"cladded" poems
Mrs Dryden
sat behind you
on the beach
combing your hair
you watching
the racing tide
the sounds
on the shingle
the other people
sitting or walking
or playing ball
or flicking Frisbees
each to each
her fingers
parting strands
patting down
waves of hair
she maybe reflecting
on the night before
in the cheap hotel
the creaking bed
the second rate
furniture
the Full English breakfast
she having
a young guy
between her thighs
she spoke
of her husband’s failings
his betrayals
his preference
for younger women
you taking in
the scarcely cladded girls
sitting or walking the beach
out of your safety zone
out of reach
and Mrs Dryden’s fingers
moving down your jowls
her lips kissing
your neck
at the back
her breath
whispering words
you thinking
of Miss Fox
the year before
how you nearly went
all the way
(as they used to say)
until her parents
came back home
too soon
spoilt the fun
of one on one
look at that ship
passing over there
Mrs Dryden said
pointing out to sea
her other hand
holding yours
her words carried
on the air
and you imagining
Miss Fox
maybe sitting there.
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 2:56 AM UTC
Hear the warden mumble,
Oh, count his every steps.
Hide away your treasures,
and clean away the mess.
Metal hinges an omen,
their shriek means nothing good.
Hold of your breath and heartbeat
as the corpse does in the woods.
Glue your teeth together
Oh, put your fears aside.
Jump into the bunk bed,
convinced it's only lies.
Catch a drop of moisture,
Running down your cheek.
The ceiling upstairs is leaking,
just as it has been for weeks.
Focus on the thunder,
Oh, count each brutal ray.
Notice the cladded boot-heels
Get closer every day.
Dream of that cruel sentence,
the one that wakes up to ****
Imagine feeling empty,
your mind completely still.
Reopen the old memories,
the ones you thought you'd lost.
Kiss those vague companions,
which's faces you've forgot.
Calm those inner voices,
Oh, believe there's no despair.
Yet smell a fire burning,
Under the gibbet's stairs.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 12:54 PM UTC
Transient summers,
Forbidden Bluebell fields,
Tough times symbolise the pouring of ales.
Manicured lawns,
Cider drinking Saturdays,
Routine discussions about the sun and rain.
Hijinx down the watering hole,
The great unwashed congregating on Market Day,
Smog penetrating the lungs,
Forlorn eyes, social decay.
Leaders of austerity,
Riddled with oppressive policies,
The tedious endurement of the morning commute.
Sirens cut across Westminster,
A quintessential rave anthem,
Boxing Day sales,
Sheer pandemonium.
Revelling in satire,
And curtain twitching,
Reading racists newspapers,
Disenfranchised youth.
Icky dance floors with raging hormones,
Breath heavy with hops and acrid tobacco.
**** drops and winding waists,
Ladies bathroom, evil eyes exchanged.
Sundays spent hanging,
And Mondays depressed,
Holy communions,
Cladded in your best dress.
Suppressed thoughts,
And baited breath
An Albion filled with oppression and dread.
Sep 11, 2017
Sep 11, 2017 at 7:08 PM UTC
Thirty-five years to find the fifty
Thirty-five years to find just fifty
Thirty-five years to find those fifty
What did our government due
Thirty-five years to find the fifty
Do the math, it's just plain silly
Thirty-five years to find the fifty
Give the government it's due
You can't feel anymore. Safer?
You can't feel anymore. Safer?
You can't feel anymore. Safer?
When government gets us *******
They need a lot more time now
They need a lot more time now
Three point seven million years
To catch the other bad guys
They sit in their disguises
In a robe on courtroom benches
With their lawyer cladded henchmen
They sit in their disguises
Can you call up the police now?
Can you call up the police now?
The Chief is sitting quietly
Protecting family ties
Anybody out there? Save us!
Anybody out there? Save us!
Save our country, save our babies
Give us mob free lives
Forty-seven years of mobster torment
Forty-seven years of mobster torment
Fifty years I've no enjoyment
I may as well just die
Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 4:20 PM UTC
Church bells cry out to my loneliness...
My heart filled with melancholy
The dust has settled around me
And I am alone
I realise this
Even though destiny whispers my name...
I am alone
No one to hold
No one to utter the words, "it's going to be okay"
I am alone
And I detest this dream
I stupidly imagined
Would be bliss
Yet all I hear
Are those melancholic church bells
Calling out
"Lonely, lonely girl...
Nowhere to go
Nowhere to hide
No one to care for your
dust-cladded soul."
Feb 5, 2017
Feb 5, 2017 at 11:05 AM UTC
Like the story of mists on these hills, no one knows where it all begins and what it brings to bloom, when and how. Life, this mysterious journey of mirages and miracles.
Growing up, falling in love and marriage. Years that rush by like the moss-laden corners. The joy of cherubs that descend and grace your lives. Some late summer rain tears by the river on these gorges.
One-way ticket to go live rough like the winds on these bare slopes. The cherubs are out on their vast journey of discovery. You hoped, but it was all crumbling, bolt in the sky tore your lies apart.
You are here, amid the lilt of the hills and the music of the stars crackling up into eddies late in the nights. The ageless loneliness of life, and you have no one. Mute in this new haven, speechless in your unfamiliarity.
Should I sing like the shepherd Should I weep like the clouds parted from all their be-longings and tossed about by the stark stubble on the aged mountains? The air smells of rebirth. never another sunset winding into the valley, Does the river jump in the joy easing into the clouds, carefree like there was that I know this people. Now I am the sky. this snow-cladded dusk I am all the stars. hanging over the world? of the the flints that scratch effervescence of the moment, or does she weep at her heart laden in endless procession? Clouds, swirling dervishes, exodus of the sheep fire in the bush
I can take marshrutki by the dozens, heading out into the no-w-here.
Humanity, your only hope, and kindness, your only god.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 6:12 PM UTC
Reciprocating the thankfulness.
I know it is sighed heart which is learning to grow up.
It is on the move with a smile cladded in lyrics of a forgotten tune.
O melancholy piano music,
O bittersweet music,
O soulful piano music,
O aching string music,
O low emotional music!
I have seen your gnawing sadness and have felt your sincere creativity.
The perpetual ability to notice your credibility is hastening my mind to be
more quick.
Please come and don't delay in giving me your transparent hug!
Shivpriya-
#beautifulthingsandemotions
Mar 7, 2019
Mar 7, 2019 at 2:48 PM UTC