"bailey" poems - Hello Poetry

"bailey" poems

I can see Cecily's ****** bars. Sammy can see them as well. After he speaks I keep catching him peek. She knows that he sees, I can tell. Bailey has smoked too much **** again. He's dribbling over my shoes. He acted all jokey And tried out smoke me. It went without saying he'd lose. Tom's on the floor by the table. We don't know if he's alive, Hugging Joe's feet, Who is slumped on the seat. I don't think they're due to survive. Chris had a couple of pills. Ethan a tab or a few. Toria's tweaking, Max is just peaking, Matt's throwing up in the loo. I'm on the sofa while writing, Louie beside me in tears. We may have our issues With drugs and their misuse, But **** it, it gives me ideas.

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Aug 21, 2018

Aug 21, 2018 at 9:03 AM UTC

I can see Cecily's ****** bars. Sammy can see them as well. After he speaks I keep catching him peek. She knows that he sees, I can tell. Bailey has smoked too much **** again. He's dribbling over my shoes. He acted all jokey And tried out smoke me. It went without saying he'd lose. Tom's on the floor by the table. We don't know if he's alive, Hugging Joe's feet, Who is slumped on the seat. I don't think they're due to survive. Chris had a couple of pills. Ethan a tab or a few. Toria's tweaking, Max is just peaking, Matt's throwing up in the loo. I'm on the sofa while writing, Louie beside me in tears. We may have our issues With drugs and their misuse, But **** it, it gives me ideas.

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The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter, It isn’t just one of your holiday games; You may think at first I’m as mad as a hatter When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES. First of all, there’s the name that the family use daily, Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James, Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey— All of them sensible everyday names. There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter, Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames: Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter— But all of them sensible everyday names. But I tell you, a cat needs a name that’s particular, A name that’s peculiar, and more dignified, Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular, Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride? Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum, Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat, Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum- Names that never belong to more than one cat. But above and beyond there’s still one name left over, And that is the name that you never will guess; The name that no human research can discover— But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess. When you notice a cat in profound meditation, The reason, I tell you, is always the same: His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name: His ineffable effable Effanineffable Deep and inscrutable singular Name.

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6.9k

The Naming Of Cats

The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter, It isn’t just one of your holiday games; You may think at first I’m as mad as a hatter When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES. First of all, there’s the name that the family use daily, Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James, Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey— All of them sensible everyday names. There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter, Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames: Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter— But all of them sensible everyday names. But I tell you, a cat needs a name that’s particular, A name that’s peculiar, and more dignified, Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular, Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride? Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum, Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat, Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum- Names that never belong to more than one cat. But above and beyond there’s still one name left over, And that is the name that you never will guess; The name that no human research can discover— But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess. When you notice a cat in profound meditation, The reason, I tell you, is always the same: His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name: His ineffable effable Effanineffable Deep and inscrutable singular Name.

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I'll have me an Irish Coffee, make sure the coffee's fresh and stout, add a dash of dairy cream, and do NOT leave the whiskey out! http://beautyineverything.com/4819896887 Here's the ****** recipe: "Black coffee is poured into the mug. Whiskey and at least one level teaspoon of sugar is stirred in until fully dissolved. The sugar is essential for floating liquid cream on top.[11] Thick cream is carefully poured over the back of a spoon initially held just above the surface of the coffee and gradually raised a little.[12] The layer of cream will float on the coffee without mixing. The coffee is drunk through the layer of cream. To ensure the integrity of the ingredients of Irish Coffee, NSAI, Ireland's national standards body published an Irish Standard, I.S. 417 Irish Coffee in 1988.[13]" D-NOTE--It doesn't say a ******* THING about adding Bailey's Irish Creme or canned whipped topping and a plastic shamrock to the top of the ********* drink, now does it??? Anyone making Caife Gaelich with trendy ******** add-ons should be beaten with a shillelagh!

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Oct 12, 2010

Oct 12, 2010 at 3:07 AM UTC

An Irish Coffee (Caife Gaelach)

I'll have me an Irish Coffee, make sure the coffee's fresh and stout, add a dash of dairy cream, and do NOT leave the whiskey out! http://beautyineverything.com/4819896887 Here's the ****** recipe: "Black coffee is poured into the mug. Whiskey and at least one level teaspoon of sugar is stirred in until fully dissolved. The sugar is essential for floating liquid cream on top.[11] Thick cream is carefully poured over the back of a spoon initially held just above the surface of the coffee and gradually raised a little.[12] The layer of cream will float on the coffee without mixing. The coffee is drunk through the layer of cream. To ensure the integrity of the ingredients of Irish Coffee, NSAI, Ireland's national standards body published an Irish Standard, I.S. 417 Irish Coffee in 1988.[13]" D-NOTE--It doesn't say a ******* THING about adding Bailey's Irish Creme or canned whipped topping and a plastic shamrock to the top of the ********* drink, now does it??? Anyone making Caife Gaelich with trendy ******** add-ons should be beaten with a shillelagh!

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I'm Bailey. I sometimes forget to recycle. I'm from singing camels and trigonometry. From soap bubbles and yellow scarves, Irish hymns and Zucchini the ferret, piano keys, bluebonnet seeds, and DO NOT ENTER signs. From salt. I'm the color of hosed off sidewalk chalk. I'm all summer in a day. I'm a conglomeration of artistic thoughts that make me look more profound than I actually am. I'm your infinite playlist. I'm from elephant necklaces and rosemary bushes from high-heeled taps and Camelot threadless socks, shopping carts, and impromptu salons. I'm the fifth ninja turtle. I live where you laugh so hard you cry. I'm from carrots and ranch. I'm a happy cow from California, a fortune cookie with your enchilada, a drill team skirt over marching uniforms. I'm from unfinished crossword puzzles and forgotten dead languages from pixie dust and snapcracklepop from actually-it's-pronounced's, because-i-said-so's, and that's-not-my-name's. I am Nancy Drew with a Peter Pan complex. I come from honeysuckle candles and sunroofs of pickup trucks broken-down fences and peach salsa the second you step onstage. I'm from in between. I'm Bailey. I don't drive the speed limit. And I'm from you.

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Dec 22, 2009

Dec 22, 2009 at 6:08 PM UTC

I'm Bailey. I sometimes forget to recycle. I'm from singing camels and trigonometry. From soap bubbles and yellow scarves, Irish hymns and Zucchini the ferret, piano keys, bluebonnet seeds, and DO NOT ENTER signs. From salt. I'm the color of hosed off sidewalk chalk. I'm all summer in a day. I'm a conglomeration of artistic thoughts that make me look more profound than I actually am. I'm your infinite playlist. I'm from elephant necklaces and rosemary bushes from high-heeled taps and Camelot threadless socks, shopping carts, and impromptu salons. I'm the fifth ninja turtle. I live where you laugh so hard you cry. I'm from carrots and ranch. I'm a happy cow from California, a fortune cookie with your enchilada, a drill team skirt over marching uniforms. I'm from unfinished crossword puzzles and forgotten dead languages from pixie dust and snapcracklepop from actually-it's-pronounced's, because-i-said-so's, and that's-not-my-name's. I am Nancy Drew with a Peter Pan complex. I come from honeysuckle candles and sunroofs of pickup trucks broken-down fences and peach salsa the second you step onstage. I'm from in between. I'm Bailey. I don't drive the speed limit. And I'm from you.

