"colleen" poems
Your lips, soft and full,
Are tearing at my heart.
Your skin, freckled and bumped,
Is at play with my palms.
Your eyes, of water and stone
Rain, storming like fists of hail.
Your ******* are blooms, pouring
Like white chocolate cupped.
Your hair, is a loom even
Penelope could not weave.
Your little feet, are drumming
Like puddles by the sea.
Your thighs, make me mutter
And sigh into the winds.
I will, not go wondering now
For whom is master and who
Is slave, are you the Morgen
Or are you Fand my gentle
Ocean wave? Your voice
Is song, your breath is air
And your pooling, marbled
Face, torso, hair, how they beckon
And your words, gifting melody,
Such words must be forbidden.
Jun 25, 2012
Jun 25, 2012 at 10:58 AM UTC
Strolling down the dusty road
I reached the path of an abode.
The Black Shamrock an Irish pub
I stopped inside for a pint mug.
One mug topped off with ale
That next to Guiness Stout
Looked pale, A Pilsner in the glass.
And down the bar a drunken fool
Sat staring with blurred eyes and drool.
A sassy colleen tended the bar.
And if your hands were free,
They wouldn't get far, for
If they reach to the wrong place.
You'ld a bar wenches Slap.
Across your face, and a spot of red
For all to see, that you got the Hand.
Of Molly McGee, a fiddler Bowed.
An Irish Jig, and a penny whistle.
Carried the tune to the drunken crowd
Within the room, a game of darts is made
While cribbage by old farts is played.
And the pints are emptied by the hour.
As the clock rings out in the churches tower
As drunks are Roused, and doors are closed
Old friends will stumble down the road.
All in an Irish night
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 5:17 AM UTC
Lost your *** and spent your gold
Drunk all night and you were told
The Murphy girls have brothers ninefold...
So, have you an inkling this mornin'?
Don't say you had no warnin'!
Gee those Murphy girls sure are pretty
But now your listening to this "told ya so" ditty
Got a bit fresh and way too giddy...
So now your hurting this mornin'
At least last night wasn't boring!
So next year's the same when put'n on the green
Remember the date it's March Seventeen
Kathleen, Maureen, Colleen do preen...
Just to count your gold in the mornin'
So don't be a leprechaun hornin'
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 1:40 PM UTC
Uncanny Colleen (unaccountably green)
is munching on cabbage and squash,
While spinning around in her washing machine
no doubt she'll come out in the wash.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 5:41 PM UTC
My **** is today
I got a low score
My sweet is today
I got to wake up.
I feel like a zombie today
My mind drifting to somewhere else
Yet my body is sitting in class about earthquakes
And a teacher with a face-palming pronunciation and grammar.
"Percent..." I heard her say once.
*But it went percient instead.*
I feel like sleeping today
Not the usual snoring kind.
That one with a total blackout
where no one can wake me but me.
My sweet is today
I get to write poems again
A slam at most
Now give me the mic (1, 2, 3, 4...)
My **** was yesterday
I was watching a slam with a friend
Not live, though
And someone called me weird.
I feel like an idiot today
Walking these halls
and wasting this ink
But (I hope) Colleen Hoover doesn't mind
I borrowed her version
of **** and sweet
-090915
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 7:57 AM UTC
i
Damsel in distress, open thine soul to me, open thine chest
Colleen of medieval lace, of darling face, I'll taketh thee now;
Yet how canst I taketh one? If none is around, Talitha cuna ghost
I seeketh even thine smoke, wherever thou art, mine spirit waits.
ii
A repast banquet awaiteth for one, a table sitteth here, chairs for two; two chairs as I sitteth and eateth alone, the plàtes art full, though none amour' to tryeth the desert, none next to me for the fruit punch of thirst. Only me staring at an empty blank wall.
iii
Now mine eye's do crawl, searching the hearkening clearance
None was ever here, just signs of emptiness, and mine own disappearance, as at that moment, when the fine dinner was set; mine heart fluttered backwards, being alone, mine spirit left.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 8:31 AM UTC
I've got a snake tattoo on one arm,
And a butterfly on the other,
Cause a lover done harm,
And since a lover done harm-
I'll leave her for another,
The butterfly is in black and white,
And the snake- I tied in an Odin's knot,
Cause I saw my lover the other night,
Yeah, the under-covers lovers got caught,
And each tattoo was a new beginning,
But that ***** she was a ****
So if Colleen wants sin, she can go on sinning,
But I won't stay in that rut!
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 9:15 PM UTC
Your lips, soft and full,
Are tearing at my heart.
Your skin, freckled and bumped,
Is at play with my palms.
Your eyes, of water and stone
Rain, storming like fists of hail.
Your ******* are blooms, pouring
Like white chocolate cupped.
Your hair, is a loom even
Penelope could not weave.
