"creamery" poems
Peter Pan said Wendy -
There's something I want to tell you.
I am neither straight nor bent
But what you might call bendy
Captain Hook stopped reading his e-book and eavesdropped more intently.
Peter knew what his flexible friend meant and spoke to her quite innocently.
Wendy - I am as vanilla as Manilla envelopes in a creamery with whitewashed walls
And identical twin albino Godzillas fighting snow leopards with cue *****
No gimp suit in fifty shades of grey for me.
I am pretty much hormone-free,
More than happy with asexuality,
Playing pirated computer games on one hand
And others' loves that dare not speak their names which fewer understand.
In my world of dreamery certain flights of fancy pass me by.
I love to fly and you Wendy.
And I love you too Peter - Not Everygirl's Ideal of A Real Man.
But I can understand the attraction of Lost Boys and their toys in Neverland.
We've known each other for all these years,
Shared too many troubles, thoughts and fears
To be anything other than in each other's hearts.
If I never visit Neverland again
I know you will always be my closest friend,
What, where, whenever happens
To the bittersweet end.
May we both be dying for an Excellent Adventure,
If not together then separately.
There is nothing better than to know
That you will always be there for me
No matter how we might grow
Into this 21st century.
And one day I may straighten out
But
That's
Not
What
Life's
About.
Captain Hook put down his e-book and Facebooked a friend...............
And that is where our story will end.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 5:47 PM UTC
Brigid was born on a flax mill farm,
Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan,
At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road,
The last child of the Sheridans.
The sluice still runs near the water wheel,
With thistles thriving on rusted steel.
Little's known of Nellie's early years;
Da died before she knew grieving tears,
They'd turn her eyes in later years.
She's eleven posing with her class,
This photo shows an Irish lass.
Her look is distant,
Her face is blurred,
But recognizable
In an instant.
She was schooled six years
To last a life,
Some math, the Irish,
To read and write.
Her Mammy grew ill,
She lost a leg,
And bit by bit,
By age sixteen,
Nellie buried her first dead.
Too young to be alone,
Sisters and brother had left the home.
The cloistered convent took her in,
She taught urchins and orphans
About God and Grace and sin.
There were no vows for Nellie then.
At nineteen she met a Creamery man,
Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan;
He delivered dairy from his lorry,
Married Nellie,
Relieved their worry.
War flared, men were few,
There was work in Coventry.
Ireland's thistles were left to bloom.
Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy,
Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin followed,
When war floundered to its end,
They shipped back to Monaghan,
And brought the mill to life again.
The thistles and weeds
That surrounded the mill,
Were scythed and scattered
By Daddy's zeal.
He built himself
A generator,
Providing power
To lights and wheel.
Sean was born,
Gerald soon followed;
Then Michael died.
A nine year old,
His Daddy's angel.
Is this what turns
A father strange?
Francie arrived,
Then Eucheria,
But ten months later
Bold death took her.
Grief knows no borders
For brothers and sisters.
We left for Canada.
Mammy brought six kids along,
Leaving her dead behind,
Buried with Ireland.
Daddy was waiting for family,
Six months before Mammy got free
From death's inhumanity.
Her tears and griefs weren't yet over,
She birthed another son and daughter;
Jimmy and Marlene left us too,
Death is sure,
Death is cruel.
Grandchildren came, she was Granny,
Bridget, Nellie, but still our Mammy.
She lived this life eduring pain
That mothers bear,
Mothers sustain.
And yet, in times of personal strain,
I'll sometimes whisper her one name,
Mammy.
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 5:09 PM UTC
A Bountiful Sky for Foolish Old Men
early up, haunted-stoked~woked by a multilingual sky,
an impish childish creation of an immature god,
inconsistently incapable, of making up his moody mind,
whiny then smiley, cloudless besotted, morphed
into crystalline blue of a well behaved in Sunday best,
warming the souls of the begotten and the misbegotten,
the hardened and the poetic souls, tho he laughs at
himself, for he too is both, curmudgeon and a mr. softee,
whiny child in rapid aging body, wearing of discovery
of new places for to ache, pains that don’t fit med scales
of 1~10, unless it is the Richter Earthquake formulation.