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Shannon, Mariah, Serena, Maria Meridia, Midian, Sharon, Alliah Rochelle, Camille, Rose, Halo Trenna, Jessica, Ashley, Georgia Marla, Olivia, Sofia, India Daniella, Diana, Christina, Caroline Isabella, Amelia, Amanda, Matilda Nadine, Haley, Bailey, Francine Eliza, Annabelle, Kathryn, Sandra Melinda, Audrey, Aubrey, Emily Tara, Emma, Ginny, Kathleen Josephine, Helena, Charlotte, Laura Chelsea, Arkady, Megan, Kelsey Kayla, Karliah, Moana, Vivien Kaysea, Macy, Stacy, Lorraine Theresa, Felicia, Cecilia, Darlene Holly, Brianna, Alexa, Ariel Marianne, Miranda, Jennie, Coral Korra, Daisy, Penelope, Rayne Zoey, Cassandra, Grace, Stephanie

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Jul 27, 2013

Jul 27, 2013 at 12:34 AM UTC

Shannon, Mariah, Serena, Maria Meridia, Midian, Sharon, Alliah Rochelle, Camille, Rose, Halo Trenna, Jessica, Ashley, Georgia Marla, Olivia, Sofia, India Daniella, Diana, Christina, Caroline Isabella, Amelia, Amanda, Matilda Nadine, Haley, Bailey, Francine Eliza, Annabelle, Kathryn, Sandra Melinda, Audrey, Aubrey, Emily Tara, Emma, Ginny, Kathleen Josephine, Helena, Charlotte, Laura Chelsea, Arkady, Megan, Kelsey Kayla, Karliah, Moana, Vivien Kaysea, Macy, Stacy, Lorraine Theresa, Felicia, Cecilia, Darlene Holly, Brianna, Alexa, Ariel Marianne, Miranda, Jennie, Coral Korra, Daisy, Penelope, Rayne Zoey, Cassandra, Grace, Stephanie

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In Đà Nẵng my friends cradled me like a child. We screamed Taylor bridges, tequila-toasted in bars until the lights blurred. A single candle in the bathroom danced warm sighs through open windows, and all felt calm. I grew new muscles balancing on a motorcycle, sometimes gripping Harry’s jacket, sometimes throwing my weight into the wind. The city flared neon and gasoline in stuttered traffic, but along the coast he drove so fast the vibrations in my chest harmonized. I pictured my bones becoming butterflies if I let go. I had entered the Year of the Dragon on a futon, swayed to half-sleep by a hundred chanting voices from the temple next door. I did not dream of dragons. I only learned to breathe fire. At midnight Bailey stood at an ancestral altar, kumquat branches, apricot blossoms, red envelopes, wine, burning full sticks of incense, and smoking half a pack of Esse Lights. This is how the year turns over safely. Tết is not about faith; it’s about continuity. The Year of the Snake slid in with new bones and old habits. It hissed that suffering could be scripture until letters slithered free from the page and coiled like cold jewelry around my wrist. I didn’t make it for Tết that year no silk áo dài, blood orange, too big for a body that learned shrinking before it learned staying. That was the shedding. Salt water peeling old skin away, songs shouted so loud they drowned the ache, poems that did not start tragic, nights when my body finally kept time with the moon. At home the water did not move. At home the dog’s teeth found my hope. A terrified mouth rerouted rivers through my soft parts. A jewel carved from my nose. Six punctures blooming across my arms like altars. In Vietnamese stories the snake waits beneath the water to claim whoever dares the bank. I wonder if I was chosen the moment I opened my mouth in those bars, when I leaned into the bike’s curve as if danger could be a swan song. Now I lie awake at hours unnamed, tracing scars that hiss answers back. Something from Vietnam keeps breathing through me, the candle’s heat, the coast’s long nerve, voices braided into salt and night, and I cannot tell if they are echoes or fangs testing the dark. They say snakes shed to grow, but no one warns you how thin the new skin feels, how everything burns against it, how you mistake survival for prophecy. I touch the scar and wonder if I am still that girl clinging to the bike, or if the snake has already swallowed me, patient, sleepless, feeding on my own venom.

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Sep 11, 2025

Sep 11, 2025 at 1:24 PM UTC

The Year of the Snake

In Đà Nẵng my friends cradled me like a child. We screamed Taylor bridges, tequila-toasted in bars until the lights blurred. A single candle in the bathroom danced warm sighs through open windows, and all felt calm. I grew new muscles balancing on a motorcycle, sometimes gripping Harry’s jacket, sometimes throwing my weight into the wind. The city flared neon and gasoline in stuttered traffic, but along the coast he drove so fast the vibrations in my chest harmonized. I pictured my bones becoming butterflies if I let go. I had entered the Year of the Dragon on a futon, swayed to half-sleep by a hundred chanting voices from the temple next door. I did not dream of dragons. I only learned to breathe fire. At midnight Bailey stood at an ancestral altar, kumquat branches, apricot blossoms, red envelopes, wine, burning full sticks of incense, and smoking half a pack of Esse Lights. This is how the year turns over safely. Tết is not about faith; it’s about continuity. The Year of the Snake slid in with new bones and old habits. It hissed that suffering could be scripture until letters slithered free from the page and coiled like cold jewelry around my wrist. I didn’t make it for Tết that year no silk áo dài, blood orange, too big for a body that learned shrinking before it learned staying. That was the shedding. Salt water peeling old skin away, songs shouted so loud they drowned the ache, poems that did not start tragic, nights when my body finally kept time with the moon. At home the water did not move. At home the dog’s teeth found my hope. A terrified mouth rerouted rivers through my soft parts. A jewel carved from my nose. Six punctures blooming across my arms like altars. In Vietnamese stories the snake waits beneath the water to claim whoever dares the bank. I wonder if I was chosen the moment I opened my mouth in those bars, when I leaned into the bike’s curve as if danger could be a swan song. Now I lie awake at hours unnamed, tracing scars that hiss answers back. Something from Vietnam keeps breathing through me, the candle’s heat, the coast’s long nerve, voices braided into salt and night, and I cannot tell if they are echoes or fangs testing the dark. They say snakes shed to grow, but no one warns you how thin the new skin feels, how everything burns against it, how you mistake survival for prophecy. I touch the scar and wonder if I am still that girl clinging to the bike, or if the snake has already swallowed me, patient, sleepless, feeding on my own venom.

