"cockle" poems
Jack and Jill ran up the hill,
To perv on miss muffin
Getting her fill,
She was getting it hard boiled
From Humpy Dumpty,
Who fell of the wall,
Yolk sprayed up her back,
Her screaming she wanted more.
Mary, Mary,
Quite Contrary...
How did you make it grow,
You played with the bells,
And my cockle shells and it did grow,
Mary, Mary,
Quite Contrary
Not much words to show,
A mouth your good at what you do,
Mary my sweet little bike I like to ride so.
Old Mother Hubbard
Liked it up the back cupboard,
From the younger gents
She knows,
She liked to **** meat till the marrow
Did flow swallowed the lot in one go,
Now empty is the bone.
Who thought a lady in years,
Had all this energy on the go...
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 11:53 AM UTC
When the wind blows from the front,
You'll feel the nostalgia,
Hear the hustle and bustle of fishermen,
Crunching cockle shells under their boots,
Smell the sweet smelling tobacco from pipes,
The toil and hardwork heavy in the air.
Knocking you from the moment,
A faked tan man with a chihuahua,
Hear the cackle of faked laughter,
Clattering of stilletto heels upon cobbles,
Smell the alcohol laced ***** spilling from mouths,
The fruits of labour heavy in the air.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 3:24 PM UTC
Friend Rockstar,
Listen, yield to a robust think-tank,
earlobes skidding against wheat and grain.
Terrible story, yes, what happened to that little girl.
Sterile teddy nightgowns weeping in the squad car windows.
Teacher – Teacher, do you harken my yodels for grace?
I’ve never been maternal.
Put the game on. Abortion.
That’s what I’m about.
Grab a bra. Sling some weight.
That’s what I’m about.
Some housefly wings on a weathered corn cob.
Some downhome, homegrown twang for those fancy, fussy britches.
Muddy workboots. Sweat-soaked collars.
That’s what I’m about.
Him done made me read, sir.
What sacraments did we write today?
I can still remember my first broken bone.
I can still remember my first broken *****
That could be what this is all about.
Mary, Mary, you can be contrite,
so knife – so critter – so laze – so stalked.
Who fertilized your seeds? Who reared your sprouts?
Cockle shells and silver bells, honey,
can’t grow up
to be pretty little maids all in a row.
Sterile teddy nightgowns – green bells in gaseous gardens.
Friend Rockstar, you may have to sleep.
This restless harbor is a shivering anecdote spilled from a belly,
a vast, deep cavern with love notes written in milk.
Your fried, stern smile was a flaking fingernail adjacent to the crack in the flowerpot.
Some garden, I say.
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 7:12 PM UTC
*"mary mary quite contrary
how does your garden grow
with silver bells and cockle shells
and pretty maids all in a row”*
homecoming queen
ballgown made of polythene
they always said in trash bags
you could still look haute couture
leave em wanting more
now, the only thing i’m sure of
is laura, laura, laura in the ground
nothing but her aura and a lily spattered mound
remains, it pains me to concede
that she’ll be eaten up by ghost ****
by the time she turns 18
she’ll still be homecoming queen
below my lungs and all the earth
she will be crowned
laura in the ground
angel dusted lips of blue
and eyes of lapis lazuli
all the water in the river
couldnt fill the chasm
this microcosmic monster ****** bone dry
cause the only thing i’m sure of
is laura, laura, laura in the ground
nothing but her aura and a lily spattered mound
remains, it pains me to concede
that she’ll be eaten up by ghost ****
by the time she turns 18
she’ll still be homecoming queen
below my lungs and all the earth
she will be crowned
laura in the ground
even her jewellery is broken hearted
all cut up like lines of cheap *******
it feels like all the world is utterly uncharted
with you gone i am lost in fog
you’re planted in my brain
oh, laura, laura, laura in the ground
nothing but her aura and a lily spattered mound
remains, it pains me to concede
that she’ll be eaten up by ghost ****
by the time she turns 18
she’ll still be homecoming queen
below my lungs and all the earth
she will be crowned
laura in the ground
oh laura, laura, laura palmer
golden girl, enchanted charmer
you will still be crowned
laura, lovely laura palmer
you’ve got a date with the embalmer
and afterwards there’s coffee in the ground
i promise, doll, i swear
you’ve nothing, no one left to fear
you’re all walled in and safe, my dear
my darling laura, laura in the ground
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC
Carrie, how does your garden grow?
