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by Roger Turner on Thursday, 5 July 2012 at 19:43 ·
In the year of our lord
Sixteen Hundred Fifty Four
There were no papers
delivered to our door
No radio, no TV
Media was rather slim
If you couldn't read or write
then your world was rather dim
One person brought the info
To the masses as he could
For he read out proclomations
Told the people, as he should
"Hear Ye, Hear Ye" he would yell
"Come gather, hear me speak"
"I have the words you need to hear"
"It's been a busy week"
The Crier came and took his stance
The crowd had come to hear
Their attention captured by his voice
And his bell rung oh so clear
"Oyez, Oyez praise the Lord
Today in the Town Square
An exhibition of archers skills
Take heed, now all be there"
"The King proclaims this Saturday"
"To be a day of feast for all"
"Prepare for this year's carnival"
"I am sure you'll have a ball"
The Crier held the crowd at hand
Dressed in the finest coat of silk
Green he was, from head to toe
With a belt as white as milk
For forty years he'd held this post
His father did before
He'd relay all the news there was
And all that had come before
His voice boomed out the words
That the people had to know
He was half a wealth of info
The other half was show
Until the mass production
Of papers and of books
This man was instrumental
In conveying what folks took
To be the truth not fiction
To stop rumours as they spread
To share important messages
From the peoples Royal head
Without the mighty Crier
People would not know just how
Their world around was changing
I think we all owe him a bow
500 years have passed since
The Town Crier is still here
And to most he's as important
As he was back in that year
They still make their proclomations
Still come forth and hold the crowd
Still yell out "Hear Ye, Hear Ye"
Still yell it mighty loud
Behold the Mighty Crier
Give him the praise that he has earned
For without those before him
Many people would not have learned
I dedicate this small verse
To a Crier for us all
He's the Town Crier For London
"I present to you Bill Paul"
Dedicated to our friend, and London Town Crier, Bill Paul. Bill has been a fixture on local radio and cable television for 30 years, broadcasting over 10,000 interviews during that time. I was lucky enough to be one of the 10,000. He is a town icon, philanthropist, man about town and entertainer. I have been lucky enough to have known him close to thirty years, having performed in two of our annual Halloween Haunted Houses that his group, The London Laffguards runs for charities every October. I hope you enjoy the verse, and if you have a Town Crier you know and love....share this with them and please comment on my poem.
preservationman Jun 2018
I am glad you are
I am not
I tried wearing those colonial shoes
My feet have the nerve to just refuse
In fact, the term was “Pain, Agony and Defeat”
I tell you not a happy feat or better known as Feet
The only shoes I would wear being a Town Crier is Flip Flops
Colonial shoes back than
However, who am I too say and wasn’t born until after when
Comfortable shoes are my favorite word
Now have you heard?
Apparently not as I think
I court you in that wink
Painful Agony feet wouldn’t be my best suit
No being a Town Crier for me as there wouldn’t be any pursuit
Now the Colonial Town people wouldn’t want to see a Town Crier Cry
I ask you to look me in the eye
The explanation would be hard to explain
This Town Crier would only complain
Everything else would just remain
Uncomfortable Colonial Shoes would definitely come to their end
Relief that would start from when
Imagine passing information to the Colonial Citizens
I would probably wine up in prison
Nothing in reason than shoes that hurt
Arguing Feet
A total give into being defeat
Those Colonial Shoes I just couldn’t keep
In my eyes it just a clean sweep
It would be a Town Crier try
As for the reason, all I can say is why?
I don’t know how Benjamin Franklin and other Colonial Pioneers wore those shoes
I would have to refuse
Those Colonial Pioneers must have had feet like stone
But I will leave that alone
But History is History
As for Arguing Colonial Shoes that is a total mystery
My opinion in a final thought, I should have known.
Terry O'Leary Dec 2013
Ill-fated crowd neath foreign cloud: the Silent City braves
against a sudden sullen flood, unleashing lashing waves,
which washes stony structures clean with radiance that laves.

