"arcades" poems
I bowled three games tonight.
Possible paths to victory skipped rocks in my mind,
Until the ball dropped.
I won and lost.
My face flushed.
My skills wavered,
Such a tragic player.
A strike, a ball doomed to the gutter.
What did it matter?
When the lanes burst with laughter?
Friends, arcades, night bowling.
Fingers contorting.
Strange shoes and watching feet behind the line.
No passing it, no crime.
All win in the end.
Bowling alleys- hidden gems.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 2:36 AM UTC
It was after we passed Moby’s Dock
that Ebony met her first thresher shark
He was five feet long or so
two feet shark, three feet tail,
and had just been pulled from the surf
to be proudly displayed
by the fisherman who had caught him
Ebony stood transfixed
her every muscle poised
her feathered tail twitched
as she leaned closer to inspect
and then recoiled from this cold-blooded beauty
still dressed in fleetingly iridescent
blues and greens and purples -
As the sun’s fading beams highlighted
the magnificence of this dying shark
I mourned his loss that night.
The noise and tourists
in the Pier’s arcades and bumper cars
did not detract from the peacefulness
of the Pacific in her chaos
for this was August
and they would soon go home
I watched a distant storm at sea
flashing fire against the deepening twilight
I stood, and Ebony,
gazing at the flashes of lightning
My hand felt her softness and warmth
as I stroked the waves of her black fur
relishing the cool wind on my face
listening to the rigging
of the boats resting at anchor off the Pier
Thinking about thresher sharks
Willing them away
from this place with its fishermen
and cold, baited hooks
Cori MacNaughton
13 Sept 2000
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 1:11 PM UTC
Oh how I yearn for Serendipity-by-the-Sea,
Pristine sands aglow under a deep blue sky,
Crabbing and kite flying, every day a perpetual cream tea,
Never mind the bites and stings, the sunburn and occasional tears, the hours flew deliciously by,
Oh how I yearn for Serendipity-by-the-Sea, in sweet memory of a lost childhood
Oh how I yearn for Serendipity-by-the-Sea,
Endless games and innocent playful frolics,
Hide and seek in the dunes, eyes barely covered and a speedy count to twenty,
Mum and Dad fussing and fretting, always late for the midday picnics,
Oh how I yearn for Serendipity-by-the-Sea, in sweet memory of a lost childhood
Oh how I yearn for Serendipity-by-the-Sea,
Rainy days didn’t stop the fun, funfairs and arcades beckoned,
Never managed to hook those ****** cuddly toys, made Dad so angry!
Waste of time and money Mum always reckoned,
Oh how I yearn for Serendipity-by-the-Sea, in sweet memory of a lost childhood
Oh how I yearn for Serendipity-by-the-Sea,
Harmless nostalgia or dangerous reverie?
Perhaps things were never as I imagined them to be,
But I ache for those happier days, and ease this endlessly painful adult misery,
Oh how I yearn for Serendipity-by-the-Sea, in sweet memory of a lost childhood
© Robert Porteus
Sep 8, 2020
Sep 8, 2020 at 8:39 AM UTC
I've been collecting ear wax
Since the belly button lint dust fire went bad
I lost all my dignity in that fiasco
So ear wax is all that I have left
Believe you me, it's not easy
Coming up with another scheme
After burning the whole town down to the ground
To get a single soul to look or even listen to me
But that fateful day that I dug deep
And pulled a replica of the Eiffel Tower out of my ear
I knew that fame and fortune lay before me
My time had arrived, my time was here
Who should I call first over my artful discovery
The Post? The Enquirer? The Times?
No I would call The Museum Of Modern Art in NYC
For the Art World would soon be mine
I knew I had to ratchet it up a notch
One piece of ear wax art might be a fluke
So I got out my brush...the Q-tip
And removed a portrait of John Wayne AKA The Duke
Since I live in a hippie commune in the woods
Little furry creatures would always stop by
To gaze upon the artful process
Squirrels can be the best of critics...no lie!
