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See the various Poems the scene of which is laid upon
      the banks of the Yarrow; in particular, the exquisite
      Ballad of Hamilton beginning—

          Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride,
          Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow!

From Stirling castle we had seen
The mazy Forth unravelled;
Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travelled;
And when we came to Clovenford,
Then said my “winsome Marrow,”
“Whate’er betide, we’ll turn aside,
And see the Braes of Yarrow.”

“Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,
Who have been buying, selling,
Go back to Yarrow, ’tis their own;
Each maiden to her dwelling!
On Yarrow’s banks let her herons feed,
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow!
But we will downward with the Tweed
Nor turn aside to Yarrow.

“There’s Galla Water, Leader Haughs,
Both lying right before us;
And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed
The lintwhites sing in chorus;
There’s pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land
Made blithe with plough and harrow:
Why throw away a needful day
To go in search of Yarrow?

“What’s Yarrow but a river bare,
That glides the dark hills under?
There are a thousand such elsewhere
As worthy of your wonder.”
—Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn;
My True-love sighed for sorrow;
And looked me in the face, to think
I thus could speak of Yarrow!

“Oh! green,” said I, “are Yarrow’s holms,
And sweet is Yarrow flowing!
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
But we will leave it growing.
O’er hilly path, and open Strath,
We’ll wander Scotland thorough;
But, though so near, we will not turn
Into the dale of Yarrow.

“Let beeves and home-bred kine partake
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow,
The swan on still St. Mary’s Lake
Float double, swan and shadow!
We will not see them; will not go,
To-day, nor yet to-morrow;
Enough if in our hearts we know
There’s such a place as Yarrow.

“Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!
It must, or we shall rue it:
We have a vision of our own;
Ah! why should we undo it?
The treasured dreams of times long past,
We’ll keep them, winsome Marrow!
For when we’er there, although ’tis fair,
’Twill be another Yarrow!

“If Care with freezing years should come,
And wandering seem but folly,—
Should we be loth to stir from home,
And yet be melancholy;
Should life be dull, and spirits low,
’Twill soothe us in our sorrow,
That earth has something yet to show,
The bonny holms of Yarrow!”
"If you'll busk you as a bride
  And make ready,
It's I will wed you with a ring,
  O fair lady."

"Shall I busk me as a bride,
  I so bonny,
For you to wed me with a ring,
  O boy Johnny?"

"When you've busked you as a bride
  And made ready,
Who else is there to marry you,
  O fair lady?"

"I will find my lover out,
  I so bonny,
And you shall bear my wedding-train,
  O boy Johnny."
Sam May 2016
just a ****** busker wishing he was a **** buster
he swam lack-lustre,
a salmon unable to muster
the will to cut the custard,
and flutter upstream to meet a lover

stuck in the gutter singing covers
a crushed sucker, tasteless kfc crusher
ominous as a dawn-less dusk and
useless as a ham sandwich with no mustard
playin
Kalena Leone Jan 2013
you took the finger you accuse with
you took it and accused my insides of the most punishable sin
adultery
because baby, i want you. i want you.
and while this took place, i left my body
and moved into my shadow filled ***
and grasped your neck
and threw my head back
because i am loud
and i am not controlled
like a broken electrical line
snapping and shooting at the ground in a mass of sparks
like the fourth of july in shorts that daddy would not be too proud of
and scabs on your thighs from that mysterious boy who lives down the street.
secret, secret. mom i'm a *******.
mom i like it when he hurts me.
mom he pulls my hair and bites my chest and i tnrill.
it isn't the same when i bite myself
because lord knows that's because i want to feel close to death
and maybe because he does throw
and kick and cut
when he loses it all
maybe i will come close to death.
maybe he'll just tilt that steering wheel
scream at me for everything i can't do
and then i'll be gone.
and you won't have a ******* for a daughter any longer;
what a heavy burden to carry.
softcomponent Feb 2014
There is the latent hum of some probably-industrial sumthin-or-another in the distance. Sounds like a ferry at dock, or the Townsite mills characteristic hum of eternity as it once acted as the forever-whitenoise of my past life in Powell River.

Sasha has gone to see her friend a floor down. I sit candidly at her desk typing these words on her MacBook Pro.. her dorm is an ambient water of a place, but with every passing night I spend in it, it becomes harder and harder to fall asleep. The bed feels like wood board or padded cement now. Sasha rolls around in her sleep, occasionally choking on her tonsils and gagging a prolonged operatic note of snores. It's not like she can help it.. often, she talks about removing her tonsils as if it's something she can do with a spare moment between classes.

The dorm was easier for me to inhabit when I imagined her living quaintly and quietly without my constant everywhereness.. on her first night alone in bed, she slept like a baby and the overheating, I'm sure, was less to bear in my absence as there wasn't a ******* furnace spurning mammalian blood to every antipode of my body for the sake of staying alive.. just her capillaries attending to the night-shift and leaving no feedback loop between our ***-drenched thermostats. There was a feeling of otherness to it that I could warm my soul with as if I were people-watching at a mall filled with everyone I've ever encountered in the matrix.