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I suppose there has to be a reason or at least a note to mark that day-- He ate his breakfast She let him out He walked along the railing like the plank defying death for pleasure of his lady's company to get his belly rubbed sprawled long across her lap She released him to chase the squirrels of his dreams to his black cat adventures to the aching green of life's late summer ways But, the days assemble against your return May the angels find you quickly my darling, Bailey Dark beauty of coal I was a Tuesday, bereft You disappeared-- like the shadow of a whisper Disappeared like hope-- in the last blow of day

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Oct 31, 2017

Oct 31, 2017 at 5:00 PM UTC

elizabeth-balise

The Witch's Black Cat

I suppose there has to be a reason or at least a note to mark that day-- He ate his breakfast She let him out He walked along the railing like the plank defying death for pleasure of his lady's company to get his belly rubbed sprawled long across her lap She released him to chase the squirrels of his dreams to his black cat adventures to the aching green of life's late summer ways But, the days assemble against your return May the angels find you quickly my darling, Bailey Dark beauty of coal I was a Tuesday, bereft You disappeared-- like the shadow of a whisper Disappeared like hope-- in the last blow of day

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To Bailey What up cousin? It’s been a while since we’ve spoken.. I’ve been tryin to keep my mind focused and stayin open.. tryin to figure out how to rebuild my heart again now that it’s broken.. hopin and prayin to some god that it’s all a dream an I’ll be awoken.. But I’m not an ignorant or irrational man, so it’s back to life as I know it.. now I sit here with pen in hand, talking to another lost loved one as a poet.. god **** every time it seems to get a little harder and harder to be stoic.. I do it for you, but my choice would have been to find a rock and hide far below it.. But I’ve held you down, an showed the world a face with a sculpted smile.. Meanwhile inside I strong armed my stomach to prevent the expulsion of bile.. mind racing, god ****** Just 29 years is nowhere near a long enough while!! and to think, you barely even got to spend 3 of those with your child.. It makes me want to shout to the stars and curse our own existence.. I guess I learned I can’t box god due to something about my arms and the distance.. so I’ve given up being angry about it and stopped my resistance.. but the one thing it’s affected more than any other is my persistence.. From time to time I’m gonna ask someone “has anyone told you they loved you today?” and if they say no, I’ll be the first person to show them a sincere display… YOU taught me that bailey, and no matter what, I’ll never let it slip away… I can’t thank you enough for your life, I wouldn’t even know how to repay! It’s those small perfect lessons we can all take from your life… I couldn’t even begin to tell them all in the course of one night… you were an amazing person to anyone who met you, a true delight.. people called you a shiner, a catalyst, a loving father, and a white knight… everyone had a story of how you had given them inspiration.. I can’t thank you enough on behalf of the world for your donations! I’m glad I could finally write this letter to show my appreciation.. the words had been escaping me with some trepidation.. I love you Bailey, always have and always will!! I can’t believe you’re gone but I carry on still… I soldier up when I need to then settle down to chill… I’ll see you when I see you, you know the drill… Rest In Peace: Bailey Paul McKeon-Phillips

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Aug 7, 2010

Aug 7, 2010 at 2:57 PM UTC

To my cousin Bailey... RIP

To Bailey What up cousin? It’s been a while since we’ve spoken.. I’ve been tryin to keep my mind focused and stayin open.. tryin to figure out how to rebuild my heart again now that it’s broken.. hopin and prayin to some god that it’s all a dream an I’ll be awoken.. But I’m not an ignorant or irrational man, so it’s back to life as I know it.. now I sit here with pen in hand, talking to another lost loved one as a poet.. god **** every time it seems to get a little harder and harder to be stoic.. I do it for you, but my choice would have been to find a rock and hide far below it.. But I’ve held you down, an showed the world a face with a sculpted smile.. Meanwhile inside I strong armed my stomach to prevent the expulsion of bile.. mind racing, god ****** Just 29 years is nowhere near a long enough while!! and to think, you barely even got to spend 3 of those with your child.. It makes me want to shout to the stars and curse our own existence.. I guess I learned I can’t box god due to something about my arms and the distance.. so I’ve given up being angry about it and stopped my resistance.. but the one thing it’s affected more than any other is my persistence.. From time to time I’m gonna ask someone “has anyone told you they loved you today?” and if they say no, I’ll be the first person to show them a sincere display… YOU taught me that bailey, and no matter what, I’ll never let it slip away… I can’t thank you enough for your life, I wouldn’t even know how to repay! It’s those small perfect lessons we can all take from your life… I couldn’t even begin to tell them all in the course of one night… you were an amazing person to anyone who met you, a true delight.. people called you a shiner, a catalyst, a loving father, and a white knight… everyone had a story of how you had given them inspiration.. I can’t thank you enough on behalf of the world for your donations! I’m glad I could finally write this letter to show my appreciation.. the words had been escaping me with some trepidation.. I love you Bailey, always have and always will!! I can’t believe you’re gone but I carry on still… I soldier up when I need to then settle down to chill… I’ll see you when I see you, you know the drill… Rest In Peace: Bailey Paul McKeon-Phillips

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you're drinking, and then you can't control the reaction upon entering the tetragrammaton... one h is for hushed up laughter, for sighs (ah), and then the alter deja vu is a cocktail of: ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha, yeah, so many, so you can look at it rather than say it... it's a sunny day, go out and play or something... leave me with the anchor of **** humanity dragging us down, or simply basing us in the underwater fudge of mud to a standstill... it's sunny, go out and play, ride a bicycle or something... you know, living 20 odd years in an english society i never had an english girlfriend, i'm told she's a real firecracker fortune-cookie... my hands are cold, i swear by the oath of the old Bailey i never touched her thighs... scouts' honour, cross my fingers and wear woman's underwear with a bowler hat to match my serious demeanour... yep, an Abbey Road's standstill... a fifth beetle chatting cheeky chat chat of a chirp... gurgles of fizz in carbonated wine known as champagne, well that's me... or as the roadrunner said to speedy Gonzales... hark a sayonara when changing the gears to a 100m sprint world record. the Mayan disease? ah right... excess spontaneous laughter, unstoppable like a tide; got chatting to a ms. khan... Genghis' great great... great great great great great... great great granddaughter... a doctor from pakistan... nice english accent gets you all the pleasantries so everything can go to hell... the sleeping pills prescription is waiting... now the sick-note... so i don't crash a plane into the Swiss elevations by "accident" while sitting on an arm-chair of nails while everyone else is farting into cushions. honest to god, the tetragrammaton is like a brick wall for vowels, you hit the ball against the four walls, and the vowels are either ****** up or they extract the consonant stability of the four letters, and your safest bet to express them is to laugh; well, i do call it a Mayan disease... because my stomach is aching from building a six-pack with the giggles.

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Apr 5, 2016

Apr 5, 2016 at 7:40 AM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

a convulsive attack of a Mayan disease

you're drinking, and then you can't control the reaction upon entering the tetragrammaton... one h is for hushed up laughter, for sighs (ah), and then the alter deja vu is a cocktail of: ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha, yeah, so many, so you can look at it rather than say it... it's a sunny day, go out and play or something... leave me with the anchor of **** humanity dragging us down, or simply basing us in the underwater fudge of mud to a standstill... it's sunny, go out and play, ride a bicycle or something... you know, living 20 odd years in an english society i never had an english girlfriend, i'm told she's a real firecracker fortune-cookie... my hands are cold, i swear by the oath of the old Bailey i never touched her thighs... scouts' honour, cross my fingers and wear woman's underwear with a bowler hat to match my serious demeanour... yep, an Abbey Road's standstill... a fifth beetle chatting cheeky chat chat of a chirp... gurgles of fizz in carbonated wine known as champagne, well that's me... or as the roadrunner said to speedy Gonzales... hark a sayonara when changing the gears to a 100m sprint world record. the Mayan disease? ah right... excess spontaneous laughter, unstoppable like a tide; got chatting to a ms. khan... Genghis' great great... great great great great great... great great granddaughter... a doctor from pakistan... nice english accent gets you all the pleasantries so everything can go to hell... the sleeping pills prescription is waiting... now the sick-note... so i don't crash a plane into the Swiss elevations by "accident" while sitting on an arm-chair of nails while everyone else is farting into cushions. honest to god, the tetragrammaton is like a brick wall for vowels, you hit the ball against the four walls, and the vowels are either ****** up or they extract the consonant stability of the four letters, and your safest bet to express them is to laugh; well, i do call it a Mayan disease... because my stomach is aching from building a six-pack with the giggles.