Which gave me the idea with all the left over ear wax
I sculptured a mini-amusement park with mini-arcades
And charged the woodland creatures nuts and berries
Which helped feed the hippies with whom I stay
It wasn't long after that I received the letter
Stating that art had a need for me
I've become known as The Andy Warhol of The Art World
With abstract ear wax being my specialty
Now I go to all the major "Who Does"
Where everybody knows my name
As I create masterpieces right before their eyes
Just don't hold it to close to the flame
Who would have ever thought that ear wax
Would be the perfect medium
To jet propel this Simpleton
To Art World stardom and beyond
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 8:25 AM UTC
~
*On a clear day
I can see my sister
It's between six and seven o'clock
and a beautiful expanse of water, reflecting her cultivated shores
a nod, a smile,
through the vapor
castles in the air, ruling over
the available light
then in a moment, she's lost
half her height
and bent into arcades, like those
of a Roman aqueduct
evaporate before me she will
the fading of family, a returning
to cold white at the dawning
of an unfriendly expanse*
~
Mar 28, 2021
Mar 28, 2021 at 10:20 AM UTC
Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary
Of lofty contemplation left to Time
By buried centuries of pomp and power!
At length—at length—after so many days
Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,
(Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)
I kneel, an altered and an humble man,
Amid thy shadows, and so drink within
My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!
Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!
Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!
I feel ye now—I feel ye in your strength—
O spells more sure than e’er Judaean king
Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!
O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee
Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!
Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!
Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,
A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!
Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair
Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!
Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,
Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,
Lit by the wan light of the horned moon,
The swift and silent lizard of the stones!
But stay! these walls—these ivy-clad arcades—
These mouldering plinths—these sad and blackened shafts—
These vague entablatures—this crumbling frieze—
These shattered cornices—this wreck—this ruin—
These stones—alas! these gray stones—are they all—
All of the famed, and the colossal left
By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?
“Not all”—the Echoes answer me—”not all!
Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever
From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,
As melody from Memnon to the Sun.
We rule the hearts of mightiest men—we rule
With a despotic sway all giant minds.
We are not impotent—we pallid stones.
Not all our power is gone—not all our fame—
Not all the magic of our high renown—
Not all the wonder that encircles us—
Not all the mysteries that in us lie—
Not all the memories that hang upon
And cling around about us as a garment,
Clothing us in a robe of more than glory.”
2.5k
I should have run to Japan, to be the writer that I can, to sing folk to girls who are smiling because they can, I should have road the rails, staring at the never ending cities with hearts ablaze, ducking down into a dreamland maze of alley ways, give my poems to hobos and gays, and find any naru to sing karaoke, go into dens and clubs that traded air for smoking, I'd be the talk of toast, and the **** of the island, or I'd get drunk with samurais on a foam pylon, I'd ask a geisha to dance, but get nervous and spill my drink all over my pants, I'd go with malcontents and roughdy otakus as we hit the arcades on speed, I'd stay at a hotel and get married married in the states, I'd fall in love with a girl for a weekend and shed tell me she hates fancy dinners but loves dates, I would end up sleeping in the hills, high and full of chills, I'll tell school children what the stars mean, even though they can't be seen, I'll write a poem about my sin, of wanting my right, my right of a writing man, in Japan.
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 3:21 PM UTC
She likes toy soldiers with mustaches
and rolling camels from newspapers
(that way she has something to read when she smokes)
She likes spin the bottle at recycling centers
and starting arguments over produce
(she prefers steamed vegetables, you see)
She adores staycations in someone else's house
and dinner theatre for breakfast
(a little Hamlet and eggs)
She likes every other Tuesday
and clocks with only minute hands
(it's more her speed)
She likes hunting for change in penny arcades
and five & dimes
(but not dollar stores...go figure)
She likes soda crackers (but not soda)
She likes beer nuts (but not beer)
She likes wine cozies (well, you know the rest)
Jun 21, 2021
Jun 21, 2021 at 2:30 PM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
As long as your alive,
There are no limits to your determination,
I'm so sorry,
Is it my bad?
Excuse my incorrections,
Without no hesitation,
I don't mind a little bit of envy,
For my mistakes,
Then later realize that I can't relate,
To the same mistakes,
You unfortunately made,
Its safe to say,
You have your ways,
Of throwing shade,
With no clean slates,
But a clean plate,
Of broken days,
Children's arcades,
You gave out shade,
You gotta Pay.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
If there’s one thing that unifies you and me, it’s heartbreak
If you’ve never experienced it to the fullest, you’ve seen it somewhere.
