"chums" poems
The lawyers, Bob, know too much.
They are chums of the books of old John Marshall.
They know it all, what a dead hand wrote,
A stiff dead hand and its knuckles crumbling,
The bones of the fingers a thin white ash.
The lawyers know
a dead man's thought too well.
In the heels of the higgling lawyers, Bob,
Too many slippery ifs and buts and howevers,
Too much hereinbefore provided whereas,
Too many doors to go in and out of.
When the lawyers are through
What is there left, Bob?
Can a mouse nibble at it
And find enough to fasten a tooth in?
Why is there always a secret singing
When a lawyer cashes in?
Why does a hearse horse snicker
Hauling a lawyer away?
The work of a bricklayer goes to the blue.
The knack of a mason outlasts a moon.
The hands of a plasterer hold a room together.
The land of a farmer wishes him back again.
Singers of songs and dreamers of plays
Build a house no wind blows over.
The lawyers--tell me why a hearse horse snickers
hauling a lawyer's bones.
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My mother she had children five and four are dead and gone;
While I, least worthy to survive, persist in living on.
She looks at me, I must confess, sometimes with spite and bitterness.
My mother is three-score and ten, while I am forty-three,
You don't know how it hurts me when we go somewhere to tea,
And people tell her on the sly we look like sisters, she and I.
It hurts to see her secret glee; but most, because it's true.
Sometimes I think she thinks that she looks younger of the two.
Oh as I gently take her arm, how I would love to do her harm!
For ever since I cam from school she put it in my head
I was a weakling and a fool, a "born old maid" she said.
"You'll always stay at home," sighed she, "and keep your Mother company."
Oh pity is a bitter brew; I've drunk it to the lees;
For there is little else to do but do my best to please:
My life has been so little worth I curse the hour she gave me birth.
I curse the hour she gave me breath, who never wished me wife;
My happiest day will be the death of her who gave me life;
I hate her for the life she gave: I hope to dance upon her grave.
She wearing roses in her hat; I wince to hear her say:
"Poor Alice this, poor Alice that," she drains my joy away.
It seems to brace her up that she can pity, pity, pity me.
You'll see us walking in the street, with careful step and slow;
And people often say: "How sweet!" as arm in arm we go.
Like chums we never are apart - yet oh the hatred in my heart!
My chest is weak, and I might be (O God!) the first to go.
For her what triumph that would be - she thinks of it, I know.
To outlive all her kith and kin - how she would glow beneath her skin!
She says she will not make her Will, until she takes to bed;
She little thinks if thoughts could **** to-morrow she'd be dead. . . .
"Please come to breakfast, Mother dear; Your coffee will be cold I fear."
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My Wars are laid away in Books—
I have one Battle more—
A Foe whom I have never seen
But oft has scanned me o’er—
And hesitated me between
And others at my side,
But chose the best—Neglecting me—till
All the rest, have died—
How sweet if I am not forgot
By Chums that passed away—
Since Playmates at threescore and ten
Are such a scarcity—
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*You are my shadow
U follow me everywhere
I don't turn around to stare
But when I do
I see you there
We are close
We are buddies n' chums
We laugh
We giggle
I don't say goodbye
Cause I know u are there
You hug my back
I keep U warm
I love U
Keep shadowing me
Sweet shadow*
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 9:57 PM UTC
The Flowers
"How happy and pretty
You look!"
I said to some flowers
And shook.
"Happiest moment in life",
Said the flowers
"When in search of nectar
The bee hovers."
I said, "It's very interested
and swollen,
Has selfish purpose and
Carries pollen."
"You pluck, hand over us
When you meet,
***** down us on floor.
We lie at feet."
"Our friends, our chums
Butterfly and bee!"
Bluntly said the flowers
And rejected me.
S. Bharat
Apr 9, 2019
Apr 9, 2019 at 11:01 PM UTC
ANZAC CHUMS AND THEIR MUMS
In Oz the possum grinds on thorn and gum
Far too stretched to visit mum -
Things are hard outback of Bourke
And there’s no time for anything but work.
But Kiwi possums like to visit ma
With flowers for her crystal jar -
They’ll even take a shopping bag of buds
With some greens and beans and spuds.
In Oz the possum is protected
As indeed might be expected -
Beset by fires and drought and prickles
And parched out creeks that slim to trickles.
But Kiwi possums are heaven sent
To slurp and scoff to heart’s content -
When they dine they have the best
And not surprisingly are deemed a pest.
