"bristol" poems
fischers rap
on a hot tin roof
bristol creek pools
over rock and seed
english wolfhound (and the barkbuster)
stroll pine lane
vibrant colors
of a cool spring
in cob yellow and
forest green
field mice squander
in cotton wind
goats and ferret
hold seven hour trim
raven and ****
meddle and forage (on a splendid fiaker goulash!)
crickets and frogs
hidden
in swollen grey logs
creepers fill the
cut stone walls
coy wolf high
on a frayed white rope
eagles perched
at trudy’s bend
catamounts laze
on a snow base cedar
(pared arbutus bent
through a failed ground rock)
brush spider spins
a timely web
brown bears fumble
at the spirit jamboree
quizzical squirrels
crack their nuts
as pillow clouds float
over telegraph trail
12 point dances
on talus and scree
hen hawks float
in a big hard sun
clydesdale and coach
trot copper smith road
(glancing down
on finch and the warbler
whistling through
colander row)
lavender fills
the peat soil box
mountain cats
guard the heavenly gates
black eyed ridge
is wide and open
the country squire hails
this fruitful land
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 12:18 AM UTC
As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.
And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
"Love has no ending.
"I'll love you, dear, I'll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street,
"I'll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.
"The years shall run like rabbits,
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world."
But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
"O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.
"In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.
"In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.
"Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver's brilliant bow.
"O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you've missed.
"The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.
"Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
And Jill goes down on her back.
"O look, look in the mirror?
O look in your distress:
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.
"O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart."
It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.
9.4k
Snapshot memories of are past
having so much fun with the hope that it would last
To my best friend Nan,
a beacon of light to a hurting world in need of love
To the truest friend I ever had
those memories by the stonewall
Started playing together as friends
She had blue eyes & long blonde hair
I had brown eyes and brown hair
roller skating on the sidewalk with the attached rollers with a key
Went down by the brook to catch poly wags
we both went to the same school
Having sleep overs was a blast
a secret passage to get to her father's soda shop
Taking ice cream and delicious candy
everything nice and dandy with Nancy
Yours was are youth to be captured with a precious smile
Cape cod trips when Nan would drive
going to a trip to Provincetown
watching the folks dive for money
Big ships coming to dock
the men would get the money in their mouths
The island we used to go
in a row boat along the beach
Looking for young boys and we found them
went to dances at the Bristol Boys Club
Doing the latest dance craze the Huck Buck
Boys wearing pegged pants and girls wore skirts
To cherish those lasting memories of a time ago
getting married
Nan had three children
Ann had six
To raise and cherish the family united in love
Today we are in are eighties
both with medical issues
Yet remained best friend's after all these years
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 4:36 PM UTC
I
I am in Cardiff
Where foams pummel the jetty
I am in Cardiff
Where crab skeletons blanch the beach
I am in Cardiff
Where the Pilot Star became a conch
I was in the ruse of age
Where the young kiss
I was in Joshua Tree
Where the mind is thoughtless
I am a grove's wilting
I will be an unbearable urge
And I am shivering in Santa Ana near Bristol and 1st
II
There is intent when the addict mutters --
Estranged in his unhappy gutters --
"Life is cheap and love is free."
Hopelessness's epitome
Sits naked beyond the wall.
There is derision in the dealer's call --
Osmium-heat in an unimpeded fall --
"You can't change who you are."
Greed could tear down a star
To sculpt into a Cardiff shell.
Warrant breeds within a child's yell.
III
I am in Cardiff
Where foams pummel the jetty
I am in Cardiff
Where crab skeletons blanch the beach
I am in Cardiff
Where the Pilot Star became a conch
I was in the ruse of age
Where the young kiss
I was in Joshua Tree
Where the mind is thoughtless
I am a grove's wilting
I will be an unbearable urge
And I am shivering in Santa Ana near Bristol and 1st
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 1:44 AM UTC
The Pobble who has no toes
Had once as many as we;
When they said "Some day you may lose them all;"
He replied "Fish, fiddle-de-dee!"
And his Aunt Jobiska made him drink
Lavender water tinged with pink,
For she said "The World in general knows
There's nothing so good for a Pobble's toes!"