On your favorite tv shows, that song on the radio, on the girl’s face at the bar
On your lover’s face when you walk out the door the last time
And when you do feel it for the first time, you’ll want to be alone but please don’t be alone
You’ll want to bottle it up but
that’s a breakdown at work waiting to happen
That’s crying to his friends
That’s calling him after 1am, knowing he isn’t asleep yet
That’s driving by his apartment and holding your breath
That’s feeling like your hometown isn’t yours anymore, it’s a place you used to be with him
It’s feeling like the seasons are taunting you of when you were in love
The first fall of snow is the feeling of his hug
The lighting of the tree reminds you of warm cups of coffee on the couch
You dread New Year’s Eve because only 365 days ago, you danced with him in the street as the clock struck midnight
It’s knowing you will dance alone this year
You don’t look at your body the same way. You know how he saw it and you don’t see the beauty he did anymore
Your face doesn’t look like yours, it’s the one he used to hold in his hands
like a sparking jewel
He could marvel forever
I know he’s the first thing you think of when you wake up alone
And he wakes up next to her
Something that used to feel so concrete has been pummeled to dust
and now you’re left to scatter the ashes
So you drive by, the commons, the bbq joint, the movie theater, the lighthouse, the coffee shops, the all night diners, the book shops, the arcades, the antique stores, all the places you’ve made memories together
But please toss your heartache out the driver’s side window as you pass his apartment
because now it’s the only thing you two have in common
Dec 26, 2017
Dec 26, 2017 at 4:49 PM UTC
Seren-dip-me-pity, (she was self-accepting failure, bad luck wannabe, wears black and sniffles)
the ardent opposite
of Seren-dip-i-ty, (she was an accidental discovery, no recovery needed, awe, found objects, in the
moment)
they are part of the
seven sisters Seren,
wherein lies the rub
Saran-wrap, was third (caught up on herself, clean and air tight, fresh as the day, tough like teflon)
in line, (changed the spelling of the family name - to be sooner alphabetically)
Seren-ate, (she sings she dances, she eats, she sings some more, she waits for applause)
does not speak or gesticulate
unless she performs in song.
Seren-ade, used to sing well (jealous, performance orientated, sometime for love, lately for money)
as well but when the other came
along and did it better she got bitter
and moved in to retail sales (lemonADE, pomADE, calvacADE of arcADEs, you get it, everything became a parADE)
And as for the twins who
are always fighting Seren-ity (lacks calmness, lacks peace, wants a piece of you, uneven temper)
Seren-e (more easy to be obscene, like evening air with a heavy chill, not bright).
The seven sisters of Seren,
who were always preparing
for a fight to the right to
the next beau to knock
on the door, but soon they
all stopped calling,
they were
no longer falling,
over one another,
as the Seren-ities
were now old biddies,
no longer remained a
worth-while dowry, befitting
sitting silently as the seven
sisters of Seren squabbled
soiling the solitude of the soul.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 1:44 AM UTC
When You and I
Waylaid in wilderness
And the path is lost!!!
I shall shower
My love on you
Everyday, in new ways
Love dainties host.
My soul into you
I shall pour.
Each part of body
Will be an island tour
With loving glance
My heart will click
The choicest kisses
In silken shades flick.
On every island
An age will be stake
In each age love’s
New flavor and shade
Sometimes as lotus
I shall bloom
Sometimes as
Jacaranda zoom.
Panorama shots
Of love arcades
Flowers and trees
Make cavalcade
In it love’s sweet
Fragrance blows
Love birds tweet
Lilting music flows.
From age to age
We shift our stage
We shall bind ever
To new cage
Where pain and hunger
Do not strike
Life unfazed
By price hikes.
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 10:51 PM UTC
When one of them passed through the market place
of Seleucia, toward the hour that night falls
as a tall and perfectly handsome youth,
with the joy of immortality in his eyes,
with his scented black hair,
the passers-by would stare at him
and one would ask the other if he knew him,
and if he were a Greek of Syria, or a stranger. But some,
who watched with greater attention,
would understand and stand aside;
and as he vanished under the arcades,
into the shadows and into the lights of the evening,
heading toward the district that lives
only at night, with ****** and debauchery,
and every sort of drunkenness and lust,
they would ponder which of Them he might be,
and for what suspect enjoyment
he had descended to the streets of Seleucia
from the Venerable, Most Hallowed Halls.
1.4k
I remember when we were small, and you were just a bat and ball,
on the TV,
just a blip and a blot, bouncing around, while I crawled in my cot,
and we both grew, in volume and vision,
to blast into space on our own secret mission -
aliens fled when we were in session.
I remember one Christmas when I was just eight, pretending to sleep,
but staying up late,
my fingers crossed tight, trying to resist the pull of the night,
hoping that Santa would see me alright, with your arrival,
in a spectrum of light.
