"bridget" poems
1275
The Spider as an Artist
Has never been employed—
Though his surpassing Merit
Is freely certified
By every Broom and Bridget
Throughout a Christian Land—
Neglected Son of Genius
I take thee by the Hand—
12.8k
Of all the ****** that i like,
The best would be of lace and white,
But then again, there's so so much,
There's even knickers with no crotch!?,
Those little bras for beginner *****
Or leather gear, for naughty moods,
And not forgetting Bridget Jones,
Come on girls, we've all got those ones.
Those yummy corsets **** us in,
We'll shake our hips and bear a grin,
To tantalise and tease men so,
Our ***** with tassels on, so guys can, ahem, grow.
Those fishnet stockings cost a bomb,
But ladies, that's why we put them on,
We feel so **** and so do they,
So that's why we get them to pay.
Silk and satin, black or red,
Or going commando instead,
What then girls, do we love these things for,
Because they'll only be scattered on our bedroom floor?...
Apr 9, 2010
Apr 9, 2010 at 6:51 AM UTC
It's Sister Lucy not Sister Bridget
who's the crush on the young priest
Father Joseph Magdalene said,
Mary said is she the one? as she sat
on Mags bed listening to music
on her record player I thought
you said the Bridget,
Magdalene sitting beside Mary
passed a glass of lemonade to her
and said nothing certain
you understand just the rumours
I've heard but don't tell
the parents or my arse'll
be slapped for spreading the rumour,
have you a ciggie?
Mary said
putting the lemonade and glass
on the bedside cabinet,
Magdalene poked under the mattress
and took out a squashed pack
of 10 Woodbines and said
open the fecking window
or Ma'll know we've been smoking
and she'll have a moan
and passed the packet to Mary
who took a cigarette
and put it in her mouth
and went and opened the window,
Magdalene took a cigarette
and stuffed the packed
under the mattress again,
Mary sat down and said
have you a light then
or are we to fecking **** on air?
Magdalene took out
of the pocket of her dress
a box of matches
(liberated from the kitchen)
and struck a light for them both
and put the matchbox away again,
they inhaled and sat in silence,
the record played( Billy fury)
and they tapped their feet softly
and nodded their heads,
so what are you doing
about Brian Brady?
Magdalene asked,
what'd you mean doing about
I'm doing nowt with the ******
it's him who thinks I'm going
to be doing things the soft loon
Mary said,
you seemed to be encouraging him
the other day Magdalene said,
ah was fun only I'd not let him
near me in a serious way
no more than the holy Joe himself
Mary said,
smoke filtered ceiling ward,
a car backfired from the street below,
Magdalene leaned in close to Mary
I'm your best friend
and I get jealous of the likes of him
being too near to you,
O he's nothing to be worrying yourself
about him Mags he's just a loon
as boys are Mary said,
Magdalene held the cigarette
a way from her lips
and kissed Mary's cheek,
Mary sighed and said
he's nothing I just give him
the tease he'll get nothing
from my ****** money box,
they both inhaled and exhaled again
and watched the smoke
rise ceiling ward,
the sound of Magdalene's ma
downstairs singing along to the radio,
Magdalene's hand went on Mary's thigh,
a bright sun in a blue Irish sky.
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 2:43 AM UTC
She let my hand lay in hers
as she tapped it firm and rhythmal.
I knew I needed this moment with her,
but could not look her in the eyes.
She started.
You think you don't deserve true love.
I smiled. I'm such a walk-around cliché.
*You put on this act of *** godess
because you feel that's the only way to get male attention.*
Now I just sound like a ***** I'm not that weak.
You think every man will leave.
Boo-hoo, ******* bridget jones's diary
Because he left you.
That hit me.
Suddenly I was crying.
Not just tears, it was crying at its fiercest form.
I was howling,
every gram of pain dripped out of me.
She held me.
I felt clean.
I repeated after her.
Even though I'm afraid of being left alone again
She kept tapping.
I accept myself
I looked at her
and I love myself
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 10:19 PM UTC
Brigid was born on a flax mill farm,
Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan,
At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road,
The last child of the Sheridans.
The sluice still runs near the water wheel,
With thistles thriving on rusted steel.
Little's known of Nellie's early years;
Da died before she knew grieving tears,
They'd turn her eyes in later years.
