"alan" poems
‘To bed! To bed!’
Said Sleepy-head;
‘Tarry awhile,’ said Slow;
‘Put on the pan,’
Said Greedy Nan;
‘We'll sup before we go.’
(from Mother Goose)
They sat at the kitchen table as
The candle flickered low,
And Greedy Nan put on the pan
To indulge her sister, Slow,
While Sleepy Weepy Annabelle
Blotted her book with tears,
And thought of her Beau from long ago
Who she hadn’t seen for years.
‘Why doesn’t Roger notice me,
Why doesn’t Alan Dell?
I’m wearing the dress cut low for me
And I’ve hitched my skirt as well.
I’ve a pretty turn to my ankle, so
You’d think it would drive them wild.’
‘But men are a mystery,’ said Slow,
‘And Alan Dell’s a child.’
While over the pan stood Greedy Nan,
Was cracking a turkey’s egg,
A lump of yeast and a slice of beast
And a single spider’s leg.
With a wing of bat and an ounce of fat
And a toe of frog for the spell,
She needed to turn her sister off
From her crush on Alan Dell.
For Greedy Nan was the eldest girl
And would have to marry first,
The other two would wait in the queue
Or their fortunes be reversed,
The omelette sizzled, and in the pan
She added before they saw,
A piece of some Devil’s Trumpet plant
For the mating game meant war.
She sliced the omelette into half
And she served them up a piece,
‘Didn’t you want?’ said Annabelle
But Slow enjoyed the feast.
‘I’m not that terribly hungry now
I’ve cooked it up in the pan,
I think I’ll just have a slice of bread,’
Said the scheming Greedy Nan.
They finished up and they sat awhile,
And they mused about their fate,
‘If Greedy Nan isn’t married soon,
For us it will be too late.’
‘I’ve set my sights on a country squire,’
Said Nan, without a blink,
Lured them away from her secret fire
To confuse what they might think.
‘The room is woozy, spinning around,
I’d better get me to bed,’
Said Annabelle, while Slow with a frown
Saw Dwarves dancing in her head.
But Greedy Nan was cleaning the pan
To clear all signs of the spell,
Her back was turned to her sisters, spurned
For the sake of Alan Dell.
And when he came in the morning
Greedy Nan was sat by the door,
While Annabelle and her sister Slow
Were lying dead on the floor,
‘I didn’t mean it to **** them, Al,
It was only a simple spell,’
But as he cuffed and led her away
He frowned, did Alan Dell.
David Lewis Paget
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 8:01 PM UTC
From Alan Lomax to the commercial art and now the money machine.
At the turn of the century; when sound recording 1st became available to the masses, recording a song was an opportunity for folk to reach out; and tell the world something up front and personal.
It meant that people were able to put themselves on “The record” A way of leaving a permanent audio statement, an epitaph, an audio sound bite immortalising ~ life, mood, emotion captured and bottled for all eternity.
(A medium that conveyed messages from artists and storytellers of all kinds)
A recording was also a great addition to "The family album" something more tangible, a window to a real person, with a real life, a message and a point of view; a legacy, a blast from the past.
Few people expected sound prints to be re-designed, homogenised, formulated, copied, repackaged and that art and the message would be played over and over again by new artists in the form of "cover music" or that the style of the messages would become secularized, seperated into distinctive groups, or constrained by an elite clique or commercial genre.
Labelling and streamlining art & music mostly benefits the commercial art & music industry; and no longer the artists and creators.
I've no problem with good business, or the multi-billion pound industrys that have gained commercial success.
However the process of mass homogenisation, product synthesis, marketing, streamlining and then packaging fashion, sound and synthetic culture to sell a product, leaves very little room for creative people to just be creative.
A medium originally open to many for self expression, a historical record, an archive, a voice, a personal message;
Is now just a vehicle for advertising and perpetuating a genre of nonsense, so much so that there is now more white noise immortalised than messages.
To re-cap ~ I Think that creativity and expressionism; like story telling conveys moods and messages from the present and past!