Your little feet, are drumming
Like puddles by the sea.
Your thighs, make me mutter
And sigh into the winds.
I will, not go wondering now
For whom is master and who
Is slave, are you the Morgen
Or are you Fand my gentle
Ocean wave? Your voice
Is song, your breath is air
And your pooling, marbled
Face, torso, hair, how they beckon
And your words, gifting melody,
Such words must be forbidden.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 2:34 PM UTC
You’ve had fifty fantastic years,
Many were there but now not here.
And many are here
That were not there.
That’s how life unfurls over fifty years.
Let’s celebrate these decades
Of devotion to one another;
For around us we have familiar faces,
A family of sisters and brothers,
Aunts, Uncles, Fathers and Mothers;
Grandas, Nanas, Papas and Grams,
Daughters, sons, nieces and nephews,
Granddaughters and grandsons,
Cousins, in-laws, and step-laws too.
We are family.
A tribe that began with the original six,
Then Danny met Maura to add to the mix
With Colleen and Sean our clan's enhanced,
And since many more are heaven sent.
So let me end with a toast and a wish,
That we continue to multiply
Like the loaves and the fish.
Nov 9, 2019
Nov 9, 2019 at 7:15 PM UTC
Your lips, soft and full,
Are tearing at my heart.
Your skin, freckled and bumped,
Is at play with my palms.
Your eyes, of water and stone
Rain, storming like fists of hail.
Your ******* are blooms, pouring
Like white chocolate cupped.
Your hair, is a loom even
Penelope could not weave.
Your little feet, are drumming
Like puddles by the sea.
Your thighs, make me mutter
And sigh into the winds.
I will, not go wondering now
For whom is master and who
Is slave, are you the Morgen
Or are you Fand my gentle
Ocean wave? Your voice
Is song, your breath is air
And your pooling, marbled
Face, torso, hair, how they beckon
And your words, gifting melody,
Such words must be forbidden.
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 1:03 PM UTC
Although I too have forgotten my lines
today's celluloid seems to be shedding its script
the raw talent confers a lack of oomph.
Only my projection screen follows perfection.
I'm caught in a nitrate web,
with partaken beauty firing
my basement dreams,
onward choices amongst Colleen Moore
and Blanche Sweet
testifies professionalism spoke eloquently without words
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 12:34 PM UTC
( cailín rua dearg )
Your lips, soft and full,
Are tearing at my heart.
Your skin, freckled and bumped,
Is at play with my palms.
Your eyes, of water and stone
Rain, storming like fists of hail.
Your ******* are blooms, pouring
Like white chocolate cupped.
Your hair, is a loom even fair
Penelope could not weave.
Your little feet, are drumming
Like puddles by the sea.
Your thighs, make me mutter
And sigh into the winds.
I will, not go wondering now
For whom is master and who
Is slave, are you the Morgen
Or are you Fand my gentle
Ocean wave? Your voice
Is song, your breath is air
And your pooling, marbled
Face, torso, hair, how they beckon
And your words, gifting melody,
Such words must be forbidden.
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 2:50 PM UTC
We've all heard the story about Bonnie and Clyde
How they met, eloped and died.
And we're tired of hearing
About Henry and Ann,
And their shameless lives
Back in Tudor England.
When their marriage broke,
Ann lost her head,
With one stroke.
I won't bother you with the story
Of Napoleon and Josephine,
And that messy business
With the guilotine.
You know Caesar and Cleo
Put on quite a show,
They had a long distance relationship
From Rome to Egypt.
But it ended badly.
She by a snake bite,
Him by Marc Antony.
These famous couples didn't tarry;
They were harried
Before they married;
They met and wed,
But were too soon dead.
Now Byron and Colleen
Met when teens,
Byron was sixteen,
Colleen just fifteen.
They lived together,
To begin,
He loved her,
She loved him.
This wasn't living
As they say, “In sin.”
No rings lingered
On wedding fingers:
No bands of gold
To wear 'til old.
No license, no Registrar,
No vows were spoken,
But their silent vows
Were never broken.
They didn't need
A wedding token.
The cost was never the issue here,
Although Byron always claims he's poor.
And thus they carried on.
Boy, did they carry on.
In a romantic spree.
First came Jordan,
Then Jamie.
And thus they passed
Their years together,
In seeming status quo;
A happy well-matched couple,
For all intents, and show.
They lived well,
Ate well too,
Dressed and drove,
Worked and strove
For friends and family.
And all along,
The two of them
Have been our pleasure
To know.
After all, they're behind
Their doors,
That's all we we need to know.
And thus, they carried on.
Boy, they carried on.
Years down the road
They honey-mooned,
And after this, they married;
Like Benjamin Button
All seems reversed.
Should they continue
This backward style,
Then in awhile,
Following this reception,
They'll probably meet
At their conception.