She's eleven posing with her class,
This photo shows an Irish lass.
Her look is distant,
Her face is blurred,
But recognizable
In an instant.
She was schooled six years
To last a life,
Some math, the Irish,
To read and write.
Her Mammy grew ill,
She lost a leg,
And bit by bit,
By age sixteen,
Nellie buried her first dead.
Too young to be alone,
Sisters and brother had left the home.
The cloistered convent took her in,
She taught urchins and orphans
About God and Grace and sin.
There were no vows for Nellie then.
At nineteen she met a Creamery man,
Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan;
He delivered dairy from his lorry,
Married Nellie,
Relieved their worry.
War flared, men were few,
There was work in Coventry.
Ireland's thistles were left to bloom.
Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy,
Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin followed,
When war floundered to its end,
They shipped back to Monaghan,
And brought the mill to life again.
The thistles and weeds
That surrounded the mill,
Were scythed and scattered
By Daddy's zeal.
He built himself
A generator,
Providing power
To lights and wheel.
Sean was born,
Gerald soon followed;
Then Michael died.
A nine year old,
His Daddy's angel.
Is this what turns
A father strange?
Francie arrived,
Then Eucheria,
But ten months later
Bold death took her.
Grief knows no borders
For brothers and sisters.
We left for Canada.
Mammy brought six kids along,
Leaving her dead behind,
Buried with Ireland.
Daddy was waiting for family,
Six months before Mammy got free
From death's inhumanity.
Her tears and griefs weren't yet over,
She birthed another son and daughter;
Jimmy and Marlene left us too,
Death is sure,
Death is cruel.
Grandchildren came, she was Granny,
Bridget, Nellie, but still our Mammy.
She lived this life eduring pain
That mothers bear,
Mothers sustain.
And yet, in times of personal strain,
I'll sometimes whisper her one name,
Mammy.
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 5:09 PM UTC
It’s amazing how one hospital trip can change the rest of your life. Or even lack of one even. He was four. I, three. It was late, I had no idea why I was going to Bridget and John’s house. More importantly, I didn’t know why Zack wasn’t coming with me. 11 pm, I guess that’s pretty late for a three year old. I don’t think at that point I really had any grasp on what was actually happening. That nothing would ever be the same again. Half asleep, trudging to that sliding glass door I’d seen hundreds of times. I went into the house, the aroma of sweet cinnamon and love hung in the air.
Burnt toast and peanut butter. That pretty much sums up an entire year of my life. Three years old, and for almost every weekend, which was too many, spent with Bridget and John, sleepless nights and peanut butter toast. There was: late night toast, midnight toast, way too early morning toast, morning toast, breakfast toast, too much toast. I think I was a picky three year old, then again, that isn’t exactly unheard of. I wasn’t very fond of peanut butter or toast, but I still ate it. I yearned for a sweet taste of normality. I craved something routine. Funny, because my life was everything but normal during that year. Funny, because I will never eat peanut butter toast ever, again.
Many nights spent waiting for an answer. Wishing to go back, and hoping for everything to be okay. But as the car rolled out of the gravel driveway on that first night, so did an unmedicated future for my brother.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 8:45 PM UTC
I had a dream of a dead friend once.
Words cannot describe how it made me feel.
He's been dead since May 2017,
but I feel him alive everywhere around me.
I see him,
In Garrett's curly hair.
I see him,
In the fiery red locks that Bridget has.
I see him,
In the blue eyes of my best friend.
I see him in the freckles on Julayne's face.
A long time ago,
I would have said that I hated him.
Maybe a part of me still does.
But a part of me also wishes that I could have said my peace
before the inevitable death came to be.
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 5:12 PM UTC
Bridget the ******
the dwarf who loves *******
Bridget the ******
she comes when she's *******
She'll open her short legs
for a tenner or so,
and if you pay less
she'll still have a go.
She loves a good *******
both active and passive;
Believe me, her botty
-hole is quite massive.
Bridget's a goer,
always ready for more;
She's a fat ugly ******
and a little fat *****
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 7:38 AM UTC
Bridget was born on a flax mill farm,
Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan,
At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road,
The last child of the Sheridans.
The sluice still runs near the water wheel,
With thistles thriving on rusted steel.
What's known of Nellie's early years?
Da died before her grieving tears,
But burn her eyes in later years.
