"boatload" poems
For the record, I suppose it should be stated I lost my soul in Vegas.
I would love to go back there and find it among those glittering lights and buffet tables of never-ending artful desserts.
It's funny that all I really remember are those pretty desserts and fried mashed potatoes.
I want those things back.
I'm like a raver with those lights.
I want to consume them.
I want to glow in my pores.
Not the cliched glow that wraps itself around the impregnated many,
but the glow that comes from sitting next to neon for too long.
That it could somehow stain you.
Rub off like fairy dust on skin.
That I could fly away due to its energy or wishful thinking.
Take me back to Vegas,
where they still hand that out for free by the boatload.
I need not gamble.
I need not glad-hand.
I would simply sit idly by the buzzing of pinks and blues and greens and reds.
And me and those cheap 1920's lights will have a moment,
a moment I can share with the cocktail waitress who asks me for the third time if I'm sure I don't need a little refresher drink.
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 10:59 PM UTC
The loneliest summer with a boatload of goodbye
with a non existent voice of whisper, I wished the new love away
never knowing that the infatuation could make me feel so high
Sitting with words stumbling over shot glasses to forget that day
smoking cigarettes because they reminisce of your scent yet lie
but like love, scents burn bitter sweet sensation
nothing and everything I never again confide
but I wish not remember that changing season confrontation
knowing you were not mundane thought so moon phase new
take that lipstick off my lips as easily as you can keep your word
true colors release, as hostility grew
living in your life -now- off only what I heard
scared to speak three words, eight letters feel
manipulation to keep always as need
promise of nature that you would not leave scars to heal
but you dear knew I loved you, why did you need power to succeed
in case you feel despair, you still twist my mind
leave me with a solitary life, not ready to let this go
i'm scared that infatuated feeling will be hard to find
still hung up like rope, melting low
still hear that voice speaking soft almost speech but less
the loneliest summer with a boatload of goodbye
I still love you, this is the coffee stained paper confess
never knowing that infatuation could make me feel so high
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 2:13 PM UTC
we all need to laugh,
we all need to laugh more than we cry,
we all need to laugh till tears stream down our faces,
we all need to laugh
we all need to laugh
we all need to laugh till those tears fill up the empty places
we all need to laugh and our heart floats and lifts that vessel
we all need to laugh
we all need to laugh, at ourselves,
we all need to laugh, hope floats a boatload of troubles,
we all need to laugh, so others will get infected and laugh too,
we all need to laugh,
who is firts?
©DWE072013
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 12:50 AM UTC
Well we jumped on the wing
for a good Irish fling
kicked off the week
with a boiler
The banter was high
as we took to the sky
nothing in sight
was a spoiler
And the red eye at night
was a captain’s delight
we spread on the seat
of the liner
Arrived just in time
for a whale of a time
at the Temple Bar
and Diner
Well the Dublin scene
in the Old College Green
was wired and alive
on the corner
Where me and me' mates
paired in at the gates
there were welcoming arms
to us foreigners
And we sang through the night
and grinned in delight
with banjos, pipes
and lasses
Drinking whiskey and beer
in a boatload of cheer
the rooster got lost
in the masses
The **** in the walk
was out on the stalk
a wee little flute
on display
His shoulders were pinned
with a great big grin
they were such
peculiar ways!
Well we found em next day
(in a sauntering way)
*got tossed in
all the commotion*
What happened to you?
said he hadn’t a clue
or any
baldy notion!
Hit the road to Howth
little east, little south
the seaside town
was groovin
Found the Cobblestone Pub
for a jar and a scrub
the seabird sounds
were soothin
Then we jumped a train
in the lashing rain
the Belfast craic
was mighty
Hit the Thirsty Goat
with a parching throat
some Tullamore Dew
for a nighty
In the Crumlin jail
the spirits set sail
the IRA
was gaffin
There was Bobby Sands
in celestial lands
alive and proud
and laughin
The Griffin dance
was the final chance
the evening closed
in nigh
And we made our way
through the Chelsea lanes
to say our
final good bye
~ ~ ~ ~
Singing
Ay, oh…let it all go
safe haven in the wasteland!
