"brack" poems
your hart is like a star
shining so bright
hiding behind all the light
imagene what you would be
not what you could be
makeing all the haids tern round
dont you here that soud
some peaple brack peaples harts hopes and dreems
well at least that what it seems
well what do i know im gust the girl in the back row
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 10:49 PM UTC
I promise robe your eyes
when you can't see.
I promise you tobe your
Ears when you can't hear.
I promise to always tell you
What's real when you won't to here the truth.
I promise to life you up when your down.
I promise to wipe your tears
When you feel you need to cry.
I promise tobe your
Strength when ever your weak.
I promise tobe your voice
When you can't find the words.
I promise to never hurt you
And never brack your heart.
I promise that I will always love you with all
My heart no matter what happens
Baby Ill aways promise to give
You Faith when your down.
I promise to lead u a shouder for
You need to cry on.
I promise to love you
Until the end of
Time
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 1:37 AM UTC
The Knackers-Yard nursing home, rotted and bleak
Where the occupants dribble and seldomly speak
And the medicine is strong while the coffee too weak
Where there's never a care a fuss
There's a trip to the bingo on regular days
And they visit the beaches, the rivers and bays
For the brick-a-brack stalls and the knitting displays
In a rusty mobility bus
Prunella, the wagon of elderly types
With a blanket for every lap
She's a trusty machine of a hideous green
And she's Queen of the Watford Gap
One morning in May when the weather was grim
Miss Margaret Maywither went on a whim
To converse with the orderly, Terrible Tim
And they sat there and shot at the breeze
They nattered and gabbed a selection paces
And tried to put names to familiar faces
But Maggie with plans to discover new places
Relieved the young man of his keys
Prunella, the stolen mobility bus
Where the wings of bingo flap
With a window down and a dressing gown
She's Queen of the Watford Gap
She took to the road with a skeleton crew
Some heart-attack red or a worrying blue
And frequently stopping when tablets were due
They made for a hasty escape
With a foot to the floor and a screaching of tyres
A stopping of traffic and starting of fires
Such fun can be had when a lady retires
In a bus held together with tape
Prunella, the choice of the senior crowd
Each wrinkled lass or chap
There's a lift for the crips and titanium hips
And she's Queen of the Watford Gap
The police gave a chase at a sensible speed
As the Prunella and Margaret rapidly flee'd
When escape is impossible, each one agreed
They would rather be dead than be caught
With a tug of the wheel and a rattle of teeth
With a serpent of tyre smoke writhing beneath
It was probably too late to order a wreath
And the chance of survival was nought
Prunella, on fire and twisted apart
A smouldering pile of scrap
With the wreckage and grease of a dozen police
She's Queen of the Watford Gap
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 5:48 AM UTC
In this room where I grew up
calves’ roars creep in the open window.
Day dream on the bed,
mirror reflects in Autumn:
the time my notebook fills,
floods like the land.
As I check my email from my phone,
two daddy long legs mate
on the discoloured floorboards–
no business of mine
enter my password–
no business of theirs.
The dog suddenly barks, the front door opens,
two old babes shuffle in to visit Gran
in the same spot she’s been parked
for the last two years,
watching the seasons change
through the kitchen’s lace scene.
All as deaf as the dead; simultaneous
yet different conversations–
I interpret and translate. In unison
they sing my praises:
He’s good boy, oh yes a good boy indeed–
like I was the dog.
Outside Dad chops timber,
I make tea for three.
Cut some cake Gran worries.
What will they think?
Barn brack with ring,
memories of Halloween
play in my head,
welcomed like the moon, always.
Evening: after I have the sheep counted,
I watch the stag in the next field–
they rut this time of year,
call for a mate.
Tomorrow is Friday,
the first of the month.
The priest will call to the sick and elderly–
I will hear the dog announce
his red Toyota Starlett
over the fields.
Thank God Gran doesn’t know. I
can do without that worry
anytime of year.
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 2:22 PM UTC
No two people
ever conceived by God
could possibly be more alike than us
We live our lives in perpetual hope
of Country Time Lemonade commercials
and old reruns of “Leave it to ******
We hope that, around the next bend
on a dusty, sun streaked road
we will find our Mayberry
That place where old men
weighing down sagging porches
speak in parable of better times
That place where young mothers
perpetually in their Sunday best
push strollers edged in brick-a-brack
That place where little boys
have impossibly grass stained knees
at the edge of muddy fishing holes
That place where little girls
pick Black-Eyed Susan's in verdant fields
and play at getting married while the little boys flee in terror
That place where dapper fathers
mow lawns in their shirtsleeves
and tip their pipes to one another in the falling afternoon sun
Together, we dream of this place;
this ideal;
this America.
Together we dream and, together, we continue
down that old dirt road;
hoping to find Mayberry
just around the next bend.
Mar 15, 2010
Mar 15, 2010 at 6:54 PM UTC
One moment you're tenaciously checking pulses
chopping carrots and tomatoes and measuring
Spoonfuls of syrups and splitting pills and counting
Capsules to prove your sister-in-law skipped a dose
And you sign the cards and you lick the envelopes
And you write the checks and do your math and
You dream of France in the summertime after falling
Asleep in front of the TV at 9pm on a Friday night.
