"conkers" poems
I miss the playground as it used to be,
Laughter, fun and frivolity,
Sliding down and spinning 'round,
Chasing the breeze and winning the race,
Hope was written on my face.
I see the playground as i wish it were,
Children playing and running free,
Climbing the trees and smiling,
Collecting the conkers and the dreams,
It's not how it once did seem.
I'm in the playground with my adult eyes,
Dealers, knives and the addiction,
Crashing down and going mad,
With legs of lead and vision so blurred,
If i had screamed...no one heard.
I'm in the playground with my fear and hate,
Shooting up and going under,
Paying but the money's gone,
Needing to slide when i'm feeling high,
I have kissed my past goodbye.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 3:39 PM UTC
Hot chestnuts warming in their skin
Wild cherries for the brandy and sloes for the gin
Bramley apples and blackberries stewing together
Halls decked with bouquets of dried heather.
Deep dark red petals from the English rose
Pineapple mint food where the rosemary grows.
Oranges and lemons added for extra taste
Walnuts for the cake and almonds for the paste.
October’s pumpkins glowing bright
Apples dripping with toffee for bonfire night.
But waiting for the polished conkers to fall
Makes autumn the best season of them all.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 5:09 AM UTC
The air hangs heavy today
After last nights banging of the drum
Its strobe light pyrotechnics
The awe inspiring deluge
That washed even criminality from the streets
The old horse-chestnut tree who's shade I often steal
Proudly exposes its now swollen spiky fruit
We sigh together, this old friend and I
Another summer will soon come to pass
Let us drink its final rays
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 9:34 AM UTC
Pretty soon the conkers would be falling, she could already see their
plump, cherubim bodies
spiked and dangling
like baubles,
or those underwater bombs,
from the oak leaves,
hanging limp.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
"O WORDS ARE POOR RECEIPTS FOR
WHAT TIME HATH STOLE AWAY"
The summer sky
tried me on to see
if it fit
or I fitted it.
It was not used to being
a 7 year old boy.
I quite liked the exchange
to have clouds for eyes
birds flying
though all my thoughts
wearing a rainbow
in my hair.
To have a heart
that shone like the sun.
The summer of '63
ran about my bedroom
looked out windows
ran down stairs
three at a time
kicked a ball against a wall
swopped comics
marbles and conkers
recited "I remember, I remember"
to itself
until it could
remember it.
Absolutely loved me Da
being its Da
the kisses of my Ma
the laughter of a brother.
Oh what a thing it was
being human.
I, in due course
was an about-to-be
thunderstorm
clumping about the evening
like hobnail boots
on marble tiles.
Thunder and lightning
the whole works.
I could have gone on
for a forever
chasing horizons
making up the days to come.
But the summer sky
had taken all it could
take of being
a little boy.
So many thoughts
running about a head
that was only just
about 7
so that it fell asleep
and when it awoke
it was no longer me
but itself
the summer of '63.
I too had released
the sky back to the how
it should
and has to be.
My thoughts scattered like birds
by a chance church bell
telling time
its Angelus
or a knell
to end it all.
I still remember all of it
as if
it had really really
happened.
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 6:09 AM UTC
They went skinny dipping,
when the sky laid heavy and warm,
in bare naked exposure,
night swimming,
in the moonlight bright
she found herself the golden one,
he was a tired diamond,
tired to death of life,
he peeled shells from nutmegs,
which he dutifully crushed,
a sorry occupation,
and he blushed,
the non-conformist nutmeg,
just a little spicy,
he hung them out to dry,
swung from the boughs of the sweet chestnut tree,
shouted so loud,
that his voice became hoarse,
the man who played conkers,
that old chestnut,
the horse one,
picked up his conkers,
my God,he was bonkers,
(C) Livvi
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 7:05 AM UTC
Autumn Friday in sepia,
Counting conkers in the park,
Lit by a fuzzy chestnut sun
That fairly crackles
As it touches the chilly branches
Of the mother tree.
I, too, am a mother tree
Hoarding conkers in the bottom of the pram,
For excited little twiglets,
There must be near two hundred in there now,
Large and small,
loving them all,
My daughters
wonder at the shiny brown bullets,
Loading their skirts with more and more,
Dropping, laughing, searching, competing
For the biggest, shiniest ball.
Home we go,
Loaded with treasure,
I will stash them in a bag
And let them live with us
'Til Summer.
They must be kept,
I cannot be parted
From the source of so much joy
For the keepers of my heart.
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 1:11 PM UTC
It's a twenty/twenty world of plenty
so what you moaning for?
you're getting everything you'd ever want
and who could ask for more?