Artists and musicians should have the opportunity to create and produce more information than they copy; thus creating a richer more colourful tapestry, whilst not devaluing the message of their predecessors!
Purcy Flaherty.
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 10:38 AM UTC
Once upon a day or night -- Wait, it was day, there was a light
a light, which shone upon a moonlit drive so dark and drear.
At keeping track, I'm sadly slacking. Forgive my memory, it is lacking
memoirs of this day of days I could not -- would not -- hear.
But now alas, alan, alack, something gruesome did attack, my dear.
Something's ugly head did rear.
Indistinctly, I remember, was it June? July? November?
Moments burn together as I recollect the fear.
And though he knows it gets to me, he will never set it free,
the truth of all the memories I used to hold so dear.
The truth you chose to hide from me for days, turned months, turned year.
But no, I will not shed one tear.
He held my hard heart high in flutter. Stomachs full of bread and butter.
Our love could not be jaded, for he traded tea from beer.
And though we were the oddest pair, I thought by now he would not care
how people chose to say their puns of nuns and hateful jeer.
Of wolves and sheep, of awkward sleep, of hunters hunting deer.
I thought we had our life in gear.
Sadly, though, I was mistaken. Blast, that awful wretch has taken
my whole soul and everything I previously thought mere.
He broke it off, and with a cough confessed, a darkest truth repressed
of everything, how twas a lie, and that the end was near.
And with four words, a looking glass of sorts he handed me to peer.
These the blue-eyed snake hath spoke: "Honey, I'm a queer."
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 9:13 PM UTC
who knew really when we first met
so many years ago so many to count
today we would say to each other i love you
dont let go just hold me tight
first time in a long time
to hear those words tears in each others eyes
who knew what we had to go through in life
just to hear these words from me and you.
first time in a long time
it didnt matter what others thought
but what it taught
when life is down there is always someone watching trying to get through
who knew really when we first met
now she says you are stuck the others are out of luck
i am never letting you go just so you know.
so many years ago so many to count
today we would say to each other i love you
dont let go just hold me tight
first time in a long time
who knew really when we first met
the others i know they still mean alot to you and will continue too
but now i hold the reigns and they had the chance to gain.
so your taken no looking back the past is no where to go,
the future is me and you.
who knew really when we first met
so many years ago so many to count
first time in a long time
to hear these words and know they are true
I love you
your stuck with me.
long time waiting
First time in a long time who knew really when we first met
sorry girls i am taken it happened when i wasnt looking not much to say after that
First time in a long time who knew really when we first met
alan spivey 1/23/2014
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 1:22 PM UTC
So many cool things to do
so many fun, and interesting things to do
so many intoxicating things to stimulate the senses
which, are always on march and parade
DOPAMINE
I stay chasing the next exciting thing
the spectacle, the stimulation, music, promise
but mostly I work my life away
and then I drink, after
Then the internet stimulates me: Facebook, YouTube, Twitter, Instagram
Goodreads, Reddit
the next fix,
always the next fix
not where I want to be
you can only be in one place
I think my mind wants to be, in all places at once
then, you get bored
******* bored
that's there again
Then minutes, moments, seconds move fast
out of your life
Alan Watts said, "thoughts are addictive," I know what he means
he's not speaking in riddles
A lot of times, it's just best not to think
Somewhere in complete isolation
with no one talking to you, or speaking to you
eventually the voices and thoughts go away
and you can cleanse yourself
Hopefully
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 9:21 PM UTC
Yesterday
I was just like you
I rose with the rising sun
I brought a smile to all those who passed by me
Alan spoke about my colour
Brendon was amazed at my arrangement
Claire wanted to touch me
Dorothy wanted her perfume with the fragrance I carried
Emily wanted to take me with her
Francis wanted to give me to his lady love,
I thought I was the most important being on earth
I thought everyone loved me
I thought I brought a smile to people's face.
But today,
Am no longer loved,
Alan just walked by
Brendon bothered not
Claire cared not
Dorothy drove past
Emily ensured the same as did
Francis.