She's eleven posing with her class,
This photo shows an Irish lass.
Her visage blurred,
Her eyes look distant,
Yet recognizable
In an instant.
She attended school for six short years,
The three R's, some Irish,
And a Doctorate in tears.
Her Mammy grew ill,
She lost a leg,
And bit by bit,
By age sixteen,
Nellie buried her first dead.
Too young to be alone,
Sisters and brother had left the home.
The cloistered convent took her in,
She taught urchins and orphans
About God, Grace and sin.
There were no vows for Nellie then.
At nineteen she met a Creamery man,
Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan;
He delivered dairy from his lorry,
Married Nellie
To relieve their worry.
War flared up, and men were few,
So the work in Coventry
Left Ireland's thistles to bloom.
Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy,
Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin were carried.
When war floundered to its end,
They shipped back to Monaghan,
To work the flax mill again.
The thistles and weeds
That surrounded the mill,
Were scythed and scattered
By Daddy's zeal.
He built himself a generator.
And powered the lights and the wheel.
Sean was born,
Gerald soon followed;
Then Michael died.
A nine year old,
His Father's angel.
(Is this what turns
A father strange?)
Francie arrived,
Then Eucheria,
But ten months later
Bold death took her.
Grief knows no family borders
For brothers and sisters, sons and daughters.
We left for Canada.
Mammy brought six kids along,
Leaving her dead behind,
Buried with Ireland in familiar songs.
Daddy was waiting for family,
Six months before Mammy got free
From death's inhumanity.
Her tears and griefs weren't yet over,
She birthed another son and daughter;
Jimmy and Marlene left us too,
Death is sure,
Death is cruel.
Grandchildren came, she was Granny,
Bridget, Nellie, but still our Mammy.
She lived this life eduring pain
That mothers bear,
Mothers sustain.
And yet, in times of personal strain,
I'll sometimes whisper her one name,
Mammy.
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 2:49 PM UTC
It was the boys’ bath night
and you had bathed
and were drying yourself
with the white towel
they had given you
when the bathroom door flew open
and Anne stood there one-legged
in her pink flowered nightdress
perching on her crutches like a hawk
her eyes bright and dark
a smile lingering on her lips
well ****** me
she said
what a sight
for a girl’s lovesick eyes
and she entered the bathroom
and pushed the door shut
behind her with her bottom
almost uncrutching herself
in the process
you pulled the towel
tight around you
and stared at her
it’s the boys’ bath night
you muttered
girls aren’t allowed in
while boys bath
she moved over
to the mirror
and gazed at herself
you’re right
she said
I’m not a boy
I’m a tight titted girl
and she laughed
and crutched herself
over towards you
making you flatten yourself
against the wall
gripping the towel with one hand
and holding her back
with the other
and she leaned down
and kiss the back of your hand
then looked you deep in the eyes
what have you got hidden
behind that towelling skirt then?
she said
and you gripped the towel tighter
with both hands
and she menacingly moved
one hand cautiously towards the towel
her armpits gripping
the crutches tightly
as she moved
you shouldn’t be in here
you said
I’m not in there yet
she laughed and grabbed
the towel away with a force
that took her and the towel
toppling to the bathroom floor
where she lay
like an overturned beetle
you stood naked
your hands covering
what your father
called your toolbox
gazing down at her struggling
to get up
well don’t just stand there
like a prize parrot
help pick me up
she said
and so with one hand covering
you knelt down to help lift her up
but then she pulled you
down beside her
and laughed
and her laughter echoed
around the walls
but then she paused
and put a hand
over her mouth
hearing Sister Bridget’s
nearby footsteps
and noisy calls.
Mar 15, 2012
Mar 15, 2012 at 3:16 AM UTC
Sit down,
the nun says,
bringing Magdalene
into her office,
pointing to a chair
opposite her desk.
The nun eyes her
seriously, her face
framed in a black
and white headpiece,
her hands on the table
in front of her
palms down.
Magdalene sits
and stares at her shoes.
Do you know why
you are here?
the nun says.
You asked me
to come in here,
Magdalene replies,
lifting her eyes
to the nun's face.
The reason why
I asked you
to come here?
the nun says firmly.
Magdalene shakes her head,
fidgets in the chair.
The nun sits back
in her chair
and stares coldly.