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For Henrietta Swan Leavitt— Henrietta dark-eyed darling of the night sky-- A Swan who sails the heavens deaf with lights that pulse across your mind In photographic plates that number many thousands You see the differences in light You swim the curves that grace the arch of heaven between the cloud and pinwheel galaxies You measure their exquisite wakes of distance-- Become the glittering timepiece of the farthest stars-- Bestowed forever in your hands the clock and keys of all existence You know the bends of ages You heard the voices of the light of the angels and of man I hope you've found true happiness gathered to your love forgetful of the pond of space and time and all that hopeless pain and counting of perfection and of loneliness to which you were assigned that in your hands unravel all.... The secrets of the universe white and gray in motion... brilliant beyond all measure by which you were forgotten and unvalued by design Eulogized only-- as loving God and as being kind ___ *copyright Liz Balise 2019, Use only by permission. Her colleague Solon I. Bailey wrote in her obituary that "she had the happy faculty of appreciating all that was worthy and lovable in others, and was possessed of a nature so full of sunshine that, to her, all of life became beautiful and full of meaning.” https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henrietta_Swan_Leavitt

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Jan 6, 2019

Jan 6, 2019 at 6:57 PM UTC

elizabeth-balise

For Henrietta Swan

For Henrietta Swan Leavitt— Henrietta dark-eyed darling of the night sky-- A Swan who sails the heavens deaf with lights that pulse across your mind In photographic plates that number many thousands You see the differences in light You swim the curves that grace the arch of heaven between the cloud and pinwheel galaxies You measure their exquisite wakes of distance-- Become the glittering timepiece of the farthest stars-- Bestowed forever in your hands the clock and keys of all existence You know the bends of ages You heard the voices of the light of the angels and of man I hope you've found true happiness gathered to your love forgetful of the pond of space and time and all that hopeless pain and counting of perfection and of loneliness to which you were assigned that in your hands unravel all.... The secrets of the universe white and gray in motion... brilliant beyond all measure by which you were forgotten and unvalued by design Eulogized only-- as loving God and as being kind ___ *copyright Liz Balise 2019, Use only by permission. Her colleague Solon I. Bailey wrote in her obituary that "she had the happy faculty of appreciating all that was worthy and lovable in others, and was possessed of a nature so full of sunshine that, to her, all of life became beautiful and full of meaning.” https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henrietta_Swan_Leavitt

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I am a fool, Waiting for your return Every time you leave. I pretend to ignore you. Sitting here patiently waiting For you to come back. The things said that aren't meant. The way you turn your back, The last word before storming out the door. I am a fool. Leaving the door unlocked. Waiting for your return. I should be happy with pretending. The breath of fresh air that soon misses your face. I'll be a fool I'll be a fool to lock the door. I'll be a fool to call knowing you'd press ignore. The things said that aren't meant. The anticipation that waits for that door to open. Nowhere to go. I am a fool, standing by the door. I've run out of things to do. Waiting on you to come back. I'll be a fool to ignore what's in plain sight. I'll be a fool

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Sep 12, 2018

Sep 12, 2018 at 7:26 PM UTC

A Blues For Bailey

I am a fool, Waiting for your return Every time you leave. I pretend to ignore you. Sitting here patiently waiting For you to come back. The things said that aren't meant. The way you turn your back, The last word before storming out the door. I am a fool. Leaving the door unlocked. Waiting for your return. I should be happy with pretending. The breath of fresh air that soon misses your face. I'll be a fool I'll be a fool to lock the door. I'll be a fool to call knowing you'd press ignore. The things said that aren't meant. The anticipation that waits for that door to open. Nowhere to go. I am a fool, standing by the door. I've run out of things to do. Waiting on you to come back. I'll be a fool to ignore what's in plain sight. I'll be a fool

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Grandma’s old straw hat rides low on her brow. When hilling potatoes, sweat rings the brim. Twine provides a strap. Sometimes, when a gust tumbles past tomatoes and green onions, a calloused hand pushes the hat back to feel deliverance from summer rays. The brim shades a spot two-feet wide over thick-skinned Half Runners, caresses long weepy leaves of corn when she brushes past, edges tattered by forty years of okra stalk shaving flesh and straw. Ice water renews her will under hat and sun; as winds feign, wrinkled fingers hold fast to its lip, beating hot air cool around a weary face. When crickets serenade, the hat becomes a bucket for the day’s last peppers. Today, a ‘For Sale’ sign greets; the gate swings wide. In the shed a plow sits idle while the straw companion hangs from a nail. A swig of gas in the tiller, brim shading my brow, sweet soil tumbles over tines, my sweat mixes with hers under the garden hat. © 2010 C.T. Bailey

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Apr 9, 2011

Apr 9, 2011 at 7:24 PM UTC

Grandma’s old straw hat rides low on her brow. When hilling potatoes, sweat rings the brim. Twine provides a strap. Sometimes, when a gust tumbles past tomatoes and green onions, a calloused hand pushes the hat back to feel deliverance from summer rays. The brim shades a spot two-feet wide over thick-skinned Half Runners, caresses long weepy leaves of corn when she brushes past, edges tattered by forty years of okra stalk shaving flesh and straw. Ice water renews her will under hat and sun; as winds feign, wrinkled fingers hold fast to its lip, beating hot air cool around a weary face. When crickets serenade, the hat becomes a bucket for the day’s last peppers. Today, a ‘For Sale’ sign greets; the gate swings wide. In the shed a plow sits idle while the straw companion hangs from a nail. A swig of gas in the tiller, brim shading my brow, sweet soil tumbles over tines, my sweat mixes with hers under the garden hat. © 2010 C.T. Bailey

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Where did the circus go? Not like the Del Mar fair Or the Barnum and Bailey skinny cow version I want someplace nasty A bit sticky Someplace that picks up and leaves before you have time to go get your watch back All that’s left is a lot Full of trash and ride screws Because the rush to leave was more important than safety It’s a place most days now I wish I could run away to Slap on fake **** and be the bearded lady Or warts and green paint and be frog man Be something along the lines of Homemade make believe Be happy believing that This other place doesn’t have things Like rent And car payments And work that ***** you harder than your own girlfriend will And don’t tell me cirque de solei is hiring That’s not a circus That’s people in costumes dancing and flying around on stages They had to go to school to do that You don’t need school to join the circus You just need the desire to leave Before anyone notices you’re gone Maybe leave behind a sticky mess And take with you something valuable Like a watch Or money from the purse on the counter Or someone’s heart Maybe I could be tattoo man Or the ***** Mouthed Poet And freestyle psalms that ache behind a glass window That you have to pay a quarter to see through And another quarter to listen Or I could be a wax statue of Jesus The one that if you stare at long enough You see him breathing Enough to restore faith in the make believe That keeps us going Let me be your side show Let me be your fortune teller Let me be the dark room in that back Only the men are allowed into Women and children this way Let me be the ***** talk of town And leave before the lynching Let me leave in the night like a piper With the promise That I will give you the life you’ve always wanted If you leave behind all you’ve ever been Remember him? He joined the circus? Where’d the circus go?

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Jun 14, 2012

Jun 14, 2012 at 5:54 PM UTC

Why Don't we Have The Circus Anymore?