Should they continue
In this fashion,
Their marriage should end
With their parents' ******
This is
The Ballad of Byron nd Colleen,
and if truth be told,
You're still just teens.
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 8:30 AM UTC
He'd broken hearts, he made girls cry
to him twas all the same.
He was, you see, a player,
and "love" his favorite game.
It helped that he was handsome
in a rakish sort of way.
When lovers turned the talk to "Love"
He'd get himself away.
Until one day he met his match;
a colleen with a fiery mane.
Blue eyed and fair,with quite a pair,
Her wit drove him insane.
The knave of hearts was *******
by the mere mention of her name.
Thereafter nothing seemed the same
as back when it had been a game.
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 8:12 AM UTC
( cailín rua dearg )
Your lips, soft and full,
Are tearing at my heart.
Your skin, freckled and bumped,
Is at play with my palms.
Your eyes, of water and stone
Rain, storming like fists of hail.
Your ******* are blooms, pouring
Like white chocolate cupped.
Your hair, is a loom even
Penelope could not weave.
Your little feet, are drumming
Like puddles by the sea.
Your thighs, make me mutter
And sigh into the winds.
I will, not go wondering now
For whom is master and who
Is slave, are you the Morgen
Or are you Fand my gentle
Ocean wave? Your voice
Is song, your breath is air
And your pooling, marbled
Face, torso, hair, how they beckon
And your words, gifting melody,
Such words must be forbidden.
May 28, 2016
May 28, 2016 at 5:20 PM UTC
At first I would have nothing
to do with him.
He waited outside my
small flat everyday
Soaked to the skin
in the November rains.
I asked him to go away
But he flashed his
beautiful Irish smile.
And said no
not until you go out with me.
I will wait here forever.
I thought a few more days
He will leave.
But that night I heard
a commotion outside.
He had a group
of Irish musicians
And was
serenading me with
I'll take you home again Kathleen
And
When Irish eyes are smiling.
I don't know when
I fell in love with him.
It might of been then.
All I know it was long ago
And they were
the happiest days of my life.
He sang to me everyday
And called me
his American Colleen.
He always
made me feel so beautiful.
I have lost my smiling
Irish singer now.
When the sickness came
He just smiled
and say it was a bit of a cold
But I knew ...I knew….
Now on cold November nights.
When the Seattle rain is endless.
I look at the
bloom of the old lamppost
Outside my flat window.
Where he waited
and sang for me?
And in my head
I can hear his sweet Irish brogue
Singing so sweetly his soft celtic voice.
*I’ll take you home again Kathleen
To where you heart will feel no pain*
Sep 5, 2016
Sep 5, 2016 at 1:34 PM UTC
Your lips, soft and full,
Are tearing at my heart.
Your skin, freckled and bumped,
Is at play with my palms.
Your eyes, of water and stone
Rain, storming like fists of hail.
Your ******* are blooms, pouring
Like white chocolate cupped.
Your hair, is a loom even
Penelope could not weave.
Your little feet, are drumming
Like puddles by the sea.
Your thighs, make me mutter
And sigh into the winds.
I will, not go wondering now
For whom is master and who
Is slave, are you the Morgen
Or are you Fand my gentle
Ocean wave? Your voice
Is song, your breath is air
And your pooling, marbled
Face, torso, hair, how they beckon
And your words, gifting melody,
Such words must be forbidden.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 2:40 PM UTC
Pictures on the Cave Wall
I look for the humility and pride I want in doubt
When I can only look there.
I close my eyes. Help me pray like a man. Not like a fool.
Accept my doubt and my self-conscious blessings and
My rote mumbled grace. Give me a chance.
I know I can be good.
Plato saw shadows on the cave wall. They said something somewhere else is pure.
I saw bright painted animals. I will go with the hunters and their dogs.
I want a fire and food and love and
I want to hear the love story again,
Or the friend story:
I’m 17, back in the boys’ bathroom at high school, punching and kicking
Andrew Fane, who hit Colleen so hard and often. I didn’t know.
She was my friend.
For months I didn’t know. How stupid. He humiliated Colleen, she crawled,
She was my friend and that is more than a saint for me.
She was my friend and this is more than a saint for me and for many like me.
Save me from the coarse things all men are offered.
I will do the right thing.
Help me guess the right thing.
Paul Anthony Hutchinson
[email protected]
www.pahutchinson.com
Copyright Paul Anthony Hutchinson
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 10:54 AM UTC
I started working my life
in a way sarah would like
it send quite misdirected
living a way someone else suggested
but she’s the one I’ve trusted
all throughout thus crazy life
so many turns sometimes the wrong way
she was there not an ear spared
sarah seems to care
when I have every thing to bear
she will listen and not put up a fight
to make me do what’s right
sarah let’s me see
what my decisions have done to me
she always shows me
a new way to try and be
finding a way within my mind
to close out the rest
she makes me find
colleen at her best
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 9:13 AM UTC
Your lips, soft and full,
Are tearing at my heart.