Alas,
my vision grows quite dim and any chance there
ever was, of me getting some of anything
is growing awfully slim.
In a twenty/twenty when there's plenty
some get more than their fair share
I get none
but I don't care.
You'll find me at the bring and buy
where I buy some,bring some
find some,win some
but in a twenty/twenty of lots of plenty where life tramples me and I feel empty
I go gently
into the night.
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 3:02 PM UTC
Rugby-bruised September
has bowed out
beckoning in
October with it’s conkers,
changing leaves
& pumpkin harvests
the stars are calling
far off winter light,
the badger
in his den
believes
& Keats, that bright star
I read
& dwell on summer past
composing odes & songs
to summer days
remembering
the swallow’s soar
above the Sea
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 5:32 PM UTC
I put conkers on my door-frame, to keep spiders at bay,
I like my bedroom messy so I don't put things away.
I wish I had a pony, but I know I wouldn't drive it,
I wish I had a bumblebee, but I've no hive to hive it.
I'm a vegetarian but I've no views on rights of chickens,
I love to read the classics but I've no views on ****** Dickens,
I own a hundred thousand scarves but never would I wear one,
I'd envy those who have tattoos, but I would never bare one.
I light candles everyday but they make me cough,
I respect those that speak in Art and understood Van Gogh,
I drink coffee everyday, but never liked it very much,
I've never had a rabbit but I own a cage and hutch.
We all do little, crazy things that no one understands,
we lose control and lose ourselves and always change our plans.
The ones they think are crazy are the ones who cause the change,
whether you love or hate them, you always know their names.
So if you're building up an army , piece by piece by piece,
please remember normal friends, you need one oddball at least!
Oct 7, 2011
Oct 7, 2011 at 7:48 PM UTC
The season has changed
the colours are bright
the calm sway of a breeze
forces leaves to take flight
The blanket that comforts the sky
leaves frost over thickening blades
the crimson bonfire blaze
lights the sky for days
Pumpkins and apple pies
grace October with glee
the sweet smoke of burning wood
gently caress my fears to free
Conkers fall at my feet
kissed by natures protective force
the mellowed sweetness and starry skies
softly lighten winter’s course
Oct 24, 2017
Oct 24, 2017 at 9:37 AM UTC
THE TASTE OF AUTUMN
Hot chestnuts warming in their skin
Wild cherries for the brandy and sloes for the gin
Bramley apples and blackberries stewing together
Halls decked with bouquets of dried heather.
Deep dark red petals from the English rose
Pineapple mint food where the rosemary grows.
Oranges and lemons added for extra taste
Walnuts for the cake and almonds for the paste.
October’s pumpkins glowing bright
Apples dripping with toffee for bonfire night.
But waiting for the polished conkers to fall
Makes autumn the best season of them all.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 4:07 AM UTC
Make a wish, and then its gone
A curl of smoke now a spent dry wick
Happiness held for a moment
Then the sickly spittled cake
For the birthday boy, mum loads him up
And jealous friends crowd round
Skirting round the edges,
Dad takes a snap at mum’s request
Happiness held for a moment
Further out, against the wall
Elderly relatives watch it all
In prickly jumpers, sovereign chains
Fisherman’s friends and pocket change
Slow and still, they watch it all
I unpack the plastic crap my parents bought
Parents doing all they ought to get me hooked
That plastic smell like sniffing glue
The cheap thrill of something new
Happiness held for a moment
Party bags at the door and then its over
Thanks are forced from mouths
By parents eyeing the morning
Outside the orange October light fades
On streets the lamps are lighting
The hush of school tomorrow hangs there
Among conkers and chimney smoke
Back inside my home the smell of boys
Hangs in the air; a fug trapped
In deep pile and double glazing
The telly’s on now and **** are burning in the ashtray
Now they’re asleep, and its over
I sit surrounded in my room at the back of the house
The orange light is coming in through thin curtains
I can’t move for presents, I feel I am imploding
Like a crinkled balloon, expelled of everything
Feeling everything and nothing
Happiness held for a moment
August 2021
Aug 24, 2021
Aug 24, 2021 at 12:52 AM UTC
Whatchyaneed
God didn't give me a soul;
just lobbed me a baked bean tin
with something rattling inside,
said, "there ya go young un---
make do with that"-- so I did;
think it maybe a con job though,
the rattling thing must be getting soggy,
because it's stopped making noise.
Anyway I got curious; like you do,
bought myself a can opener and took a peek,
Discovered God must be a comedian
because there was a conker inside--
although beans on toast is my favourite meal,
and Conkers--------
my bestest game ever.