Are the souls of your enemies
Buried beneath your personal cemetery?
The victims on their knees
Begging, beseeching, pleading
Praying to you and the same God for
Things to be as they were before
With silver bells, Carrie?
Are your nails sharpened to a point,
Itching to break bones at the joint?
To snap my wrists and tie
Them up - your peace of mind
Tortment me, ****** Carrie
Smirk and laugh before you bury
And cockle shells, Carrie?
Are you seen as a pleasurable fantasy?
A mask of terrible daydreams?
Your body caresses the loaded gun
He swears that pain is one with love
You are an instrument of pure torture
Who is viewed as a delicate sculpture
Are your pretty maids in a row?
Are we in a straight line
Waiting to be punished for our crime?
Your foolish prey meet the guillotine
One swift motion - sliced clean
Hail Carrie, the ****** empress,
Queen of deciet, and ***** mistress
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 12:53 PM UTC
Come join me sweetheart at the waters edge.
We can dabble our feet in the water that's soothing.
Splash our feet in refreshing water.
We may sit upon grounded rocks,they look a touch like stranded dolphins.
We can talk to the sound of the sea.
Me and you.
You and me.
There are no cockle shells standing in rows.
Just the fresh aroma of the sea as it crawls up your nares.
Many moments of sentimentality,as together we sit and we breathe in the scent of the sea.
Just me and thee.
The moon rises skyward.
The autumn sun falls down.
Autumn of beaches and stone dolphins, left in front of the falling sun.
Beckoned by the tide.
The pull of the tide is weak tonight.
Come sunrise the dolphins shall still be in sight.
You and I shall say goodbye.
Until the night be gone.
See you soon.
Stone hearted ones.
(c)Livvi
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 1:26 PM UTC
I write when the river's down,
when the ground's as hard as
a banker's disposition and as
cracked as an old woman's face.
I write when the air is still
and the tired leaves of the
dying elm tree are a mosaic
against the bird-blue sky.
I write when the old bird dog,
Sam, is too tired to chase
rabbits, which is his habit
on temperate days. I write
when horses lie on burnt grass,
when the sun is always
high noon, when hope melts like
yellow butter near the kitchen
window. I write when there
are no cherry pies in the
oven, when heartache comes
like a dust storm in early
morning. I write when the
river's down, and sadness
grows like cockle burs in
my heart.
Tod Howard Hawks
May 18, 2023
May 18, 2023 at 4:58 PM UTC
I write when the river's down,
when the ground's as hard as
a banker's disposition and as
cracked as an old woman's face.
I write when the air is still
and the tired leaves of the
dying elm tree are a mosaic
against the bird-blue sky.