In Oz a treasure - in NZ an imported glitch
There are mixed opinions either side the Ditch –
Mum’s the word on making possums able
To visit home with veggies for the table.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 7:27 AM UTC
my wars are laid away in books
I have one battle more
a foe whom I have never seen
but oft has scanned me over
and hesitated me between
and others at my side ,
but chose the best neglecting me-till
all the rest have died
how sweet if I am not forgot
by chums that passed away
since playmates at threescore and ten
are such a scarcity
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 1:30 PM UTC
"Ähoy" a sudden call, that speaks so much ; looking up I see,
a face familiar for ages,up above the dark, sturdy Palmyra tree,
thirty feet high, amidst the lush canopy of thick green leaves,
his toddy tapper's gear, unchanged for generations, around his waist,
just a breast plate to protect from the rough trunk, while crawling up,
a broad smile, time couldn't wither, on that countenance.
An ancient avatar, he jumps out from a favorite story book,
of childhood, he animated a lot of memories of those times,
walking through the narrow path among trees,a loud "Ähoy"
would unexpectedly greet dad and I, from where the wind reigns,
unaware there is world above, ready to reach us, any time,
cut in to our animated talk on atlas moths with broad wings,
or amazing things, Malabar squirrels that fly from tree to tree.
"Ähoy! Raman!how'z toddy flow today? All fine?"
his voice booming from below, dad would cheer our friend;
more like talking to the wind and trees, pleasantly surreal.
"Ähoy"makes all fall in place, Raman hasn't changed a bit,
time flows only down here, up there it seems standing still,
my little village too has a trap, I suspect, time has no way to escape,
if it makes the river languid, no, Raman seems not to mind!
"Master" the old familiar endearment, "Ẅhat's the matter?
from here, above the clouds, I can see those brooding eyes,
The city, shall I say took all those smiles, you would gift
as a village boy , going to school with your chums, this way"
I know what comes next, fresh toddy served with love as an antidote,
right here under the tree, a brew that brims with memories
of many guilty pleasures of adolescence,can I ever reject?
No worry lines on that gentle face, Raman is ageless, cool,
we sit on a pre historic rock, that extends seating arrangement,
in to container, he made with braided Palmyra leaf,
Raman pours limitless love that for others would look like toddy,
to me this milky liquid, is a magic potion tapped from memories,
of a past that I thought has winged away from me but still here.
I gulp it and get transported to a time, I don't want to forget,
Now the wind, I can hear hums an old haunting tune,familiar
In mild intoxication, we chorus the wind's song on Palmyra leaves.
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 11:04 AM UTC
On the long continuous bench in Audobon park, New Orleans, I sat watching the Siren statue. Her hand high with proud strength of her metallic near-immortality. Her cherub children sitting on bronze turtles, holding separate items of ritual in their hands, perhaps a conch, perhaps a lute. As the Siren stood on her globe, a murky green orb of a thing, there were lovers and birds, children and historians with photographic memories in their voguishly composed hands, crouching, cropping, and framing images as infinite as the bronze statues.
I wondered.
If our memories were as sound as granite, and our hearts as pure as the water that froths at a Siren’s feet, would we enjoy and enjoin our attempts, our passions, to act as our own scaffolding to our existence? Would we appreciate the small things, pleasures of love, photographs and amazement that only those bound to and cursed by time could possibly appreciate? Have you actually seen the faces of these bronze castings, once earthly golden in hue, but now terrorized with their own emblems of decay in sheen of turquoise tarnish? Those smiles of the Siren on her globe, her frolicking cherub chums with eternal infantile fists and oceanic paraphernalia, are not the smiles we should ever want to understand.
There was a breeze.
Somewhere in the leaves of an old photo album, across the globe beneath the Siren’s feet, sits an island I call home. Amongst them, the photos of the young boy who always questioned and liked answers all the same now was by and beside himself. His smile eternally saved for the memories of souls yet to come, and no less by the loving eyes of a mother, with voguishly composed hands.
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 2:46 PM UTC
Militantly mustachioed, at least in my mind's eye, and
Invincibly attired toe-to-wing in sterling silver, he
Commands legions less scary than our mechanized monsters, but
Hell's soon-to-be tenants are awed enough to scurry. Swords, not
Angelic in a cherubic sense, wilt Lucifer's pride, and
Exiting those gates, the now-Dark Prince howls his lament. I picture
Laughs on Cloud 9, Michael sharing beers and war stories with chums.