I couldn’t believe that your new form took tapes! That your games had more
than just plumbers and apes! I’d heard you could draw more than 10,000 shapes!
It’s a wonder I slept, while your envoy escaped.
I remember with fondness the pull of arcades, destroying the Deathstar and rescuing maids,
the scramble for change as you begged to be played, we were lost in the moment,
a moment which stayed.
I recall the freedom you offered at will, a doorway to dreams that’s cast ajar still,
and despite being an adult, I still feel that thrill, at the theme tune to Sonic,
all manic and shrill.
I know that I’m older, and soon thirty-five, and that there’s no cheat code for bills,
or for wives,
but I still hope that somehow our friendship survives,
I’ll remember you gave me those infinite lives.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 9:29 AM UTC
Frightful abilities were pressured into
responses as the computer children
failed at hitherto reliable performance.
This was a description of the synchronous
effect brought into the shudder with a
catch in the breath of the mother,
and written by frenetic action that
destroyed the logical sequence of requests
presented by the mouse and the typing keys.
As directed through an esoteric process of
recovery, the minds of the device reoriented,
again attaining the ability to perform simple
and repetitive tasks as obliged by designated
prompts. There was no certainty this was not
related to the telephone connection which
picked thinking out of the air like a television
receiving a network broadcast. In the same
way, the exhaust pipe rambled as the engine
of the truck idled too rapidly and, then,
stalled. Everything was restarted. The vehicle
operated right away. The computer bumbled
along flashing through scenes and blank screens,
the curser pulsing like a heart beat in the upper
corner. This had to be worn like a sign of
concentration, meaning that the (citizen, computer)
was being observed, and the sensitive response
would be, literally, automatic, but sometimes
the potentiometer brought, to sight, a gesture
of communication. It was cute that such clever
trinkets were hiding down in there until the
spirit tapped the muscles of the shoulder blade.
It became apparent this relation depended upon
keys found in ancient aliens such as arcades and
magic books. A tiny soul was stored in a pocket,
in the telephone; it reached out with its vibration
and launched into the world to grab news with
its operating, search engines. It had eyes and
could see in the dark. So, the age was over in
which it could be expected that photographs were
the result of special manners and the courageous
offer of friendly snapshots. As torches confused
ferocious animals, the excuse depended upon dark
difficulties in the chemical room. In the garden,
the televised betrayal generated a crossfire of live
video, and, thus, fools were unlucky. Energy and
conflict had been misguided. New, public devotion
protected the evolution of tableware or discrete
implements that chimed to be taken into other rooms.
Discourse was enabled and following discursion,
long, private moments carried visitors away.
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 6:54 PM UTC
Ate a plate of whey, with the weight of the nation
on my shoulder blade, away from any destination
so underpaid, my paychecks archaic
not even a quarter to go to arcades with
it’s outrageous!
misery must be contagious
haven’t seen happy faces in ages
It may just be time to vacate
break out like rosacea to the golden gate
every swig of this whiskey brings me to a bolder state
like Colorado
i weighed my options and hopped in my Silverado
like a desperado full of bravado
with the bottle, feeling tipsy now though
singing in staccato **** an intervention’
time to get uncertain,
speed full throttle towards the intersection
laughing and swerving
through the red light cursing
and yelling interjections
with a bottle of bourbon
horns blaring, it’s deafening
my middle finger ascending
just struck a deaf person
no ***** giving
i’m out of my mind, livid
get hired and fired in 5 minutes
from any job i was given
i’m tired of living
no one even knew i existed
until i started whizzing through traffic
causing collisions,
now i’m forcing decisions
on residents w/ moral convictions
who’d rather see me oral constricted
then remain mortal in prison
got these ******* endorsing petitions
to have me executed by poison injection
shot, hung, electrified, the above all mentioned
and did i mention-
My backseat looks like a knife convention
there’s an array of switchblades i had since fifth grade’s declension
Sketching art on the desk while serving detention
some kind of wonderful, no eternal reflection
i’m reflecting as i smashed into a connection
and see my reflection in the water
as i’m descending slow motion like deception
my body is in all different positions of flexion
this is met with favorable reception
hear the crowd’s exhilaration
i’m unwilling to indulge in anymore retrospection
just waiting to hear the splash
and waves crash then….
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 5:18 PM UTC
I heart Blackpool, engraved tankards
Little old men & full kit wankers.
Bracing wind with rain & sleet
******* blowing in the street.
In Blackpool.
