"bonce" poems
Assonance was ensconced in my bonce once.
It puts me in the mood for a muse.
Love those cool peaceful pools under a Moon in June.
Or to croon about dunes and oasis blooms.
Such a lovely tune,
It’ll make you swoon.
Enjoy my runes,
No matter how crude.
I can be a goon
Or even a loon.
Sometimes a fool.
Poems strewn with clichés
For want of a better phrase.
Words hewn before noon,
To give you a boon.
Bad days may loom,
Injustices done.
Cruelty that’s is fuel for a duel and may ruin a life.
We may be doomed.
But I must stay upbeat,
Give you a treat
And make you fall at my feet.
Quite a feat!
Every dog has his day,
Another cliché you’ll say.
But I don’t get any pay,
So soon be on my way.
Love to play with words,
Writing songs for the birds.
These words are a tool
For making me cool.
We’re back to those pools:
They are shimmering jewels.
Paul Butters
Aug 28, 2016
Aug 28, 2016 at 9:36 AM UTC
And the ice cream van drew off
and you held on
to the side
by your finger tips
until the van picked up
a mild speed
when you jumped off
and tried to remain
on your feet
without falling
and only by sheer luck
or balance
did you manage it
and the other kids
clapped hands
and cheered
but Ingrid said
thought you'd hurt yourself
don't your mother
care about you doing that?
she doesn't know
you said
you don't tell her
what you do?
she said
of course not
you replied
she has enough
to worry about
without me
giving her more worry
Ingrid frowned
but why do it?
holding on to the van
I mean?
because it's there
a challenge
like climbing Mount Everest
I guess
you said
she played
with her fingers nervously
as if knitting
an invisible sock
I worry about you
she said
I guess that's what girls do
you replied
walking through the Square
she by your side
her food stained dress
having yellow flowers
her grey socks
her hair pinned
by steel grips
not all girls
she said
least not about you
you smiled
I hope not
you said
girls **** you dry
always on
about soft things
or about dolls
or babies
or such matters
I don't
she said
I think of you
and you being safe
I'm safe
you said
you patted
your six shooter toy gun
wedged in your holster
and you're safe too
you added
wish I was
she said softly
well apart
from your old man
you said
but apart
from filling him
full of cap smoke
or hitting him
on the bonce
with my six shooter ****
isn't much
I can do about him
you said
she looked at you
smiling weakly
maybe one day
we could run off together
she said
and live in one
of those houses
in the Wild West
you nodded
yes good idea
and I can ride
a real horse
and keep cattle
she nodded
and I can keep house
and have babies
sure
you said
and if your old man
comes worrying you
I can plugged him
full of lead.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 2:02 AM UTC
It's cold.
I can't feel my fingers
Or my toes
For now
Just my extremities are frozen
But my frozen fingertips
And my frozen feet
Are telling me
Screaming to me
Fall is here!
I turn on the heat
Take off my clothes
And grab a towel
Leap in to the tub and
With the quick twist of two knobs
BLAST
Comes the water from the shower head
Spitting as hot as it can
Steam instantly leaps off of my body
And with it my feeling of chill
As my vision clouds
And the scalding drops
Bonce off my skin
Heat spreads to every inch of me
Tickling
As its small feet
Travel across my body
In the wake of its coming it brings
(as it always does)
Peace of mind
And creative thoughtfulness
Alternatively with each step
Each tingle
Is a piece of ice
Leaving me
In it's place replaced
With warmth
And comfort
Every second that passes is different
Quiet
Listen to the million droplets
Dive bombing the tile
No thoughts.
In the next second,
A crowd of reporters enter my head
Each louder than the last
Each trying to make themselves heard
"What does the future hold?"
"How will you get there?"
"What makes a man?"
"Are you smart enough?"
"Are you strong enough?"
"Do you care enough?"
"Are you ready for the world?"
"Is the world ready for you?"
"Are you anything really for it to be ready for at all?"
Some are answered
Most aren't
But all are heard
And then in the next second
The buzzing crowd leaves for a while
And is replaced by the sound of the shower head
SHHHHHH
Stop worrying
SHHHHHH
Stop thinking
SHHHHHH
Just stand and enjoy
This heated reprieve
From the cold outside
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 6:18 PM UTC
Rhiana has nothing on her
She's seen more brollies than any girl
From those that fit in your bag
To the weapons used by old hangs!
Every style you could ever want
To keep the rain off of your bonce
Be they flowers, black or hello kitty
They turn to her when the weather's ******
Now her day it flies when the weathers crap
But in her evenings, something lacks..
She seeks a man with a wooly face
To hold her hand and walk in the rain
Under her umbrella with that special fella x
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 7:14 AM UTC
If you think this isn't reality
Then **** you
Accept the fact that misery
Is misery, and if that won't do
Then know that I know why
But I won't tell you.
Disturbia is my life
**** Rhianna for
Envisioning a sick truth,
Then not exposing the demon
That lied to you.
The truth, it is far fetched.
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 9:00 PM UTC
This illness in my mind is terminal.
There is nothing that can cure it.
It speaks oh so nonsensical.
It’s to be honest, quite hysterical.
Well.
I shot myself in the end
Whilst lamenting in my bathtub.
The hysteria was just too much
For my shattered heart to handle.
The judge declared her the winner.
I whimpered in defeat.
I didn’t even place.
Maybe I’m just not that unique
Or damaged enough for poetry.