Silence fills the room
and Magdalene moves
back in her chair,
crossing her legs
at the ankles.
There have been reports
of you and Mary Moran
being seen entering
a toilet cubicle together,
is that true?
the nun says,
head to one side
as if her neck had snapped.
Magdalene shakes her head,
no, who'd say such a thing?
What wormy ****
would say that?
Magdalene says.
The nun eyes her colder.
Sister Bridget saw you,
the nun says.
With or without
her glasses,
Magdalene says,
she's a bit short-sighted,
she often mistakes me
for the Murphy boy.
The nun stares
and shakes her head
and says,
you should show
respect to the nuns,
and not try to score
points off of other's
disabilities.
Magdalene looks
at the nun's hands
on the desktop,
tapping away
on the old wood.
I was not with Mary Moran;
I was on my own,
and why would Sister Bridget
be spying on me
going to the bog?
Magdalene says.
The nun slams her hand
down on the desktop,
and says,
DO NOT BE SO RUDE
AND TELL THE TRUTH.
Magdalene stares
at the slammed down hand;
once it had slapped her thighs
as a young girl in R.E,
for not raising her hand
to leave the room
for a *** now
she just stares at the nun
and says,
that's the truth
after all said and done,
cross my heart
and hope to die.
The nun rambles on,
but Magdalene
no longer listens,
recalls the kiss
on Mary's lips,
and the spark
in the nun's eyes
that glistens.
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 2:50 AM UTC
O'DRISCOLL drove with a song
The wild duck and the drake
From the tall and the tufted reeds
Of the drear Hart Lake.
And he saw how the reeds grew dark
At the coming of night-tide,
And dreamed of the long dim hair
Of Bridget his bride.
He heard while he sang and dreamed
A piper piping away,
And never was piping so sad,
And never was piping so gay.
And he saw young men and young girls
Who danced on a level place,
And Bridget his bride among them,
With a sad and a gay face.
The dancers crowded about him
And many a sweet thing said,
And a young man brought him red wine
And a young girl white bread.
But Bridget drew him by the sleeve
Away from the merry bands,
To old men playing at cards
With a twinkling of ancient hands.
The bread and the wine had a doom,
For these were the host of the air;
He sat and played in a dream
Of her long dim hair.
He played with the merry old men
And thought not of evil chance,
Until one bore Bridget his bride
Away from the merry dance.
He bore her away in his atms,
The handsomest young man there,
And his neck and his breast and his arms
Were drowned in her long dim hair.
O'Driscoll scattered the cards
And out of his dream awoke:
Old men and young men and young girls
Were gone like a drifting smoke;
But he heard high up in the air
A piper piping away,
And never was piping so sad,
And never was piping so gay.
1.6k
we are not safe
all the markets could come crashing down
it could happen any day now
a blue origin rocket ship
never making it to its final destination
no man knows the hour or the day
no man knoweth that
bridget jones had her cigarettes
with wine and mr darcy
but i only have **** and a plastic
one liter bottle of coke zero
and no mr darcy to know the hour or the day
helen fielding, enabler of the delusional,
recycled happy endings
but the plastic coke bottle
isn't a jane austen novel
and the chinese don't want our garbage anymore
there is enough garbage in china already
"there are 8.3 billion tons of plastic in the world"
8.8 million metric tons are chinese trash
for the yangtze river to carry to the sea
sometimes i feel just like garbage previously shipped to china
trash and blue origin debris
comeuppance for the yangtze river to carry to the sea
endless oceans end
same place plastic rocketship garbage begins
Jul 13, 2018
Jul 13, 2018 at 5:47 AM UTC
We're just like Carrie and Mr. Big
You want to be free
We're just like Harry and Sally
We like each other at the wrong times
We're just like Lloyd and Diane
I'll never stop trying
We're just like Allie and Noah
From different walks of life
We're just like Scarlett and Rhett
Independent and Fickle
We're just like Ilsa and Rick
Nothing can separate us forever
We're just like Bridget and Mark
Childhood friends turned accidental lovers
We're just like Hubbell and Katie
I'm just too unique to settle down with
We're just like you and me
Undefined , real, struggling
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
There was commotion
coming from the dining room;
loud voices, shouting,
banging of cutlery.