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 3:23 PM UTC
my buddy keeps me chained to the bed
he's like a dark shadow, consuming and-
and my pal, the one that's there when i look into the past,
thinks that he can be a good friend;
they double team me, pin me down,
choke me 'til i feel sick
'til tears leak from shadowed eyes.
it's one hell of a ********* let me tell you
i barely leave the bedroom
i've barely left the house in months
see my last lover cheated on me
so i'm sticking to friends with benefits now—
they don't mind sharing me
and sometimes they invite more chums along.
i'd give their names but you'd lose interest;
nobody wants to talk about my love life
once they can put faces to my promiscuity
all this company
and i'm alone as can be
did you know it's been over three months
since anybody touched me?
since i touched anybody else?
"what about your lovers"
they're teases, really—what else could drive me to tears?
i shed three today
i think they call that growing
but i could still see his shadow behind my eyelids
hear his voice inside my mind
and then i was three years old again,
no lovers, no threesomes, no gang bangs
just screaming and tears and
"big boys don't cry"
'daddy, i'm three'
his new girlfriend washes me clean
'why is daddy angry?'
"let me shampoo your hair, there's sick everywhere"
back in the moment and i'm eighteen years old
i taste acid in my throat.
there's a broken bowl.
another lover━this one cool and callous and uncaring━
she comes and sweeps me back to bed;
she's efficient like that,
i no longer care if i'm living or dead.
i still feel sick but-
i'm fine. all these friends slash lovers
it's okay because they're mine.
you don't know how much it means to a lonely child
to have something he can hold onto,
to say, "i'm gonna live with these guys for the rest of my life."
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 6:46 AM UTC
Have you heard about old Erik Satie?
He was quite slim and not un fatti;
Son père was a Frog, his Ma a wee ****
(which must have given quite a shock
to his musical chums at the Conservatoire
where he wrote "Trois morceaux en forme de poire").
While sitting 'au piano' one fine day
At his Honfleur home so bright and gay,
Our Erik felt himself come over queer,
(le résultat triste de beaucoup de bière).
He hadn't felt so odd since he didn't know when
(that's when he wrote his "Gnossiennes").
Now I don't want you to think Erik was bent
That certainly wasn't what I meant;
But there's no doubt he was a little odd
(indeed many called him an asexual sod);
For, although French, he loved not the ladies
(and he also wrote three nice "Gymnopédies").
Many piano pieces which Satie penned
Are rather silly and round the bend;
One was called "Prélude for a Dog"
(which he wrote whilst sur le bogue);
Perhaps his best known work is called "Parade"
Which some people think is quite avant-garde.
He was a bit ***** and collected umbrellas
Which set him apart from saner fellers;
He had lots of velvet suits to his name
(and for some reason, they all looked the same).
But he over-did it on the ***** was often ******
Thus he died prematurely, and is sorely missed.
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 8:46 AM UTC
I confess I’m addicted to my phone
My observations tell me I’m not alone
For when you venture out it’s plain to see
The majority of us are glued to our screens
Whether on the tube or pushing a pram
We all have devices in our hands
Surfing the net or social networking
Everyone obsessed with being plugged in
It’s getting so bad even in company
We’re not fully there as we view our screens
And now there are warnings from TFL
Not to fall down escalators as a result of this swell
In checking our messages, writing posts
Face to face interaction up in smoke
We’d rather be alone in the cyber world
Than engaging in reality with other boys and girls
It is an epidemic that’s spreading extremely fast
Thus it seems that human contact
could become a thing of the past
No need to leave the house anymore
When everything can be ordered and delivered to your door
A society of zombies isolated could we become
If we don’t down devices and venture out into the scrum
And mingle with other beings physically there
Where we can look them in the eye
and maintain that stare
Connecting on a basic level without the aid of WiFi
And concentrating on each other
instead of being distracted by
Notifications and little beeps
Incoming communication that never sleeps
And keeps you up all night as your brain just can’t switch off
From all the incessant stimuli we’re inundated with
Time to give it a rest, take a break just for a while
Look up from your laptops and perhaps give someone a smile
Watch where you are going, don’t get yourself run over
Be present in the moment and you hopefully won’t fall over
Have a coffee with someone instead of instant messaging
Regard the world around you taking note of everything
Don’t zone out and go into a solitary trance
Assemble your tribe, spin some tunes, have a little dance
Limit your time on the World Wide Web
Grab yourself a hottie and get jiggy with them instead
I’m talking to myself
As well as anyone else
Your family and chums are precious
And deserve nothing less
Than your undivided attention
For one day there’ll come a time
When perhaps they’re no longer around
And you regret being online.