Dec 24, 2010
Dec 24, 2010 at 8:16 PM UTC
Primroses bow their heads as if laden with early morning dew, while
The sinking sun, across the North rise, casts a shadow of your face,
Into the cold dark copse; No goddess or girl. Ashen.
The path you used to wander, lies covered in memories of Yesterday
Here, we spent our youth amongst natures beasts and bugs,
Collecting Butterflies and conkers from the Ancient Horse Chestnut, and
Where the river crosses between the pines we sat, and planned
Somewhere here I look for answers…. Silence rains down.... Thoughts,
Trampled by giant grief. Skeletons remain, drawing deeper into darkness
Birds hush, the air drips with sadness. In the past I have lost keys
Now I have lost half of my DNA. My world has suddenly become smaller
Consequently I am braver in the daytime, night time extenuates my cowardice
It is easy to fall in love with grief, it’s surroundings and demeanour
It was over almost as fast as it had begun. Where now? What now?
Tomorrow I shall tell myself that life must go on, that she is with God,
Watching over us. Today I tell myself…Tomorrow never comes…
Oct 4, 2011
Oct 4, 2011 at 10:13 AM UTC
Her brother's
vinegar-soaked-oven-baked
conker
conquering all other
conkers.
The moment held on a a string
before swinging to collision
like a cartoon
pOW!wOW!baMMM!
She cuts her chestnut
carefully in two.
The popped out conker
...her baby
in its greeny spiky
pram.
She talks to it.
Kisses it.
"Shhhh...baby a sleeep!"
Her brother's marble
a blue and cold world
propelled by a swift deft flick
of a bitten-to-the- quick thumb
the little blue world inches
relentlessly towards
scattering all be-
-fore it:
when worlds
collide.
A solar system
destroyed.
He now
the conquerer of conquerers.
She
places her marble
gently in her other
spiky green pram
like she's rearing
an alien.
She's got two babies.
One a conker...the other a marble.
She takes good care
of both of them.
Worries about
their well being.
Loving them for what
...they are.
She watches the world
through the eye of the marble
a tiny blue universe
held in her palm.
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 5:25 PM UTC
The sun has virtually vanished,
Occasionally waving its light from behind the clouds,
The air is warm and the breeze is still,
The leaves of September crunch and the twigs crack,
And as i walk the conkers roll in my path,
The chirping of a distant bird warming his nest,
Before the rain starts to disturb his rest,
Children grab the final strands of play,
And Autumn takes hold.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 5:18 AM UTC
In the end
we ended up in the pub -
now there’s a surprise.
Fifteen nights out of thirty,
at least. Cheap grub
and we knew the owners,
mates of my folks.
‘All right pal?’, he said.
‘Not bad’, I said back.
Our feet ached,
my arms cracking like conkers
as I stretched,
got comfortable.
And then you mentioned
the C-word again.
‘But in a few years.’
A nod. A sip. The cool slither
of lager down my throat.
We’d talked, of course,
about it before. People
expected, assumed
a kid was the next step.
You didn’t like
my quietness on the matter -
you’d kick my leg, teasingly,
as if kicking the answer
into my body, my mouth.
Honestly? I hadn’t given it
much thought. A sure thing
was my regular line of choice.
*'You know, I fancy you
so much right now.'*
OK, so I don’t know
what made me say that,
but it had already zipped
across the table,
buried in her ears
before I clocked on.
I really meant it though.
I think your cheeks
went cherry red -
there was a kiss, I remember.
I’d answer properly
later on, the pub
a foggy memory
and that night, I slept
knowing I’d fancied you
from the first second we met,
and that the C-word
wasn’t as horrid
as I always used to believe.
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 2:54 PM UTC
Kicking the rusty leaves
crumpled by the tree
seeds and twigs broken off
golden and free.
Polished conkers rest
waiting to be smashed
strung up with string
bruised, soaked and bashed.
Russet apples wither in the sun
pecked at by robins and wrens.
Purple clover gather in the distance
on the hills and glens.
Pears drip from branches
like water from a wooden tap.
Twigs point like a human finger
showing the way to follow a map.
Through the ochre wood and
across the sienna fields.
The gathered sticky corn
piled high that the farmer yields
The Autumn season is pure gold
Raspberry sunset and peach skies.
A woodpecker perches, waits awhile
In the Autumn air then off he flies.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 3:03 AM UTC
Sweet Yesteryears’
A sound from the radio taps at her ear
And brings back a memory from sweet yesteryear
A smile tugs her lips as she goes down that path
To days of a childhood where hearts seemed to laugh!