Singing
Slainte’…take me away
to the old Irish sounds
of the band!
Sep 23, 2021
Sep 23, 2021 at 11:41 AM UTC
Tired
Brain spits words in fits and starts
The internal running commentary misfiring badly
Ideas stuck in bottlenecks
Traffic backed up and down the on-ramps
Leading off the congested thoughtways
Tired
Stormwater overflow pours out of blocked drains
Sidling up the gutters of fallen leaves
And other assorted detritus of modern existence
Spewing out over footpaths and under cars
And over the tops of the boots of downtrodden dawn treaders
Tired
Mountain pass impassable under it’s mercurial precipitate mask
Features only glimpsed in snatches
Like looking through a white picket fence while running
Thought trees bunching up around the middle
Warping under the sun and the scrutiny of others
Tired
Collapsing under the weight of the wave function
Subatomic particles currently in a state of nonexistence
Abandoned altogether by the Higgs, thoughts vibrate and dissipate
In extraordinary frequency and noise
Drowned out by the audible hum of the big bang
Tired
As if running a marathon in treacle
Start with a whimper then dribble to a halt
Running barefoot on salt flats
Or over pillows in stilettos
More time spent on face than feet
Tired
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more
The court jester prances for the Big Queen *****
And her merry King of Fools with his band of merry drunkards
Quickly losing the point of it all
As words start tumbling down in random order
Staccato signal messages like binary or Morse code
Information overload threatens to upend the boatload
Like the military dumping refugees into the harbour
Buckle up armour and wait for the onslaught
Of somnatic visions, twisted psychedelic impressions
Land mine concussions in the fevered dreams of veterans
Who witnessed limb torn from limb
In the name of something nobody remembers
Lose their tempers and start a war on home turf
Jungles petrified into concrete monstrosities that blot out the sun
From the flowers that feed in the cracks of the pavement
Everywhere bereavement and none shall take leave
From the cold, impassive logic of Death
Who comes knocking as you read this
Wired
No chance of sleep now
This is why one shouldn’t write poetry late at night
Sep 26, 2012
Sep 26, 2012 at 12:41 AM UTC
~
*all my poems are prayers on a good fun-Sunday
or a piece thereof;
wishes or curses,
longings, hopes, and a boatload of
'wouldn't it be loverly'
absent tho the conditional,
the if -then continuum,
no promises or persuasive pressures,
deal making sort of pointless
as words are directed internal to the
stew, the mix of matter and sensibility,
that seems to try and semi-govern me,
my own game controller Xbox apparatus
risen Sunday morn church in bed
first poem prayer issued,
a prone proclamation:
*let me always allay
the needs of others owed
before mine owned
I like it,
maybe I'll call it commandment #110,
which means got all day to come up
with a couple more - good fun-Sunday*
4/23/17
8:53am
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 9:07 AM UTC
Flubber inside
filling out the cracks
you and that
insipid hat.
Wolly sweater
boatload of pins
find out when
our love life begins.
It's quite awkward
when I get so nervous
like hot liquid
boiling in a pan.
It's really kind of funny 'cause
I can't figure you out,
man.
Grist and marrow
you're a stringy
kind of fellow.
And every time I see
your stupid smily face
I get this rubber
in my tummy
a fit I cannot place.
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 1:44 PM UTC
-
I wake
A thirst
A terrible thirst
Rouses me from dreamless sleep
So down to the kitchen
To douse and slake
With book in hand...
-
Aurthur
A hero?
This King of golden,
Olden tales
More like David
Than I previously knew!
