"constable" poems
‘There is not much that I can do,
For I’ve no money that’s quite my own!’
Spoke up the pitying child—
A little boy with a violin
At the station before the train came in,—
‘But I can play my fiddle to you,
And a nice one ’tis, and good in tone!’
The man in the handcuffs smiled;
The constable looked, and he smiled too,
As the fiddle began to twang;
And the man in the handcuffs suddenly sang
With grimful glee:
‘This life so free
Is the thing for me!’
And the constable smiled, and said no word,
As if unconscious of what he heard;
And so they went on till the train came in—
The convict, and boy with the violin.
9k
Constitution pollution:
the constable ruining
the ******* consecration
A soluble solution:
grape sipping blood
letting to fully bless
the humors
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 12:55 AM UTC
My poor, stupid poodle,
peed on the pedestal
of Cleopatra's needle
on Victoria embankment,
near the Golden Jubilee bridge.
( Oh! I am miserable!
I couldn't stop the debacle)
The poodle's puny misdeed
embarrassed not just me,
but the whole city of Westminster,
as fire alarm rang out loud,
when an overzealous constable
gave a distress signal.
It brought the fire chief himself,
who came rushing to meet
the emergency situation,
thinking the poodle was trying
to put out a fire erupted
on the ancient monument,
once shipped to England,
overcoming great adversities,
from Africa, long back.
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 11:31 PM UTC
I am a Fiddler on the Roof.
Someone like me is rare.
Daring enough to put my life on the line,
Make my presence known and there.
But I am a villager.
A mama nonetheless.
I get my hair pulled out,
My heart pulled out.
Then I have to clean the mess.
The Russians!
They torture us with
Pogroms and demonstrations.
The Constable their leader
In conquering many nations.
My soul is the Fiddler.
A simple sound happy on its own.
My love is whats keeping me on the roof.
I wants to grow and grow.
A villager and a Russian.
That is what I want, why I was sent.
Arm in arm with the Constable.
Happy to life´s end.
I can change things.
I am a Fiddler on the Roof.
Ready to change tradition!!!!
Feb 22, 2018
Feb 22, 2018 at 10:14 AM UTC
I had a dream the other day I ran into a doctor, lawyer and a constable,
We came to an agreement that I had lost some part of me and that "I" am totally responsible;
Then I had another dream I ran into a doctor, cousolor and a poet,
We came to an agreement there's certain things you just don't delegate but before then I didn't know it!
So now I'm taking six weeks off and explaining why is basically the moral of this little rhyme,
I have to find that item I lost instead of intertaining getting high and ******* all the time!
There's a lot of back stepping I must do I could have lost it anywhere,
It's a powerful asset I've always had but I lost it somewhere over this past year.
It might be right next to you or me so please look around do you see it?
This is a necessary part of me I really need so I just can't ignore or say so be it.
I must retrace my steps to lead me back to what once led me to here,
To fix that error of my past when I lost the virtue of my despair.
Now a broken bone heals in six weeks and so I think this is a realistic amount of time,
This is a personal excursion I must take because believe me I feel all of your pain combined.
I have to find my virtue the disposition to keep on doing the right thing...
Without my positive attitude the strength and prudence I have just doesn't mean a god ****** thing!
You might miss me a little bit but I plead for you to stay away,
If you don't it doesn't matter cause I'm not answering my phone, texts e-mails nor doorbells anyway.
And if you've learned anything from me you'll listen to me when I say,
Loosing virtue is like jumping off a 55 ft. bridge you'll be hurting every day!
And if like me you ever lose your virtue you'll realize this then too,
You'll go on an excursion just like me this virtue you too you will persue.
Sediment, strength, prudence and wisdom go nowhere as far as prooving who one is,
Without the moral virtue we all have that allows us to make stinky things smell like roses.
Goodbye for now I'll see you soon and for me to do this you ought,
To love yourself much and me much too and for you... to Keep a Wonderful aThought!
Robin Ashley
Sep 19, 2015
Sep 19, 2015 at 6:03 AM UTC
I , Frank Wilson , would be lawyer , represent myself in this attack upon my honor ! For I am a studious , God fearing man ! I bow before no Judge , Lawyer or Constable ! Your court dwells beneath moral turpitude , a jury of my peers will soon know the truth !
I do not recognize that woman and child , I'll not pay the stipend your foreman has read out loud ! Your verdict means little in my hardened eyes , one that I refuse to recognize !
Bailiff ! Send for the State Patrol , summon the officer before this Court ! Take this man directly to jail ! I want him in Reidsville by five p.m. !
