"buggies" poems
the banners are blowing steady
(fully extended in the hot august wind)
contemporary in style
tightly trimmed
and all gloriously dressed
in the latest colors and hues
it’s a fleeting distraction though
as the caskets
and children
and grieving widows
are rolled steadily across
the burning tarmac
it’s the beginning
of that inevitable
two part proceeding
a skotoma for the ages
delusionary in nature
rich in grays
and eerily reminiscent
of that foreign reign
clipped in silence
with dark roots of fear
set deep in the bowels
of a chapter
of unimaginable sin
indifference as pronounced
as the accompanying salutes
haphazard sentiments that are
cloaked in the horror
of endless
aborted days
forgotten buggies
and bunkers
and rat packs
*how could the switch
be set so wrong?*
it’s truly an illusion
(this way of the world)
simple indulgence can grow
so beastly and consuming
try telling the tale to the
tibetan monks
or broad peak sherpas
(those boys know how to get it done!)
how to bask in
the ice cold waters
how to savor
the lava hot falls
*couldn’t the others
have figured this one out?*
the flags have settled
at half mass
and are tinted
in a charred yellow brown
the lifeless dreams
and inspirations now
in the rear view
leif running solo
(exempt of his trusted gunners)
ready for the numbered lines
his eyes open
to the ever changing
enemy at hand
Aug 18, 2017
Aug 18, 2017 at 11:45 PM UTC
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 2:07 PM UTC
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 8:11 PM UTC
A faint pastel sunrise in the sky,
It is so beautiful I'm ready to cry,
Winter here abounds;
There is snow all around.
Smoke curls from the old-fashioned covered in snow,
Little frosty--bitter breezes blow,
A snow-covered bridge runs across the frozen creek;
Winter is so beautiful and meek.
From here I can see the beautiful church covered in snow,
My cold cheeks are aglow,
My song of Winter here I sing;
On this Frosty Sunday Morning.
Beauty abounds here in the air,
With horse and buggies here and there,
From all around the song of Winter here doth sing;
On this beautiful Frosty Sunday Morning.
~Marian~
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 11:00 AM UTC
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 3:36 PM UTC
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 12:31 PM UTC
Driving all night into red skies
We'll feel so alive when the sun comes up
And the morning air turns our blood so cold and warm
Settle at a hotel because we got another 800 miles to go
I just want to stay like this forever,
I never want to leave who I am because
We got it made, and the nights we stay awake
Wishing this would never end, we'll run out of gas
And we know it's all okay because we have each other
Seems it'll never end,
All over the east coast we'll throw our own parties
Breaking all the rules, we could stay this young forever
and own the store parking lots skating on buggies
Escaping to paradise to start all over again
Well, we know we got it made
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 9:11 AM UTC
Do you remember days gone by
When car songs ruled the radio
Think about the passing years
Where did these songs all go?
Little Honda, Duece Coupe
I miss my GTO
I miss the beach boy harmony
Where did the car songs go?
The Little Old Lady From Pasadena
My Hot Rod Lincoln...oh
Daddy took my t-bird away
Where did my car songs go?
Way back in the sixties
The car song, it was boss
Where has the music travelled
It's this generations loss
Do you remember days gone by
When car songs ruled the radio
Think about the passing years
Where did these songs all go?
Little Honda, Duece Coupe
I miss my GTO
I miss the beach boy harmony
Where did the car songs go?
Hot Rods, and dune buggies
The cars would go go go
Where are the car songs hiding
Does anybody know?
I miss my barracuda
My "Woody" was the bomb
There's nothing out there like it
Where has the car song gone?
The music they are playing
Just puts me fast asleep
I need to hear my car song
No more "Rolling In The Deep"
Do you remember days gone by
When car songs ruled the radio
Think about the passing years
Where did these songs all go?
Little Honda, Duece Coupe
I miss my GTO
I miss the beach boy harmony
Where did the car songs go?
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 11:46 PM UTC
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
.
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 3:48 PM UTC
Carefully I lay me down,
in a world so hectic,
and yet it matters.
It matters we were all placed gently.
In a world so hectic.
Born to breathe,
an air of fresh chemicals,
in a world so hectic.
I can't say why,
since I'm no god,
but in this world it matters.
In this world so hectic,
it matters
that we have lips and eyes.
It matters
that there is little hair on our heads that give life to buggies if we don't keep it clean.
It matters
that we have money in our pockets,
and shoes on our feet.
It matters,
and that isn't always the softest inside.
There may be holes in those pockets;
holes in those shoes,
but it matters.
Those holes are representing something new.
Something fresh.
Something before and not so bad, because
before humans touched this world did earth seem so sad?
Was earth dripping color?
Were raindrops filled with gas?
What about those cans you see,
scattered in the bay?
Do you think the world would still be sad,
if all it went away?
Not to say, we are to blame.
In fact, that's not my point.
I'm saying we are carefully placed in this loving,
small,
and hopeful place,
yet this hectic,
crazy,
brain-numbing place,
so carefully,
we can't misplace that this
this matters,
in some kind of way.