She's beautiful. Sasha, I mean. Superstitious despite her attempts to claim otherwise, but of a massive intelligence often unspoken and endowed with a linguistic nature that can speak regardless of words. Highly suspicious of some perceived bond between Anya and I that can't seem to be severed, and playfully dousing suspicions of general infidelity into many of our brink-night conversations.. I can't say I do much to remedy her paranoia as I always kick it back with consistent jokes of having '30 girlfriends' or 'that was what the girl I ****** the other night said as well! Trippy.'

These are obvious jokes. I would never cheat on her and it's a pain to have her imagine I would.

Christ be honest, I can never find the time to write anymore because I keep pretending I'm busy. I keep glassing my eyes apart with coffee and **** and feeling the inner sting to write and write and write until my fingers are bruised and my entire demeanour is nothing more than an existence in pure, floating consciousness of sleet-covered panic attack self-immoliating itself in a Wal-Mart parking lot just to say hiya, Good God, how's the cloud of idolatry today? Fleeting? Empty? Shat? I'm starting to think you have the shorter end of the stick cuz I'm pretty sure I've found the Kingdom of Heaven and it's all a bunch of beautiful panic remedy exacterbated by SSRI psychedelic depersonalization with a life-wish disguised as a death-wish to push the envelope for mails sake, cuz I've got a message for the human race and all it says is 'humanity is not a RACE chill the **** OUT and become the human pace for the sake of nil planet without a plan you aren't a ******* poster-boy you're a poser' all very stone-cold thoughts in a volcano.. all very valid but pointless semantic gestures towards Finnegans Wake and the sequel I'd like to write called Finnegans Nap.

The other day, I stole a book from the university library.

I had a freelance article I had to start and preferably finish that same day, and Sasha had decided to skip psychology for Charles Bukowski so we scouted a quiet space on the windowsill overlooking the perpetual busk of student body.. I plugged my laptop in and sourly gazed at the flakey subjects I had to choose from until I noticed we were right next to a giant section entirely dedicated to the study of the Beat Generation. I picked out the closest book, and dove up on some academic diatribe about the implementation of Timex making watches an affordable commodity during the post-war boom, causing economy to become totalitarian in its accuracy and thus mental hegemony. It worked its way into stating that Jack Kerouac's On the Road was a blatant and concise rebellion against this form of timekeeping in its hedonic, careless flow that was not marked by 6 o'clock or on-the-dot redundancy.. the subject matter being so dense and alluring, I turned to Sasha and said, 'I have to steal this book.'

She chuckled a little, being a chronic kleptomaniac herself, and retorted, 'are you sure you can do that? They have these sensor things that go off when you leave.. they'd catch you probably.' In my mind, I was needing to exorcise myself of Judaeo-Christian morality so as to guarantee a survival and thriving intellectual feed regardless of red-tape or monetary symbolism.. I saw myself adapting to a hedonic habit of robbery for the sake of food and freedom or some such half-witted excuse like that, and took Sasha's warning as a challenge to transcend my typical moral comfort zone.

Glassy-eyed, I asked Google how I'd go about bypassing the security scanners and, lo and behold, within 5 minutes I had my answer and was already digging through the books binding with my house-key to remove the magnetic strip hidden in the spine. After 10 minutes of exhilaration and anxiety at potentially being caught, the strip was out and jammed between two loose wood-boards in the window sill. I told Sasha we should try to leave.

As I neared the scanner, I let go of consequence in remembrance of my mortality, the blank expressions on our faces probably hinting at some form of degenerate nervousness had someone decided to analyze us aaaaaand yet.. we made it through as safe as a bird through an open window then out the other side.
excerpt: "the mystic hat of esquimalt"
Desmond the poet May 2018
I'm a DJ, a Disk jockey.
My fingers are like a jockey stick.
I breathe and live House music.
The first descendant of Disco music.

I'm the descendant of Frankie Knuckles.
My tunes ease listener's glooms.
I'm a predator, music beats are my prey.
House music is the only language I understand.
I busk locally and internationally.