I write when the old bird dog,
Sam, is too tired to chase
rabbits, which is his habit
on temperate days. I write
when horses lie on burnt grass,
when the sun is always
high noon, when hope melts like
yellow butter near the kitchen
window. I write when there
are no cherry pies in the
oven, when heartache comes
like a dust storm in early
morning. I write when the
river's down, and sadness
grows like cockle burs in
my heart.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Jan 25, 2021
Jan 25, 2021 at 5:54 PM UTC
When sleeping poets do dream
Do they dream at certain times
the same dreams as us, you, or I
Long love dreams without an end
Spiders winding and toads weaving
Tiny cockle shells or huge daffodils
Cold hearts melted or fried ones too
Loves not gone the other way again
Falling off, falling in, falling down
Purpled eyed women and wiggly men
Nightmares arriving never in time
Time speeding up to stand still again
Summer nights in dripping red clouds
Rain falling up or tasting sour winds
Chased once around the world twice
Losing anyway the long way back in
Winning big green coins for jumping
slow trains to nowhere, now there anywhere,
and everywhere not here,
running on tilted electrified blue time
Inhaling the soft touch of perfect love
including all the ugly ingrown warts
Coughing up butterflies into the pool
with the squishy muddy zombie eyes
Echoes heard louder with both eyes
Coloring skies without knowing why
Flights to there with wings of flame
Swallowing rainbows to taste the gold
Colors amongst us walking, talking
Phantasmal fast riding beasts
sinuously moaning oh white *******
drifting with silver temptation winds
Tripping over sounds under tall feet
blowing them in retort not too,
but three, five and one dime more
Fantastical things, ordinary for all
Then perhaps, they maybe dream
Mostly all the same as us, you or I
Of course, that may mean, we,
Could someday be real poets, three
Yet we know the biggest difference
Between a real poet or not, must be
not so much in sleeping dreams
but in those precious awakening dreams
© 2017 Jim Davis
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 6:32 AM UTC
~~~
It is all around us
a realm we cannot see
but unlike this weighted world
there we can be free
It is never subject
to senses yet untuned
it is like a vapor
lit only by the moon
another dimension?
perhaps this will explain
but you will surely know it
as an unseen rain
though it has all knowledge
it will only tell
those who practice wisdom
like the music of a shell
but you must place that cockle
to a patient ear
those who are impatient
perhaps will never hear!
you won't see see it glowing
with a human eye
but it is ever present
as real as you or i
though it is very lovely
through spirt-eyes is seen
it is the real world
our own is just a dream.
SoulSurvivor
(C) January 20, 2015
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 2:12 PM UTC
mary mary
excavate the soil
bury the roots
quite contrary
the ground feels violated
(as do i)
with silver bells
they penetrate invasively
with no regard or remorse
and cockle shells
the soil recoils
let's the being consume
and so my garden grows
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 4:11 AM UTC
Hammocks hamper an oceans intent
To disturb a slumbering crew.
Moonlight shatters over the East
To guide them through the blue.
The cabin walls of woven timber
Moaning in the swell.
The Captain sleeps on rustic papers
Creased like cockle shells.
Our hero, Crow, sits on his nest.
Discussing with the stars
How a world with all this peace
Could not result in war.
Constellations slowly recede.
Tides rise with the sun.
And withered clouds of discontent
Sprinkle the horizon.
And so the skies revealed to Crow
That darkness follows light.
The deepest trenches end in shores
So death must end in life.
At this, our hero killed the crew.
The silence was his blade.
He sank the ship before the storm
Took the friends he'd made.
The waves dragged the ship and men
To their heaven in the depths.
They rest in peace forever more
As in life, in death.
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 4:09 AM UTC
Sands sparkling
Green bubbly seaweed draped over a rock
Salt lines marking
A washed up gentleman’s flip flop.
Sweet wrappers, remains of tea leaves in plastic cups
Half eaten jam sandwiches for the sea gulls to peck
Deck chairs stacked neatly in rows and stripes
Boats desperately in need of a repair check.
The same old flag a flying over an outgoing tide
Cockle hunters and winkle pickers knee deep in slush
Jellied eels, don’t know how that came about
Children with “kiss me quick” hats in a mad rush.
Trays of stewed tea once again frog marched by dads
Buckets and spades sold in the thousands to
Cute frilly bathed girls and” got to dig deeper” lads!
Grandparents with knotted hankies on their heads
Stockings rolled down to reveal white shiny knees
“just sit there Grandma, don’t say a word”
I’ll bring you lollies and trays of sandy, luke warm teas.