It must matter we were placed
in the world, though we wrecked it.
It matters we were placed
in a world so hectic
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 8:45 PM UTC
SIX street ends come together here.
They feed people and wagons into the center.
In and out all day horses with thoughts of nose-bags,
Men with shovels, women with baskets and baby buggies.
Six ends of streets and no sleep for them all day.
The people and wagons come and go, out and in.
Triangles of banks and drug stores watch.
The policemen whistle, the trolley cars bump:
Wheels, wheels, feet, feet, all day.
In the false dawn when the chickens blink
And the east shakes a lazy baby toe at to-morrow,
And the east fixes a pink half-eye this way,
In the time when only one milk wagon crosses
These three streets, these six street ends,
It is the sleep time and they rest.
The triangle banks and drug stores rest.
The policeman is gone, his star and gun sleep.
The owl car blutters along in a sleep-walk.
1.4k
As our States go into a state of confusion
In the passing of their passing of laws
Saying now that all their fine citizens
Can freely lay out and get ******
As a matter of fact haven't they been doing that
For years if my minds working correctly
I guess the difference now when they lounge around
They can freely puff on it legally
So let's all take the bongs out of hiding
And add some fresh liquid to it
Invite over the neighbors you've never talked to
To share in a neighborly spliff
It'll certainly make everyone happy
When we come together and roll up a fatty
Don't worry if to this party your a newbie
Here take a hit off this doobie
We'll order out pizza
And crank up Netflix
Watch My Little Pony
And laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh and...
Wait...now where was I? Oh Yea!
So let's take all the bongs out of hiding
Hold on...have I already said that?
Dude, this is freaking me out! Lol!
Oh okay, here we go...
You can now grow your own
On your very own farm
But instead of deep in the woods
It can now be your front yard
Of course all the neighbor kids
You'll have to watch
As they pass by your place
And pick from your crops
So then you'll have to invest
In a scary guard dog
To keep them at bay
And out of your plot
But of course you'll be ******
And forget that he's there
Where he'll end up hungry
And start eating his share
There goes your profit
There goes your crop
Plus all the time you'll spend behind the dog
With a baggy waiting for doggie do do drops
But then again the government
May not let you grow your own stuff
As you wait for the F.D.A.
To authorize all your drugs
And we all know when you get
The government involved
Bureaucratic common sense
Too often gets lost
Maybe this legalization thingy
Is not the best of ideas
Things seemed to run smoother
When we all kept our *** hid
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC
Neon lights from salt rusted beach buggies, gypsy camels and a faint memory of dollops of colour reflect under the milky moon that hangs unnaturally low.
In the car window, the reflection of her pensive eyes are overlaid with the mischievous moon, and a vendor selling animated light toys skip like stones that never sink -
ceaseless ripples in the unconventionally eerie and curious night.
They say the moon has this unnerving attraction to the earth -
a pull, compelling and persuasive. Like a tangled ball of yarn it is unkempt, woven out of threads of enigmas. Each of us having a loose end of the intermingling threads tied around our waists, like our own invisible axis.
Every time our thread is tugged, almost like a reflex we are compelled to look up like a reminder that we might live on earth - on the ground, but our eyes, minds, and our souls are infinite.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
Once more into the bleach
Bleach of contract
Bleach head
Bleach comber
Bleach buggies
Bleach boys
Bleach resort
Bleach front
Bleach hut
Bleach wear
Bleach hair
Bleach fleas
Bleach ***** ˚˚
Apr 26, 2020
Apr 26, 2020 at 1:19 AM UTC
I think I should have
been born in the past
not just so my life
would have a new cast
Because often I feel
somewhat out of place
A reminder of earlier days
for this race
Days when our work
was all done at home
On horse or in buggies
is how we would roam
We'd grow our own food
raise our own stock
and keep time by the chime
of a grandfather clock
We'd sit on the porch
and we'd read or we'd write
and have deep conversations
on into the night
We'd fish in the pond
and swim in the creek
and shingle the roof
whenever it leaked
We'd not have no money
but be richer than most
And thank god for our fortune
with grace and a toast
We'd sit by the fire
in winter when cold
and live happy together
right 'til we got old
Then when the time came
for our maker to see
We'd get laid to rest
in the plot 'neath the tree
Jul 20, 2010
Jul 20, 2010 at 2:24 PM UTC
I have
a confession to make;
that I go to sleep every night
hoping you'll visit me
in my dreams
that I like smelling your hoodie
when you're not with me
just to make sure
you weren't a dream-
that blue punch-buggies make me laugh
and sour green apple Jolly Ranchers
make me smile
(by the way, my last two cavities
are all your fault)
I confess that I read over our conversations
so I can hear your voice,
and play back every kiss
we've ever shared-
That I think of you
when I'm sad
when I'm excited
when I'm angry
when I'm happy
And oh,
before I forget,
I stole your flip-flops
the day before you left-
sorry
I was going to return them-
honest.
And by the way, I do confess
that I miss you
a rather lot.