I'm a beast, not just any beast.
Beast that play 4/4 repetitive beats.
I play tunes that move with heart beats.
My tunes aren't restricted to race or religion.
Behind the deck, I'm thee "House beast"
Dedicated to my boy Thendo Davhana aka "House beast". One of the upcoming and potential DJ of the future.
Ignatius Hosiana May 2016
I'm so lucky to be from the pearl of Africa
where democracy is just but a name
where independence was given but with chains
where a thousand busk in the millions' pains
I'm so lucky to be from a country where reigns total freedom of speech
as long as you're not a member of the opposition
a country where freedom of speech only lasts until the speech is made
if only you could ask the hundreds incarcerated,most are dead
for what? for not not realising the freedom doesn't count after speech
I'm lucky to be from a country that gives no **** about human rights
especially these meaningless developments
like right to internet, what a sweet place to live
no Whatsapp, no Facebook nor twitter and why?
Tomorrow is the swearing in of our new old President...
not that age is important, after all it's just a number
tomorrow we usher in a very comprehensive government
one which has managed to stretch its tentacles across three decades
tomorrow we will see fat bellied millionaires
on screens of those who can afford televisions
congratulate our president who's filled with enthusiasm
to rule a poor mass who voted for their corruption free bellies
and thus social media could be used to bomb our young innocent leader
black mambas beautify our streets while jet fighters ornamentally
buzz across the blue skies, as if Osama has resurrected in Kampala
to the visitors, we are not at war...those are salutes to our most cherished one
the visionary, the most trusted, the compassionate
the one who wouldn't hurt a fly or swat a mosquito
we can't take any chances, just tune your channels tomorrow
for first hand glimpse of the merry and youthful dances
social media is a destruction yet our president deserves all ears
in the sky, on the streets from the hopeless unemployed
tomorrow we speak not of change but change without change
tomorrow we usher in steady progress for another five years
tomorrow we start to smile and wipe the tears
for tomorrow we acknowledge the old man is here to stay
I hear even the Zimbabwean tortoise is in the country
ready to congratulate his associate...these boys fought for their countries
they freed us from crucibles into their heavenly hades...
we should appreciate they have sacrificed too much...
tomorrow is public holiday, forward to conservative past we match
back from the beautiful future we don't deserve
tomorrow like helpless dogs we bow to our master's collar
tomorrow we bury our hopes for change and feed on this yellow muck
the swamp of greed, we can't risk defiance, we're stuck
we're like the long horned cattle of the west
for tomorrow the fat ticks start to **** and ****
but I wonder, for how long, for how long will we just talk?
when will we do more than just silently sob?
I bleed for my country or a country I once thought was mine
I bleed the taxes, the ruthless beatings, the tear gas
I bleed like a slave being whipped by these fatigued caravans
I bleed despair and melancholy and wander
like a headless chicken,for how long though? I wonder!
I bleed for God and my Country
for Uganda, I bleed...
I've cried reading this after writing...
it hurts loving my country...
Come, Madam, come, all rest my powers defy,
          Until I labour, I in labour lie.
     The foe oft-times having the foe in sight,
  Is tired with standing though they never fight.
Off with that girdle, like heaven's zone glistering,
        But a far fairer world encompassing.
  Unpin that spangled breastplate which you wear,
That th' eyes of busy fools may be stopped there.
     Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime
  Tells me from you, that now 'tis your bed time.
      Off with that happy busk, which I envy,
  That still can be, and still can stand so nigh.
Your gown going off, such beauteous state reveals,
As when from flowery meads th' hill's shadow steals.
        Off with that wiry coronet and show
      The hairy diadem which on you doth grow;
  Now off with those shoes, and then safely tread
   In this love's hallowed temple, this soft bed.
   In such white robes heaven's angels used to be
   Received by men; thou angel bring'st with thee
    A heaven like Mahomet's paradise; and though
     Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know
     By this these angels from an evil sprite,
Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright.
      License my roving hands, and let them go
       Before, behind, between, above, below.
          O my America, my new found land,
  My kingdom, safeliest when with one man manned,
       My mine of precious stones, my empery,
     How blessed am I in this discovering thee!
      To enter in these bonds, is to be free;
    Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be.
      Full nakedness, all joys are due to thee
    As souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be,
   To taste whole joys. Gems which you women use
   Are like Atlanta's *****, cast in men's views,
     That when a fool's eye lighteth on a gem,
    His earthly soul may covet theirs, not them.
  Like pictures, or like books' gay coverings made
      For laymen, are all women thus arrayed;
     Themselves are mystic books, which only we
       Whom their imputed grace will dignify
     Must see revealed. Then since I may know,
        As liberally, as to a midwife, show
  Thyself: cast all, yea, this white linen hence,
      Here is no penance, much less innocence.
     To teach thee, I am naked first, why then
  What needst thou have more covering than a man.
Zoe Irvine Nov 2012
Get it, India head
This is no bed of roses
Poses in prime positions
Are sublime repetitions
Of what has gone
Before

Karma comes knocking
Knowing
Falling flat on your face
Bindis race
First fast then erased
From your forehead
Forever more

Rickshaws run a mockery
Round rubbled ruins
Of modern mishapes
Monarchy's mistakes, perhaps
Perfect pictures of
Predictable
Misadventures

What everyone tells you
Pre plane departure
Setting one belief in front of another
One foot behind
Is what it does
To your stomach
Shaking heads full of
Heavy sighs

Cares to be taken
Clothes to be carried in case
For climactic changes
Of course
What to withstand
Understand
Undertake
When to be undeterred

When to stand your ground
Back down, barter
Bask
Busk your way through town
What to battle over
Where to bathe and how
When to show the colour
Of your mother's money

How to save a dollar
Raise a rupee
Meditate on more that
You could Be
Do the deed
Be caught in times of need
Phone home and find
No-one waiting for your call

All of this and more
You carry on your back
A rucksack full of love and
Missed kisses
But - the greatest part of this is
What no-one tells you -
What it does
To your heart

What you find
When your mind adjusts
And your eyes unwind
And great gusts of understanding blow you free
When you hand over the key
To your list of demands
And give in
To the easy unplanned

Exploring
Imploring looks
Hook your sympathy
Bait you easily at first
The worst
Are always
The kids
Thing is, how could you deny them?