Because,
Today
Am nothing more than a withered rose
With my strewn petals in the pathway
And that's right
Step on or sweep away
For
All you people
Might one day end up just like me!!!
- A Withered Yellow Rose.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 8:31 PM UTC
Hildegard of Bingen
the most musical abbess
of the year 1097 a.d.
met with Jung the unconscious detective
and Ginsberg the howling poet
for lattes at some Starbucks
in a vibrating city
on a shimmering afternoon.
Angelic minuets keep flowing,
effervescing through my chakras
like tonal champagne . . .
the glowing femme declared.
Beams of ethereal light infuse me,
tsumanis of energy tempt me
to dance right out of my habit.
Ignoring the possibility
of seeing a naked nun drink coffee in public,
Alan mused behind his hornrims . . .
I get what you mean
like I have felt the same perfusion of joy
watching cans of peas and ayahuasca
dance with talking bananas
at the A&P; Market near my pad in Brooklyn,
can you dig it?
Still suffering from his Freudian hangover,
Carl reframed them both . . .
Any conclusions or convictions
drawn from such experiences
may not self-verify because
your introspective identifications
attempt in vain
to concretize the amorphicity
of decentralized psychic sensations
which reach conscious awareness
only at the expense of extension.
What did he just say?
Hildegard asked Alan.
I have absolutely no idea,
the portly poet answered
as he doodled an intricate mandala
on his hemp napkin.
Jan 1, 2012
Jan 1, 2012 at 12:21 AM UTC
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She had her own signature scent,
A lasting aroma, that lingers in every corner of her home
As the strong winds picked up the scent,
and move it quite a distance.
She carefully prepare the mixture from the earth
Cuss ,kuss grass, Jasmine, rose buds and roots,
Before she prepare the mixtures with that special touch
Like a fine wine from the winery,
“One more drop of Rosemary oil, she would say
This would make the scent last for eternity,
Old Granddad he would make silly jokes,
His word usages, madam chemist, a witch with a spoon,
But in the end, she would always made a special potion for him
We would carefully select the flaky mahogany woods shaving,
with combinations of fresh vanilla leaves with extracting oil with oils
Those homemade perfumes from flowers had lots of potential.
Granddad hand craft the wooded bottle stoppers with his chisel,
It was a joy to watch, the old Irish typhoon working and smoking his pipe
Old Alan baffler was Nana nickname for him
She would scold and speak harshly to us
for touching the those colorful luring bottles
“Don’t open those bottles, you malicious children
Else a witch would appear: She would often say,
For me, my nana was an old chemist,
with old decade’s wooden sticks.
Preparing the mixtures like a fine wine,
I am forever grateful for those memories
I should have follow in her footsteps,
Her secret potions, her gift,
Is worth millions of dollars today
Looking back on yesteryears , good parenting
and good memories
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 8:48 AM UTC
We came from different Tribes
Children of the great Kabuniyan
We came into being
Children of the Bamboo Forest
We hunt, we gather and fish
Living from Our Mother's gifts
The forest and the mountains
The Cordillera we praise
We chant and sing
The Voices of the Gods
Blessings we bring
and Revelations of Warning
The rituals and offerings
Dances of mystical powers
The humble Rice
and the Great forests
From Apo ni Tulao
To the humble Alan
Unto the God Ini-init
and Apo ni Gwani
We came into being
We children of the forest
Children of the rivers
Children of the ever strong Mountain
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 5:47 AM UTC
Amazing how their memory fades.
Leaving victims, in their hands
the bloodied blades.
Amazing how they forget their ills.
In the hands of the dead,
a bottle of pills.
Sitting red faced yet silent at the wake.
Lies a blue faced victim
of the life you did take.
In violence
you used your hands for years.
In desperation
they used their hands one time.
Is this how you imagined
you'd pay for your crime.
Poetry by Kaydee.