The Pobble who has no toes
Swam across the Bristol Channel;
But before he set out he wrapped his nose
In a piece of scarlet flannel.
For his Aunt Jobiska said "No harm
Can come to his toes if his nose is warm;
And it's perfectly known that a Pobble's toes
Are safe, -- provided he minds his nose!"
The Pobble swam fast and well,
And when boats or ships came near him,
He tinkledy-blinkledy-winkled a bell,
So that all the world could hear him.
And all the Sailors and Admirals cried,
When they saw him nearing the further side -
"He has gone to fish for his Aunt Jobiska's
Runcible Cat with crimson whiskers!"
But before he touched the shore,
The shore of the Bristol Channel,
A sea-green porpoise carried away
His wrapper of scarlet flannel.
And when he came to observe his feet,
Formerly garnished with toes so neat,
His face at once became forlorn,
On perceiving that all his toes were gone!
And nobody ever knew,
From that dark day to the present,
Whoso had taken the Pobble's toes,
In a manner so far from pleasant.
Whether the shrimps, or crawfish grey,
Or crafty Mermaids stole them away -
Nobody knew: and nobody knows
How the Pobble was robbed of his twice five toes!
The Pobble who has no toes
Was placed in a friendly Bark,
And they rowed him back, and carried him up
To his Aunt Jobiska's Park.
And she made him a feast at his earnest wish
Of eggs and buttercups fried with fish, -
And she said "It's a fact the whole world knows,
That Pobbles are happier without their toes!"
3.2k
Caged in a prison, high on a hill, actions ensued but didn’t quite fit the bill
Words of not-always transformed promises to forever,
Side by side, naught to hide,
despite the cloudy weather
A friend, a rock, a ship almost wrecked was looking to dock
Alone in the harbour, under the moonlight,
Ashamed,
The half-wreck shone bright for what it was famed.
Tough stains were covered, remains left undiscovered to be smothered by another
Heart still full of what was before, keen, loveful pursuers already knocking at the door
Cabin wide open: “Ahoy mateys! Ahoy!”
She soon set sail with the innocent boy.
Tides were rolling on peacefully by, some of them were low tides but mainly they were high,
When in need there was a shoulder upon which to cry
And the girl thought the boy would help her get by.
Way out at sea on a tropical isle the boy showed the girl daemons not seen in a while
Opened her up and dove right in, illustrated the flaws of reacting to whims
Open
Broken
Alone at sea,
the boy turned his back as she fell to her knees
Floundering, drowning, thrashing in the waves
The girl succumbed to what her daemon craves
Underwater tears remain unobserved
A not-so-sly Fox spoke of acts undeserved
An unsure girl, curled up, abashed
Covered up the act and watched her daemon be tamed
A ship in the darkness, a ship under the stars
Saved the girl and craved the girl and hoped she knew right
And Oh! How she flourished in this dependable new light
“Love and peace, me mateys!”: a new reason to fight
The boy on his island, soon to return,
Will see that the shipwreck upon which they met, though
not
yet
quite
perfect
Trawls the coast to find an isle of its own
And though different to first-envisaged, Bristol shall be its home.
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 11:27 AM UTC
I can't see into the future
But, I know someone who can
She's a gypsy from the midlands
And, well, she looks just like a man
She says her name is Heather
But, to me she'll be a Hector
She said she had an accident
But, by god...it nearly wrecked her
One eye stares, it doesn't move
And this one is the best
The other follows you around
It never leaves your chest
She reads tarot, tea leaves and the bones
She's a reader of your life
She said she's still not married
I can't imagine her a wife
She'd know just what you're thinking
She'd know a lie before it's told
And if she's ugly nowadays
Imagine her when she gets old
The people go to see her
when the caravans arrive
She will read for twenty dollars
Her tent opens at five
If you want to know your future
Just take notice, listen close
Because her lips are slightly puffy
And she whistles through her nose
She's bent over looking downward
On her left side there's a ****
On her cheek there is a goiter
Behind her ear there is a lump
She weighs in at 300
Doesn't stand past 5 foot tall
But if you want to know the future
Then she's the one to call
She's an old afflicted gypsy
Has a daughter known as Marge
Says she's wanted up in Bristol
She's a small medium at large
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 7:52 PM UTC
As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.
And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
'Love has no ending.