Soon enough
Is enough
“Sister!”
“Look mister, I ain't no fool
And I ain't a millionaire either -
Leave her alone and go home.”
Thing is, how could you feed them all?

You triumph on trains
Blaspheme the buses
The driver's on drugs
Or a suicide trip
You skip rice-based breakfasts
For weeks
Seek out cereals then
Suddenly...you don't

Chinking chai glasses
Chomping on chocolate
A lot
More than most
Coasting roads
Filled with cows
On a scooter scuffed with sand
And stuffed to bursting point

Dogs with holes in
Infecting imaginations
Over masala dosa
Noses signalling distaste
This taste?
Hmm, tamarind - trees?
Try over there
Between the neem and the new banana circle...

Too many memories to mention
There's always one question
When you return to the beginning
Grinning, they ask
How was it?
But how can you say
It was everything
You've never seen
?

India
Get it?
INDIA!!
Get it India
But be warned...
You may never
Get her
Out-ia
Head
Rhianecdote Apr 2015
So I've hit a *** note
Kicked out of office
On the kerb
Lost your vote

Of confidence?
Wrote off
Years ago
So I lost your vote

Sat in the gutter
Cause it's the only place
To see what guts are
Still I lost your vote

Made one mistake
In my masterpiece
And made my conduct(er)
Dependent on your lost vote

But as I recount this
I realise this is a dictatorship!
I'll busk for change, for myself
**But a Maestro is not dependent on votes
As a late great children's theme tune once said "it's a simple message and it comes from the heart, believe in yourself for that's the place to start" - Arthur the Aardvark (or whatever he was spose to be)

"If you let other peoples perceptions of you dictate your behaviour you will never grow as a person" -Mr Feeny ( coolest tv teacher ever!)
chachi Jul 2013
Life ******* heat, sweat dripping
from head to feet. trying my best to stay cool,
hoping I don't look like a fool
sitting here and starting to drool.
God bless America and the designer
of women's clothing everywear.
and yes that's wear with an E.A.R.
Stars and stripes forever, especially
when they cover so little skin.

Forgive me Father for I have sinned.
So much lust and not enough ******
I'm about to bust, don't think I can wait til' dusk.
That's when the real men busk, and they're
hoping to take home a little more than spare dollar bills.
Get your quills ready boys, cause nothing here is steady.
Ignatius Hosiana May 2015
I want to trend
Not in modern but in the good ancient my friend
I want a candle; candles up an earthen chandelier
I'm tired of the tick tack of the modern switch
I want the moon and stars like life was earlier
I'm done with bulbs which when old start to twitch
I want a type writer to capture what I write in my book
I'm tired of computers where all I do's Facebook
I want to revert to the quiet life of my ancestors
I want the warmth of watching the stars
I want to eat beef steamed in Earthenware
Beef with the touch of smoke and of love and care
I'm tired of the modern meat whose source is never clear
I want a meal served hot on her knees complemented by millet beer
I want a home, a real home with an artful grass thatched house
A traditional home with a hound for me and a cat in case of any Mouse
I'm fed up of the modern roofs which roast as if we're pork
I want an affair that's free of silly social media talk
I want a place she and I can have peaceful evening walks
And her eyes not having to watch out for cars
I want someone simple enough to pride in her scars
Open and proud of her weaknesses,one laughter sincerely chokes
I want someone whose thighs will be warm hidden
Someone who won't dare do the forbidden
Not one who'll go at dusk and return at dawn
I want not a queen for that will make me her pawn
Someone who'll give me a massage,not send me to the parlors
One who's content and natural, not painted in colors
Who’ll together with me do laundry, not a laundry machine
I want someone who'll be contented with the little beard on my chin
I want a life like that of my grand father
Small family, moderate success, a wife who isn't a bother
I want a simple life that will give even my enemies peace
I want Africa; I want a bit of my heritage, just a piece
I want that life frozen in sphinx and sculpture
I want to busk in the glory of African culture
D Connolly Jul 2014
It's a shame or a pity
Our conversations now consist
Of screen grabs and quotes
It's not this you that I missed
You want my advice
Or do you want to moan
You've always been there for me
Together we've roamed
Through dublin streets
We'd busk,you'd moan
I miss you
Without the D
As funny as that sounds
I miss you
Forget that D
I miss you
Very selfishly
I miss you
Because it's always you who's helped *me
Kaykay.. FORGET HIM AND HELP YOUR SELFISH FRIEND. He ain't worth it sweetness.
Donall Dempsey Oct 2016
“I’M THE GUILDFORD GUILDHALL CLOCK I AM!”