-
A boatload of infants
Four weeks old and unattended
Born around May Day
And a good man's wife
Plays wet nurse
to King Aurthur's undoing
-
Elsewhere on my bookshelf,
Apollo strips
Marsyas of his outer finery
After winning the battle
...Of the bands
-
Flayings a-plenty on canvases
In my image search results
...With "happy little trees"
And the Faun
Skinned to his knees
-
Soothing voice of Bob Ross plays
on loop in my head
Some of the only peace that has come
Of late
-
Happy-little-flayings
Happy-little-monstrosities
-
The sky is darkened, the sun is hiding
his face in skies over 'round the
eastern edge...and the moon is
refusing to shine her light.
-
I open my throat and try to
say...anything
To YOU
.
.
.
And back toward my bedroom I climb
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 9:20 AM UTC
Love is everyone's cup of tea
is forever new everyone wants it.
More so everyone can give it
a lot of it, a boatload of it.
Keep loving, keeps the world moving!
Mar 1, 2019
Mar 1, 2019 at 10:42 PM UTC
She creases her forehead in confusion
She wonders what they say as they pass her by
What are they saying, to whom and why?
They murmur, frown, giggle and titter
As if they have no emotional filter
The little she hears almost brings her to tears
Do they dance to the tune of some shadow puppeteer?
Call them rumors, gossip, lies, hearsay or fabrication
Call them improvised news or forged information
Little difference would it make.
Malicious whispers, known to topple empires
Sunder relationships and cause death
Her chest hurts and she can’t seem to take a breath
As her heart tumbles in her chest, her mind is drawn to Wilkinson v. Downton
In that moment, she could almost relate to Miss Wilkinson.
Ware those Whispers
They travel far and wide
But their source is always close to home
Who tattled? Was it a loved one or a close friend?
She may never know.
Ware those whispers.
They may have as little as a kernel or as much as a boatload of truth
At this point, the defence of truth is surely moot
She called them girls, squad, friends and besties
In their company, she was merely lollygagging
Behind her back, their tongues were wagging
A mere misrepresentation can cause complete devastation
They scoff at her frantic utterances of truth
To them, it is no more than mere superstition
She retreats into her Fortress of Solitude
In this bubble of quietude, she lifts her hands in gratitude
Though she knows it is no more than a blanket fort of self-deception
They continue to natter and chatter
She ceases her cries of protest, for it no longer matters
In calm desperation, she starts to twine the hanging rope
But wait, suicide is still a crime under the law
She stands helpless as the whispers sneak past her defences
She grips her head in an effort to drown out their voices
To this they mutter, “look, surely she is non compos mentis”
Dear child, let them run their mouth for God is thy witness
Guard your tongue for the walls have ears
Calm your heart and hear no whispers
Let them speak, they are no more than vipers
Do not be sad, though you may lose some friends
It is only the beginning and not the end
They may think they have you assessed
But they have no idea how much you’re blessed
And at all times, ware those whispers.
May 29, 2020
May 29, 2020 at 5:55 PM UTC
truths triage could not spare him as he was
trying to look angelic on a boatload of sinners
hes chained to his uttered story despite its flaws
he wrote it with the ink of despairs wisdom
despite knowing despair will lie to you as often as its dark brother fear
he carved his fate in the slippery wet stone of his pasts deeds
and theres no escaping the truth in that mirrors face
three am in a ***** motel room
the greasy light reveals the man within
unleashes the beast
and mourns all that could have been
(((thirty six dutch girls holding hands
walk in the shadows....
thirty six dutch girls
smooth to the makeup perfection on arrival
laughing and giving peck on the cheek hello's
the crowd into the booths at the back
a noisy forest of chatter and purses clutter
thirty six slender dutch girls
powdered and perfumed
come to build a romance of the mind
every single one of them dreams vividly of
real love and wanting something better than this emptiness
this is no way to live)))
bent tens ways to sunday but never really broken
he keeps on keeping on pounding flesh to footpath
hoping to escape reason with muttered excuses
hoping to beat the dawn keep the night alive for
just one more whimsical delight
he writes his fate indelible while lying to no-one
that its just a phase he's going through
****** his chained hands at the obscured waters
but once you start down the trail of tears
only the truth will set your sight free
four am in the motel parking lot
and the birds herald a coming dawn
this is no way to live
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 2:07 AM UTC
Down with the ship
This "titanic" was the greatest ship
The captain was forced to race to the end of it
In wealth's panic
Can you help me?