I'll love you, dear, I'll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street.
I'll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry,
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.
The years shall run like rabbits,
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world.'
But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
'O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.
'In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.
'In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or today.
'Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver's brilliant bow.
'O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare at the basin
And wonder what you've missed.
'The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.
'Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant in enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
And Jill goes down on her back.
'O look, look in the mirror,
O look in your distress;
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.
'O stand, stand in the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbor
With your crooked heart.'
It was late, late in the evening
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.
2.6k
I have been insulted for sharing out
my peasant songs, pataphorical poems,
on the table of the cultural patriarchy
the insults have come in a serial flow
into my dark soul a basin of condemn,
it began as my duty to take my poetry
to the bottom of African latrine,
followed by volley of insults like ;
cerebral panicking insensitive idiot,
a gifted ******** of arsolian poetry
One other contumely went aboveboard
to announce me a better dead ******
i wondered how much one can ****
without erstwhile duty of creation,
now i have been condemned in starkness,
to be a beautiful walking ghost
of William Seward Burroughs,
Uhm! folly of eugenics, No! i am wrong,
this accolade, i seriously decline to take,
my innateness is not wounded at all,
by anything near to genetic disorder,
i am only conscious of my luckless past,
of Slavery,colonialism,wars,re-colonialism
Then poverty spiced by open ridicule ,
And partly trenchant and half-honkey tease
firmly fuelled by racial intolerance,
i have now been mistaken in awry,
to be a looming ghost of William Burroughs,
and i am not
i am purely my self,
without imperious wide blood
any where in my by black veins,
i may easily have chimpanzee blood,
Flowing turbulently through my vessels,
but no tincture of white blood in my zoo,
Burroughs broke his virginity with a *****
i have remained a ****** for three decades,
As African virgins marry only virgins,
Burroughs was the king of underworlds;
chasing lessbian prostitutes and gays,
to quench his mad erotic appetite
the turf in which i am a better sham,
Billy was a serial criminal, ever on the run,
my soul is clean as new pin,
in fact gorgeously dressed
in the unique royal attires
of as a Bristol pin merchant,
Billy worshiped crime and drugs
my piety is anchored on freedom of all,
Billy went to Latin America for *****
i have been there to mourn Gabriel Garcia,
the Nobelite who was alone in deathly solicitude
Billy never lifted a finger against tyranny,
my arsolian poetry is center-pieced on nothing,
other than African chantings for liberty,
freedom for the white and black peasants
perhaps to unyoke themselves,
from the yoke of vicious human avarice.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 9:03 AM UTC
It was in Rome
You guys got the table(cade,nevin)
So we stood there
Till you asked us if we'd like to join
Sure I said so
awkward first cause you somehow look like Ryan Gosling(no you look better, RG has never been my type)
Blue eyed boy from Iowa
Strangely enough, my bedtime T-shirt says Iowa hawkeyes
We talked bout beer ,Shandy, Greek islands ,Prague,Bristol and Iowa. Why should I know?
then you turned to me
Hey, fun fact, do you know the British first sounds like American?
Why should I know?Why did you say so?
But that was the most intimating thing on the table.
Strangely enough, you only asked my name when you left, and everything was left in Rome.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 3:36 PM UTC
The Crow flies.
Along the 5th motorway car to car,
Past the French coast flying,
Flying.
The ***** black winds, worn and battered
From the ride, the constant ride.
Truck to truck, warm to cold, stranger to friend.
Friend to Comrade.
Preaching my Gospel of love and peace.
The time has come for love and peace.
But the Crow still flies,
His nest destroyed long ago
His brothers and sisters scattered amongst the wind.
The cool, harsh, stinging sea air wind
Of Portsmouth, Southampton, Bristol.
Goodbye, so long, see you soon.
The Crow flies again,
Protected and blessed by Elohim.
The meditating Crow,
Calm to fly once more.
Is this the last?
He promises yes but his heart
Says the opposite;
Fly Crow ‘till you find a better world,
A peaceful world,
A loving world,
A Crow’s world.
So fly Crow,
Fly away and fly safe,
Preaching in the wind,
Travelling in the wind,
Crowing in the wind.