Oh I’ve been knocking out time now since…eh….let’s see 1683

Minutes and decades flow through me
The everlasting skies above me.

I’m iconic I am
dressed in my black and gold.
I ( if I may be so bold )
AM GUILDFORD.

The pride of Surrey.

I watch the High Street
as it runs down to that

young whippersnapper statue
THE SCHOLAR or whatever.

People congregate about the chap
eat sandwiches….listen to a busker

busk opera.
Only in Guildford!

But it’s me they look up to!

And is it time for tea?
Why so it is and. . .
citizens clatter over the cobbles.

I’m the Guildford Guildhall clock I am!

Tip! top!

Ticktock!Ticktock! Tiptop!Tip top!

TIP!!!!!!!!!!

TOP!!!!!!!!!


This poem was commissioned by the BBC for National Poetry Day on the 6th of Oct. It will be broadcast tomorrow.

To be said in a pompous good old chap voice….proud of what he is and what he’s done. Rather like a gone to see old fashioned sergeant major. No time for these young statues who have hardly done any time at all. He’s aware of his iconic status and intends to go on doling out time to us humans. But as it always chimes: “Humans come and humans go but I go…on for ever!”

In the late 17th century, a clock maker by the name of  one John Aylward came to Guildford. Aylward intended to set up his business within the centre of Guildford, but was time and time again refused by The Guild Merchants.

But he didn’t give up. Oh no not he.
John set up his shop just outside of Guildford and then set about working on a glorious looking clock now commonly known as “Guildhall clock”

After offering the clock to the merchants, they displayed in over the High Street and made John Ayward a member of The Guild Merchants, allowing him to set up his business in the centre of town. So his ‘gift” to the merchants became the great gift to the future citizens.

For performance on stage there is/can be a little intro….offstage.

‘OK YOUSE SECONDS….FALL IN IN MINUTES AND FORM HOURS. CMON C’MON WE HAVE A POEM TO DO! BY THE RIGHT….QUICK…WAIT FOR IT…WAIT FOR IT….MARCH! LEFTRIGHTLEFTRIGHLEFTTICKTOCKTICKTOCK…TICK….SQUAD HALT!

TICK TOCKITY TOCK TICK!

MY GAWD…ONE AFTER THE OTHER YOUSE ARE WORSE THAN BROWN’S COWS. OK SQUAD…AT EASE!

PRETEND A PERSON IN THE AUDIENCE HAS ASKED THE QUESTION” WHO ARE YOU?”

AND THEN OF COURSE WE ENTER THE POEM PROPER.

Here be a little bio...just to show I'm logical! Dónall Dempsey was born in the Curragh in Ireland and was Ireland’s first Poet in Residence in a secondary school. He has appeared on Irish television and radio and has read and performed all over England, in Scotland, India, Ireland and France. He now lives in Guildford, Surrey where he hosts a regular poetry performance night. Dónall’s poems have been published in numerous journals and anthologies and he has published three collections of poems, “Sifting Sound into Shape”, “The Smell of Purple” and “Being Dragged Across the Carpet By the Cat”.
Aaron Bee Oct 2015
O' ray!
O' ray!
   O' ray, O' sunshine
Bring back the hot days
where my skin shined
so bright.
It had the  sun
green with envy
for that moment - all
was surreal.
Purple becomes green.
Gold to yellow, brown to rust.
Lets go and make our
next busk
tell me of a time, where
yesterday was always today
and tomorrow never came.
The sun in an ever looping instance of "rising" or
was it "falling"?
We'll never know and
who'd want to know?
Oblivious to oblivion
Living in disproportion,
Where yelling in ears becomes
whispering prayers and crazy muttering
become insightful guides.
A place where all I Am is
confused, and I'm the
Confusion. Now bring me to madness
and (I Know the conclusion)
journal
Njunju boo I adore you I do
Was it all written that you'd have me smitten
The ugly beautiful shows me the lies and deciet
The beautiful ugly shows me naked pictures of your body covered in sheets
How can my hands touch the hologram of you?
Is your heart a see-through?
Can I walk in and fill the room?
Shower you with warm aura and clean off lust odour
Busk in the moment of being in the ocean of love
Swim in the constellations, we'll be the stars
Our souls singing, music coming from our hearts
Journey into the far away, never see the end of day
Make love in eternal sunset
And sleep well in the colours of romance
Carried by the muse that keeps us in tune
I, me and you.
Angela Moreno Oct 2016
We don't talk all that much these days.
In fact, we don't talk at all.
But I'll never forget
When we were kids
And our secret dream,
To run away together.

The dream grew brighter
When it turned into a plan.
We had our bags packed and ready to go.
A pair of jeans and a sweater,
My guitar so we could busk,
One **** dress in case times got hard,
And the money
Your mother hid in her dresser.
We'd take the train,
Get the hell out of here,
And never look back.
We said I'd cut my hair,
So they would never find us.

We never quite knew
What we were running away to be.
Rockstars, hookers,
Crackheads, or movie stars.
We didn't care.
We were young and wanted an out,
And the city
Was calling our names.