Where did the circus go? Not like the Del Mar fair Or the Barnum and Bailey skinny cow version I want someplace nasty A bit sticky Someplace that picks up and leaves before you have time to go get your watch back All that’s left is a lot Full of trash and ride screws Because the rush to leave was more important than safety It’s a place most days now I wish I could run away to Slap on fake **** and be the bearded lady Or warts and green paint and be frog man Be something along the lines of Homemade make believe Be happy believing that This other place doesn’t have things Like rent And car payments And work that ***** you harder than your own girlfriend will And don’t tell me cirque de solei is hiring That’s not a circus That’s people in costumes dancing and flying around on stages They had to go to school to do that You don’t need school to join the circus You just need the desire to leave Before anyone notices you’re gone Maybe leave behind a sticky mess And take with you something valuable Like a watch Or money from the purse on the counter Or someone’s heart Maybe I could be tattoo man Or the ***** Mouthed Poet And freestyle psalms that ache behind a glass window That you have to pay a quarter to see through And another quarter to listen Or I could be a wax statue of Jesus The one that if you stare at long enough You see him breathing Enough to restore faith in the make believe That keeps us going Let me be your side show Let me be your fortune teller Let me be the dark room in that back Only the men are allowed into Women and children this way Let me be the ***** talk of town And leave before the lynching Let me leave in the night like a piper With the promise That I will give you the life you’ve always wanted If you leave behind all you’ve ever been Remember him? He joined the circus? Where’d the circus go?

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the meaning of an apology: echoes of a thousand I’m Sorry’s; the silence of deceit, its awful slink; the humbled hope to atone, to pay amends where due, to mend the maimed, and trust renew. forgiveness is a sad word: it bears the scar of a wound; to forgive is to hope with hurt. it is to trust in tide to wash ashore; for in lack of trust and hope, it is noble to sink with the ship. it is bolder yet to hop asea, and let tide be guide. the parable of the builders: the wiser built his house on rock, the rain came down, the floods came, the winds blew, and beat on that house; and it did not fall, for it was founded on a rock the foolish built his on sand, the rain came down, the floods came, the winds blew, and beat on that house; and it fell — and great was its fall. determination's downfall; for, is a house still not a house despite its foundation? fortune's fortress looms; our sandcastle holdfasts hampered in comparison, but home is neither keep nor battlement, neither moat nor bailey, neither portcullis nor drawbridge; home is where you touch the ground, where you choose to grow... the rain will retain its hiss; but the rain is still the rain, the floods remain the floods, and the wind is just the wind. ~ Inori

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Sep 6, 2021

Sep 6, 2021 at 7:14 PM UTC

An Apologist's Apology (Trusting the Tide)

the meaning of an apology: echoes of a thousand I’m Sorry’s; the silence of deceit, its awful slink; the humbled hope to atone, to pay amends where due, to mend the maimed, and trust renew. forgiveness is a sad word: it bears the scar of a wound; to forgive is to hope with hurt. it is to trust in tide to wash ashore; for in lack of trust and hope, it is noble to sink with the ship. it is bolder yet to hop asea, and let tide be guide. the parable of the builders: the wiser built his house on rock, the rain came down, the floods came, the winds blew, and beat on that house; and it did not fall, for it was founded on a rock the foolish built his on sand, the rain came down, the floods came, the winds blew, and beat on that house; and it fell — and great was its fall. determination's downfall; for, is a house still not a house despite its foundation? fortune's fortress looms; our sandcastle holdfasts hampered in comparison, but home is neither keep nor battlement, neither moat nor bailey, neither portcullis nor drawbridge; home is where you touch the ground, where you choose to grow... the rain will retain its hiss; but the rain is still the rain, the floods remain the floods, and the wind is just the wind. ~ Inori

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Your father is dead, Gimp Bailey, We found his body all bloodied and mashed, Wouldn't have known it was him, Gimp Bailey, Had he not screamed your name with his dying thrash, T'was but days ago, Gimp Bailey, You and I walked the town in the cold I saw the scars on your bald head turn blue, And your leg shook right out of your hold, The wolves hadn't touched him, Gimp Bailey, Though we could hear their howl in the wind, 'Treated him with the respect he never showed you, For a sinner, that ******* sure new how to sin, When we passed the catherdral, Gimp Bailey, You looked to the bell tower high, And you asked me, confused, Gimp Bailey, Why men build their towers so high, What's so wrong with the blue of the sky? We know it was you, Gimp Bailey, 'Cause against the blue-black of the dusk, Saw your silhouette, Gimp Bailey, We saw your limping husk. You bowed your burnt head, Gimp Bailey, As we passed by the looming bell tower, And we both know why you did, Gimp Bailey, For it rang out for your final hour, His blood turned to red snow, Gimp Bailey, Whilst our hounds were sniffing your trail, And where did you go, Gimp Bailey? How did you run if you are so frail? But you weren't trying to hide, Gimp Bailey, Because we saw that scarred blue-bald head, From the top of the tower with the toll of the bell, You screamed, "He is dead! He is Dead!" Then we heard the crash, Gimp Bailey, As the Bell fell down the stair well Into eternity, Gimp Bailey, It fell into the depths of hell, And still we waited, Gimp Bailey, With our guns, oh so ready to shoot, We didn't know how much you hated, That man - that beast - that brute - And when you appeared out the doors, We saw your hands all bloodied and bruised From the pillars you smashed, Gimp Bailey, From the hate of being abused, When the roof came down, Gimp Bailey, We didn't know what to say! When the walls folded in, Gimp Bailey, There was nothing to do but to pray! I wish you had run, Gimp Bailey, But you were a gorgoyle instead, I called to you, Gimp Bailey, Whilst those stones fell upon your head... Each brick that fell, Gimp Bailey, Was no different from your fathers back hand, And they twisted your limbs, Gimp Bailey, Like your leg broken by that man, And the mortor that crashed, Gimp Bailey, Ripped open the scars on your head, Like the fire your father had set on your skull, Oh Gimp Bailey, are you happy you're dead?

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Sep 17, 2012

Sep 17, 2012 at 8:34 AM UTC

Your father is dead, Gimp Bailey, We found his body all bloodied and mashed, Wouldn't have known it was him, Gimp Bailey, Had he not screamed your name with his dying thrash, T'was but days ago, Gimp Bailey, You and I walked the town in the cold I saw the scars on your bald head turn blue, And your leg shook right out of your hold, The wolves hadn't touched him, Gimp Bailey, Though we could hear their howl in the wind, 'Treated him with the respect he never showed you, For a sinner, that ******* sure new how to sin, When we passed the catherdral, Gimp Bailey, You looked to the bell tower high, And you asked me, confused, Gimp Bailey, Why men build their towers so high, What's so wrong with the blue of the sky? We know it was you, Gimp Bailey, 'Cause against the blue-black of the dusk, Saw your silhouette, Gimp Bailey, We saw your limping husk. You bowed your burnt head, Gimp Bailey, As we passed by the looming bell tower, And we both know why you did, Gimp Bailey, For it rang out for your final hour, His blood turned to red snow, Gimp Bailey, Whilst our hounds were sniffing your trail, And where did you go, Gimp Bailey? How did you run if you are so frail? But you weren't trying to hide, Gimp Bailey, Because we saw that scarred blue-bald head, From the top of the tower with the toll of the bell, You screamed, "He is dead! He is Dead!" Then we heard the crash, Gimp Bailey, As the Bell fell down the stair well Into eternity, Gimp Bailey, It fell into the depths of hell, And still we waited, Gimp Bailey, With our guns, oh so ready to shoot, We didn't know how much you hated, That man - that beast - that brute - And when you appeared out the doors, We saw your hands all bloodied and bruised From the pillars you smashed, Gimp Bailey, From the hate of being abused, When the roof came down, Gimp Bailey, We didn't know what to say! When the walls folded in, Gimp Bailey, There was nothing to do but to pray! I wish you had run, Gimp Bailey, But you were a gorgoyle instead, I called to you, Gimp Bailey, Whilst those stones fell upon your head... Each brick that fell, Gimp Bailey, Was no different from your fathers back hand, And they twisted your limbs, Gimp Bailey, Like your leg broken by that man, And the mortor that crashed, Gimp Bailey, Ripped open the scars on your head, Like the fire your father had set on your skull, Oh Gimp Bailey, are you happy you're dead?