Your skin, freckled and bumped,
Is at play with my palms.
Your eyes, of water and stone
Rain, storming like fists of hail.
Your ******* are blooms, pouring
Like white chocolate cupped.
Your hair, is a loom even
Penelope could not weave.
Your little feet, are drumming
Like puddles by the sea.
Your thighs, make me mutter
And sigh into the winds.
I will, not go wondering now
For whom is master and who
Is slave, are you the Morgen
Or are you Fand my gentle
Ocean wave? Your voice
Is song, your breath is air
And your pooling, marbled
Face, torso, hair, how they beckon
And your words, gifting melody,
Such words must be forbidden.
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 2:08 PM UTC
If I t'wer find a Woman of Mind, With the Heart an Erin colleen..........
A smile would I, a twinkle in my eye, and the feel of my Heart A'brim
A Dance I'd do, to a Penny Whistles Tune, all for pure Enjoyment
This Woman of few, I surely Knew, would Be an Angle Sent
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 6:47 AM UTC
Your lips, soft and full,
Are tearing at my heart.
Your skin, freckled and bumped,
Is at play with my palms.
Your eyes, of water and stone
Rain, storming like fists of hail.
Your ******* are blooms, pouring
Like white chocolate cupped.
Your hair, is a loom even
Penelope could not weave.
Your little feet, are drumming
Like puddles by the sea.
Your thighs, make me mutter
And sigh into the winds.
I will, not go wondering now
For whom is master and who
Is slave, are you the Morgen
Or are you Fand my gentle
Ocean wave? Your voice
Is song, your breath is air
And your pooling, marbled
Face, torso, hair, how they beckon
And your words, gifting melody,
Such words must be forbidden.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 7:35 PM UTC
Today someone told me
"You're so loved.
and those are not
Just words."
And I didn't know
what to say.
Would my response be
"just words"?
Or would it mean something.
Because words are all we have.
Between
lyrics, poetry, novels, and raps,
words are how
Mommy communicates
with little Benny
in the back seat.
And how Michael
tells Colleen
how much he loves her
from the army base
over seas.
So when you speak
remember
words are powerful.
Nothing you say
contains "just words."
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 5:16 PM UTC
Beth Evans lived in a mirror, reflecting something past.
A severed soul was the first stone cast.
Imagination was all which remained,
As her flowered dress sit stained.
Two years gone without a word
An adolescent voice barely heard
Sat in a room for days on end.
Thoughts for which no one penned.
...
Robert Glasse, 40 years of age
A man prone to fits of rage
Lived off the means of foreclosed hope
No more vile than a christened pope.
Robert Glasse knew Mr. Evans,
Before the man moved on to the heavens
He promised to treat Beth as a daughter,
To the deceased man who was her father.
...
Colleen Evans was a widowed mum
Who soon developed a love for ***
Addiction came with the greatest of speed,
A battle which she had to concede.
Rehabilitation took four long weeks
Completed at Pleasant Creeks
Meanwhile, her daughter had class,
So Beth was fostered by Robert Glasse.
...
For the first few days everything was fine
Then Robert poured the girl a glass of wine
The haze outlasted common ludes,
Then the girl awoke partially ****
Confused, she pushed the event from her mind.
Though, truthfully, it just lingered behind.
Then, one night came a trauma quite severe
Where the girl saw no choice, but to divide herself in a mirror.
...
Robert had planned it all along
And nothing in his mind had gone too wrong
Beth was shown no neglect
He had treated her with the utmost respect
He refused to see the blood drenching the bed
(That could have induced a sense of dread)
He just left poor Beth twitching and battered
And continued to pretend that nothing in life mattered.
...
Colleen came home after four long weeks
Finding her daughter, tears drenched her cheeks
Beth lay stagnant, blankly staring
The torture she'd been through was more than glaring
Never again was a word spoke between them,
As Beth appeared in constant rem
Realizing that her daughter was now nearly catatonic
Colleen had no problem returning to being an alcoholic.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 4:06 PM UTC
**** you thieving gulls,
bold and noisy bandits of the air
you will not still my thoughts,
I need to sit on a shiny plastic chair
scrape the legs across a bumpy concrete floor,
drink a cup of steaming words,
lose then find myself within the oceans roar,
come foaming water take me
wash my head
fold me and remake me
send me tumbling to the beach
to roll and scrape along the sand
throw my worries out of reach
snack on them for just a little while
swallowed whole by heaving marram grass
trapped within your ever shifting smile
Apr 20, 2025
Apr 20, 2025 at 7:09 AM UTC