Jul 29, 2010
Jul 29, 2010 at 6:10 AM UTC
I want to ride old memories
Like broken merry go rounds
Going around and around
Carousel horses
Up and down
Like bipolar days
Happy sad
Apathetic mad
Saint to bad
And back to saint
Innocent victim
To pathetic hermit
Perpetrator
And self-inflictor
Pain inspector
Flipping happiness
Like it was a madhouse of pancakes
In a bad neighborhood
Like madness is good
In memories
Poetry follows me
Beautifully
Sleep deprivation
Exhausts me
Punch drunk driver
Crossing lane
Nodding off
The truck slips
Hits the dips
As I dip into childhood dreams
Sparkling green
Buggies
Doing endless circles
The Ferris wheel
A happy ride
Like a hamster wheel
And I never really get off
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 7:25 PM UTC
*Snow fell everywhere there
On the church
And on the ground
Such a beautifully painted
Pastel sunrise in the sky
Oh how long to go there
And ride to that little church
In one of those pretty old-fashioned buggies
And horses of brown
Oh I should be lucky
To go everywhere I see in my mind's eye
And in the pictures and paintings I see
Oh but that I had wings of a dove
Then I should fly to those places
The ones I love most
But I do go there in my mind's eye
And watch the snow fall out of the sky*
~Marian~
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 10:04 PM UTC
Do you wanna catch a macro?
Then observe them after that?
But no one does…
And make them all just go extinct…
They used to be just buggies…
But now they’re not…
They are a bigger deal!
Do you wanna catch a macro?
And make a google sheets?
It’ll become a viral tweet,
And end up dying by a week!!!
Then somebody named Michel Clapp liked it all…
He used them to torcher us all!
Now we’re watching the weeks go by,
Really Really Slowly…
“GO AWAY MACROS!!!”
Mar 8, 2019
Mar 8, 2019 at 4:54 PM UTC
My black gloves, coat, boots
Make me thick and heavy and slow
I am trudging through this white brick wall
I am tired and dripping.
This snow is ungainly
As it piles on top of the dead
Black, are the silhouettes of branches on drooping trees
Car crash.
Car crash.
Car crash.
I had forgotten that snow makes death unforgotten.
I am a beacon of safety
Inside my warm hut
With my life and my body, attached still.
Snow, sky, same thing.
Both a shocking white,
The color of the white light
Of death, reflected in a black lake
Swallowing everything else whole.
An insulting shade of pale,
Unimaginable in the middle of November.
A white bleached ivory
Your knuckles are that color white,
Bloodless
As they grip the wheel
But your fingertips forget how to drive
Your mind loses all the knowledge
You have gathered over your twenty three years
Your secure little buggy
Is no longer secure
No longer out of harm’s way.
The permafrost inching its way under your wheels
You are a little child learning how to walk,
Slipping and falling,
Reaching for your mama
You really don’t want to go over there
REALLY don’t want to go over there.
Because over there is the ditch.
And you scream “NO NO NO NO NO NO NO”
But who are you yelling at? No one can hear you.
You’re all alone in your little buggy
And the snow muffles you anyway
And you are upside down
god is grabbing you by your ankles and shaking you
Hoping for money to fall out of your pocket
And then you’re right side up
And then upside down
And your brain is sloshing and slopping
All over the upholstery
And the red is all over the windows
Thick paint, splashed over the cracked panes
Your hands are covered in your own gore
Gushing from your thighs and stomach
And you are making so much noise
Why are you yelling?
No one can hear you.
And now you’re dead.
The air in your punctured lungs is frozen.
The blood on the window is turning rusty red crust
And the people in the little buggies next to you
Are watching you as they pass by
Some even fold their hands and pray
But they shouldn’t take their hands off the wheel.
Jun 1, 2011
Jun 1, 2011 at 6:49 PM UTC
Thinking of how people used me and betrayed me but the worse double cross is from family your own blood choosing bad habits and lieing to those who live them.
My cousin is a drug addict his habits have made him become someone I thought I knew. He's always scratching never sleeps he's burned so many people and stole I never thought he'd cross that line with me.
It sickens me to know others see drugs more important than family. It hit me deep struck a nerve to know I can't do anything he has to want to change I'm not forcing it.
I don't want to give up but I'll stay away because I don't want to get hurt again or know if I can ever trust.
This kid was suppose to go to the navy but he's out doing drugs wasting time its not my life but its hard to watch.
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 3:35 AM UTC
Hello Mr Moon can we chat?
I hope you don't mind are you ok with that?
You see at night I simply don't sleep I lie here alone
There's only you to talk to as you shine into my room
I wonder what it felt like the day we came to you
Landed on your surface and walked all over you
Ragged around in buggies and had a round of golf
Then packed and left our ******* then we blasted off
I'd rather think your cheese as we all are told as kids
Than Monsanto or Exxon go visit you as well
I know you don't hear me my bright shiney friend
But good night Mr Moon until we meet again
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 11:02 PM UTC
Snow falls photo white on black
Lace buggies for the charm we lack
The wind howls mournful though not weak
The way a tiny puppy speaks
With fortitude the storm swells
Tissue deep in frozen spells
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 4:41 PM UTC