There are dishes to wash and shelves to dust full
of five lifetimes of bric-a-brack amassed and leaks
To mend - so much that really matters enough to keep from
Breathing too slowly or speaking of the implications
The next moment it's all vanished and there's one less
Complication but at what point do you cry and at what
Point do you relax after cathartic loss as ineluctable loss
and when is it exactly that it hits you if ever
That some day the complication is you and the vanishing
Provides a blank check to forget and an invitation to
Dance around the vacuum of absence
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 3:07 AM UTC
A moth's carrying your face on mosaic metal wings, half of mine inside
drummer boy, she's in a long, black dress
drummer boy, don't drink the brack water
I didn't look up this time, so I guess I never saw it
The hot air balloon transporting a house with a bird in a cage inside
Tall plant growing through the sky, into space
The sun as its face of flower, petals falling and an insect mouth
There's horns on every building where people store their god and the stars discontent with simmering fires, coming closer to the forests
and goddess flies over towers and ugly stock remains undoused.
You cannot swim through the sea of letters in my head
I sent you only two, anyway and I don't know what now
Hearts grow skew and the plant twists, one root to your door
Right into the foyer where your wheels stand, now capped with cold
This river in me is colored by the cracks in your last sentence.
And as you're well aware, some deer skitter toward water's edge
to counter a thirst of madness, peaking to a frightening fall
I'd do well to break this branch, bugs in the mouth again and
some peepholes don't ever speak but see.
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 6:10 AM UTC
dawn to dask birds brack and bruss you see a tree you see a bloom. around a tree a butterfly and bee. a blue bird you shal see.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 3:31 AM UTC
Without and but around she tags herself indecent in ganky exposure. Jubilee cranks up, and but with half her street’s mailboxes signal defeat with eyes on mantelpiece, surrounded. Roadside debutante grudgingly refuses both leftovers, then confession. Make known with loud insistent shrug of day how intricate cracks size up, amalgamated mess of tongue-and-cheek prevail. His and hers with signs pre-recorded – history, of course, being disloyal and impatient nut-case that she is, scribbling over own bones with fate of children’s children, exposed. Brick to brack rolls fervor in wet incandescence, itself a lone category expanded to virtual (any) interests of land sharks and dead. Making no mistake, catalogue drop falls and hits strike back bright the beacon of their magical thinking. Doubled down in laughter pain, the grotesque ridges of the system unencumbered dribbles off and drugs itself over dying embers sparkle. And then laughter more exposes weak tongue in probe - and probably prose - instead weeps, crosses the nose, sits sand, and follows freaky through the underlings – hostile territory restricted but for her name.
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 4:16 PM UTC
Hatred, for those who seek for reason,
Is a fertile ground to exonerate treason.
And enmity breeds in blind terrorism
In seasons of adorable ignorance of heroism,
And shallow knowledge is marked by arrogance
Pleased to exude its own furious fragrance,
Sheathed in cloaks of words of slick elegance,
And intrigue perfumes conspiracy with innocence,
Which serves man's aberration in a dull perception,
Where sublime paths are righteous deception,
And antipathy lapidates resurrection of truth,
And affliction is doomed shelter for ruth,
For broken hearts, the haunted and guests,
And lovers and tragic faces and ***** *******
And the aged wisdom and the unseen future,
And we, the abandoned in particular.
Jul 7, 2017
Jul 7, 2017 at 5:14 PM UTC
COLLECTIONS
Oh the endless possibilities,all that is or will become within our sight to be touched smelt or felt
Personal memorabilia builds into more than recollections ,from buds to blossoming into full blown obsessions
Numismatic fancy word for adding another to the pot,dates or weights all pitching towards the wealth
Postcards from yonder,seashells to make us wonder,each time feeling more & more obliged to add another to our possessions
Many admire a rhyme another note always gets their vote ,passion play often the only way, sounds helping their health
Never hear of a person acquiring empty shelves,books will fill any nook ,stacked vertical or leaned horizontal,their words have answered many questions
Rag doll & a race car now turned to bunches of Barbies spinning Hot Wheels
their true beauty just another notch in the belt
Ticking of clocks always keeping time ,some require mere cases, meager to monstrous taking on entire museums
Sending a simple letter has now gone postal,finding that rare picture will make their hearts melt
Garbles of marbles across from mismatched matchbooks,their appeal is real
as we add more pieces
Bats & ***** gathering dust,minor leaguers gained no fame ,now junk transformed to memorabilia their distinction now unparalleled
Avon calling the scent once a common present,not so old bottles now treated like divas
Knick or nack another's brick brack maybe a future adorers prize
our simple junk adds some spunk,past brought to present at a glance
those many baubles just waiting to be shared. R.C.
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 6:46 AM UTC
I ate a whole one once, so,
that means, I got the pea,
the stick, the piece of cloth,
the money, and the ring.
Which of course brought
me good luck and bad luck
all of my life.
The thing about it is, the good
always came before the bad.
As the ring was last and I'm not
married yet, what am I supposed
to deduce from that ?
Jan 18, 2019
Jan 18, 2019 at 11:43 AM UTC