Reaching out
they slapped away my hand
"What's the matter?"
"Wasn't true care and being fellow Humans "
in which to "care" for "one" another
what it's all about?
I loved you, dearly.
Yes I know the true meaning of the word
or was the message too hard to understand and
constructed as "Those made by obsird?"
I'm going down with the ship.
I cannot help to make it stop
So watch as you leave me there at the helm
As for sticking by me through and through
was to you what did overwhelm?
Watch me sink.
Your "Titanic."
You sent the morse code
That read "Don;t Bother us"
As you dried, safely, with another
"Love" in which you trusted , wrongly,
and their "boatload of tricksters"
Is this which you now sail on with, misguidedly, down the road?
Nov 13, 2017
Nov 13, 2017 at 10:46 PM UTC
I am beset by boorish, bloated, behemoths
who broadside benevolent busboys by the boatload
I do not pause to stop and stare
With indifference and despair
Do I circumnavigate an indifferent globe
I am surrounded by salacious supplementals
who stand silently still in streaming sunlight
I do not return their glare
I run my hands through thinning hair
and wince at ignorance made flesh
I am besieged by bracingly belligerent bumblers,
The kind of verbal tumblers who fail to jump through hoops,
These self-proclaimed acrobats, put to shame by pussycats
All too often follow circuitous routes
these pitiful proletarian ponderers, as little more than wanderers
On a plane that reaches no destination
They do daily buy their ticket, but to me it's just not cricket
For we are here and then we die, go to the ground not to the sky
and now I lay me down to sleep, in a wooden box that wasn't cheap
and all the while the bleating sheep hear no-one but themselves
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 6:46 PM UTC
Below the deck lies not just my crew,
but a boatload of items for me and for you.
Tremble before it's glittering wealth,
but looking too long is bad for your health.
Can't say where we're sailing next,
since I'm a fool for any foreign object.
And ye best watch your tongue on me ship,
or else you'll find yourself taking a dip.
"Ahoy! Land ** Shouts the man above,
"Prepare to dock" commands the captain of
The ship that always sails and that never returns,
but it always carries treasure, and tis be the name it earns.
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 5:30 PM UTC
I live for a day when we don't work our lives away. When families and friendships are maintained. (Through the Care-acters they are composed of) When it comes easily to invite the good vibes to stay. Binge thinking again. Just remember your time is the most valuable currency you can spend.
Memento Mori "remember that you have to die"
Time to celebrate life.
Don't leave before you arrive.
Wish you would once stop by
To at least say hi
We could ponder a boatload of whys.
But right now go fly, make it to your desired ends. Am I alright? I sure can pretend.
Yet the mirror has two ears to lend.
We are but energy, lest we forget.
This is just a reminder.
Sincerely,
A friend
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 10:33 AM UTC
as the sun's sphere sunk
it bade goodbye to last year's
boatload of defeats
Jan 1, 2017
Jan 1, 2017 at 12:40 AM UTC
I met another
Could be
Maybe
What if
Beautiful
Interesting
Kind of young
Woman
With kids
Too bad I am
To well done
Burger burnt straight through
Can’t trust my feeling
Even when I am
Sharing them with you
To many let downs
Rejections
And heartbreaks
To many good poems
About painful mistakes
But she looks so good
That I almost wish I could
Eat her up
While she devours me to
I got a boatload
Of excuses
Like I like my life
Like I like being on the road
Like my dad needs me at home
Like I enjoy my sleep and freedom
But the biggest one
Is that I am just too tired
I don’t want to get my
Hopes up in a twirling parasol
Just to have the umbrella break
And let me get rained on
Again.
Dec 21, 2016
Dec 21, 2016 at 6:44 AM UTC