despite all, his eyeballs seethe, immaculate degeneration still
allows the seeing of broad brush paint strokes of the team of
angelic artistes that do the detailing of the palette above,
how!
they, love their big bold brushes that sky swipe atmospheric
residue into 31 Baskin Robbins flavors, with swirls of caramel
chocolate butterscotch that make the man’s complaints whisked
into who-cares-a-damn anyway ice creamery reverie and all
that other stuff disbarred from the aborning morning clarity of
“good morning ole man, where’s my coffee” diurnal tuning that
the women hums, reminding those in the earshot crowd of one,
that s’mores and chores, tasks and at lasts, dogs need walking, gardens watering, cushions plumping, evening dishes moving from dishwasher onto wallpaper-covered shelves, geese-away-chasing, and loving poetry
by a poetoftheway scribbling…
8:01 AM Frieday, Jun 30
Jun 30, 2023
Jun 30, 2023 at 8:32 AM UTC
Bridget was born on a flax mill farm,
Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan,
At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road,
The last child of the Sheridans.
The sluice still runs near the water wheel,
With thistles thriving on rusted steel.
What's known of Nellie's early years?
Da died before her grieving tears,
But burn her eyes in later years.
She's eleven posing with her class,
This photo shows an Irish lass.
Her visage blurred,
Her eyes look distant,
Yet recognizable
In an instant.
She attended school for six short years,
The three R's, some Irish,
And a Doctorate in tears.
Her Mammy grew ill,
She lost a leg,
And bit by bit,
By age sixteen,
Nellie buried her first dead.
Too young to be alone,
Sisters and brother had left the home.
The cloistered convent took her in,
She taught urchins and orphans
About God, Grace and sin.
There were no vows for Nellie then.
At nineteen she met a Creamery man,
Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan;
He delivered dairy from his lorry,
Married Nellie
To relieve their worry.
War flared up, and men were few,
So the work in Coventry
Left Ireland's thistles to bloom.
Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy,
Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin were carried.
When war floundered to its end,
They shipped back to Monaghan,
To work the flax mill again.
The thistles and weeds
That surrounded the mill,
Were scythed and scattered
By Daddy's zeal.
He built himself a generator.
And powered the lights and the wheel.
Sean was born,
Gerald soon followed;
Then Michael died.
A nine year old,
His Father's angel.
(Is this what turns
A father strange?)
Francie arrived,
Then Eucheria,
But ten months later
Bold death took her.
Grief knows no family borders
For brothers and sisters, sons and daughters.
We left for Canada.
Mammy brought six kids along,
Leaving her dead behind,
Buried with Ireland in familiar songs.
Daddy was waiting for family,
Six months before Mammy got free
From death's inhumanity.
Her tears and griefs weren't yet over,
She birthed another son and daughter;
Jimmy and Marlene left us too,
Death is sure,
Death is cruel.
Grandchildren came, she was Granny,
Bridget, Nellie, but still our Mammy.
She lived this life eduring pain
That mothers bear,
Mothers sustain.
And yet, in times of personal strain,
I'll sometimes whisper her one name,
Mammy.
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 2:49 PM UTC
Relax.
I know your instincts are screaming to fight.
This is a mistake.
You will only hurt yourself.
Just relax.
You are frightened, confused, and angry.
This is only natural.
You will tell yourself to not feel these things.
This is a mistake.
Feel them, own them.
They are yours.
It is only natural.
You are being dragged backwards through a hedge.
You say,"Stop it!
The branches are tearing my shirt!
This is my favorite shirt!"
This is a mistake.
**** your shirt.
Tear it into bandanas,
sell them on Etsy.
Just buy more shirts.
Pack of four. $9.99. Wal-Mart.
Tell a stranger a story
about the scars the hedge gave you.
Maybe he'll trade you
a shirt for a good story.
But you say,"My pants!
The hedge is covering my favorite pants in grass stains!"
Stop that.
This is a mistake.
Cover your pants in new and interesting stains.
Paint in them.
Spill food on them.
Comfort a dying animal,
let it bleed on them.
Do too much *******
**** yourself.
Get bored, cut them into daisy dukes.
Try wearing a skirt, a sarong, a loincloth, the wind.