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 3:35 PM UTC
Socrates consumed Hemlock,
Cleopatra embraced the Asp,
Alan Turing ate an apple laced with cyanide,
I, like those before me,
Have picked my poison;
An absinthe-eyed, quicksilver-tongued boy.
He was unsettled when I answered with the truth of his query,
Yes, he is poison,
I knowingly and willingly consume every drop of him,
Not all toxicity is solely adverse,
Radiation treats cancer,
Venom in low doses is an antidote,
Ethanol relaxes muscle and numbs the emotions.
He is my poison and my antidote,
He is the corrosive acid that dissolves gear-stopping rust,
I, in kind, am the poison apple of his eye,
Or so he says,
And so, we two, bask in the destruction of ourselves,
Consuming each other's pain, insecurity, madness, and lust,
Why is it that he, a poison, is the one I trust?
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 12:16 PM UTC
The lily of life, full of humility and devotion - the beautiful kind
that everyone would choose to pick from the fields I think you'll find.
One who defied the definition of a heroic inspiration,
your talent outshone all others; you caused quite the sensation.
You tenaciously grasped onto your stem of life
with the insidious poison of demise within your cells rife,
your colours darkening and fading away,
and yet you remained God's most beautiful creation each and every day.
As your petals fluttered down, by your side was your wife
while you heart-wrenchingly closed the circle of your life.
Now, we all shall miss watching you bloom through the days
and we will remember you, forever and ALWAYS .
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 1:51 PM UTC
Ode to *** and coke
I toast the old *** and coke
the after hour drink from one job to the next
sometimes not a break just slip from one kitchen to the other
one paid the other didn't well except for the drinks
Oh how i adore you *** and coke
wake up in the morning coffee in hand blinders on
weary look up on my face, each morning other side of the wall from the coffee
lays her sleeping with someone new
my heart racing anguished and foolish , embarrassed at every turn. I turn back to my room coffee in hand
watch the clock tick until 2 pm get on my scooter to job number one a place really where I can be in my own world until closing time, then off to job number 2 a repeat of number 1
except for in the waiting after the shift was done a *** and coke is to be in hand.
Tired and weary every hour dusk until dawn.
A time where i felt no escape and no place to run and there at the end of the all shifts
old *** and coke waiting for me to take her in my hands and sip and taste
oh what grace... the numbness sifting out all of daily happenings oh so sweet.
day in day out old *** and coke came about..and met me in the night...
then one night waiting for old *** and coke on second order
came across something new
after getting second drink looked over and said hello... several years ago
Now..both restaurants are gone, things i trusted and beleived in gone,
i have moved, my friend stopped talking
everything has changed once again
like the never ending circle
oh how i wish i had that *** and coke
the bartender knew just how much it took to drown the day in each and every glass
he would pour for me
i raise the *** and coke high into the sky and toast to its existence
for it would listen and ease up all the pain.
Ode to *** and coke
by Alan Spivey 1/20/2014
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 11:36 AM UTC
Memories, just faded memories
By alan spivey
Looking out my window, Eleanor is playing on the old rope swing that’s hanging down from the old oak tree.
Mary is walking up the steps from going into town to open my front door. The horses are whining and ready to rest from their long ride. The carriage so black and shiny stands there with pride.
The Calvary just passed on their way to who knows, since I can’t move to see what’s going on, my bones are crackling I am getting old.
Memories, just faded memories,
Eleanor isn't there the swing has fallen years ago the old yellow ribbon Mary tied for her husband who never came back home only a little piece still shows on that old oak tree.
My doors swing open and closed with the wind, my window has since been broken. I .. I still see Mary and Eleanor but they never come through my doors or play on the old swing.
They just fade away like faded memories.
I am old my bones are crackling I am falling down more often for I am their house I am whom Mary’s husband made for her before he went to war.