Sister Bridget paused
her recital of the rosary;
listened and frowned.
Grabbing the hand bell
she left her room
and walked
to the dining room.
The two sisters
were trying
to restore order
and silence.
Sister Bridget rang
the hand bell loudly
and the disturbance stopped.
What is going on here?
She asked.
Anne has been
most rude to the cook,
Sister Bridget,
one of the nuns said.
Eyes turned to Anne
who sat on a chair
against the wall,
Benny sat next to her
eating his rice pudding.
The cook, Mrs Rooke,
stood red-faced
behind the serving hatch.
Well, Anne?
Sister Bridget said,
standing in front of Anne.
Yes, thank you,
Anne replied.
What was said?
One of the nuns
whispered in to her ear.
Anne follow me
to my room,
Sister Bridget said.
I want the Kid
with me,
Anne said.
Just you,
the nun said,
NOW.
The room went silent;
eyes turned
from the nun to Anne.
Anne raised her eyebrows:
temper, temper, Sister.
The nun released
a deep sigh:
please Anne,
I need to talk
with you in private.
Anne grabbed
her crutches
and pulling herself up,
and followed the nun
from the dining room,
poking out her tongue
at the cook.
Benny watched
Anne go,
her one leg
swinging to and fro.
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 3:52 PM UTC
Skinny Kid sat
by the white metal table
on the lawn
Anne sat opposite him
her crutches
by her chair
I heard
you puked last night?
Anne said
I did
Skinny kid said
all over the blankets
and pillowcase
nice
said Anne
it was the liver
they made me eat
he said
I told them
it made me ill
but they said
it was good for me
and said
I had to eat it
serves them right
she said
Sister Bridget moaned at me
he said
O her
she's got a face
on her
like a sufferer
of haemorrhoids
what's haemorrhoids?
he asked
painful
bulging blood vessels
hanging from the ****
she said
he tried not
to picture it
or see it
in the nun's face
feel better now though
he said
good
she replied
my mum's visiting today
he said
good for you
she said
has your mum
visited you yet?
he asked
no I think she's
making the most
of me
not being around
Anne said
it's a kind of holiday
for her
me stuck here
after my fecking leg
was chopped off
he stared
at the area
of her skirt
where no leg appeared
she saw me in the hospital
and brought me grapes
and flowers and stuff
and a bag
of odd socks
he stared
at her one leg
hanging from out
of the skirt
does it hurt?
he asked
it does at times
and I go to rub it
and it isn't there
someone's stolen
me fecking leg
Anne bellowed
to the kids
playing on the swings
and slide
on the lawn
of the nursing home
they looked over
at her
then quickly
looked away
a nun nearby
shook her head
and wagged
a finger
Skinny Kid looked
at the vacant area
of skirt again
what's the matter Kid
want to see my stump?
and she hitched up
her skirt
to reveal the stump
of her leg
and a glimpse
of blue underwear
he blushed
and looked
at his hands in his lap
never mind Kid
she said
good manners
is a load of crap.
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 2:18 AM UTC
121 to 140 of 3251 Poets
«5678»Viewsshow detailshide detailsSort by
Michael Fried
There are no poems by this poet on our website.
Julia de Burgos
There are no poems by this poet on our website.
Keith Waldrop (b. 1932)
Shipwreck in Haven, Part Four
“Majesty”
Susan Hahn
Anthem
Alice Lyons
Developers
The Boom and After the Boom
Walt Whitman (1819–1892)
When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer
Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking
Kazim Ali (b. 1971)
Ramadan
Speech
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807–1882)
Aftermath
Hymn to the Night
Sharon Olds (b. 1942)
I Could Not Tell
Chamber Thicket
Billy Collins (b. 1941)
Silence
Reading an Anthology of Chinese Poems of the Sung Dynasty, I Pause To Admire the Length and Clarity of Their Titles
Corina Copp
There are no poems by this poet on our website.
Dorothea Grossman (1937–2012)
I have to tell you
For Allen Ginsberg
Bridget Lowe
There are no poems by this poet on our website.
Diane Burns
There are no poems by this poet on our website.
Beth Brant
There are no poems by this poet on our website.
Terrance Hayes (b. 1971)
Stick Elegy
Cocktails with Orpheus
Ann Taylor (1782–1866)
The Baby's Dance
The Cut
Chrystos
There are no poems by this poet on our website.