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 3:46 PM UTC
some say im cynical
satanical
that my minds mechanical
diabolical
spoken essence erotical
detestable
jaded imagery hypnotical
unstoppable
liable to solve the unsolvable
while prodigal poets drown in their nautical modules
im a criminal
a cannibal
storming the street like an animal
shooting cannonballs
through prison walls
splattering the generals
in bathroom stalls
hostil
leave you poppin pain pills in the hospital
uncontrollable
my temper is flammable
mumbles illegible
choking you with your pentacle
leaving onlookers speckled
the abominable
mental protocols unstoppable
the unfeasible constable
shooting up the card table
willing and able
to call your fables
and smash apart a label
i raise babies in unstable cradles
let you bleed out
like cracked ladles
engorged in unholy wars
exploring
the corruption of the core
deplored
uniformed for
the clash of the double edge swords
taking control of vocal chords
a meet of the hordes
of the horned
misinformed
adorned
in sunlight
trying to shine
just 1 line
at a time
until my life signs decline
almost time
light and shadow combined
Horus and set
by hindsight blessed
yet to contest
to the rest of this mess
by melancholy caressed
as i arise unrest
from the cess
of the un confessed
blessed
Jul 9, 2012
Jul 9, 2012 at 6:14 AM UTC
The black mariah takes four to a side and it jostles my spine
The window is small so no light can force through so no one looking
In can look in and see you.
Got picked up again on bogus construction.
Going down to the castle for chaos and ruction.
Just cant seem to waylay my certain destruction.
So bad boy. Bad boy wacha gona do.
Wacha gonna do when they come for you.
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 12:51 AM UTC
driving along in my auto mobilemy baby beside me at the wheeleverything right, nothing seemed wrongrevealing her thigh, a glimpse of her thongteasing and pleasing, live action pornparty in pants, one wheel and two hornscrash, wallop, bang, cos i did'nt seepolice car in front, but he felt mea fine, six points, coppers new bumperthump her? or dump her, but wanted to **** hershouting mad rages, the constable rantswho stunk like a sewer.......he'd **** in his pants
Feb 24, 2010
Feb 24, 2010 at 10:37 AM UTC
THE GATE SWINGS OPEN
( for Mary Frances )
We hang from
(albeit upside down)
now interlaced between
now balanced upon
the five-bar-gate
the river beyond calling our names.
This is the threshold
between lane and field.
We live only
in the moment
and so
forever.
Your dress falling
over your face
stifling giggles
gales of laughter
shaking us from our perch
like windfall apples.
An "Ouch!" and an "Ow!" later
and we are back upon
where we had
fallen from.
A Constable I could imagine
would have painted us
thus
in passing.
Our five-bar-gate
as much a part of us.
Even in this
over-grown now
I still smart
from the sting of its nettles
still taste the tang
of its baby strawberries
at its gnarled
wooden feet.
The gate open
into a world that is
...gone.
Captured in my imagination
by a Constable blur of paint
showing two blurs
that could be considered
us
children at play.
It hangs in my mind
in the gallery of memory.
The light slowly dying
only the laughter remains.
The thrush's song
threaded through the morning.
Oct 25, 2018
Oct 25, 2018 at 5:00 PM UTC
Those cosmopolitan provincials sorts
the chavs, yobs, yobbesses and oiks with semolina for brains
them retro-grade grade-less sub-humans bottom feeders
who think Cardiff is in East Angular and Magaluf is Eden
and Higher Education begins in Borstal or a stint at HM Prisons
found by happenstance a tin of Caviar
something they'd never seen before
with the curiosity of practiced thieves
they proceeded to examine its worth
'its a tin of hair gel says one'
'No, no, no says another, I think its something you eat'
'it says Caviar Royal Beluga, observes another'
'throw it away, anything with a name like that is rubbish'
'Beluga...some foreign muck, it look dark and oily'
'yea mate, look like **** throw it away'
One of the dis-advantaged rabble with one O'level in Carpentry
took a closer look
'look he says, there's sticker on the bottom that reads
Caviar Royal Beluga – 1kg £3,780.00'
Hahahaha they all roared in ceaseless mirth, hahaha
'some joker is having a laugh, pull the other leg, fancy...
a tin of black gunge in some slimy stuff cost three grand,
must think people are born yesterday, Beluga..fuckoffluga'
And with that, they tossed the tin away and walked off
laughing like *********
Ignorance is a disease, ignorance is bliss
will vandals extol the sheer magnificence of a Constable
or see anything other than a chair in a Chippendale ribbonback chair,
will Barbarians shed a tear on hearing the sensuous notes of Chopin or shiver at the graceful notes of Debussy or melt in sheer
adoration as Tchaikovsky's romance soars in magical resonance.