Memories, faded memories
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 5:15 PM UTC
Cerebral woman,,,,,,,,,,, 'I'm a judge jail Mee
she's a technicoloured melodrama
fringed in pink
a loony tune character
penned in indian ink,
she's positive and poignant
blessed with perfect poise
my snake wrangling lady-
she's one o' the boys.
she's a synaptical **** siren
and rather refined
a whoreatical kinda woman;
that ***** with my mind,
she's passionate and pendulous
immersed in deep thought
my minds mary's monster
my cerebral - consort,
alan nettleton.
Sep 11, 2010
Sep 11, 2010 at 10:28 PM UTC
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR: of the EBook THE BULLIED, by Alan Johnson
(The Nonromantic Man is the art form most often described as a character sketch. It falls in the realm of poetry, which I call poessay. For it is not poetry by itself or an essay.)
The Nonromantic Man
Non-romanticism is the inability to overwhelm one’s ignorance of the opposite *** needs or desires. The non-romantic man is one who buys his non-pool playing wife a pool table and soon thereafter invites his friends over every weekend to play pool. He calls women ******* and ‘hoes. He rises late at night to fix a sandwich, leaves the spilled condiments for his woman to clean in the morning, then after a cigarette, with mustard still being on his breath, wakes her up for a ***** call. He gains weight and then demands that she go on a diet. In harmony with his poor values, he neglects to compliment the new sexed up dress that she is wearing but does notice that she is wearing too much makeup for him. He has to be reminded of her birthday or any other should special engagement. The result his gift is not well thought out, so he buys her a cheap necklace just like the times before. He has no taste for poetry, sensual lyrics or the practice of setting the ambiance which moistens the trail of splendor. He takes his woman out to dinner and complains about the dinner’s high prices, and work, and her in-sensitiveness to his problems, and…At least once a month, he rolls off the top of her and falls asleep while she stares at the ceiling and prays for a difference.
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 9:47 PM UTC
“- Bacon sammich -”
Ahhh, liddle green apple 'pon my plate,
**** you ain't ever gonna satiate
my hunger, lust, for something more,
bacon sammich,,you know the score,
Home made bread, cut nice n thick,
full fat butter, ooh yea, that's the trick !
streaky bacon, with chewy rind
just cut off, from a pig's behind,
Fry it up, with a liddle oil
but steady now, or it'll spoil,
not too crisp, n not too brown
coz it's a little rough, when going down,
n to top it off, it's best of course
to maybe add, a splash 'o sauce,
So alas liddle apple, 'pon my plate
I'm afraid for you, the bins your fate,
at the risk of a liddle wife's disquiet
it's a bacon sammich,,,,,fuck the diet.
Alan nettleton.
May 8, 2010
May 8, 2010 at 8:22 AM UTC
You are like a beauty contest
Where nobody is keeping score.
The clothes make you beautiful
But I like you naked even more.
You’re a hot hunk of manhood
From your hairline to your boots
And you look a lot better naked
Than some men look in suits.
Yeah, I have to admit it here
It was your looks caught my eye
But as time went by I discovered
There was much more to you, guy.
There’s poetry and wit and then
That ever present sense of fun.
At first it was just infatuation;
A fan sitting close to the stage.
But later it turned into something
Beyond a **** picture on a page.
I found out there was more to you
Than the beauty that stops hearts.
There is something special there
That sets you delightfully apart.
So, I hope I can be forgiven
For being such a rabid fan.
I have excellent taste in things
Like the looks of a hot man.
I have heard so many call you
One hot, **** son of a gun.
Of the members of your fan club
I’m sure I am your number one.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 11:18 PM UTC
When did news parody
stop being funny?
Was it somewhere between
Alan Jackson’s 9/11 cash-in
and Donald Trump’s hair?
Was it BoJo stranded on a zipline over London,
or Cameron’s alleged porcine relations
(bizarrely black-mirroring fiction)?
When did the news
start doing Chris Morris’ job for him?
When did they start
pre-satirising the headlines?
“No evidence mermaids exist,” says US Government.
Swimming pool evacuated after prosthetic leg is mistaken for **********
Robots follow Marco Rubio to South Carolina.
I swear, I didn’t
make any of those up.
