"alistair" poems
you know that option for signing yourself off in a card
not simply 'love' or even 'lots of love'
the one with the deeper meaning
the more you think about it
the more it becomes
yours truly
these two words put together have different intentions
there's the 'yours truly' that serves a kind, platonic message
there's the 'yours truly' that's meant for business, formal and mandatory
but the one this poem happens to be about
is the one you write when you want that person to know
.... well, wouldn't that be telling?
it's a game of interpretation
dependent on dynamic
not only in the world of cards
but in life, in literature, in love
see i've had 18 years to ponder this
and, you see, the phrase 'yours truly'
always reminds me, somehow, of pride & prejudice
another 'most ardently'
it's one of those phrases
that isn't just a phrase
it's a message
an intention
i have never been 'yours truly'
not until i met you
in a world where intimacy = romance
there's you and i
more than family
in words not yet discovered
not yet in the dictionary
i could describe us
but that time has not yet come
and i reckon i'll never find the right words
i doubt i could even find the wrong ones
nothing has ever really come close
nothing but yours truly
because you see
that's the truth of it, brother
i am truly yours
and i know what you're thinking
this sounds like a love poem
and you'd be right
it's just not a romantic one
i am yours, truly
truly yours
yours truly
in any way you arrange these two words
it's perfectly describing you and i
yours - because i belong to and with you in a way i never have with anyone else
truly - because i couldn't think of a greater truth
yours truly meaning;
a walking, talking anchor, a source of comfort
a however long phone call, a casual distraction in the form of a chat
a sentinel at your side, whether physically or not, i'm with you
a sister, a brother, a substitute for all and any family you might need
a warm, breathing reminder that you are not a **** up, because here i remain
a portable, perfectly willing cushion, a simple solution to touch starvation
a buddy for those long nights where sleep escapes the both of us, a comrade in insomnia
a single, everstanding, ever dilligent and passionate reason to continue living, another life you have saved
a fellow adventurer, a fan of not just the things you love but the things you love and owe your happiness to
a stubborn loyalty, a fierce, angry, vengeful power that will never dim and never die out, a companion in the worst of times
a reason you can rest your weary body at the end of every day and every night without fear of the nightmares or abandonment
so george
this is a shambles
a rambling mess
but the point has always been
that i
am
yours truly,
alistair.
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 4:48 PM UTC
A bright lad called Alistair Cook
Did enjoy the occasional book,
He went out to bat,
NO - don't play at that,
They did him; line, sinker and hook.
On him I'd bet my whole house,
More like a lion than a mouse,
He bats with aplomb,
Both dainty and strong,
It can only be Andrew Strauss.
From the pavilion did Jonathan Trott,
Nervous and anxious he is not,
He'll be there for a while,
All England will smile,
And South Africa know he is hot.
Next in is the feisty KP,
His batting, the top of the tree,
Sixes so great,
They should be worth eight,
Now just stay IN for a hundred or three!
A chap from ooop north who is good,
Goes by the name of Paul Collingwood,
Gritty and tough,
We just can't get enough,
Fight as hard as him, we all should.
No more will the fear he smell,
He's been down to the gym as well,
His batting is slick,
Number six does the trick,
The crowd cheers for Ian Bell.
Swinging his bat, it's Matt Prior,
Born with iron grit, steel and fire,
If he holds each catch,
We'll win the match,
And his ranking will go much higher.
Our spinner is next, Mr Swann,
His bowling is coming on strong,
His batting is great,
Which the opposition hate,
Not to pick him much sooner was wrong.
Our tall quickie is young Stuart Broad,
His bat is a rapier like sword,
He can oft' bowl too short,
Yet the batters get caught,
And Of wicket-taking we never are bored.
James Anderson is our king of swing,
Late movement his favourite thing,
Please bowl nice and full,
Offer nothing to pull,
And just hear those stumps go 'ping'.
Graeme Onions comes in at long last,
Cannot bat but, he can bowl fast,
He makes them play,
While others may stray,
Durham long-hops a thing of the past.
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 10:59 PM UTC
Words meander alabaster wanderers no rhythm for the panderer
Poetic evangelists sliding on the bannister, siding with a barrister
Space flown canister or crushing apples after Alistair
Prose left with the carrier, roses left in the carriages
Verse burst from the hearse serenade the ears and it'll carry ya
The skies are full of lies from the savages and the miracles
of marriages
But this disparages the ties between the higher dyes of oranges
These tobacco stained nostalgia skies are going away someday
to read the words of de Vries, mystique of poetic compromise
The only poems worth reading are the ones behind her eyes
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 10:02 AM UTC
oh i was a bad man, a bad bad man... i better pay up, and say my prayers; you won't give me the Bob Dylan meadows of Kentucky tomorrow... you won't, just drive-through assertions on centipedes, Alistair Armstrong on the moon, the discovered and boring Alaska and Antarctic... what else, tortoise Tsars talking penguin? before the science gets there, the fiction will be repulsive to begin with.
and to think a tyrant like Henry VIII
could write the anthem (greensleeves) that's not
god save the queen, and allow the queen her head?
but i'm sure the proverbial fancy of England
undermined both William and Canute
with her willing ways and her
hip-borne sways...
to mind i have but the Arabian girl
in mind her elephant costume of Baghdad -
but of course i revel is speaking for
all things human -
a timely message some would say with
choking at the joke - and i too,
for to hear the cockchafer, candle-lit moonlight
the baking of potatoes, the old ways of communism
spoken from the woods, ancient adverts
for the creased shirt, i'd be the African
Bambo boy of tomorrow;
wild man of the north, whitened, ain't
Eskimo, and ain't no believer in superstition -
a man that feeds no soul to only feed the mind
and this, requested world, clean shaven
and happy tie-tight-dressed for the day-job,
loose feet numbering 7 inches in 12 inch shoes,
my tongue of a pauper in a wallet of a billionaire
spending a lifetimes's worth of food
and whatever vanities dragged into the stench
of a squat.
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 8:51 PM UTC
I love you so deep, it makes me feel meek.
What you do for me, I can hardly speak.
You make me feel so proud, I want to shout it loud.
And our support for one another, is like no other.
Though we've gone our separate ways, I think of you always.
I know I miss you so much, I feel I've lost a crutch.
Our separate paths we've taken, they'll be no mistaking.
That my love for you is true, I'd like to say.. Thank You.
(Alistair & Charlotte)
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 8:06 PM UTC