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Drink up the radiation Subhuman viral nation That or starve in skeleton cars Chewin' on lettuce and candy bars It's a caper world but there's no dancing Skippin' like a child? Prepare for the violins An interlude of electric tubes Pushin' you closer to the cube Tinted windows beg for bullets And she makes *** feel like school I've climbed the mountains, crawled in the caves Still can't tell the veins from the beige Still don't know if I'm better off in Nod's nowhere Or Pan's wonderland of the living dead Don't talk much except to my shaky fingers Nibble nimble, spin a spindle, see the symbols, give a little I've got a man who lives under my tongue He fixes all my cavities And when the paycheck comes He sits atop the pink carpet- His anti-gravity I had a dream-weaver But now he's vacationing Somewhere in Himalayan Mountain territory He's been there for two moons And I doubt he'll ever leave He sends me postcards and fancy little things I put em' in a cigar box, hoping one day I'll see wings ****** was eaten by maggots Before he took the helm Insanity breeds anti-gravity Life breeds cruel leaders Forget divide and conquer It's swarm and swallow Tools of the revolution Intravenously protrude you Same In Nazarene Spit In the Name of me Go limping with a tishbite in the Cherith Stating the obvious facts of Sin Livin' only for lunar limbs And Bailey's beads Screaming, "My God! It's full of stars!"

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Nov 25, 2011

Nov 25, 2011 at 9:37 PM UTC

Skull-Shrill Yell

Drink up the radiation Subhuman viral nation That or starve in skeleton cars Chewin' on lettuce and candy bars It's a caper world but there's no dancing Skippin' like a child? Prepare for the violins An interlude of electric tubes Pushin' you closer to the cube Tinted windows beg for bullets And she makes *** feel like school I've climbed the mountains, crawled in the caves Still can't tell the veins from the beige Still don't know if I'm better off in Nod's nowhere Or Pan's wonderland of the living dead Don't talk much except to my shaky fingers Nibble nimble, spin a spindle, see the symbols, give a little I've got a man who lives under my tongue He fixes all my cavities And when the paycheck comes He sits atop the pink carpet- His anti-gravity I had a dream-weaver But now he's vacationing Somewhere in Himalayan Mountain territory He's been there for two moons And I doubt he'll ever leave He sends me postcards and fancy little things I put em' in a cigar box, hoping one day I'll see wings ****** was eaten by maggots Before he took the helm Insanity breeds anti-gravity Life breeds cruel leaders Forget divide and conquer It's swarm and swallow Tools of the revolution Intravenously protrude you Same In Nazarene Spit In the Name of me Go limping with a tishbite in the Cherith Stating the obvious facts of Sin Livin' only for lunar limbs And Bailey's beads Screaming, "My God! It's full of stars!"

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FEW POETIC REFLECTIONS ON OLD AGE Dear Poet Friends, after a long break, I have composed a few lines as a very senior citizen and a lover of poetry. If you like the same, kindly Re-post this poem for wider circulation. Thanks and best wishes, - Raj Nandy of New Delhi. It has been often been said that old age is that period of life, When all bad habits are given up on doctor’s advice, And yet you don’t feel all that good while you survive! Yet I do try to take some solace from Robert Browning’s poem ‘Rabbi Ben Ezra’ which says;- ‘’Grow old along with me! For the best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first was made.’’ Despite my grey hairs and wrinkled face, With creaking joints and scattered aches and pains, ‘’Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing For every tatter in its mortal dress’’, In thanks giving to the Lord and sings his praise; As I recall WB Yeats’ ‘Sailing Byzantium’, - that lovely poem from my college days. As our biological clock continues to tick incessantly, Getting older becomes compulsory. But becoming Wiser in wrinkled years remains optional, A choice our free will has the opportunity to make! I recall what Agatha Christie had once said, That an archaeologist is the best husband a woman can get, For the older she gets, the more interested in her he becomes; With due respect to our women whose age is impolite not ask. Here I recall what the Pulitzer Prize winner Robert Frost had once said, That a diplomat is a man who always remembers a woman’s birthday and not her age. I recall the observation of Sartre the famous French philosopher who had said, That more sand that escapes from the hourglass of our life, The clearer we should see through it as a blessing of time! It is true that we live in deeds, not in years; in thoughts, not breaths; In feelings, not in figures on a dial, - as James Bailey had said. I finally conclude by quoting the first stanza from ‘Beautiful Old Age’ by DH Lawrence; ‘’It ought to be lovely to be old To be full of the peace that comes of experience And wrinkled ripe fulfilment.’’ -Raj Nandy of New Delhi.

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Dec 19, 2019

Dec 19, 2019 at 11:04 AM UTC

ON BLESSINGS OF OLD AGE !

FEW POETIC REFLECTIONS ON OLD AGE Dear Poet Friends, after a long break, I have composed a few lines as a very senior citizen and a lover of poetry. If you like the same, kindly Re-post this poem for wider circulation. Thanks and best wishes, - Raj Nandy of New Delhi. It has been often been said that old age is that period of life, When all bad habits are given up on doctor’s advice, And yet you don’t feel all that good while you survive! Yet I do try to take some solace from Robert Browning’s poem ‘Rabbi Ben Ezra’ which says;- ‘’Grow old along with me! For the best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first was made.’’ Despite my grey hairs and wrinkled face, With creaking joints and scattered aches and pains, ‘’Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing For every tatter in its mortal dress’’, In thanks giving to the Lord and sings his praise; As I recall WB Yeats’ ‘Sailing Byzantium’, - that lovely poem from my college days. As our biological clock continues to tick incessantly, Getting older becomes compulsory. But becoming Wiser in wrinkled years remains optional, A choice our free will has the opportunity to make! I recall what Agatha Christie had once said, That an archaeologist is the best husband a woman can get, For the older she gets, the more interested in her he becomes; With due respect to our women whose age is impolite not ask. Here I recall what the Pulitzer Prize winner Robert Frost had once said, That a diplomat is a man who always remembers a woman’s birthday and not her age. I recall the observation of Sartre the famous French philosopher who had said, That more sand that escapes from the hourglass of our life, The clearer we should see through it as a blessing of time! It is true that we live in deeds, not in years; in thoughts, not breaths; In feelings, not in figures on a dial, - as James Bailey had said. I finally conclude by quoting the first stanza from ‘Beautiful Old Age’ by DH Lawrence; ‘’It ought to be lovely to be old To be full of the peace that comes of experience And wrinkled ripe fulfilment.’’ -Raj Nandy of New Delhi.

