
he won't touch
over much
he touches?
Touches me
tickles you?
Not always
but sometimes?
Della nods
eats her toast
her mother
looks at her
the wide mouth
the broad tongue
touches me
secret place
secret place?
Where abouts?
Della dips
the soldier
of sliced toast
in the yoke
of yellow
prods it down
and then out
and licks it
where abouts
does he touch?
Mother asks
secret place
Froggy says
mustn't tell
where abouts
Loadingdoes he touch?
Froggy said
cousin's can
where abouts
did he touch?
Mother asks
once again
Della stares
at her plate
of boiled egg
and sliced toast
thinking of
Froggy's touch
and promise
she had made
not to blab
(Froggy's word)
about it
the secret
touching place
it's nowhere
Della says
dreamed of it
in my sleep
are you sure?
Mother asks
Della nods
and dips toast
in the yoke
of the egg
thinking on
Froggy's touch
up her leg.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 4:59 AM UTC
IN THE AFTER-TIME
" Alice thought she
had never seen such
a curious croquet
ground in all her life; "
It was somewheres near
Roswell
18 something and something
there or there...abouts
& Billy the Kid &
the boys have just
...paused:
in their croquet
for a tintype photo.
Billy's the guy
in the cardigan sweater.
Him & his gang
( the Regulators )
are posing like
they were a prototype
for
Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers
or the band
THE BAND.
Pure Americana.
Billy the cardi-cowboy and
his gang of croquet playing outlaws...
Not exactly how
one would have somehow
imagined them
. . .passing the time.
One of the outlaw...eh...gentlemen
points out that
Billy
" . . .the Kid has spooned
his shot!"
A ricochet of tobacco coloured
spittle hits a spittoon.
Silence congeals
about the accusation.
Now, whether Billy has
merely pushed the ball
silently through rather than
soundly hit it
is:
neither here nor there.
A cold revolver
clicks &
"I says I hit it...I hit it
get it?"
The other gentleman outlaw
begs to agree.
"Ok, Billy boy...keep yer
cardi on!"
And so, we leave them
there
in the croquet craze of
1878.
Time like a yellow ball
hit through hoop after
hoop until: it arrives
at this
present...NOW!
And a photo found in a store
for a dollar or a few dollars more
repays the expense
by morphing into
the 5 million dollar
photo.
But I hit the ball
back through hoop after
hoop after hoop
until it arrives back
at Billy's boot.
And a voice cries:
"Ok, kid...play!"
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 5:29 PM UTC
I'm outside
in the grounds
I can smell
the fresh air
and flowers
hear bird song
someone has
wheeled me out
from the ward
where the smells
and voices
hemmed me in
hello Grace
a voice says
to my left
I turn my
blind eyes where
the voice comes
Philip is
that you there?
yes it is
he replies
I reach out
to touch him
he holds my
hand in his
where abouts
have you been?
I ask him
war work stuff
its stop secret
can't say much
o I see
he squeezes my
hand gently
your doctor
has said I
can take you
out for that
meal next week
he whispers
take me out
into town?
yes up West
have to risk
the bombing
from Hitler's
bombing crew
Philip says
you don't mind
taking me?
why should I?
I've no legs
****** blind
I want to
take you out
he utters
you can wear
that red dress
I bought you
I recall
the nurse talk
about it
the red dress
thank you for
taking me
I tell him
what about
other things?
other things?
what if I
need to go
to the loo?
I can't go
on my own
can't manage
I tell him
Joan's coming
with Donald
she'll help you
Philip says
a foursome?
just the four
Donald's driving
I sit still
and stare at
where he is
she won't mind
taking me?
of course not
anyway
Nurse Kavel
will be there
on duty
just in case
she makes five
Philip says
I am thrilled
to be out
not caring
who stares at
me that night
I can't see
I won't know
a weird one
out on show.
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 2:01 AM UTC
This is where I work,
I told Tilly.
She followed me
around the place.
It was a Saturday;
the place was almost empty.
I had come to clear up
a few things from the day before.
You make marquees?
She said.
The women do,
I just help,
then go out helping
to put up marquees
all over the place,
I said.
Where abouts
have you been?
All over the place;
did a racing stables
the other week,
some big wedding,
I said.
Not our wedding,
then Benny?
No not ours,
I said.
Shame,
she said.
I her showed
the area
we kept
the canvas and ropes.
Soft here to lie on,
she said,
touching a piles
of canvas sheets.
Guess so,
I said.
Anyone about?
She said.
A few not many,
I said.
Would they look for you
if you were
missing awhile?
Who knows?
I said.
I'd take you home,
but Mum's there today,
and she'd only give
another inquest into
what we may have done
the other week,
Tilly said.
I opened the door
and peered out
the passage way;
all was clear,
no one about,
I said.
She lay down,
and I lay beside her.
We kissed and hugged,
and I touched her thigh,
and she began
to unbutton my jeans.
Benny, Benny,
are you around?
a voice said
from down the passage.
I jumped up,
and she tidied
herself up,
and I got up,
and opened the door.
Yes, you wanted me?
I said along the passage.
The manager stood
in the doorway.
Do you know what
we did with the order book?
I think I saw Joe
put it in the green file,
I said.
Where'd he put it after that?
The manager said.
God knows,
I said,
maybe it's in the workshop.
I'll look there,
he said,
and walked off.
I went back to Tilly
who was now standing
in the room
against the door.
Has he gone?
she said.
Yes he was looking
for the order book.
I best go,
she said.
Ok,
I said,
and showed her
the back way out,
and she kissed me,
and walked off.