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 5:57 AM UTC
How to write an English poem
Well this is what I do,
I listen to my dear friend "Jon"
Then I go about copying him.
He says Good-marrow My to Thy lady
I laugh & reply back Hath thee fared well,
Like I'm in Shakespeare's Macbeth.
I love how
He uses "thou" different then myself
I say thou in sense of "even though"
translations are must
to understanding my friend!
He speaks in
Cockney- crockery riddles
Yet some how I understand.
I doth not speak to make
fun of him
for I love his English gib,
I listen while learning
to write a sonnet since.
How to write an English poem.
I listen to Sir "Jon's"
witty sense of humor
His cloaked sarcastic'ness
as he talks in general,
Saying such this as
Aroin't thee & Blimey ole chap
as if I know'th what he means.
How to write an English poem
Well frankly it's a pickle of a thing,
I say I doth rightly know lets ask'th
Sir"Jon & see!
He say'ith to me
"change your ****** dialect"....
And
when he's spitting made
He yells
O' God Save the queen.
He also talks of frippery
& ask if I'd like a spot of tea
when asking me questions
he laughs & quotes
such things like ;
" cheeky" little beggar or monkey
as "IF" I
know what he means.
Funny thing is though
Sir "Jon'
never really
******* told me
How to write an English poem
(so answers to every-ones question- I'd say walk around & say top of the morning,
ole chap & blimey, Even things like Bristol Cities & things likes this don't forget your "TH" s
addressing your selves a lot & put emphasis on every other syllable & thing!)
Well dear Sir "Jon"
I am not a British Bolk
Just A YANKEE- New Englander
oh & a NuYorican
Ta Boot
So next when I see You
****** Friend tell me-
How to write an English poem !?!
Always Me Ayeshah
Mar 13, 2010
Mar 13, 2010 at 6:29 AM UTC
~
October 2025
HP Poet: Pagan Paul
Country: UK
Question 1: We warmly welcome you to the HP Spotlight, Paul. Please tell us about your background?
Pagan Paul: "I am from Bristol, England. I have always been a Free Spirit and never really settled into the society into which I was born. I am neuro-diverse. I am generally quite a shy and private person. I also write a little comedy and love listening to old comedy radio shows. I like cheese (especially vintage Chedder)."
Question 2: How long have you been writing poetry, and for how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry?
Pagan Paul: "I have been a member of HP since August 2016. I started writing poetry in around 2012, but not regularly. I think it was around 2015 I became more prolific and took it more seriously."
Question 3: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you).
Pagan Paul: "My inspiration comes from many sources. Nature, mental health, relationships, experiences, articles, books and my interests. But also from the mess that is my mind."
Question 4: What does poetry mean to you?
Pagan Paul: "What does poetry mean to me? Escape and expression for my creativity. Its a chance to write down things in a way that makes more sense to my neuro-diverse mind as well as to explore and experiment with ideas, concepts and imagination."
Question 5: Who are your favorite poets?
Pagan Paul: "I do not really read much in the way of classical poetry (Byron, Keats etc) but do tend to read some from ancient Greece and Rome like Callus, Praxilla, Virgil etc. I also tend towards the more abstract or psychedelic poetry of James Douglas Morrison. As mentioned I am a fan of comedy poetry by people like Spike Milligan, Henry Normal and Pam Ayers always raise a laugh."
Question 6: What other interests do you have?
Pagan Paul: "My main interest is music and the consumption thereof. I listen to a lot of different music from different genres. I have always regretted never learning an instrument or music theory. I also read a lot, especially with regard to the ancient world. The old myths and legends and folklore are also a source of inspiration for my poetry."
Carlo C. Gomez: “We would like to thank you Paul, we really appreciate you giving us the opportunity to get to know the person behind the poet! It is our pleasure to include you in this Spotlight series!”
Thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed coming to know Paul better. We most certainly did. It is our wish that these spotlights are helping everyone to further discover and appreciate their fellow poets. – Carlo C. Gomez
We will post Spotlight #33 in November!