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 2:24 PM UTC
Bridezilla is on the rampage
slightest mishap starts to rage
place settings, table plans
hair pulling, feet dance
screams and tantrums
plate dodging chums
stressing over money
I’m so not funny
hubby-2-be was being tongue-in-cheek
unaware of the havoc I can wreak
he’s in the doghouse for a week
my company is not for the meek
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 9:47 AM UTC
From their farms and their villages, they answered the call;
of King and of Country, to the great game of war.
They drilled and they practiced to work as a team,
then were shipped to the Somme, July, Nineteen sixteen.
A film of their training was made to be shown
to their sisters and mothers and lovers back home.
It was screened one time only, to standing acclaim,
for the unwitting widows who carried their names.
Like ripe wheat at the harvest felled by the scythe,
the chums led the assault and half paid with their life.
Lincolnshire wept when the casualties were read.
That first day at the Somme saw twenty Thousand dead.
Those that returned to their village or farm
Thereafter oft woke from their sleep in alarm.
They were changed men and broken, who returned from the fray,
and who bore their survivor guilt to their own dying day.
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 4:36 PM UTC
‘t was nice till now.
I’d be a sad fool to complain.
There are others that deal with
much more **** then I can ever imagine.
There are happy homeless chums
that don’t give a **** about sadness but, unfortunately,
their madness is voiceless
and, sadly, our ears get numb after 3-4 minutes of elevator music.
It was cool and everything but now it seems that you’re only
showing the back of your head, as you’re kneeling down in front
of everybody.
No spine. No dime. No nothing.
Death lies hidden in your breast pocket,
just waiting to bite your hand or that of your loved ones,
in a blink of a blind eye.
My inner black dog chased away the black and white cats
and all that jazz is just not enough for
a healthy restart of the brain membrane.
Get closer and hear me out.
I’m speaking through my heart – this yellow bellow fella’s almost done.
I’ll whisper and you’ll understand my stubbornness,
like an unlit candle in the wind,
like a simple quiet rocket/piano man,
like the unlikely event of crashing in a brick wall.
‘t was nice.
All the dreaming
and drinking
and smiling
and crying
and cringing inside my head.
Oooooooh, what a match!
The crowd goes wild and that’s so unlike them to do – clawless, fangless, white tigers.
You might not recognize this day as being amazing and wonderful and all,
but trust me when I say that you’re in a blind spot right now and
as soon as it will be over, you’ll see it.
You’ll understand.
Those were not drops of desperation but exquisite fine wine left unattended.
Hear the echo inside this caveman’s body.
Look in this broken mirror and admit that you cannot see the eyes.
This generation of morons will stay put and eat macarons all day long.
It’s just a burning house, as Robin nicely put it in his song.
There is still hope for this silly antelope.
There is time for the timeless universe that we live in.
You’ll eventually get tired of seeing everything backwards,
of going against the stream, like a red herring in a Quentin T. dark alley.
You’ll get tired and admit that
you’re the ******* queen of everything wrong in this world.
Stop complaining.
Get over it.
For now.
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 7:58 AM UTC
When love sat neatly on the stove
Bubbling with content.
I never dreamt a fuse would blow
And leave such discontent.
When all my cakes were browning well
And soufflé neatly risen.
I never dreamt the heat would cool
And leave me in derision.
For many years my cooker worked
I was proud of all I made.
I never dreamt the power would fail
And leave me so dismayed.
But when the hotplate starts to cool
And pots refuse to simmer
I never dreamt your love would die
And leave without a glimmer.
My thermostat no longer clicks
My tiny red lights gone.
I never dreamt I’d miss them so
And depend so much upon.
The food of love that fed my heart
Is suddenly all-cold.
I never dreamt I’d lose it
Until I grew quite old.
Now I’ll starve and grow quite weak
I’m living on stale crumbs.
I never dreamt we’d come to this
No longer are we chums.
I cannot find the right fuse wire
My circuit breakers stuck
I never dreamt my torch would go
I’ve run right out of luck.
Oh God! Send someone to fix it
Before I’m without light
I never dreamt a love like that
Could leave us over night.