Amit Majmudar (b. 1979)
The Miscarriage
Instructions to an Artisan
Linda Rodriguez
There are no poems by this poet on our website.
«5678»
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 8:59 PM UTC
We worship beans like it's Bobody's business, and
Beans are my hero
Beans are fibrous
With protein and tasting
Them makes me ready
Beans over-acheive
They did not have to be so
Healthy and ****
I would pour beans where
Fate led me to decant them
Anywhere, Bridget
I'd love a salad
Made of just beans and more beans
I'd eat it with beans.
Jan 20, 2021
Jan 20, 2021 at 9:14 PM UTC
Hey Skinny Kid
one legged Anne said
have you ever seen
a ********
no
you said
thinking it
some kind
of fish
she nibbled
at her scrambled egg
on toast
at the table
in the children's
nursing home
you mouthed
Cornflakes and milk
Anne was next to you
eyeing
the nursing nun nearby
would you like
to see a ********
Anne asked
in whispered voice
thinking it
some rare find
you said
yes ok
where will I see it?
the beach?
she almost choked
on her scrambled egg
are you all right Anne?
the nun asked
coming over
her black and white habit
swishing as she walked
yes
Anne said
egg went down
the wrong way
well be careful
the nun said
and walked off again
yes the beach
if you like
Anne whispered
trying to keep
a straight face
but you're sure
you've not seen one?
you nodded your head
not that I know of
you said
have you asked Sister Bridget?
you added
giving the nun
a look
o yes she's seen one
Anne said
straining the muscles
in her face
did she say so?
you said
o I know she has
Anne said
you mouthed
more Cornflakes
and milk
little Miss Sad
sat nibbling
at her toast
her tiny fingers
holding hard
the other kids eating
their breakfasts
the morning sunshine
shining through
the windows
after we've finished
I'll show you
Anne said
show him what?
Malcolm asked
who was sitting
on Anne's other side
never you mind prat face
Anne said
only special people
can this see
what I'm showing
Skinny Kid
then I'll tell Sister Bridget
Malcolm said
kiss my backside
and drop dead
Anne replied
Sister Bridget
Anne swore at me
Malcolm said
the nun shook her head
and said
Anne it's a sin to swear
God is listening
you know
and so you sat
and wondered
if you'd ever see
what it was
one legged Anne
was going
to show.
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 3:52 AM UTC
I stayed inside most of today
And watched Netflix
Somehow, as soon as I envisioned you as Colin Firth
In Bridgette Jones's Diary,
I couldn't help but think
"Am I your Renee Zelweger?"
I certainly ramble a lot
And say things I end up regretting
I don't make sense sometimes
I do silly things
I get into uncomfortable situations a lot
I certainly believe that I embarrassed you as well
But we didn't end up together
Like Mark and Bridgette
Every time he kissed her
My toes would tingle
As I remembered the way you kissed me
And when they went to bed together
I remembered things about you I have tried hard to forget
You are my Mark
And I used to be your Bridgette Jones
But I am not her anymore
You have a new girlfriend
But she is more like a lost puppy
Than your leading lady
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 12:21 AM UTC
Salem, O Salem what were you about?
It all started in 1692
It was dark, it was cold, a bit of snow still on the ground
People arrested for witchcraft and some sentenced to death
19 people that year took their final breath
People were drowned or killed with fire
some people even hung with rope or wire
Witch trials didn't just happen in Salem
They happened all over the world
The first is believed to be a woman named Angele Babin for *** with the devil
And the last Bridget Cleary whose crime was unclear
I wonder how many of these people confessed in fear
We are monsters of our own making
we cause fear and we ****
Those that do no longer do it for protection
they do it for the thrill
But their is no thrill in taking a life
there was wasn't then and there isn't now
how could you take a life, that is my question. HOW
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 6:11 AM UTC
I am the burner of bridges,
Said Bridget, the smoker of
Cigarettes who lies and stares
At the passing day. My childhood
Follows me like a shadow’s dark;
Its ghostly presence is always there,
Its non wise words echoing in my
Ear. I sleep with men for the lost
love, kiss them in the search for
my lost mother’s warmth, hug them
In the lonely hours. My dead babies
Cling to my legs, their tiny fingers
Clutch at my dress as I walk along;
Their eyes look up like lamps in the
Still night. I am the aborter of babes,
The owner of a useless womb; I push
Out stillborns like a factory, give birth
To a form but not to life; I am anyone’s
Woman, any man’s wife, I lay and gaze
At the moon, I watch smoke rise from
My cigarette, it forms rings as father did,
The smoke curling and rising with his
Phantom presence there in room, the
Ghostly cigarette hanging from his lips.