See you later,
I said.
She nodded
and I went in.
Almost made it,
but no big sin.
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 1:26 AM UTC
Do you known
what *** is like?
Yiska said.
No
I lied.
We were lying
on the grass
of the sports field
near school.
A warm sun
overhead.
Wonder what it's like
she said.
No idea
I replied
although I lied.
She looked at me
I wish we could
find out
she said
but there is
no where here abouts.
No no where
I said.
She lay on her back
gazing at the sky.
I lay beside her
other kids were
lying about
or playing ball
or chase games.
If my mother
wasn't home all day
we could go there
in our lunch time
but she's
always there
Yiska said.
Shame she
don't go out
I said.
Some girls in class
reckon they have
but I think they
just say that
to sound big
she said.
Guess they do
I said.
Any boys
in your class
reckon they have?
she said.
No one has said
to me such
I said.
Too young really
I guess
she said.
Yes I guess so
I said
keeping what Yehudit
and I did in the gym
that lunch time
well hid.
Apr 16, 2017
Apr 16, 2017 at 4:03 AM UTC
You've held onto it tightly
Never let it go
As it has been your friend for life
Through all the highs and lows
Through all the winter storms
In all the summer rains
It has been the anchor which
Has held it all in place
Among the ups and downs
All the ins and outs
The many cares left unaware
With the here's and there abouts
You think it over when you're under
As it helps to calm the doubt
When there seems to be no other way
For you to walk the lonely mile
You may one day choose to let it loose
Where it can have its say
In hopes it helps another
Along their merry way
Until then...
You'll hold onto it tightly
Never let it go
As it has been your friend for life
Through all the highs and lows
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 7:32 PM UTC
Just the upper torso
of dunes waving back to us
where we walk
all hymn: the sea, 7ish, and ourselves
the sun;
going slow
echoes of sea birds
tunnelling
above the sea
always
near home.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 9:19 AM UTC
My ankles are swollen now thanks to you buggers.
I didn’t even do anything but you satisfied your hungers.
We are sitting enjoying a glorious day
And in you buzz, determined to have your own way.
You hide your nests gradually making them bigger
And then their where abouts it’s our job to figure.
You can ruin a picnic or a leisurely walk
And drive a hiker to jump off a dock.
Under the water is a place you won’t go,
But we are air-breathers and this fact you know.
Cleaning up carrion and devouring our pests
But why come after me while I’m having my rests?
You’re nasty, Mr. Wasp; you and your stinger.
I hate you. I fear you. You’re a real hum-dinger!
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 1:39 PM UTC
while I center this vast wondering confusion of self, I call me. others may know as that silly boy king, foolish to the end and hardly the sight for sore eyes, but still he just might be some what an okay guy. or, simply that guy with his windows rolled down. or just That guy, oh crap, no body wants to be "That Guy" umm. humm, yeah. okay. um. well at least I will be doing it while rolling this list, so, there is some saving grace... ;-) never bested by more than my silly *** self, and I'm best at that for sure. **** that guy thing again. lol. smile, I am.
Imaginary Friends, never had them till recently, but I find that delusions can be far more than fantasy and rather a wonderful thing to embrace. Funny, I am the only person I have ever known of that is happy with the simplest of things being simply what they are and beautiful for what they are without meeting some sort of standard or expectation. Yeah, the day my imaginary friend/s ever become real,,, know that I am happy that they are simply whom they are and not preconceived anything, Yes, the most beautiful thing to me, is the flaws of the beauty of what it is without being altered for any reason, for it , them, is made just so by the life they lived, the choices they made / make, the things they feel and do, and I choose not to read into that till such til comes that it be needed and so far when one chooses to see the beauty in something or someone for its simple truth of its self, there is never a time to arise to prejudge or expect anything other than what comes. and that, my friend is the greatest beauty and gift I can think to grace yourself and them with, for it is love whole heartedly, without a desire to alter of precieve them in any other light than the light in which they shine. so, yeah, it can be done, and is done, and will be done for one day, whether you or anyone ever know about it, I will be smiling and sharing with that beauty for eyes to see and ears to hear, one then truly sees that , I care not how things started, nor why, nor for what true end, for I see something that few might be lucky enough to see, that more has happened and transpired in this time, events, and whole saga, than one could have ever expected. and for that, I am grateful, hope you are too. cause in the end, I know I will be victorious in some wonderful way and I will get the girl, so don't dare say, you don't believe, cause friend, isn't believing what this is all truly about? and isn't, believing what with out a doubt, forms that which you live? so, yeah, I will. and I smile. So yeah Time to roll the center a round abouts my whole of my soul... and roll away this list of tunes, with my windows rolled down too. ;-)
Full Moon Thoughts On Lavender Moon Nights In My Dreams
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VeI9lKNoM9k&index;=2&list;=PL1X51wyhBF7-q3cJh8zRJm5aMyI5WK0be
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 7:33 PM UTC
Round-abouts of confusion
A ship of misconception.
Free falling into fire,
But only getting higher.
Together but alone,
Still holding onto hope.
Slowly the fire dies,
Waves begin to arise.
And suddenly something breaks,
Even though he still cared.
It's the sound of a shattering heart,
Faults on both parts.
Constellations breaking,
Connections tearing.
Last night she loved him,
Well into the foggy morning.
Tonight she just cries,
Asking herself why?
She wonders if he's doing the same,
How long must she pray?
Know that she cares,
Know that she dares.
She sees his girl,
But does he see she's hurt?
But perhaps it's okay,
She needs to drift away.
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 10:24 AM UTC