At the end of the day, the beach was an art form
Displaying hundred of castles and stylish shapes of sand
It brought prosects of a healthy red skinned glow
To return home thinking you were tanned.
You’d had a good day at the beach, and now you’re done in
Just relax now with your pint of beer, bingo to look forward to
A handful of fish and chips and screaming kids to quieten
Dreaming of tomorrow, another day on the beach to get through.
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 1:43 AM UTC
Good dirt,
Bad dirt,
Bag of dirt,
dirt in a bag, avoided dirt bag, almost,
flowers, herbs
and veggies everywhere,
not a clean spot, all is dirtied,
soiled by my touch,
perfect plants in little pots,
re-planted, by gloved hands,
staying dirt free,
not gentlely,
name is Darrell,
not Mary,
don't you dare ask me how does
my garden grow,
for I will say, with dirt
on my face in my hair,
it is too early to tell so;
you can go look for silver bells
and cockle shells and all those pretty maids
in some body else's row,
cause I moved dirt for what it is worth,
for hanging baskets, on every word,
and herbs to flavor, my tongue,
as I stripped those young plants
from their root bound temporary
prisons,
for reasons unknown,
as I did not inherit my mother's green thumbs,
I did not earn any merit badges nor did I join 4 H,
in the days of my youth, now
I grow weary of faltering crops,
it is to easy to stop to ****
and wet the soil, care for
those things that rise from the dirt,
that were moved, into containers,
with indelicate fingers, gloved,
not loved by any living thing they touched.
Give me dirt,
I can't hurt dirt,
broken stems, ripped leaves,
I grieve for them and that
they may forgive, my clumsy
ways, and be touched by the healing sun's rays.
I understand dirt,
for it is where I came from,
and His breath.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 12:35 AM UTC
So MARY loved a little lamb—
Especially on her plate.
But watch out, Mary: too much lamb
Can make you overweight.
HUMPTY DUMPTY sat on the wall.
Learn from his mistake.
If you are not mindful, you
Could also fall and break.
A TISKET, a TASKET,
Forget about a basket.
Do what you are told
Or your folks will blow a gasket!
JACK SPRAT could eat no fat.
Too much fat could **** him.
But mounds of veggies on his plate
Certainly don't thrill him.
If MRS. SPRAT could eat no lean
And just the fatty parts,
Wasn’t her cholesterol level
Jumping off the charts?
MISTRESS MARY, quite contrary,
Brags about her garden,
Which, she adds, is quite unique.
**** Oops, beg your pardon.
Are silver bells and cockle shells
Much to brag about?
I guess they are more practical
When there is a drought.
JACK B. NIMBLE was pretty slick,
Although he was a nut.
Don’t play around with candlesticks,
Or you could burn your ****
EENY MEENY MINY MOE...
Invest your money and watch it grow.
It’s good to save and not to owe,
EENY MEENY MINY MOE...
GEORGIE PORGIE made the girls cry
Every time he kissed ‘em.
They didn’t like that chauvinist
And the way he dissed ‘em.
Did JACK AND JILL go up the hill
Really to get water?
What kind of H2O
Would make him swerve and totter?
If these days PETER put his wife
In a pumpkin shell,
He'd never hear the end of it;
Boy, she’d give him hell!
- by Bob B
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 8:10 AM UTC
Truth conspires to unravel my careful planting
of my garden of deception
every blossom screams your name,
every stone trips a hazard in your honor
the brooke whispers your name incessantly
your truth dances on the edges of my lips,
so desperately close to leaping into the world as an earth shattering revelation!
no thorns or barbs dare grow,
the sunlight streams though illuminating your presence
there is no hiding from you
I crave to sing the song of truth in my heart
dance the deepest confessions to light
cut down every twisted vine tangled up in my web of lies
I crave, I pine, I anguish
yet I tarry,
frozen in time the shell only recognizes obligation
thankful for your warmth
I move on and tend the garden
as if you never existed
cockle shells in a row,
only they know.