Dec 26, 2009
Dec 26, 2009 at 9:13 AM UTC
I wrote you a letter that you will never see
I wrote how I feel about you and how you treat me
I talked about my love for you and all the wonderful things you do
I said how I feel apologized and told you I would deal
I talked about your smell, your voice and your face
I talked about how special it is you invited me to this place
I mentioned how you can be kind and warm.....eventually gettin' around to the part where I'm torn
I wrote about how you are blind and don't allow your heart to see
I put emphasis on how you confusingly treat me
Your silly *** likes them short, blonde and dumb so you and I are seen as chums
I'm the best thing you'll never want and the treasure you'll always ignore
I'm destined to watch you choose wrong and bed ***** after *****
It was the most truth I've ever written telling you how I'm in love and smitten
I'll never let you see it because its already torn up and destroyed
Soon I will be gone taking my feelings and burrying them in the void
I'd rather have you this way than no way at all
Thats why I have to leave this place so I won't continue to fall and fall
You certainly don't deserve me if you can't see me for who I am
God didn't make me to be a stupid girl who is rail thin
We could have it all but you don't like a girl with curves and bends
Even though you treat me like a wife, a lover and gem you will never let me be more than just a friend
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 2:53 PM UTC
They marched off with no idea of the forthcoming horrors
For thousands and thousands there would be no tomorrows
They were summoned, no choice, they just had to go
The fodder that falls when the big weapons bellow.
Men who yesterday were working out on the farm
Sent to **** other men who’d done them no harm
Young men who’d answered the clarion call
Went to The Somme, to die, and to fall.
The nightmare of trenches, the cries in the night
The black lines through letters home to cover-up the plight
The new men conscripted who died the same day
Who fell from the bullets before their first pay.
The young soldier killed at the point of a knife
The sad telegram to his new pregnant wife
The horror for one man as he killed another
Standing next to a stranger he now calls a brother.
The smell of the cordite that lingers everywhere
Accompanies the stench in this deathly nightmare
The noise that so deafens, that damages ears
Fearing cowardice charges young men hide their fears.
Men started this obscenity in quiet comfortable rooms
They don’t do the dying nor end up in war tombs
They’ll take all the glory any victories afford
That belongs to those buried beneath foreign green sward.
©JRW2014
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 1:14 PM UTC
"Respect" is a word many people use
"Respect" is a word many people abuse
Most people spend their life to learn it
Most people spend their life to earn it.
So they can all say "look up to me"
and prop up their false identity
But respect doesn't come by achievement or funds
or looks, or houses, or car type or chums.
You find "respect" hanging on a cross
not by the gains but by one's loss
You find "respect" between sky and land
with a different crown on a crucified man.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 2:41 AM UTC
The Italian coast is a dangerous place for an American
Its full of sharks, so I’ve heard.
Englishmen consider the wogs chums
Americans more as the singular
With a hat from Chile,
pants assembled in Mexico,
and bananas grown in Venezuela,
The whole seems to be lesser than its parts.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 11:02 AM UTC
Lost looking for something?
A friends idea of fun?
Just a little pick me up
To make the evening fun!
Something in tablet form
Or a cheeky little bag?
A quick sniff and it's In you
Or swallowed with your drink
You've no idea what you took
But now the ceilings pink
The room is spinning wildly
You eyes begin to blink
The sounds all become louder
The noise is just intense
What was the magic tablet
Your boyfriend made you take
Well paracetomol crushed
Mixed with kitchen cleaner
The high your now experiencing
Isn't getting better
Your organs all are poisoned
Beginning to shut down
The paramedics calls your name
But your answer won't come out
Tomorrow on the table your parents look at you
Before the post mortem looks inside too
Major ***** failure one after the other
Poisoned by a legal high
That didn't work for you
So read this and learn it isn't made up
I saw her in resus, when I was a young cop
He boyfriend went to prison he said he gave it her
So off you pop now have a drink
Dance and paint the town
But don't take any smarties
Offered by your chums!
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 5:19 PM UTC
Loving her is an obvious error,
Over past few years I found so,
Virtually pure untouched love,
Experiencing it just with her...
Cutest mistake I ever made ever,
Housin' myself within her heart,
All for her is my world & myself,
Not bowing down for this world,
Getting one are our hearts daily,
Equally divine are our feelings,
Setting for a lifetime they are..
Edging the long cliff of life we live,
Very risky is this road taken by us,
Era of love awaiting us maturely,
Ruling my heart's land is a queen,
Youthful eyes tell not a single lie,
This is the life I was wishing for,
Hiking across the romantic hills,
I'm that moon & she is that Sun,
Now I get close to her everyday,
Gelling as good as childhood chums.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 6:08 AM UTC
Some days I wish I was a piranha where
I could snap at anyone who pesters me,
Which on days like this is everyone.
How can this be called a life?
Staring past the glass each and every day
Is enough to make anyone go crazy,
Year after year chums come and die,
Why should I bother with the trivial dance of friendship
Anymore?
Especially with that stupid goldfish
With those big and innocent eyes
That annoying childlike eagerness
That only lasted so long before
I took a bite of those juicy black orbs.
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 7:54 PM UTC