Will cosmopolitan heathens gape in mesmerizing wonder on
seeing Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel and praise God for being alive
So who has great expectations of our dear cosmopolitan provincials sorts
those chavs, yobs, yobbesses and oiks with semolina for brains
for in disparaging excellence
and rubbishing the noble and the exceptional
they make us appreciate more that we are blessed
and privileged
and do not have
semolina for brains
hey!
who would like some caviar
Jun 30, 2019
Jun 30, 2019 at 6:40 AM UTC
A rotten thief was at work last night
He stole thirty sheep from Mr Wright
He wasn't aware of the thievery
He had his head on a pillow's livery
There he snored till nine o'clock
After he arose he went to check his flock
He noted that thirty sheep had gone astray
To whit he called the police in an urgent splay
The local constable came in a hurry
To investigate as to why the sheep did scurry
He detected a tyre indent on the muddy track
It bore a pattern akin to a badly stitched sack
His instincts told him who did the stealing
It was the fellow who jumped out of Mrs Ray's ceiling
With the crime solved he bade Mr Wright good day
To pursue the robber who'd got away
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 10:44 PM UTC
We are apart, and yet when your voice sounds on the telephone, we are not. In those opening seconds a play of inflections and intonations remind each other of this bond between us. As our words fan out across the mostly inconsequential things of a day past or, if it is early morning, a day to come, that binding loosens and we divest ourselves: to feel comfortable. It is so often difficult, but last night, as I stood between the reed beds beneath Constable’s great skies and you sat with our son on his birthday, there was a kind graciousness between us – and I hold it to me now. After our goodbyes I stopped and thought of this birthdate, of this boy of ours, then years past. I see a photo. The candled cake lit and he is leaning over the table about to blow to secure his wish. There I am, my face wind-burnished from a fortnight of walking the cliffs, daily throwing my ideas from the heights to soar like gliders, and returning safely to be launched and soar again, and higher or for longer. Just now I am holding the past dear, and my days are threaded through with memories of the onset of autumn. I dream of an autumn time free from the beginnings of things that one day we might share together; to go out to pick blackberries and return to our small home, and as we drink tea, watch the late afternoon light flicker and flow through the trees to pattern the carpet at our feet.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 2:14 AM UTC
Cotton is truly King ,--from Blue Ridge to Southern border , creator of fortune , remedy to pain and struggle , dividing--- pitting neighbor against neighbor , market afire funding Sheriffs and constable , alive and rampant among elderly , teenager , public official ......
King Cotton reintroducing malignant , corruption , nay from yesteryear at mercy of whip and chain ,slave and sharecropper , but to the gun , homelessness and the horror of merciless addiction....................
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC
you’ll cross the bridge near the center of town,
from the constable’s door just a few paces down;
at the bend near the corner of Ash and Vine,
Ye Olde Sweet Shoppe of Verses and Rhymes.
its here you will find it, my favorite store,
its soft warmth beckons through a leaded-glass door;
your arrival here announced with a chime,
at a desk near the fire lays a writing slate.
here, a tall, frail poet sits in his chair
his sweet bonny lass stands beside him in wait,
both greet each guest with deliberate care.
a sign at the door tells of an experience rare,
“pairings of sweets for tooth and ear”;
be it chocolate and wine, for a rendezvous fine,
or crumpets and tea, for a moment of ecstasy,
each tasty treat shared with verse and rhyme
each custom creation, an encounter sublime.
the ambiance... flawless, the company... sweet,
the perfect encounter, is the word on the street.
the shelves here are filled with tastes overflowing
candles are trimmed, the fireplace is glowing
sheets full of verse, of sonnet and psalm
sales may run short, but the hours last long
yet, each customer’s entrance is met with delight
giving no mind for any work through the night
for payment in full is made with their eyes
the giggles, the dances... the satisfied sighs.
for what would you give to know you’re the one
to restore another’s hope, the place life’s begun
and what would you sacrifice just so you’d hear
each delightful cry, see each joy-filled tear
knowing so many go hungry, and never will know
the comfort that’s brought from a heart that’s restored,
for hope is alive, and its hope that is shared
in each word that is writ, in each line that is paired
to each one who finds their way to this couch
whether man, woman, child, need little or much
a custom concoction to each one unique
for this singular purpose, its a poem they seek
whether free verse or rhyme, a chorus, a song
for a mother, a brother, or a loved one gone on
for some it's a present to a lover or spouse
for others the poem is a gift to themselves
yet, whatever the reason, the purpose propelling
each word is revealing, some even foretelling
for with insight and honesty, and peace of mind,
great comfort and solace they find in each line
there near the corner of Ash and Vine
at Ye Olde Sweet Shoppe of Verses and Rhymes.