Back home in her garden with all of the clan
Knees bruised from scrumping the fruits of the land
Clothes worn and tatty but nobody cared
As laughter was plenty in the house which they shared!
They all made their pastimes with games which were free
Conkers on strings also climbing the trees
Chalking on pavements to play some hopscotch
All was unruly but they felt like top-notch!
A sound from the radio beckons once more
Closing the gate tight from this magnificent tour
Sweet yesteryears‘ over but will never depart
So unwrap it real careful to spread light on your dark!
© By LynnKaren
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 5:31 AM UTC
It is indeed a month to remember
As we headlong into October
The spiders creep in our door
and there seems to be more and more
At least the wasps are gone in September.
Fruit and nuts that are gathered are vast
Apples for cider are falling fast
Conkers and acorns
Cabbages and sweet corns
It is my favourite month at last.
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 11:53 PM UTC
we lay horizon-angle along aisles of the city,
its veneers bore the clouds as they idle awhile
in copper-bordered cobweb bundles
and rain is language, language is rain,
loosened from the tips of wine-stain tongues,
knuckle being blown or kissed by lip
lines; we trip over them all the time
or shoe-laces of feillemort-freckled boys,
never an umbrella, washed-out old news.
listen to the not-words we aren't speaking in a
shake of salt, a game of conkers, or get out of the city
and to the woodlands where, in a haze of petrichor,
you'll hear it all around on bark and leaf and then
the tinnitus of every caravan or shed.
A tin home with an iron lid to live in,
corrugated skin,
city life is wilderness but I know there is more
and wilder such, but I only half-dream of trees
carrying curses, stolen idols or heirlooms arising in
the anatomy of snakes wearing war-hoods
purely for the purpose of poetry/.
the storms that come can rattle the trees
round the courtyard into an epilepsy unflagging
and then sometimes
in my mind, flowers spit out embers petal-tooth
and lava spills onto tarmac streets.
the night knocks on the closely matched
blocks of paving stones. fireflies are out
but it looks like they'll die, their translucent wings
bring to mind an undressed volcano.
the cathartic outbreak of spiders that
that spread into a multiplication of landmines.
Oct 31, 2016
Oct 31, 2016 at 11:15 AM UTC
Love is the blond on the corner of the street
Love is the brunette you never thought youd meet
Love is the Red head living down the rode
Love is her green eyes that make you explode
Love is the radiant blue in her eyes that makes you melt
That hazel color that mystifies is love
That feeling when your weary head raises from bed in the pit of an already churning stomach is love
A momentary loss of conciseness when she steels your breath away is love
Love is the reason you get up in the morning because you feel rite
Love is that little blind fool in the back of your mind that has you doing something you wouldnt otherwise do
Love is the whisper on the rain
Love is the shadow of the wind Love is the light in the sail that keeps you aloft, love is the sail
Love is the time you spent thinking about what you would do when yo got out
Love is the reason you were in there in first place
The reason the insane become again sane is love
The reason you go to the grocer at three in the morning and went back because you got the wrong flavor ice-cream is love
If you reading this right now and laughing and shaking your head because you understand this thats love
Not for me the paltry author of this simple poem or for the words contained herein but for the fact that youve been thinking about love and the one you love since you started reading this, thats love
Love conkers all things if you give it a chance to
Love crosses all boundaries if yo let it
Yet for all of this love is easily bound if you dont nurture it, if you dont feed it, if you dont take care of it, if you dont let it grow
If you dont do any of these things love dies like all things
Dec 18, 2010
Dec 18, 2010 at 8:04 AM UTC
That little creep..
..on the seat with his feet on the back..
..of the seat in front.
..and I'm standing here.
I want to tongue lash his ear.
I want to give him a bat around the head.
Get up you **** and give me a seat instead.
But I stay silent and smile..
..in a very short while the little tyke..
will be as old as me.
Then we'll see..
..how he likes to stand.
Not so bleedin' grand..is it..little ****
He's got all his life and I'm at the end
I'd like to send the little sod away..
..into the tomorrow of what became my today.
But I stay silent and smile.
File his face into a secret place..
..and I won't forget.
I bet he's thinking of marbles and conkers
While I'm still standing going ever so slightly incredibly bonkers.
Didn't he get taught to give up his seat on the bus..
..to old folk like us?
Little shit..but in a bit he'll be me
Haha, I laugh because then we will see
Just how he likes it.
Little ****
Before I go..just would like to you know..
..he got up and said,
"Would you like to sit here instead"
Such a nice young man.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 3:17 AM UTC