Calm down,
they're just pants.
"But what if I break the hedge!
The Homeowner's Association will **** me!"
This is also a mistake.
**** the Homeowner's Association.
You did not choose the hedge.
The hedge did not choose you.
And once you're on the other side,
you won't to answer to them.
No one will find you, and
you don't have to come back.
Unless you want to.
But that is your decision.
Yours and the hedge's,
no one else.
Remember that.
"But who is dragging me through this hedge?
What kind of hedge is it?
Why is this happening to me?"
These are the wrong questions.
You are being dragged backwards to through a hedge.
That is all that matters.
Concern yourself only with what matters.
Making it through.
Landing on your feet, or
barring that, getting back up.
Seeing what's on the other side.
So you ask,"what is on the other side?
What if I hate it?
What if it's a parking lot?
What if it's all sticky?
What if everything's on fire?
What if it's just more hedges?"
Relax.
You're looking at it all wrong.
Maybe your friends are all there.
Maybe it is all sticky.
Maybe it's a combination liquor store,
ice-creamery,
minigolf course,
and you can pour whiskey on your face,
and eat Rocky Road,
and finally get a hole-in-one on that ******* windmill.?
Maybe it's the way home.
You're still looking at it wrong.
This, too, is a mistake.
You were dragged backwards through a hedge.
Dragged.
Backwards.
And you made it.
While you were worrying
you didn't notice you already made it through.
So now you're here,
on the other side.
Now it's your call.
You can do as you wish.
Watch the sunset.
Or dive into a new hedge, maybe
headfirst this time.
Or walk home.
Or make a new home.
It's your choice.
And really, who's going to stop you?
Some puny ******* bush?
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 9:38 PM UTC
she always make the first cup,
for the pleasure of pleasuring
is but another love poem
in disguise,
she, a prolific writer in dance,
in her own right nights
never enough milk,
yet never tell,
nonetheless,
my lips loud kiss each other
the exhaled aaah
can be heard just far enough,
to reach her kitchened, richened ears
who enjoys more that first cuppa,
she or me,
is a debate reinvigorated daily,
the judges remain secluded,
happily refusing to a verdict issue,
necessitating a new trial,
no mock this one,
for it is a daily-born creation
a Hawaiian java creamery of just
another love poem
5/13/17 7:24am
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 7:39 AM UTC
"I've missed you so much,"
I prepare as I walk through the door.
The rich scent of sweet cream
waffle cones and
brownie chunks
float in the air as thick as
smoke
in a happy car.
Her eyes are small and poignant,
tiny apostrophes,
commas beneath her blonde curls.
I stand by the door as she helps a customer.
I've missed her so much.
She glances up and her
perpetual glare fades.
The commas light up,
brilliant,
and the sentence is completed
by the curl of her lips.
I love that smile.
"I've missed you so much."
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 4:56 PM UTC
Brigid was born on a flax mill farm,
Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan,
At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road,
The last child of the Sheridans.
The sluice runs still near the water wheel,
With thistles thriving on rusted steel.
What's known of Nellie's early years?
Da died before she knew grieving tears,
But her eyes will burn in later years.
She's eleven posing with her class,
This photo shows an Irish lass.
Her visage blurred,
Her eyes look distant,
Yet recognizable
In an instant.
She attended school for six short years,
The three R's, some Irish,
With a Doctorate in tears.
Her Mammy grew ill,
She lost a leg,
And bit by bit,
By age sixteen,
Nellie buried her first dead.
Too young to be alone,
Sisters and brother had left the home.
The cloistered convent took her in,
She taught urchins and orphans
About God, Grace and sin.
(There were no vows for Nellie then.)
At nineteen she met a Creamery man,
Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan;
He delivered dairy from his lorry,
Married Nellie
To relieve their worry.
War flared up, and men were few,
A Coventry move would surely do.
(and thistles bloomed as they grew.)
Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy,
Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin were carried.
When war floundered to its end,
They shipped back to Monaghan,
To work the flax mill again.
The thistles and weeds
That surrounded the mill,
Were scythed and scattered
By Daddy's zeal.
He built himself a generator.
And powered the lights and the wheel.
Sean was born,
Gerald soon followed;
Then Michael died.