We never did run away.
I guess I knew all along
That we never would.
But I don't regret any of it.
Any of the planning,
Any of the dreaming.
Because that dream,
That hope of an out,
The idea of there being an escape
No doubt kept me going.

I still think about you often,
And our run away dream.
We were dreamers alright.
Or maybe we just hated this town.
Maybe we were just young.
Maybe we read too many books
And watched too many movies.
Or maybe it all goes back
To that same song.
The one where he stands outside
Her bedroom window
And begs her to come outside.
"Come outside,"
He'd say,
"Come outside.
Out the window,
Down the fire escape,
And run away with me."
brandon nagley Jun 2015
Once upon a time
There was a turtle
His name was Myrtle
And gargled a splurtle
Spurred and purdled
He danced for fine jig
Made love
To the bees
Mated with pigs
But pig wasn't his fancy
He made a duck
And chit chat busk
On tusk
One day he shalt die
But won't quite yet
Money not spent
Sharaded on dents
Liggett Mary
Smoked to her shallow
The rocks kept his secrets
And movies did follow
This turtle was suited
Booted for pie
Ate rivers from monkeys
Took notes on the side
A whimsical ride
His story didst hold
Made children from swings
Made ghosts into souls
A freaking concor
Or feasting memory
Halfway jackfast
Splendor of many
Denny and witty
Screwy and tooly
Tulips of muley
Pine pepper tongue
Rabbits do meet him
In brink bank and bims
But myrtle the turtle
Is a sinner
He sins!!
Lol I made up alot of words.. Feeling creative don't mind me
The Unspoken Jan 2015
You know that moment when you wake up in the morning and all you want to do is check on your computer see if she sent you a mail while you were asleep?

You know that moment when your boss passes by your desk and you quickly minimize your window screen because you have been chatting at ever single break?

You know that time when you hear a song and all you can think of is her although she is so far away.

That moment when you smile like a fool and make excuses to busk out in the sun alone because you want your mind to only think about her and your conversations?

That moment when you don't know what your mind is really speaking but you don't want it to stop?

That moment when you realize that all these happenings are as a result of some stranger you have never met Face to Face yet and you know when you speak of it, It may sound silly?*

.....Well... Let's say am Sorta-kinda heading there.
Nuh, not heading, am there. lol
The streets will belong to the beggars and buskers
who'll paint the ivory towers red and
take out the old tuskers who sit and scribe laws in
dusty old books..
..here I shall pause,because I'm not sure of what laws.

But these fossils who will us away,
the same who turn night into a much longer day
and don't pay us no wage
are quite sage about this,
they knew that the 'kiss off' would kiss them away and
have made laws to outlaw the coming of that day.

The buskers and beggars can sit playing chequers and
make Kings on the boards
and on the boards of multinationals where they can
rationalise it all,
they'll make more ivory towers to refill more empty spaces
and more laws to put beggars and buskers
in their places.

But we are used to this krap and so
we sing or we busk for a penny
in our flat cap
and the streets remain the same,
it's just the name that
changes.
galafani Dec 2014
As dark as eyes closed, clear broad day light brought into sight within, clairvoyance.

The future is time standing still, here and now in eternal union. soulful Sheer romance.

This wouldn't be written if I say I escaped my senses. As principle, mind is always vibrating.  
  
There's an experience that's beyond any form of expression, life stays amazing.

I am not just spiritual I am spirit, On an odyssey going nowhere but point zero.

All these myriad layers of consciousness are universal truths that joins people.

A droplet on a grass blade that only existed for my observation was Godly.

Still, my eyes were closed. My mental plane senses heightened. Darkness is holy.

And so I found myself. I busk in the glory of the gods, I am perfect with my flaws.

I am not made to feel guilty about my natural traits that aren't subject to laws.

I am home, announcing my arrival with loud silence that of a sudden winter's burst.

Awake, aware, conscious, connected, natural, transcendental, God. Innerverse.
Ruthie Aug 2014
You're coming back.
For eight days.
In September.
I don't know where I'll be then.
Obviously with you.
But I don't know if I'll be at school.
Or have a job.
Or just trying to find ways to fill the days.
All I know is you're coming back.
And you're staying in a ****** apartment.
And I'm going to be with you.
And I kind of want to take you to Dublin zoo..
Just for some fun.
But I guess we'll see where it goes.
Youre gonna busk on grafton street.
Then we can have the day.
In stephens green park.
Along the river Liffey.
Wherever.

One thing I'm sure about is that they all disapprove.
I know you two days they say.
That's not long enough.
He could be a serial killer.
A kidnapper.
Love.
They say.
You're a child.
You know nothing of love.
Crazy girl.