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 3:31 AM UTC
Me and my mate said its not to late
To do some countryside art.
So we took some paint and a big brush
Always knowing that someone would kick up a fuss
We painted his cows pink
We painted his sheep yellow
You could safely say the farmer wasn't a happy fellow
We painted trees white,all his hens blue
Into the night we still had lots to do.
The countryside is a fun place to be
When your painting everything you can see.
Constable put it to canvas set firmly in time
A constable came to arrest us for committing a crime
Countryside art might not be for all
But when you think of it,it was a good call
Apr 16, 2017
Apr 16, 2017 at 9:11 PM UTC
Tik... Tak... Tik... Tak...
Less talk more work,
Eyes everywhere, The reapers they lurk...
Tik... Tak... Tik... Tak...
Beat the hard rock and extract pure metal,
Why do I have to do this? I deserve that medal...
Tik... Tik... Tik...
Tik... Tak... Tik... Tak...
The constable whips away like a ring leader,
Heartless laughter, he had the guts to muster...
Tik... Tak... Tik... Tak...
And in the corner, I see my lifeless mate,
We were destined for valor, what is this fate?
Tik... Tik...
Bang... Tik... Bang... Tik...
Move ever so vigilantly with the sound of the whip,
Muscles sore, back burned and front scarred
No other escape other than death's card
By the warmth of the blazing summer sun
Hit harder, and harder until the cold stone breaks
And spreads to each part of your body that precipitates
Shed tears, cough blood, sweat like there's no tomorrow
For you could only hope that there is no tomorrow
Tik...
'Thug'
All has been done, the last piece set in stone
All that I regret is that mi love has not been shown
"To ye, my fair Juliet and to our little lass
To the wee lil tyke who looks up to his old man
I be sorry for ye all for you've yet to receive fatherly love"
For I have chosen the country's interests over my own.
Sailing master! search for land,
Turned forever hand in hand
Take it all in on your stride
It is ticking, falling down
Sailing master! search for land
Is everybody in?
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 9:02 AM UTC
he swore it was Sasquatch
who mauled him at his camp
when the last logs were but
hissing embers in his pit
others spotted them
in the Ouachitas--a pastor, constable
and my own son, likely high on hash,
said he heard Bigfoot's heavy rumbling
in a light rain
I was the doc on call,
when the man's pick up rolled to a dead stop
at the ER door--addled, he swore the beast
brought him to us, without ever having
been in his truck's cab
I hadn't seen such lacerations
except when self induced, but the man
did not waver from his story:
at quarter past four
on the clock, he was flung, down bag
and body both, into the deep snow
the creature made entreaties without words,
but his wild, sour moans, the man proclaimed, may
have been nothing but the beast begging to be left
alone to remain a mystery
one never solved,
kept alive around other’s fires,
by those who did not let them wane,
who fed the blaze and kept it roaring,
to keep the beast at bay
yet invisible, but alive another day
just beyond the fires' searching light
silent, eternal in the mythic night
Sasquatch, Sasquatch
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 10:50 AM UTC
More paintings,
sketchings
copper plate etchings
I look and see them all,
and fall into
those hand picked scenes,
paintings,sketchings,
etching dreams.
Landseer,
Constable,
Turner,
Vermeer,
they're all here
selling their scenes
making my dreams
come true.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 5:59 AM UTC
If spirits can walk the earth after life ends,
Or even before, to soar in flights unhindered
By physics, let me dance then!
To reel, arms out, on a vivid green lawn
In a garden before a comfortable house,
Where lush flowers grow and summer reigns,
Touching rows of Constable trees that tower, emerald,
And violet-shadowed even at noon or painted
In twilight, soft before a rising moon.
I would skip over roads and find that field
That lies, protective, above the Connecticut,
Watching as it winds lazily northward.
Then, being sure that all is right,
That the corn is tall and full,
I would speed up to a rounded hill
Above a Victorian barn in Leyden,
Ten acres of rye grass for the cows.