A nine year old,
His Father's angel.
(Is this what turns
A father strange?)
Francie arrived,
Then Eucheria,
But ten months later
Bold death took her.
Grief knows no family borders
For brothers and sisters, sons or daughters.
We left for Canada.
Mammy brought six kids along,
Leaving her dead behind,
Buried with Ireland in familiar songs.
Daddy waited for our family,
Six months before Mammy got free
From death's inhumanity.
Her tears and griefs weren't yet over,
She birthed another son and daughter;
But Jimmy and Marlene left us too.
Death is sure,
Death is cruel.
Grandchildren came for Little Granny,
Brigid, Nellie, her names are many.
She lived this life eduring pain
That mothers bear,
Mothers sustain.
And yet, in times of personal strain,
I may invoke her one true name:
"Mammy."
May 10, 2025
May 10, 2025 at 9:55 AM UTC
I never knew him to do wrong.
He left me here last Saturday week;
I never saw him again.
A terrible shock.
God was cruel to me.
Words cannot express... my heart is torn.
I have the others.
God spare them to me.
He was the loveliest of all.
My heart breaks day in and day out;
I am just now living for when...
He took a pain,
In the head;
He went to the hospital.
We don't know
What happened -
They didn't,
Until they got the blood test back,
From Dublin.
The next day the baby was born.
At twelve o'clock there was a crowd,
Neighbours waiting on the news.
They did all in their power.
He was dying.
Words that will ring in my ears...
It was the saddest... most respected
Funeral,
The teachers and children formed
A Guard;
A hundred met him at the Creamery Cross;
Carried the little coffin up the steps
And into the chapel.
Six school pals carried him,
From the chapel,
And left him to rest.
He'll never go off this earth
Without first coming to see me
(*Mary, at two o'clock in the morning he came up the hall,
And rapped on the room door*)
I do hope and pray
I'm not keeping him
From Heaven.
I wanted to write you to give you a surprise...
It was little thought it would be this sad news.
The baby... is the image of him.
My heart is torn.
I could be washed in tears.
Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 9:24 AM UTC
my black nail polish is slowly chipping
and this is the one time i don’t have anything
to say to anyone sitting around me.
it’s a strange contrast between the slowly building loneliness
i feel, and all my friends celebrating,
and all the families eating ice cream and laughing around me.
i see the reflection of you laughing in a handheld mirror they sell
at fentons that says “vote myrtle”
the ice cream that’s in front of you is melting faster and faster.
it’s a sweet and sticky and perfect mess but i need to clean this up,
but the napkins are out of sight and out of reach.
i’m older now and i realize that ice cream isn’t really considered dinner, but i am my own home and this is what i want
you know we could never have played house, no matter how much
we dreamed of each other in the beginning.
i know now that happiness costs more than the price
of a shared cookie connection sundae at night with you.
and i know now that maybe there are more things in the world
that can make me happy besides you
but i just can’t help but feel a little bit alone as
i struggle with half-fulfilled fantasies i still have about you
as i’m running alone to my car parked somewhere on piedmont ave
in the dead of winter (albeit oakland winter so it’s 60 degrees)
i don’t want to believe we were just built to fall apart,
but i know i’m smarter to believe that we could’ve last.
Mar 12, 2018
Mar 12, 2018 at 3:25 AM UTC
~'From the Halls of Inspiration'~
****
This guy won't give me a break!
Every message,
Gives me pause,
When you are on hold, when you're my old,
Cripes, it ain't nice,
Got these new poems swirling, overlapping in a well rested head,
Partially born fetuses, puppy squeaking, demanding momma's milk,
Insistent, like puppies who refuse to cease from licking, nibbling your
Noses & Toes,
Along comes the greatest almost comical line I've ever reen
(read & seen)
And don't mind sharing with you folk,
A STELLAR INSIGHT,
Poems are dragged, kicking and screaming, slimy covered in
Amniotic fluid thick creamery.
BETTER WASH YOUR HANDS, YOUR BRAINS,
Lest them new poems keep on keepin' on
And somewhere a tinny voice screeches,
More Coffee Ma!
Jul 21, 2025
Jul 21, 2025 at 7:44 AM UTC