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If I had a magic wand, I would make you understand That overdosing won’t **** you, And I would make you understand That your screams rattle my bones And your cries tear my heart to shreds. If I had a magic wand, I would make the feel of my embrace a sweater So that you could wear it anytime you like And I would turn my laughter into a bandaid That absorbs your pain and sends it to me, Because I care so much I’m going to bleed to death of it anyway. But most of all, If I had a magic wand, I would make you believe that You are enough. You are so enough, It is unbelievable how enough you are.

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Mar 3, 2014

Mar 3, 2014 at 9:47 PM UTC

If I had a magic wand, I would make you understand That overdosing won’t **** you, And I would make you understand That your screams rattle my bones And your cries tear my heart to shreds. If I had a magic wand, I would make the feel of my embrace a sweater So that you could wear it anytime you like And I would turn my laughter into a bandaid That absorbs your pain and sends it to me, Because I care so much I’m going to bleed to death of it anyway. But most of all, If I had a magic wand, I would make you believe that You are enough. You are so enough, It is unbelievable how enough you are.

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James Corden’s close relationship with Burberry designer Christopher Bailey was celebrated at the 2016 Tony Awards. On Sunday night (12Jun16) the toast of Broadway were celebrated at the annual awards show. British star James was the evening’s host, winning the crowd over with his warm sense of humour and down to earth delivery. As well as a successful acting and presenting career, James can now also add style icon to his burgeoning resume. “We wanted to keep the wardrobe tight and focused with a definite beginning and an end,” stylist Michael Fisher told vogue.com. “We started with Burberry for the red carpet. James and Christopher Bailey have a long-standing relationship. I wanted a strong look that complemented the roses. The deep burgundy tux had matte black micro sequins on the lapel: very sophisticated and classic, with a technical update.” Like any good awards show host, 37-year-old James had numerous outfit changes. Two suits from Tom Ford featured; a black three-piece design which served as a tribute to Broadway and then a teal dot dinner jacket, which James chose to wear at the after party. A show-stopping Dolce & Gabbana look also featured, with the fashion house supplying a pair of “handmade, dark green croc shoes” to complement the green velvet and crystal jacket James wore to close the show. Another stand out moment came thanks to a red Gucci suit adorned with a bird and butterfly motif. “The Gucci suit was my favourite,” Michael smiled. “You can’t ignore the influence (Gucci designer) Alessandro Michele has on fashion right now. It reminded me of (musical) The Boy From Oz and in that way was very appropriate for the Tonys.”Read more at: www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses | http://www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses

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Jun 15, 2016

Jun 15, 2016 at 1:40 AM UTC

James Corden and Christopher Bailey's Burberry bromance

James Corden’s close relationship with Burberry designer Christopher Bailey was celebrated at the 2016 Tony Awards. On Sunday night (12Jun16) the toast of Broadway were celebrated at the annual awards show. British star James was the evening’s host, winning the crowd over with his warm sense of humour and down to earth delivery. As well as a successful acting and presenting career, James can now also add style icon to his burgeoning resume. “We wanted to keep the wardrobe tight and focused with a definite beginning and an end,” stylist Michael Fisher told vogue.com. “We started with Burberry for the red carpet. James and Christopher Bailey have a long-standing relationship. I wanted a strong look that complemented the roses. The deep burgundy tux had matte black micro sequins on the lapel: very sophisticated and classic, with a technical update.” Like any good awards show host, 37-year-old James had numerous outfit changes. Two suits from Tom Ford featured; a black three-piece design which served as a tribute to Broadway and then a teal dot dinner jacket, which James chose to wear at the after party. A show-stopping Dolce & Gabbana look also featured, with the fashion house supplying a pair of “handmade, dark green croc shoes” to complement the green velvet and crystal jacket James wore to close the show. Another stand out moment came thanks to a red Gucci suit adorned with a bird and butterfly motif. “The Gucci suit was my favourite,” Michael smiled. “You can’t ignore the influence (Gucci designer) Alessandro Michele has on fashion right now. It reminded me of (musical) The Boy From Oz and in that way was very appropriate for the Tonys.”Read more at: www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses | http://www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses

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This isn't news It's Newport News It makes you dance Bill Bailey And the moon walks from sweet Virginia never from Neverland Bill Bailey The first flight In Apollo blew up the night Bill Bailey Call it what you want You can't walk on the moon without the backslide Bill Bailey

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Oct 7, 2020

Oct 7, 2020 at 2:57 PM UTC

Remember Bill Bailey

This isn't news It's Newport News It makes you dance Bill Bailey And the moon walks from sweet Virginia never from Neverland Bill Bailey The first flight In Apollo blew up the night Bill Bailey Call it what you want You can't walk on the moon without the backslide Bill Bailey

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I Seldom express my emotions and I wrote this for the Ngudu's to marvel and For paps's and mama's heart to console Though words describe, portray And say a lot about a person You are not just any person Through the 18 years of loud mouth cursing The raucous in the early morning Shady and unpredictable plots Being mischievous and devious Being revengeful then forgetful Disapprovals leading to arguments The cause of the damaged Stellenbosch walls Were the ceaseless and reneged brawls Through the 18 years of living I feel like I have failed Failed to sum up the words that match you Having them convey and having people understand you But I feel the words do not get you Like a lot of people that do not get you If you knew him the way I do The marvel of being a Ngudu The marvel of knowing him like I do Lightened my shoulders You lightened my darkness I love you very much like Maya Angelou loves her brother Bailey Not only is he the Head Boy The light skinned of the family Nor the pretty boy of the family by default He is a Master before kings The doctors verified it on the birth certificate before Qamani Rightfully on his high horse being all high and mighty He is my inspiration He is my motivation The very reason behind my episodes of satisfaction He is the Kid to the Son He is Qamani Kideo Ngudu My twin brother

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Nov 20, 2016

Nov 20, 2016 at 5:41 AM UTC

To My Brother With Love

I Seldom express my emotions and I wrote this for the Ngudu's to marvel and For paps's and mama's heart to console Though words describe, portray And say a lot about a person You are not just any person Through the 18 years of loud mouth cursing The raucous in the early morning Shady and unpredictable plots Being mischievous and devious Being revengeful then forgetful Disapprovals leading to arguments The cause of the damaged Stellenbosch walls Were the ceaseless and reneged brawls Through the 18 years of living I feel like I have failed Failed to sum up the words that match you Having them convey and having people understand you But I feel the words do not get you Like a lot of people that do not get you If you knew him the way I do The marvel of being a Ngudu The marvel of knowing him like I do Lightened my shoulders You lightened my darkness I love you very much like Maya Angelou loves her brother Bailey Not only is he the Head Boy The light skinned of the family Nor the pretty boy of the family by default He is a Master before kings The doctors verified it on the birth certificate before Qamani Rightfully on his high horse being all high and mighty He is my inspiration He is my motivation The very reason behind my episodes of satisfaction He is the Kid to the Son He is Qamani Kideo Ngudu My twin brother

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Starlit nights bring a sense of tininess. The vast soot-stained cloak of the sky, pierced with so many tiny scintillating spots of vim opalescent flares, is a heavy intoxicant. It contains a thing most panache. A girlish teetotaler beside me says, "We're like those stars, distantly inflamed, lost in a void of what we cannot know." She is most apt in her contrivance. I wish to be castellated, terraced with Byzantine buttresses and towers-tops. I want a portcullis for my portico that is made mostly out of gold, an inner bailey where the stars can sleep and the wine may flow. I want the wine most metaphysical, the type that flows and churns, perning inside the inner sanctum of the mind.