I would stand at the summit and gaze
Far away, down the sleeping valley in its haze,
To the little towns and glittering in
The sun, my alma mater, towers
Of attempted wisdom, of spires and dreams.
Then I might then bathe in a little lake
Where I once romped with friends
After a wedding, **** and laughing
While puzzled farmers watched and leered.
As before I would flee to the river that wound
Down between the hills, splashing through
Pools in shade and sun, basking on smooth stone
Whose marbled veins glow in the canyon light,
Remnants of an ancient era, of pressure and time.
Then on I’d go, bounding from one hilltop to another,
Turning north from the cesium-laced Deerfield,
Passing Vermont’s border to stroll the streets
Of Brattleboro, Putney and Newfane.
I might find a canoe and glide up the West River,
Somehow floating above the rapids and dam,
To rest on the flat water as the sun sets,
Skimming lightly, watching the trout rise
To sip dancing insects or hear the splash
Of a bass as it flicks the surface with its tail.
And then I would sit with the ones I love,
Silently, breathing in the mist that rises
As the sun slips below the hills;
Sunset-colored, elliptical echoes
Catch the low swells like waving glass.
I would wait here until morning returns,
Not ready to leave this beauty or the world.
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 12:09 PM UTC
The lavender pie he swiped from the tables
gave way to many creating tall fables
they ran down the corridor, looking for more
giggling and romping until they were sore
running through the library and lush gardens proper
leaving behind nothing but messes to topper
he and his friends saw no end in sight
until one of the staff gave them a terrible fright
"you'll leave The Gem Hotel with nothing but haste
before I send for the constable to come and lambaste"
it seems peering eyes had thrown things awry
when the dishwasher had seen him pilfer the pie
they hid in a room, large and ornate
so large in fact, they could not berate
as the echoes of the mob could be heard from their gait
their fates to be held by a simple-something they ate
the friction was taught, so tight it could tear
until one of them noticed a phone behind a chair
"quickly, I have a plan" he said and rung the front desk
ring
"we bewail our actions, were nothing but pests"
"meet us out front and we'll put this to rest"
"How will we know this isn't a test to best?"
"I'll be in the window with no other guests"
clink
So he stood in the 2nd story window with defiant disruption
as the crowd who had gathered went into full bore eruption
cheers and wails a mixed bag of admiration
as rumors of the scamps had swirled from the situation
his friends slipped outside as he looked up at the sky
"All of this over a little purple pie?"
jump
Aug 21, 2020
Aug 21, 2020 at 10:58 AM UTC
That for your Mum my Befriend's Flag receive
Since those Lines un-called by Red into Four
I withdrew that Meaning; And kneel to Reprieve
Which divert therehence to Interpret forth
Forgive my Dogs. Plain. Simple. Real. Full-Stop
Which my Elder Flag deems Responsible
For your Touchy Cloud; And Honour begot
Which by Pertinence arrest the Constable
And to see this - Angel - then hem the Wound
Bespoke my Shamed Fears for Activity
Promote this Risk; Yet for Friend's Hands must Sound
To fizzle these Scars for your Harmony.
In turn your Dad's Face; Stamp Legacy you
Lamp's Living Oil extend; And extend a-new.
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 3:14 PM UTC
Abela
sees nothing
in Renoir's
kind of art
she prefers
Constable
or Rembrandt
so she says
as we lie
in the bed
after ***
cooling down
we smoking
cigarettes
a slight breeze
in the air
a window
half open
moon and stars
visible
those women
at the bar
she utters
with those
hairy men
how could they?
could they what?
fancy them
like sleeping
with an ape
we each have
our own taste
I tell her
I couldn't
not with them
she tells me
I'm glad she
fancies me
and my beard
as I kiss
between thighs
listening
as I do
to her moans
and her sighs.
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 2:09 AM UTC
Matthew
I'd rather drown in your ocean than swim another sea.
Nickels & Dimes
Your fish lips had a capacity for too many secrets.
Constable
I guess our forever had expired when hers was renewed.
Jacob
I never thought something so beautiful could be so ugly.
Perez
The only time I even cared was under the sheets.
Brown
Our two broken hearts could not seem to fit together.
Adam
You gave into her like a bleeding little blue boy.
Z
I never ordered arrogance with a side of passive aggression.
6'2"
Don't make me have to write a poem about you.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 10:08 PM UTC
A hooting whistle
on her full red lips, she books
me for wrong parking!
Burly constable,
sipping crimson lolipop,
mustachios bristling!
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 7:07 PM UTC