The actors on Saturday Night Live
are more statesmanlike
than the Presidential Primary Candidates they’re lampooning.
How the hell do they breed these
creatures? These gurning,
overgrown foetuses with their
conveniently dead ****** sisters to get
all wet-eyed and tumescent over,
their boomingly hollow controversy and
their total, catastrophic
crashes of personality.
These loathsome
organic constructs who would seem
more relatable and trustworthy if
their image consultants made them wear
Nixon masks for every
public appearance.
When did it all become
this strange, sick spoof
of itself?
Is there no one left in Britain who can make a sandwich?
Man dressed as penguin receives more votes than the Liberal Democrats.
Piers Morgan given jail time for illegally hacking ‘phones and gloating about it.
Okay.
I made the last one up.
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 6:07 AM UTC
I'm goin sideways when I perish;
want to end up, in a rock pool
in the sand.
I'll have a shiny shell,
that I can cherish,
with two claws, fer my chores;
not a hand.
sharing my abode with thirteen rag worm;
who'll confirm,
that it's sunny,
by the sea,
we can wish **** the fish a happy birthday,
n the weather,
we can also,
guarantee,
yes I’m goin sideways when I perish,
to cherish, my rock pool by the sea,
to squirm with the worm n embellish
another lifetime - as liddle lobster me.
Alan nettleton.
Jun 30, 2010
Jun 30, 2010 at 8:12 AM UTC
Bless all the barmaids that have ever lived
who carried featherlite, n knobbly ribbed,
who listened to waffle n crap I spoke
who granted liddle me, a slap n poke,
who parted ***** whilst in drunken stooper
n gave the bird, to the party pooper,
the big ones, the small ones, the fat n thin
god bless slappers, that invited me in,
bejeezus begorra, mag da horra,
bless all barmaids, I'll **** on the morra,
big **** big *** n the ones that pass gas,
god bless the ones that I’ve yet to harass,
for whisky, for beer, god bless ya m’dear,
even big sally; fer the gonorrhea.
Alan nettleton.
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 10:08 PM UTC
Adolf n his nice tight ***
gonna get me a pair o' lederhosen
the kind adolf used to wear;
not the attire the missus woulda chosen
they're sorta ***** - to be fair,
but they made his ***** look massive
n they made his *** look taut
we all know the guy weren't passive
n did things he shouldn'ta ought,
I bet ya missus ****** loved him
when his **** hung out one side,
and as for bombin london,
well -- we'll let that ****** slide;
coz the guy he sure were stylish
in his liddle leather shorts,
goose steppin all the while-ish
with his gusset - and - supports,,,
alan nettleton.
Jul 15, 2010
Jul 15, 2010 at 11:05 AM UTC
*** whipped
Where the hell has he man gone;
n why can’t I **** in bed.??
All true men are incarcerated,
trapped on a clitoral plane,
where knee **** reactions
drives a man insane,
We all wear pink pyjamas
frilly knickers and a bra,
wear our hair in pig tails
shave our ****** ,,YAY HURRAA. !!
They feed us up on retinol
give us optrex for our eyes
provide the silken stockings ,,
denier thirty,,, OOH nice thighs.
So where the hell has he man gone-
I would like to **** in bed,
but guess I’ll just mow the lawn;
do the feckin dishes - instead.
Alan nettleton.
Jun 11, 2010
Jun 11, 2010 at 6:35 AM UTC
lightning crashes, a new mother cries
her placenta falls to the floor
the angel opens her eyes
the confusion sets in
before the doctor can even close the door
lightning crashes, an old mother dies
her intentions fall to the floor
the angel closes her eyes
the confusion that was hers
belongs now, to the baby down the hall
oh now feel it comin' back again
like a rollin' thunder chasing the wind
forces pullin' from the center of the earth again
I can feel it.
lightning crashes, a new mother cries
this moment she's been waiting for
the angel opens her eyes
pale blue colored iris,
presents the circle
and puts the glory out to hide, hide
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 2:15 PM UTC