"bellamy" poems
On the face of it, there isn't much about this bird
To stop me in my tracks.
Brown, oblivious, busy with the ground
It totters along on stilted legs
Probing among the frozen fields.
It's the name that's the trouble.
Childhood hours spent copying pictures
From the Readers' Digest Book of Birds
Call to mind the name, 'Curlew'.
In my house, though, birds had Scots names
and my dad, a linguistic David Bellamy
Urged us to conserve these rare words
or lose them forever.
Goldfinch? Gowdspink!
Starling? Stuckie!
Blue *** Umm...
But the undistinguished gentleman before me
was definitely a whaup.
Curlew or whaup?
Which is it to me?
The English of books
or the fading Scots, maybe closer
to the bird's wild home?
Textbook reality
or romantic poetry?
Or both - can the creature sit
in two states at once?
"Schrodinger's Curlew", I think with a smile.
("Schrodinger's Whaup!" bellows the bit of my dad
that lodges in my head.)
Here, under a cloud of my own breath
In the low winter light,
Neither seems quite adequate.
And then, untouched by my musings
The bird spreads its wings and lifts,
Naming itself, with a long, pure note
And my heart, in two states,
Leaps
and breaks.
Nov 26, 2010
Nov 26, 2010 at 12:03 AM UTC
Im tired of all the lies I hide behind, so Im Breaking the ties to the past
Long lasting present because the past is the past not a cage,
and it also isn't a theatre
So this exsistance shouldn't be staged, cause this **** ain't funny like Bellamy,
You might think I've gone mad because I'm not listening to what you're tellin' me not to,
but I got to, in order to survive, because the self inflincted wounds are healing and hardening, I'm searching for a deeper punishment,
making life more enjoyable, laid back and not so tense,
you won't have to worry about what trouble I might be in next,
and you won't have to be burdened with disappointment when I fail your tests.
So I'll play this life like a game of spades,
by the time this game is over, my stomach will be corroded with rage
but I'll keep a pokerface,
hidden behind stoner charm, a smile,
a handsome face & tinted shades,
I know you're clearly blind to my bluffing,
and I know you see me today,
but my eyes are set on the worries of tomarrow and
my mind is still wincing from yesterdays sarrow
I'm alive but I'm dying inside
because the guilt and shame are smothering me,
not to mention I'm choking on regret,
Don't fret, because my face isn't turnin' blue, and my pulse isn't speeding up,
but my wrists are scarred, but not ******
and please don't worry because this won't happen agian,
not making any promises,
Lord please forgive me for I know that I have sinned,
I just needed some proof to remind me where I've been....
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 4:33 PM UTC
REPUBLICANS
Former South Carolina GOP leader
kills dog to please God
Rob Beschizza
GERMANY
Germany's top domestic spy advised far right xenophobic political party on how to avoid being billed as "extremists"
Cory Doctorow
RUSSIA
Guy who pretends to ****** people for a living named Russian Goodwill ambassador
Seamus Bellamy
BUSINESS
We're going to be eating bugs really soon now, again
Cory Doctorow
POLICE
Surveillance camera shows off-duty NYPD cop dropping a weapon near man he shot in the face
Rob Beschizza
SCHOLARSHIP
When should the press pay attention to trolls, lies and disinformation?
Cory Doctoro
CORRUPTION
Wells Fargo: we stole houses and we're being investigated for ***** low-income housing credits
Cory Doctorow
LATE STAGE CAPITALISM
How Jpay gouges prisoners' families for "digital postage stamps"
Cory Doctorow
ALEX JONES
Alex Jones is suing the parents of a Sandy Hook victim for $100,000
Gina Loukareas
***
:(
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 3:46 PM UTC
a quantum of soul and cherry ***** in the backseat of a ford-
we were going to eighty-six the world
the sinews of our unattainable hands
that yanked themselves free
and went to ruining our best Bellamy salutes
and went to forming ladders and tarmacs in the vapor of the night
and went to everything
it's wasn't the shaking or the vim of the stockyards on the days they hung up ornaments
it wasn't those who followed a cheekier Moira and gawked at Rita of Cascia as she passed by
it was the way escape felt with you as it's stern
it's the way escape felt with you full of sanguinity
the kind that your mother gave you in the belly of California
the kind that I ripped away for ***** and giggles
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 1:15 AM UTC
“day one;
a baby-faced image stared back at him, full of youth and life. he swallowed hard.