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 6:19 PM UTC
Silver bells and cockle shells
And spirits from the depths of Hell
Rock and roll and self-control
And pretty maids all in a row.
We skipped to market up in town
We rang around and all fell down
The dish and spoon are on a roll—
Don’t weep for my immortal soul.
If I need help, I’m sure to ask
A flash, a jump, a candlestick
Just thinking of it makes me sick.
The man in the moon took off his mask.
I’m to sure recall I had a great fall
Down the into the well upon the hill
And ambled round from up the ground
The ones called Jack and Jill.
The rabbit hole as Alice told
Was lonely, dark, and always cold
So out Jack set for us to get
Away from ‘neath the stone.
With Jill and I ‘tween land and sky
He found the castle way up high
And fell the giant to the earth.
He killed the giant with his words;
The little dog, for what it’s worth,
Laughed so hard when saw the birds
In the dish before the king.
My Jack, they hung right upside-down
For birds and words and killing things
With flowers in our pockets, rings
Around him like the tarnished Crown.
The giant’s death, and Jack’s as well,
Did lift me from beneath the stone
But Jill stayed dead, and all alone.
‘Twas all for naught, as I can tell.
His pretty maids all in a row
Beneath the earth and stones
Did teach us in our ways to go
For how your garden grows these bones
And takes them back to life,
Though would have stayed with death,
My dear, instead of endless strife,
When once before I knew no more
When still was warm my breath.
May 9, 2011
May 9, 2011 at 8:30 PM UTC
~
along the golden sands she runs,
swinging arms, matching stride;
crashing waves bring seagull crumbs,
deposit treasures with each tide.
sea shells scattered on the sands,
like incantations on the wind;
she gathers them amidst the strands,
blending voice above the din!
each gusty wave of her baton,
the wind is maestro to this band;
from cockle’s flute the highest pitch,
to conch’s cello, deep & rich.
the tulip’s voice of brass cornet,
of scallop’s rippling clarinet;
the kettle drum of florida’s cone,
and hammered strings of angel’s wings!
instrumental simplicity,
ancient chords, rehearsed refrain;
her call to join each voice unique,
each grain of sand, each clapping wave,
leaping toward orchestral stage,
calling forth their joyous praise.
till mistral bows in whispered hush,
a thunderous crash, their glad applause!
~
maestro -
a distinguished musician, especially
a conductor of classical music.
mistral -
a strong, cold northwesterly wind
that blows into the Mediterranean.
~
Nov 25, 2018
Nov 25, 2018 at 10:11 PM UTC
anyhow
that was the day I gave up everything
one thousand hotel mirrors
well travelled.
train Milan, cheek-kissed Maria.
cognac. A man. Unconsumed.
Guylove dance, marketplace Castries.
Lord Jackson, Victor
Calypso kinging.
Anyhow
that was the day I gave up dancing
Jack lighthouse, broken glass,
spilled Guinness never forgiven.
Named my son for him.
Anyhow
that was the day I gave up talking
crew cut Poughkeepsie, émigré fashion
boarding cockle boat, Dunkirking
Queen Mary.
Nero sunsetting on piddling empire
wallmap fading red to wilted pink
scouring the bottom of titanic bucket,
glorious lido summer, dear Liza,
got a hole in it(torn piece of rubber
mnemonic for a mother)
anyhow
that was the day I gave up ***
now come the restoration of the king.
London shall rise again,
borne on tide of flying,
infinite darkness,
osmosis of light.
whisper saint Paulus,
de-clocked, unthroning,
myriad swimmers swarm
canal cut channel,
(furry animals cluster, cuddle
in unlikely couplings).
quavering timbers
blowing and swaying,
queen lay dying, long live the king.
anyhow
that was the day I gave up my mind
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 4:21 AM UTC
thistle thorns
and cockle shells
All pretty in a row-
too bad I can't escape-
I wouldn't know where to go.