The metallic taste of blood
As I drown in senseless grief
Tells me I’m not good enough.
To get back on my feet.
Her flared trousers tell me.
She has a great sense of style!
My black eyeliner.
It tells others I’m a coward.
A lamb ready for slaughter.
No Baphomet or Muhammad
Just a lost girl.
Locked in a vault of failure.
Being served defeat.
Getting grimaces from the waiter.
It’s th-the illness.
It’s forming cracks in my bonce.
It’s preventing me from winning.
From ever being at the top.
Y’know what?
She may always win.
With her pale moon skin.
Her suction cup stomach.
Her body so thin.
But me?
Just another **** failure, aren't I?
Laying dead in a bathtub.
Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 11:01 PM UTC
I WILL NOT CEASE FROM MENTAL FIGHT
"Hush...hush!" he'd
suddenly shush
us kids
going" "Wot...wot?"
"Snipers!"
"Where...where?"
we'd whisper half scared.
"Everywhere...everywhere!"
he'd hiss under his breath.
Even in his beloved
red and yellow rose bushes.
( Fred shot in the head
still bleeding in Picardy ).
Or the *** in
the garden shed
which we'd storm
with a barrage of conkers.
"The bleedy blighter
got away!"
They had followed him
home from Flanders.
Or just...
never went away.
Mother said he'd
lost his....
but he'd play
marbles with us
kids
all day.
Rubbed his tolley
against his bonce
"Big Bertha"
he'd call her.
"Yer losing 'em...yer losing 'em!"
he'd sing with great gusto.
We had to let him win
or he'd swear like anything.
"Stop dat slanguage!"
Mother would swear at him.
He sang saucy French songs
"mes saucisson mes amis!"
but only when he be-
-came squiffy
which was more
than often!
Mother begging us:
"Don't listen...don't listen!"
But we inky-dinky
parley-vous'd with him.
A chorus of us kids
belting out:
"...Oh I didn't know how
to tickle Mary
but now I know how!"
"War is all about
saving your skin!"
Most of his mates
lost theirs.
He still calls them
by their names
as if they are
just...there.
"The ghosts of the sofa!"
They sit and watch
the radio with him.
"Manchester Utd 2 -"
He sings ADIEU LA VIE
and cries in French.
Left his left leg
in a trench
but still loves
to dance.
"I dance as badly or
as goodly as I did before
no less...no more!"
More and more
often he hides
under the stairs
eating raspberry jam
or marmalade
in the dark
crying now
in English.
Hiding still
from the Wipers' snipers.
He hates apple and plum
"all we...ugggh...ever got!"
And loudly the cupboard
it sings.
"...without food so long
I've forgotten where my face
is..."
(Fred lost his...)
I always remember him
coming out to salute
surrender to us
as he recites
in a little child's voice.
"When the Rock of Gibraltar
takes a flying leap at Malta
you'll never get yer ********
in a corn beef can."
Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 9:24 AM UTC
Static crackling ecstatically; manic pop
Transistor hissing and spitting; sideboard atop
First when there’s nothing…
But a slow glowing dream…
Pirouette such as whirling dervish makes
Adolescent prancer twirls; leg warmer fakes
All alone I have cried…
Silent tears full of pride…
Breathless incantation; future forged in dance
Performance fascination; leap upon the chance
What a feeling...
Bein’s believing…
Neon flashes bedeck wrists and bonce
Peers laughter flash like fire; a ponce
Take your passion…
And make it happen…
The music shields, deflects. Antacid; taunts abate
Rhyhmic dreamer energized; blind to all the hate
Pictures come alive…
You can dance right through your life…
As Bergen-Belsen ghost yet still aware
Lost dreamer segues silently on fetid air
Bruised and battered, I couldn’t tell what I felt…
I am unrecognizable to myself…
Shuffling as garish Geisha; white but not with paint
Breathless as fifties bombshell; heaving sick and feint
At night I could hear the blood in my veins…
It was black and whispering as the rain…
With steel partner; straight firm and slim of hip
Rigid in rigor’d waltz; moving labouredly with drip
I walked the avenue, ‘til my legs felt like stone…
I heard the voices of friends, vanished and gone…
Faithless rusting engine combusts toxic blood
Failing sack of sinew lies where dancer stood
Night has fallen, I’m lyin’ awake…
I can feel myself fading away…
Monotone white noise; assuring beep
Dancer dreams in endless sleep
There was a time when men were kind…
There was a time when love was blind…
©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness – 2018 – All rights reserved)
Acknowledgements:
1. Flashdance… what a Feeling (1983 – Giorgio Moroder, Keith Forsey & Irene Cara)
2. The Streets of Philadelphia (1993 – Bruce Springsteen)
3. I Dreamed a Dream (Les Miserables – Claude Michel Schonberg, Herbert Kretzmer & Alain Boubil)
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 8:28 AM UTC
When I heard of your return
When I heard a seven year gap creep closer and closer and closer
When my heart felt like a loser
Cheering and pouncing in a moment of no oxygen supply
How could my heart bonce up and down
As if the muscles wasn't worn off because of the seven year gap without thee beat
Tell me how you managed to question my best days existence because of your absence?
Tell me why would the mention of your name threaten my life's work.my life's fake life, my so called life,life liiife
Tell me why do I dream of you as near when we where so far away from each other
How could time have taken so much less,In so much time
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 5:07 PM UTC