But I know for a fact that I love you.
And I know for a fact that fate has something planned for us.
I can feel it.
He's coming back!!!
Kush Mar 2016
There’s a certain sweetheart I find to be on my mind
She confuses my feigned confusion with a heart’s protruding contusion
I’m simply a puppet master pulling strings
A singular audience for whom the Devil’s opera sings

I’m sick of the “hold on’s” and “baby, wait’s”
Spent too much time sorting through prospective bunk mates
I’ve started to dine in rooms lined with fright
Looking behind fate’s telescope to admire love from hindsight

I’ll dance in ****** subways for the pay checks of a busk
Bathe slickly and solely in bottled, manly musk
She avoids I with eye sockets that turn sharper than most crotch rockets
Our naughty escapade’s prequel simmers for its pending sequel

No earthly fawn will ever string this cold-hearted man along
I’ll make a splendid entrance in the home of my prey
Oh hey, cue the gong!
For the lucky gal on my mind:

You’ll get your head lopped off free of charge
Just as long as my ship’s able to enter the barge
I’m a wild thing chock to the teeth with bling
A diamond ring, golden chain, my favorite knife encrusted with pain

You’ll see the error of lengthy relationships
Become the chalice of lust from which true romance sips
******* lips now for they’re best served chilled
Feel the smeared screams of all the dames I’ve killed
Mike Essig May 2015
To His Mistress Going to Bed**

Come, Madam, come, all rest my powers defy,
Until I labour, I in labour lie.
The foe oft-times having the foe in sight,
Is tir’d with standing though he never fight.
Off with that girdle, like heaven’s Zone glistering,
But a far fairer world encompassing.
Unpin that spangled breastplate which you wear,
That th’eyes of busy fools may be stopped there.
Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime,
Tells me from you, that now it is bed time.
Off with that happy busk, which I envy,
That still can be, and still can stand so nigh.
Your gown going off, such beauteous state reveals,
As when from flowery meads th’hill’s shadow steals.
Off with that wiry Coronet and shew  
The hairy Diadem which on you doth grow:
Now off with those shoes, and then safely tread
In this love’s hallow’d temple, this soft bed.
In such white robes, heaven’s Angels used to be
Received by men; Thou Angel bringst with thee
A heaven like Mahomet’s Paradise; and though
Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know,
By this these Angels from an evil sprite,
Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright.
    Licence my roving hands, and let them go,  
Before, behind, between, above, below.
O my America! my new-found-land,
My kingdom, safeliest when with one man mann’d,
My Mine of precious stones, My Empirie,
How blest am I in this discovering thee!
To enter in these bonds, is to be free;
Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be.
    Full nakedness! All joys are due to thee,
As souls unbodied, bodies uncloth’d must be,
To taste whole joys. Gems which you women use
Are like Atlanta’s *****, cast in men’s views,
That when a fool’s eye lighteth on a Gem,
His earthly soul may covet theirs, not them.
Like pictures, or like books’ gay coverings made
For lay-men, are all women thus array’d;
Themselves are mystic books, which only we  
(Whom their imputed grace will dignify)
Must see reveal’d. Then since that I may know;
As liberally, as to a Midwife, shew
Thy self: cast all, yea, this white linen hence,
There is no penance due to innocence.
    To teach thee, I am naked first; why then
What needst thou have more covering than a man.
courtney Nov 2014
It's cut into pieces, but the shade welcomes me.
It sways back and forth -
begging to dance with me -
to the sound of a light breeze that is
probably in E which
is a little too high for me, but
I'll sing anyway.
A duet with the sun - I'm outshone but that's okay
because light is your specialty;
peace is mine.

We could dance for hours anyway;
I've got timing and you've got time and
we could probably busk in the streets if
we wanted to - but it's nicer here
and they wouldn't understand
the way we dance.
It's like a language that we
speak with the trees
as we bend our knees and extend our arms high -
surround them with sky,
to create a rhythm our minds
can't grasp.

This feeling is a release of
our souls - yours and mine
and it's not for sale;
it's for sanity
When I lay down here next to
my favourite tree,
listening to the wind, watching the
blue sky, I
find my *sanity.
Everyone needs something
Brandon Oct 2014
The more you move up in the world the more you get paid.
The more you get paid the more you accustom yourself to a way of life.
The more you get accustomed to a way of life the more you forget what living is.

Hop that morning train going down the line
Ride the rails and see the country side
Busk the streets and sleep beneath the stars
Life doesn't wait just because you have bills due.
Donall Dempsey Oct 2019
“I’M THE GUILDFORD GUILDHALL CLOCK I AM!”

Oh I’ve been knocking out time now since…eh….let’s see 1683

Minutes and decades flow through me
The everlasting skies above me.

I’m iconic I am
dressed in my black and gold.
I ( if I may be so bold )
AM GUILDFORD.

The pride of Surrey.

I watch the High Street
as it runs down to that

young whippersnapper statue
THE SCHOLAR or whatever.

People congregate about the chap
eat sandwiches….listen to a busker

busk opera.
Only in Guildford!

But it’s me they look up to!

And is it time for tea?
Why so it is and. . .
citizens clatter over the cobbles.

I’m the Guildford Guildhall clock I am!

Tip! top!

Ticktock!Ticktock! Tiptop!Tip top!

