"barnet" poems
On the eve of whatever day it was, I awoke with the thought of sand jazzing its way through me like a joggers rush of blood to the head. Not a lot of fun, but fun enough to smile at the prospect of a working vehicle now clamouring its way seamlessly into my life and out through the front door to shake the post-mans hand and ask him his name for a Friday drink session because he's more than a postman, he's Michael Thurney Barnet of 5864 Quesnel Street, Powell River, BC, V8A 6H5.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 9:11 PM UTC
barnet recycling area to be removed 09.07.18
praise to the lord
the drop of penny
will all locals applaud
the green brigade is not many.
the fly tip is leaving
now a clean street will parade
storing waste indoors will leave you heaving
getting you at it was easy to persuade.
all *******
from cardboard to food
weekly bin collections did vanish
are you putting together to conclude.
less services are mental
especially when we are doing all the work
next for recycling i'm expecting rental
are any tempted to go berserk.
cleaner clearer streets
very much like barnet borough
the government to all local councils send tweets
this recycling plan or lack is thorough.
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 1:26 AM UTC
I’ll only say this once, and once a ******* lone.
There’s a problem to address, and yes, there’s a reason for my tone.
You’ve been prancing around me blissfully, and in a few seconds’ time,
you’ll think of someplace else wishfully. Once I say. Just once.
It’s certainly not fair when I’m the one removing the hair from that hole.
I’m a sick ******* but I have no lust for disgust.
After my mind is perused, I’m angry and confused. The possibility
dawns on me that it could well be your *****
Or the gel ridden, straw-like hair on your head.
That image fills me with a different kind of dread.
With this in mind, I’ll be shuddering with repulsion,
Trapped later in life with memories of physically indulging
my hand your slimy Barnet. Believe me, that’s not normal hair,
so don’t start telling me to calm it.
Or no…perhaps…
It’s sent my mind searing, it’s ever so weird
to, for one moment, consider that you have the ability of growing a beard.
You’re baby-faced, commonplace, and don’t have a thought worth hearing.
You’re still a child, a mental ****** and to top it off, a beard is now appearing.
Well that’s great. Another thing I have to deal with.
Can you not take care of your own affairs?
If I were you I’d encase all the little hairs
in a purse of some kind, so you’ll always pay mind
to the fact that you now look like a man
despite being a **** Miraculous. I must say, I’m a fan.
Well I guess now it doesn’t even matter,
your face is bare and the bath tub is spattered. I’m shattered.
This isn’t how I pictured my early years, wasting furious tears over beards.
If only early on I had been told, that eventually I would end up
staring in outrage daily at your beard in the plughole.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 4:42 AM UTC
biler kører stærkt forbi ude på Ringvejen
barn cykler rundt og råber på et fremmed sprog
flere biler kører forbi
computertasterne siger de velkendte klik’s, når jeg skriver dette
barnet cykler frem og tilbage
jeg kan høre cykelhjulets tikken
der bremses hård op på cyklen
en motorcykel i det fjerne gasser op
og en bil kører forbi ude ved blokkens gade
et andet barn i det fjerne råber: ”Papa, papa…”
der er fuglesang af fuglearter jeg ikke kender
og efterårsvinden suser i de gule trækroner
der er fodtrin nedenfor mit vindue
tunge skridt der bliver slæbt hen ad jorden
trafikken står aldrig stille
der vil altid være lyde at høre
(Marolle)
Oct 4, 2015
Oct 4, 2015 at 9:21 AM UTC
Jeg kan høre det milde havskummet,
Det berører bakken så nær hjemmet sitt.
Skjønnhet vevd i sitt rustne gylne hår,
Jeg har ikke kjent henne lenge, men *** lar meg gå på lufta.
Det er noe *** har, en slags nåde,
Det skinner som en gemstone gjennom ansiktet hennes.
Hennes øyne kan være gjennomsnittlig på noen andre,
Men i hennes ser jeg himmelen, et hjerte smelter meg.
*** har barnslig lurer og jeg elsker det så,
Og *** gir av det mest lunefullt lys.
Selv når vi står på den kalde betongen,
Jeg kan se blomster spring opp rundt føttene hennes.
Jeg tror jeg elsker henne, ja, det gjør jeg!
Nei jeg gjør det ikke, det kan ikke være sant.
-Det tynne barnet bak deg.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 6:40 PM UTC
Der står en kvinde
over for mig.
Måske er ***
barn. Jeg
danser efteraber
hendes bevægelser. Pludselig
smadrer *** hånden
mod mit ansigt.
Jeg mærker min krop
slippe taget.
Den er ikke længere min;
danser slår vrider sig
uhæmmet
Jeg ser korpus
i skår.
Og skårene danser
i takt med barnet
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 6:26 AM UTC
What if I’d never been called Martin?
If I’d been called Malcom or Syed or Fred?
Would I have been treated any differently, would the thoughts be different in my head?
Would I have been adopted by a different couple, maybe by ones who really loved me instead?
Would I be living in a bungalow in Barnet or a thatched cottage in Hay upon Wye?
Be a scientist obsessed by nuclear fusion or a pilot spending hours in the sky.
Would I be a murderous tyrant, leaving fear, dread and bloodshed in my wake or a devotee of the divine Mary Berry, perfecting the ultimate bake?
Would stories be written about me or songs sung about me by the fire or would journalists interview my loved ones and dear ones, desperate to expose me as a liar.
What if I’d been created a monster, not even given a name at all?
Just left where my life had started. Curled up and quivering in a ball.
No one to tell me they loved me, no one to give me a hug. Just treat like a thing to recoil from, like an odious, hideous bug.
But what if someone noticed me, to whom the outside didn’t matter at all.
Who looked at the deepest core of my being and saw secrets and delights to enthral.
Who coached and nurtured and loved me and treat me with no fear or no shame and decided to call me Isaac, as
that
would
be
my
perfect
name.
Jun 27, 2019
Jun 27, 2019 at 2:05 AM UTC
She put on a lilac ‘rinse’
And left it for only 10 mins
It went a deep shade of violet
She wished she hadn’t tried it
So she attempted to wash it out
But it was stuck fast there was no doubt
Then it faded to all colours of the spectrum
Now it’s green and matches her plectrum
It wasn’t her intention to have green hair
She wishes she’d resisted the urge
To dye it and make a right flaming mess
Now it seems in her head someone’s purged
So every day she scrubs and scrubs
With all manner of paint strippers
But the green in her barnet
just won’t budge
So she’s stuck with this colour it figures
Trying to match her clothes with her hair
Is proving quite a task
There’s only so much teal in her closet
And she’s bored with the situation though it lasts
Sick of the sight
When she looks in the mirror
She feels like shaving it all off
Grotbags would be thrilled
That she had an impersonator
Oh if only this girl could laugh
But it’s no laughing matter
When your hair’s in tatters
And no amount of effort sorts it out
All she wants to do
Is vanquish this colour
But she can’t and it’s stressing her out!
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 5:02 PM UTC