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Sep 28, 2012

Sep 28, 2012 at 2:04 PM UTC

christopher-howard-gorrie

The beginning of a longer poem

Starlit nights bring a sense of tininess. The vast soot-stained cloak of the sky, pierced with so many tiny scintillating spots of vim opalescent flares, is a heavy intoxicant. It contains a thing most panache. A girlish teetotaler beside me says, "We're like those stars, distantly inflamed, lost in a void of what we cannot know." She is most apt in her contrivance. I wish to be castellated, terraced with Byzantine buttresses and towers-tops. I want a portcullis for my portico that is made mostly out of gold, an inner bailey where the stars can sleep and the wine may flow. I want the wine most metaphysical, the type that flows and churns, perning inside the inner sanctum of the mind.

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By nine, trucks old and new line the street, spilling into the yard. Jim Beam and George Dickel lubricate the chord progression. Drinks go down, volume goes up. I’ll be reading in the backroom as Pap raises a glass to Hank Sr. When the last burning drop of homage trickles down his chin, he gyrates across the floor, flat-top in hand, looking for Jim. Some other picker takes his spot by the fireplace and bellows about a cheatin’ heart. One Saturday, I rescue Huck Finn from under the pale, bearded face of a picker who stumbles into my room, collapsing across the bed. His dreams of Ryman Auditorium go without interruption. I slip to the floor, settling down on the raft. A slow, steady current carries us downstream to another shaded swimming hole. © 2011 C.T. Bailey

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Apr 9, 2011

Apr 9, 2011 at 7:25 PM UTC

Papaw Picks on Saturday Nights

By nine, trucks old and new line the street, spilling into the yard. Jim Beam and George Dickel lubricate the chord progression. Drinks go down, volume goes up. I’ll be reading in the backroom as Pap raises a glass to Hank Sr. When the last burning drop of homage trickles down his chin, he gyrates across the floor, flat-top in hand, looking for Jim. Some other picker takes his spot by the fireplace and bellows about a cheatin’ heart. One Saturday, I rescue Huck Finn from under the pale, bearded face of a picker who stumbles into my room, collapsing across the bed. His dreams of Ryman Auditorium go without interruption. I slip to the floor, settling down on the raft. A slow, steady current carries us downstream to another shaded swimming hole. © 2011 C.T. Bailey

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FANCY Matloob Bokhari I listened the sound of refreshing rain And heard the dearest song of nightingale. I saw Baby walking in the gentle rain Fleecy clouds laying arms round her neck Silver drops in pure delight kissing her lips Sweet-smelling breeze blowing through her hair Rainbow by raindrops studded on her rosy cheeks I woke up when she called my name. My soul knelt down to thank my Lord. Who blessed me fancy – the greatest artist O When the door of my soul is opened, Ideas descend as drops of rain from sky Sitting alone by fire in my study , I hear Whistling wind and symphony of raindrops I smell wet soil , perfume of meadow flowers See Baby appearing as a column of light And the sky with rainbow in her hand. COMMENTS OF POETS Laura Bailey Thank you Matloob Bukhari for the very beautiful poem Rukiah Annuar awesome poem ... bleeding ink magnificently on the page . Such a wondrous gift ... for love of poetry, love~faith~gratitude~ Black heart (cards) ... my heart sings reading your poetry and touches my soul to the silent symphony of your poetic heart Black heart (cards) Ch Navakanta Mishra ‎Matloob Bukhari- Beautiful words Leo Riccio My baby is like this... thanks, blessings. Poet Love wow I love the way you wrote. Beautiful, well-done xoxo Kevin M. Hibshman All love!!!! Mike Eric Soffer very lovely Gaudreault C Marie hhhhhhhhhhh.. I am speechless with the lines .. and also with the image.. I love them both so much !! .. I am fascinated by your works.. and cannot thank you enough for the pleasure it brings.. .. :D .. never stop this .. :D xoxoxo .. and I am grateful !! .. so very grateful.. THANK YOU .. LOVE ALWAYS, :D Black heart (cards) xoxoxo . Black heart (cards) you are a treausre !! xoxoxo Cmarie .. Margaret Gudkov ohhh wow.. Fancy is such beautiful write.. my soul danced with your words Carmel Mawle So beautiful. I especially love the fleecy clouds laying arms around her neck. Jann Gail Jones your words were so precious . They brought such beautiful images to mind and softness and beauty to my heart that tears welled in my eyes. I was reading and dancing. Such magical words Thank you for having such a beautiful heart to be able to write such beautiful things. I thank God for sending blessed people like you. You poems give me faith in humanity. Blessings to you!

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Nov 19, 2014

Nov 19, 2014 at 12:01 PM UTC

matloob-bokhariz9

FANCY Matloob Bokhari I listened the sound of refreshing rain And heard the dearest song of nightingale. I saw Baby walking in the gentle rain Fleecy clouds laying arms round her neck Silver drops in pure delight kissing her lips Sweet-smelling breeze blowing through her hair Rainbow by raindrops studded on her rosy cheeks I woke up when she called my name. My soul knelt down to thank my Lord. Who blessed me fancy – the greatest artist O When the door of my soul is opened, Ideas descend as drops of rain from sky Sitting alone by fire in my study , I hear Whistling wind and symphony of raindrops I smell wet soil , perfume of meadow flowers See Baby appearing as a column of light And the sky with rainbow in her hand. COMMENTS OF POETS Laura Bailey Thank you Matloob Bukhari for the very beautiful poem Rukiah Annuar awesome poem ... bleeding ink magnificently on the page . Such a wondrous gift ... for love of poetry, love~faith~gratitude~ Black heart (cards) ... my heart sings reading your poetry and touches my soul to the silent symphony of your poetic heart Black heart (cards) Ch Navakanta Mishra ‎Matloob Bukhari- Beautiful words Leo Riccio My baby is like this... thanks, blessings. Poet Love wow I love the way you wrote. Beautiful, well-done xoxo Kevin M. Hibshman All love!!!! Mike Eric Soffer very lovely Gaudreault C Marie hhhhhhhhhhh.. I am speechless with the lines .. and also with the image.. I love them both so much !! .. I am fascinated by your works.. and cannot thank you enough for the pleasure it brings.. .. :D .. never stop this .. :D xoxoxo .. and I am grateful !! .. so very grateful.. THANK YOU .. LOVE ALWAYS, :D Black heart (cards) xoxoxo . Black heart (cards) you are a treausre !! xoxoxo Cmarie .. Margaret Gudkov ohhh wow.. Fancy is such beautiful write.. my soul danced with your words Carmel Mawle So beautiful. I especially love the fleecy clouds laying arms around her neck. Jann Gail Jones your words were so precious . They brought such beautiful images to mind and softness and beauty to my heart that tears welled in my eyes. I was reading and dancing. Such magical words Thank you for having such a beautiful heart to be able to write such beautiful things. I thank God for sending blessed people like you. You poems give me faith in humanity. Blessings to you!

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