TIP!!!!!!!!!!

TOP!!!!!!!!!
Zukiswa Mvunguse Nov 2018
When I was little
The township we called home was the centre of my world
Our mud and zinc house was a Palace
My father it’s King
And we were his little princesses
My mother was just my mother
She wasn’t regal enough to be a queen

When I was little
We vacationed at centre of the universe
Nevermind that my grandparents farm lacked running water or electricity
And stood at the bottom of the valley
Surrounded on all sides by majestic hills
In comparison, it was just a stepping stone to the heavens
Even so, it was my heaven

When I was little
I looked to the heavens and I saw God
He wore a threadbare, leathery moonless night sky for skin
And had a cloudy facade with fallen stars for eyes
But when My God smiled
Sunlight shone through the cracks
And we all wanted to busk in his radiance

When I was little
My grandfather seemed a God
On cold winter nights, huddled around the fireplace
Stories of youthful escapades and adventures in the big city Spilled from his ambrosia loosened lips
Mesmerised by this linguistic wizardry
We hung onto every word as he switched from English to Afrikaans to Sesotho to Xhosa and back

When I was little
I was happiest lying in the sun
But than I grew up and the shadows were more inviting
Kingdoms fell and Gods became mere mortals
When I was little
The women in my family were merely extras to their male leads
But as I grew up they evolved into pillars
Holding up the roof their male counterparts have left to disrepair
I had to write an essay for English class about my childhood, but ended up with this. My grandfather died 2 years ago and I was emotionless at the time, so this suprised me.
Olivia Kent May 2014
She has views of apartments, decked with blue flowers.
She listens so close hearing traffic dash by.
It' a messy apartment, but nobody minds, and nobody matters.

On the far side,the far side of the street.
From her window she she pays homage to the soldier sat square in his chair.
Looking smart,all brushed and polished.
Don't know how the hell he coped.
Sitting there kept hope alive.

Hope was a tiny kitten, a tiny ball of ****** fluff.
Looked rather like a tiger, you know.
She sat on his lap as he mused and amused the by passers of the daily grind.

He tried to busk, but he just couldn't play.
The war had been but, a brief affair, their war.
She had coped with his negative feelings as he sat and cried.
She bore his crown of thorns of war, with dignity as did he.
That which war destroyed neither denied,

He sat every day in that spot over the road, just up from the subway, by the fast food joint.
Watching, listening, and breathing in fumes.
The being he once was becoming exhumed.
And he stroked his cat and tried to sing.
He wanted to buy her a posh diamond ring.
Desired to catch her and take her away.
Maybe another day.

The apartment's a mess, but only because, after the war she lost her true love.
A large black dog, chased out the cat, the one that's over the street where her once lover sat.
The soldier who'd wanted to buy her a ring.
Depression got both of them, just one of them things!
(C) Livvi
A long one for me x
Nargis Parveen Jul 2019
You are my sunboy!
Sweet autumn morning light,
Touch my sleepless eyes' dew white.

Suppose, I am your mirror,
See your image in my mind,
And forget all relations left behind.

Let's go to an unknown world,
There no one will tell we are not matching,
Only two will express our Love through chirping.

Let me abandon grief of heart;
I will entangle you as golden happiness,
All the day I will busk in your sun rays.

I will be royal poinciana at hot noon,
In your summer sunshine I will burn,
From blue pain to yellow joys I will turn.
Tribal rituals
.
is failure habitual?
are we addicted to doom?
how much room in the abyss?

Bury your heads in the sand
and you win a tail to pin on the ***
that you are,
the bigger man pulls the trigger
can you?

I'm watching for those that fall through the cracks from the back of beyond
husks of men, old tuskers of men, men who busk, men who beg, men who need a leg up now and then
I'm watching for them and you know who they are,

the one's in the tents paying rent to the stars, the one's on the streets cursing the cars, the mental one, the incidental one, the drunken one, the list goes on sinking deeper and deeper I should keep a diary, but that's far to distressing.

I'm watching as
they're building a political statement,
a pyramid of facts to make more
cracks appear,

the fear of failure goes on.
Dominique Apr 2019
She is turning in now,
To the syrup grey of the city scape:
Splintering limbs to fit into cracks
And stripping her flesh to line
The potholes; the local council smiles
At the diminished road repair fees.

She is turning in now,
Before the stairs to the sky break:
Spraying her blood on the old brick tiles
And plucking her vocal chords out
To busk with; the local players grin
At the spectacle which reins the coins in.

She is turning in now,
While the skyline is scrubbed senseless:
Shooting her gouged eyes up like marbles
So they are first to taste the morning light;
And this time only the birds laugh
For they recognise her need to escape-
And the circular motion of constant daybreak.
When the brow of the horizon softens,
She turns once more into dust.
There is a girl I know with clinical depression and as much as the crushing routine of academia messes with us all, I see its effects on her a lot.
This is about the idea of never being able to rest even when you rip yourself apart to do so.
For Wiki <3

— The End —