~
Oct 1, 2025
Oct 1, 2025 at 3:41 PM UTC
Apples & plums high on their boughs
autumn is not far off now
nearby, red brick houses
sleep in the after-shower sun
only a few more days
& summer's done
the cyclists are speeding
on their way from work
along the Bristol-Bath cycle path
also ' railway path' called
& with a three year old laugh
a child in an anorak unsteadily sways
I've walked this way in the night
with the moon shining up above
& seen a fox run out in plain sight
into the middle of the path
the street lamps either side
amongst the trees, shining on it's red fur
& in the early morning light
watched a mysterious toad blink it's wide eyes
& walked it all the way
to Bristol town & back
& also to the old Steam trains
out past Warmley
dressed in my old boots
waiting for the sunset & the dark
calling up ghosts
musing on Rousseau
listening to birdsong
& wanting nothing more
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 3:23 PM UTC
-After Diana-
The paparrazi are nobody's friend
It all seems such a pity
He shouldn't have trained his big long lens
On her poor little Bristol Cities
-After Maggie-
When the daisies push up with Maggie beneath
To mark her grave will be taking a chance
For some may come to lay a wreath
But others will come to dance
-After the war-
The Argentine girl was all smiles
All went well between us
I didn't mention the Falkland Isles
And she didn't say Las Malvinas
Sep 17, 2012
Sep 17, 2012 at 3:27 PM UTC
this love is like red wine
spilt before it's drunk
your white balloon hovers
in my head over Bristol
an ashtray full of burnt-out hopes
I've smoked as another day
without you ends
insomnia will give me a heart attack
one day
all my sleepless nights
I dedicate to you
fire & brimstone
be ******
though this will never work
& I'm running out of poems
to write about you
& all this
& each night
is shortening my life
& tired
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 11:15 PM UTC
With another pointless crusade I stumble forwards,
Struggling for purpose or meaningful hurdles,
When the ending hour belies me,
I speak no grief and restore chi,
Living moments and memories devoid of reason,
Committing a million acts of hedonist treason,
Crave the new, despise what has already been,
I am wasted,
With no hint of experiences unseen,
No pursuit of self improvement,
Happiness must coincide with movement...
Jun 14, 2010
Jun 14, 2010 at 11:55 AM UTC
Judge Bristol pronounced his sentence with the following words and said,
"The said William Bonney, alias Kid, alias William Antrim
shall be hanged by the neck until his body be dead, Dead, DEAD!!!"
Shackled Billy left the courthouse smiling, almost as if in glee.
"Why are you smiling?" an interviewer asked him inquisitively.
"What's the point in dwelling on the dreary side of life?" the Kid responded,
"Today the joke is on me."
A true tribute to The Kid's charm, humor and endearing personality.
The above is not legend. The above is true documented history.
Jul 31, 2010
Jul 31, 2010 at 10:33 AM UTC
Two white French girls
smoke a Turkish hookah
and listen to three black
African Americans sing rap
the hookah bubbles
the mobile smacks out
the emasculated music
their mouths relinquish
their language to the jam
the pencil makes no sound
The clouds scoot
orange and pink bruises
across the skyline
like the weather can’t wait
can’t change quick enough
it’s October already
and we’re still not done
with summer;
cling to every humid evening
hang around every last beam
of the too punctual sunset
In the club the beats begin
but it’s too early; no one’s inside
One of the French girls coughs back a dud ****
the bar door creaks
the traffic whispers
with bored engines
the beats want to sail
off with the clouds
but are kept echoing
between four walls
Time overcomes space then
the beats are cut
a siren wails, a seagull screams
the traffic streams
the awnings rock little trees
my concrete idyll
……
Two Spanish men arrive
and have a three-way
food talk
with a mobile
A piano begins
to sound out
Aquarium by Saint-Saëns
the beats return
then stop
a door opens
a door closes
the hubbub returns
The Spanish settle on
an Argentinean
the French girls switch to
a chantress
I digress
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 3:21 PM UTC
On an island in the west country,..
In the Queen's land, where Black-beard,..
Once played on, as a young child..
And called his home, among the contours...
Chained men and tobaccos..
Once brought fortune lust..
Bridges were built, and train tracks laid..
By the man Brunel, who wore as long a hat..
Ships and cathedrals, sugar factories..
Bansky's graffiti, treasured marks on walls..
And stone-henge laid a stone throw away..
Roman baths, in near by Bath..
And underground passage, of tunnels..
Laid for walks and rivers paths..