I have searched for God in the blackness
Of night, sought His love in the arms of men,
Awaited His coming in the winter’s wind;
His love is there, but I do not see, His arms
Caress, but I do not feel; I am alone still.
I am the walker of cities, the sitter in lone
Cafes, the easy ride, the fuckable dame;
I wear the badge of kiss me quick or leave
Me never. I am the sleeper of nights in a
Musty bed; see dead babies in heart and head.
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 7:31 AM UTC
Today I cried because my arms are fat
And my eyes aren't pretty unless lined like a cat
I don't want to be the mousy brunette
Of average height and intellect
I want to be that edgy girl who rocks vintage clothes
And collects records, and reads, and looks like Bridget Bardot
Not good enough for you, but how can I forget
When my mind constantly replays the moment we met?
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 5:37 PM UTC
That's all so dandy,
Kiss me, Mr. Prince Charming,
Vanish tomorrow.
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 12:19 AM UTC
She belonged to him, no other man,
So he said to her each day she left.
To sell the eggs and the dress she made,
To pull them from the line of the poor.
On the way to town each day she passed,
The rings of County Tipperary.
The ancient rings that live the wee folk,
Who dance in moonlight and trick us all.
That day she waited to see her kin,
But she left no gift to please the old.
So home she came with arms still heavy,
and a chest that weighed a cough so foul.
“My Bridget” as he knelt by her bed,
Holding her hand as it shook with cold.
In the crack of the flame voices he heard
To hang him from his grief with despair.
The news he heard was of his father
Whom died the evening he felt alone.
Mr Cleary swore and slammed his fist.
“Midnight tonight or Bridget is lost!”
The men in village knew the tale,
Of the wee folk who cursed Bridget.
The woman in the Cleary home bed,
Was an echo of the wife he loved.
They held her down and asked her, her name,
She screamed and growled but did not reply,
Three times they asked and still she refused.
So tight the grips they beat her to sleep.
The morning arrived, Bridget awoke,
To her husband who looked upon her.
His eyes full of loss and fear as-well,
“my Bridget?” he asked “are they gone now?”
She smiled and agreed, she was alone,
So the priest came to deliver mass.
Mr Cleary agreed and drank from the cup
But he knew that his wife was not home.
He asked her again, three more times; “Speak,
Your name to me now, are you my wife?”
Each time she replied “It is I, Yes.”
Michael still knew his wife was away.
That evening men from the town arrived
And took Bridget deep into the bog,
Where they bound her and lay her down flat,
As she screamed for her husband to help.
“It is I, It is me, Your sweet wife,
Believe me my husband I am here,
No faerie has seized my soul from me,
No witch has uttered a devil curse.”
Her mouth was covered and bound so tight
Her screams were made only with her eyes.
In front of the men, Michael asked her.
“Are you my wife? My Bridget Cleary?”
No voice or reply came from the girl.
Her body lay still in the bog land.
So onto a bed of wood she was placed,
And burned in the cold evening moon light.
The story was told through the village,
That Bridget had fled with another,
A man who bought all her eggs each week,
But not everyone believed this tale.
The priest of the village found Michael,
Praying blood, sweat and tears in the church.
He told him the fairies had taken,
The changeling they had placed there before.
The priest told the men of the Garda
That ****** was rife in this village.
That men had taken a sick women
And burned her to death in the bog land.
Michael was guilty of Manslaughter
No conviction of ****** was passed
For the people believed his story,
The woman who burned was not his wife
To this day the rings of Tipperary
Still grow foxglove and weeds in the cracks,
The Faerie mounds are feared like darkness
And steered clear of, by those who live near.
Even now it is heard in the school,
By the children who skip on the rope.
“Are you a witch, or are you a fairy,
Or are you the wife of Michael Cleary?”
Jun 27, 2018
Jun 27, 2018 at 4:19 PM UTC