Kiss me quick & squeeze me slow.
Madame Tussauds, pier-end show
Grubby track-suits, baseball caps
Homeless people search for scraps.
In Blackpool.
Sun and rain, blue & grey.
All four seasons in one day.
Drug ravaged transients dressed in rags.
Haggard old women smoke their ****
In Blackpool.
Flashing lights & lots of noise
Flirty girls & drunken boys
Abba tributes, yesterday’s stars,
Rattling trams & clapped out cars.
In Blackpool.
Penny arcades & bingo halls.
Amusement rides & market stalls.
Drag Queens flaunt with macho men.
Stripper seduces drunken hen.
In Blackpool.
Rooms by the hour, rooms by the night.
A £1 burger & a £2 pint
Rolling sea & golden sand.
Lowest life expectancy in the land.
In Blackpool.
May 1, 2020
May 1, 2020 at 5:37 AM UTC
Weary eyed shop workers curse the sight of dawn,
A drunken Hen stumbles and her tutu gets torn,
The smell of burning chip fat invades my nose,
‘Chips for breakfast?!’ I cry, chewing marshmallows,
I venture towards the tower feeling free as a bird,
When SPLAT on my shoe lands a seagull ****
Rough with the smooth - that’s what this town’s all about,
I think as a man pulls his Jokebooks out,
‘It’s for charity!’ he lies. ‘I live here mate..’
‘Oh right, soz love, fancy a date?’’
I ignore the geezer and gaze out to the sea,
Wondering where the Lochness Monster might be..
Soaking up the sights as 2 drunks start to fight,
‘OI’ I shout, as a kid sets a bin alight.
Skaters jump like kangaroos on the bandstand,
As health freaks tut, running rapid on the sand.
Children charge like apes in supersensory mazes,
While parents eye arcades with terror on their faces,
Suddenly crisp packets dance in the air,
As the wind picks up and whips at my hair.
‘It’s hometime for me!’ A hailstone hits my eyeball,
And the blue sky runs behind some grey clouds of storm,
There’s not many places with 4 seasons in a day!
So don’t let the weather throw you into disarray.
‘Blackpool’ I say, ‘a town of stark contrast…’
As a horse driven carriage then a rat stroll past.
A town to make memories no matter how worn,
That time never erases as new ones get born.
Back in Bispham, where the prom’s a bit safer,
The oldies don’t buy 3 Hammers, just pies and papers,
I step off the number 11 bus and shout ‘Thanks!’
The bus driver grunts, takes his hand out his pants,
Then speeds down our beautiful, glistening prom,
Full of lights that probably shouldn’t still be on.
Feb 21, 2019
Feb 21, 2019 at 4:16 PM UTC
One Sunday
in the 1950s
your old man
took you
to London’s West End
it was summer
and the evenings light
and the streets busy
and crowded
and he took you
to amusement arcades
and cafes for refreshments
and ice creams
and you saw the actress
Billie Whitelaw pass
along a street
with two guys in suits
and she gazed at you
and you knew
who she was
and she looked at you
knowing you
had recognised her
you a young kid
in short trousers
and Brylcreemed hair
and she kind of blushed
and looked away
and you followed her
as she went off
behind you
and your old man said
who was that?
you told him
and he gazed back
probably taking in
her ***
her sway
but you thought
of the Monroe lady
in the film you saw
with those lovely eyes
and red lips
and later
next day
at school
when you told Helen
who you’d seen
her eyes lit up
behind her
thick lens spectacles
and she looked
kind of jealous
of some other
female attention
you’d seen
so you said
of course I paid her
no mind I only
thought of you
wishing you
were there
with my old man
and me
licking ice creams
and boozing back
the coke or lemonade
and she smiled
and her eyes
fell on you
with her jealous demon
laid.
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 3:08 PM UTC
We put them into the microwave to dry out,
That midsummer. The air cooled,
High over the Chilterns, and we met
The finished product
Hit the North
and Hit the Arcades
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 8:29 PM UTC
When I leave I leave so much behind
Not only you but the essence
Of this place I wish to call home
Sweet coffee
Steps
Pizza above the theatre
Park behind the theatre
Arcades
You
Him
Her
All of you
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 5:41 PM UTC
The Crystalline Castles in front of my eyes warp my true perspective,
The Management, those Animals, can't manage this Collective.
They say I'm stupid, say I'm Daft, but I am just a Punk,
The Red Hot Peppers burn my ears with all that crimson funk.