-
Can't-
someone
anyone
please protect me-
from these monsters in my head
they spin me round and round
'Play with us,' they said-
'Play with us,' they beckoned,
as they gathered us all around,
so we could play rings with Rosie-
till we all fell to the ground.
-
Ashes,
ashes,
her last palace brims high with smoke...
Oh what a silly child's game-
Don't you think it's a lovely joke?
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 1:30 AM UTC
Sat shivering in cold and damp car lot,
awaiting the bell for the dreary work-
-a-day crawl to begin.
In meditative crouch, too frozen for,
feeling or thought.
Silver Bells, cockle shells,
in Nirvana awaiting us,
drifting in lazy gusts.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 12:04 PM UTC
oh man, abba is like
prog rock made simple;
and there's so much
cheese too... i could
start a factory producing
edible shoe laces - but
then the hot flush butterfly
of puffed up cheeks of smiling...
and what, today's hit single will
not get the same treatment?
we don't remember cavemen
and dinosaurs these days,
we're stuck remembering the
20th century, as the fashion
industry makes a testament of
on a catwalk of designing
a wardrobe no one would wear...
art-house tedium with skeletons
in an open closet...
they mind the logos, so people
say Versace! Dolce & Gabbana!
they really look out for those
signature stilettos and handbags...
the poor ***** just get the
logo printed on their shirts
so people can learn reading once more,
gimme gimme sweden's weather at
midnight so i can chase those Nike
blues away... the new signature of the
illiterate, once the X, now the tick;
tick tick tick... clocking into
a system of being educated to decipher a - z
like a cabdriver,
then pulverised by images to buy spend buy
and become dyslexic when oiled up ***** ****
became a slogan of trademark & copyright of
a certain style of writing C in cocks-in-cockle-doodle; cola.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 3:08 PM UTC
Lying flat amongst the purple clover
on top of a very chalky hill.
Listening to my mind tick over
and around me life is perfectly still.
I calmly glance at the blue sky
I can smell the fragrance of late honeysuckle
I notice the dance of the pale blue butterfly
tasting the sweetness of the corn cockle.
I manage a few shut eyes and forty thinks
Then realise my mind is one mad scramble
I try to visualise cottage roses and rich red pinks
and decide to venture on in a casual amble.
I wondered if this is where they keep forgotten rainbows
in amongst the silence where the river bends
Perhaps it is where the blue lavender grows
in a place where promises are made and false hopes end.
The air sweeps gracefully across my peachy face
I hear the lonely call of an overhead thrush
I decide to leave my Heaven, my resting place
and return once more to life's mad, mad rush.
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 4:33 AM UTC
Moved around a lot
-Cockle-jocked kid
plastic with newness
Trailers dusty
roses blousy with thorns and white
pecked leaves mottled.
Resist these yards’ allure
avoid the
crackers’ friendly waves
Pedal to the Haven
piles of fill, construction
reduced tombs of left over
concrete
bricks mounds of playtimes
trenches in which to ****
off.
Trenches in which
mosquito larvae swim
skeezle-legged and
willow branches are
whips
pieces of drywall
soaked grenades and
wooden
are the guns.
Summer haircut flat nest of
stubble
face and scalp burnt. Enough
pieces of bikes to Frankenstein
one fine ride.
From the top of the hill
mawed youth
rumbles down to barrel
roll crescendo’d
stops. Let the
good
times.
Close out the day draw its
petty dread adrenalined
Panting cuz you are
late and he said
six.
Sectioned eight
pink stucco flakes and
sweetened lead.
Tatty shades
shriven.
He’s a tar cracked heel
small white dot
white
blink
blot
thinks about a
lot, these yards
landscapes drifted, curled with
feet to face, conserve his
heat.
Apr 18, 2018
Apr 18, 2018 at 8:01 AM UTC