Horse mountain and Welsh borders..
Sat not far away on looks, across the channel..
But for the one thing, that makes Brizz so special..
Is the sanctuary, it provides for lost souls..
This here laid land, a place like home..
Gulliver did be so proud, to call his home..
Away from home, as I do, away from home..
Aug 20, 2010
Aug 20, 2010 at 5:53 PM UTC
what's made of gold, is made of crystal—
sold for steel in the streets of Bristol.
pulled the trigger before you cocked the pistol.
what's made of gold, is made of crystal—
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 2:09 PM UTC
Life was hard in those early days
in Swindons rail work shops.
Where conditions were basic and harsh
working long hours in the heat and noise.
Furnaces blazed to create the power
forging the steel needed to mold.
Magmificent living steam engines
made with passion and skill its told.
Workers couldn't watch the clock
wages were only counted in shillings.
The Great Western railway the employer.
new Swindon was born out of the works.
Stone iron and steele covered the land
at the bottom of Kingshill.
Industrial progress increased sharply
where the land once laid still.
Rows of houses were built for the toilers
and a hospital soon rose from the ground.
The church of St Marks so they could pray
a park to unwind in their limited leisure.
In a community of people helping each other
located by the main London to Bristol line.
Enjoying their annual holidays together
when the steam works looked fine.
Nineteen eighty five the gate shut for good
a retail outlet now where the works stood.
The Foureyed Poet.
Mar 1, 2011
Mar 1, 2011 at 4:10 PM UTC
Was he a disciple or just a friend of Jesus
So many to choose from it carries on through the ages
Whether you hail from the sunny realms of Brazil as Juan
Or lead your life on the bus tops of Paris, showboating to the tourists as Jean
you are always just John
Did you see that goal on Sunday in Barnsley from Pedro
crossed in on a sixpence by that guy on loan from Bristol
Parading as the next man to steal the footballing thrown from Beckham
Just a council house kid from the block down in Peckham
again, just John
Kissing the Blarney stone an excuse for his gob
the banter the laughter hiding the rile in his job
that day in Ireland that Sean always dreams of
going back would be heaven, to find the girl he should have once loved
again, just John
The shores of Naples looking out over the sea
Ischia, Procida, Capri, the place he’d rather be
behind lays dormant, Vesuvius once angry
Pompeii, Herculaneum destroyed in its fury
now time to spread his net and look for new shores
only Gino knows it’s time to open new doors
again, just John
No matter where you are from
there is somebody like you just struggling along
troubles brew in every corner of this planet
don’t think it’s just you who really cannot stand it
again, just John
Difficulty is rife no matter where you seem to look
your boss is a grievance and you wish them long gone
but it’s not just you, it’s you and every other John
so I’ll say it again without a look in the mirror
I know your stress my friend because I am that man
yes that is me
I am just John
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 6:22 AM UTC
Sit now in this cafe with me
and we'll play a game of chess:
I am thinking of taking your queen,
and putting two sugars in my coffee
at the same time.
We're talking about you and me now
and the sun is slowly fading behind
cobbled stones and Christmas lights
that illuminate this pulsing city
all throughout the night.
I hear your words, and they hit my heart
like a harp that's playing by itself
in the dark.
We're back to our thoughts and expectations
we're talking about that night
I drank too much and revealed my
lacerations
of past love affairs and difficult
family tidings
but let's not go there,
I'm on a winning streak.
The smell of coffee and earl grey honeyed-out
tea is making my nose twinge with notions
of good deeds.
Your hair frames your face in such a sophisticated
way;
*who wouldn't fall in love with you
if I went away?*
More than anything,
there is a feeling in my heart
that says I love you so,
but I've imprinted in your delicate place
for far too long.
Yet here I am,
questioning everything
as we play this game
in the middle of a cobblestone
town where the Christmas lights
shine above us
and the smell of pastries and
sinful delights
evoke a response that can disembody
me tonight.
I question myself: Do I love you?
I answer myself: I do not know.
Love is such a fickle thing,
and yet here we are,
passing glances
and your face is carved
into my camera lens
smiling back at me
and not knowing
how much doubt
comes into my soul
when I look at you.
Feb 21, 2012
Feb 21, 2012 at 5:10 PM UTC