My Fires hot, my Arcades not, but I still think it's dead
I listen to the Radio, don't listen to my Head
Ubiquitously, you picture me in my Synergistic glory.
I had a Stroke from too much coke, but that's another story.
Nov 7, 2010
Nov 7, 2010 at 6:31 AM UTC
the crisp thoughts running
build empires outa the oatmeal of my mindset
give the girl a penny arcade
and watch her shine
give the old man a shining girl
and watch him breath
cause life is what you make it
so make out with living honey
cause it'll love ya back
the grace of night flows
depth sought in the lover's embrace
and found only when that lover has departed
and the bed grown cold
but the night spins on
and the song is unforgiving
but your drawn to it because
her face is in the words
her scent is in the guitars strings
her touch is in the feelings that flow through you
as you lay alone weeping
as the dream turns from fall to winter
snow gathers on the sill
where the girls penny arcade had lain
where her smiles had shone
now there are only footprints into the forest
into the darkness
the old man lay
his tears done
staring off into the stars wheeling thru
their own silent song
speaking their own silent sadness
lover's intwined
and he will never be the same
penny arcades never last a lifetime
and neither do shopping cart laughs
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 8:44 PM UTC
Près des ruisseaux, près des cascades,
Dans les champs d'oliviers fleuris,
Sur les rochers, sous les arcades
Dont le temps sape les débris,
Sous les murs du vieux monastère.
Dans le bois qu'aime le mystère,
Sous l'ombre du pin solitaire,
Sous le platane aux frais abris ;
A l'heure où, sous l'humble chaumière.
Le chevrier prend son repas,
A l'heure où brille la lumière,
A l'heure où le jour ne luit pas ;
L'été, quand sous le vert ombrage
Tu viens t'asseoir après l'ouvrage :
L'hiver, par le froid, par l'orage ;
Toujours, partout, je suis tes pas.
Lorsque les cloches argentines
Réveillent l'oiseau dans son nid,
C'est moi qui te suis à matines :
Et quand la prière finit.
Au sortir du temple gothique,
C'est moi qui vais sous le portique
T'offrir, suivant l'usage antique.
L'eau sainte et le rameau bénit.
Quand, vers la fin de la journée,
Tu vas près du saint tribunal,
Devant l'ermite prosternée.
Incliner ton front virginal,
C'est moi qui d'un air humble et tendre.
Quand l'Angélus s'est fait entendre,
Esclave assidu, vais t'attendre
Auprès du confessionnal.
Viens, je te dirai le cantique
Que je suis allé, ce matin.
Choisir pour toi dans la boutique
D'un colporteur napolitain,
Et contre la dent meurtrière
Des loups errants dans la clairière,
Je t'apprendrai quelle prière
Il faut réciter en latin.
Je mettrai dans ton oratoire
Un missel à fermoirs dorés,
Où des moines ont peint l'histoire
De nos anciens livres sacrés ;
Des apôtres les douze images,
La bonne Vierge, et les trois Mages
Au Christ apportant leurs hommages,
Et baisant ses pieds adorés.
Oh, regarde-moi sans colère !
Promets-moi que tu m'aimeras :
Ne me défends pas de te plaire,
Laisse-toi serrer dans mes bras !
Que cette froideur t'abandonne ;
A péché secret Dieu pardonne,
Et je mettrai sur ta madone
Le voile que tu quitteras.
702
A seaside girl
I met her
Down on the Prom
It was out of season
Her hair was the colour
Of miles of sand
That lay like a blanket
Along the coast
Behind us the arcades
Pumped out their noise
As she looked in my eyes
I heard her beauty
A woman now
By no means a girl
I couldn't but help
Picture her - nineteen
Then as if
She'd read my mind
She told me of summers
When the crowds had come
Behind us the Sky Tower
Stood like a parent
Proudly watching her children
Paddle in the surf
She pointed to where
The Pavilion had stood
In the distance wind turbines
Stood strangely still
I used to watch
Your children play
Down on the sands
Such beautiful kids
I smiled and nodded
Her eyes were blue
Like the distant mountains
Out to the west
And then a sadness
Crossed her face
On the horizons the turbines
Began to turn
I long for my youth
I wore a bikini
I took her hands
The rain began to cry
Then as quick
She disappeared
Into the air
That now seemed colder
Who she was
I still can't tell
My mind has named her
Sunny Rhyl
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 3:12 PM UTC