day two;
the thoughts that plagued his mind were too hard to forget. he smiled down at her, a strained sort of feeling.
day three;
he thought he’d be able to forget.
boy, was he wrong.
he smiled, a jagged sort and walked down the hall.
day four;
his fingers trembled. it wasn’t long before he went scavenging for things to make him feel numb.
day five;
he’d come home, blurry-eyed and high on bittersweet memories.
boy, was it hard.
day six;
pacing in the flat. back and fourth, back and fourth.
trembling hands, clenched in fists, white knuckles adorned with red.
day seven;
he brushed back her hair, kissed the top of her head and locked the door.
day eight;
he caught his mother on the floor. she hunched in the dark, with agonizing pressure over her shoulders. she wailed.
day nine;
to hell with them.
day ten;
was the day he was dreading. we’ll knock down the door, they said. his mother left it to swing ajar. he held her behind him. “to hell with them,” he’d say. she hugged his torso. his mother screamed. in the second he looked away, she was gone.
day eleven;
he sobbed. no matter how high he could get, the pain wasn’t going away. ecstasy was no more. “may we meet again,” she said. the door closed behind her.
he opened his hand. he clutched a ribbon of red silk. “may we meet again.”
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 4:06 AM UTC
I used to know this guy called big Sam Bellamy
Made many mistakes in life, his own worse enemy
Not a true friend in the world to share his lonely life
Has no children to speak of not even a girlfriend or a wife
People in the streets would laugh and point there finger at him
Always behind his back they where laughing and bickering
But then one Saturday evening he bought a ticket for the lottery
And as the numbers came out, what happened he couldn't believe
Big Sam had all the numbers his ticket was a massive jackpot
Not bad for someone who was treated like a loner or a crackpot
Now all the sad people with two faces want him as a friend
They say 'Sam you are my true friend' in disguise they pretend
And poor old Sam thinks these people are so honest and true
When they say 'Hey big Sam we have always loved you'
Needing love and so open for warmth, Big Sam Bellamy
Made many mistakes in life, his own worse enemy
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 5:03 AM UTC
we sit at the edge of
vespertide
listening to the chorale
of evensong
this day's opus almost done
now tapering off in
slow melodious decrescendo..
it is the gloaming
and the final flurry of light
glimmers on the horizon
now the night becomes
the diva,
the first star has been wished upon,
the first sattelite too.
and the bass note of the cicadas
builds to a ***** needful hum...
lights go on in little square
patches, and the smell
of barbeque fragrances
the summer night air
under the streetlights
the moths come to dance
a dare each other to touch
the midnight sun...
and in our garden
the rustle of the
tame gone feral
rabbit "bellamy"
has begun...
a hulking grey white
shadow now he lollops
toward the tasty green
carrot-tops...
until the sound of pounding
feet causes him to freeze
considering his position
bellamy chooses discretion
over valour and departs with haste
the wind now has a coolness to it
and the grass grows damp about us
by still we sit enamoured of the changing
slow and quiet about us
the seas whisper secrets
and the birds settle in for the night
excepting those who hunt on silent wings
the stars begin to pop
bright white on the darkening sky
and the crescent moon smile with
a sideways grin...
it is now the darker things come
owls on the wing
spiders to reknit there webs
the big bass frog to sing his song
and the small blood seeker
come with whinging wings
now we must give the night
it's privacy, as we walk inside,
from the pond a series of sounds
means the frog has found dinner
hopefuuly a mosiquito buffet
the vesper tide hath turned
the night is now come.....
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 9:51 AM UTC