Deserted streets, once dense retreats, spin yarns of yesterday,
with  faded words no longer heard (though having much to say)
since teeming life (at one time, rife), surceased and slipped away.

Within its walls? Whist buildings, tall... Outside the City? Dunes...
They frame a frail forgotten tale,  in carved unwritten runes
with symbols hung like halos strung in lifeless, limp festoons.

The City’s blur? A sepulcher for Christians, Muslims, Jews –
Cathedrals, Temples, vacant now, enshrine their residues,
though churches, mosques and synagogues abide without a bruise.

A church’s Gothic ceilings guard the empty pews below
and, windswept blown above the stones, a maiden’s blue jabot.
The Saints, in crypts, though nondescript, grace halos now aglow.

Stilled chapel chimes! Their clapper rope (that tongue-tied confidante)
won’t writhe to ring the carillons, alone and lean and gaunt –
its flocks of jute, now fallen mute, adorn the holy font.

Stray footsteps swarm  through church no more (apostates that profane) -
their echoes in the nave ring thin, while chalice cups maintain
a taste of brine in altar wine decaying in the rain.

No face will come with jagged tongue to sing a silent psalm
nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor pray for mercy, grace deferred, or beg lethean balm.

Six steeple towers, steel and stone, drab daggers in the sky!
Their hallowed halls no longer call when breezes wander by –
for, filled with dread to wake the dead, they've ceased to sough or sigh.

No cantillation, belfry bells, monastic chants inspire
and Minarets, though standing yet, host neither voice nor crier -
abodes and buildings silhouette a muted spectral choir.

Coiled candle sticks! Their twisted wicks no longer 'lume the cracks
with dying flame in smoky swirl mid pendant pearls of wax,
since deference to innocence dissolved in melting tracks.

Above! The dismal ditch of dusk reveals a velvet streak,
through which the winter’s wicked winds will sometimes weave and sneak,
and faraway a cable sways, a bridge clings hushed and bleak.

Thin shadows shift, like silver shafts, across a cruel moraine
reflecting white a wisp of light in ebon beads of bane
which casts a crooked smile across a faceless window pane.

Wan neon lights glow through the nights, through darkness sleek as slate,
while lanterns (hovered, high above, in silent swinging gait),
haunt ballrooms, bars, bereft bazaars, with no one left to fete.

Death's silhouettes show no regrets, 'twixt twilight’s ashen shrouds,
oblivious she always was to cries in dying crowds –
in foggy neap the spirits creep... a clutch of clammy clouds.

No breath will come  'cross jagged tongue to sing a silent psalm
nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor yet redress the emptiness that shifting shades embalm.

The castle clock, unwound, defrocks! Those peerless speechless spokes
unfurl the blight of reigning Night by spinning off her cloaks,
and flaunt the dun oblivion, her Baroness evokes.

Green trees gone dark, in palace parks, where children paused to play –
now voiceless things on phantom swings, like statues made of clay,
mark marbled tombs in graveyards groomed for grievers bent to pray.  

The sun-bleached bones of those who've flown lie scattered down the lanes
while other souls who hid in holes left bones with yellow stains
of plaintive tears (shed insincere, for no one felt the pains).

The terrors wrought by conscience fraught once stalked and lurked nearby
to rip the shrouds from  curtained clouds, frail fabrics on the sky –
now wraiths that scream in sleepless dreams no longer terrify.

And fog no longer leaks beyond the edge of doom’s café,
for when she trails her mourning veils, she fills the cabaret
with sallow smears of misty tears  in sheets of shallow gray.

Beyond the suburbs, farmers’ fields (where donkeys often brayed)
exhale a gust of barren dust where living seed once laid
and in the haze a scarecrow sways, impaled upon a *****.

A silo, still! Like hollowed quill, a ravished feather’s vane,
with traces of bespattered blood, once flowing through a vein.
The fruits of life, destroyed in strife... ’twas truly all in vain.

No souls will come with jagged tongues to sing a silent psalm
nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm –
they've seen, you see, life’s brevity, beneath a neutron bomb.


Beyond the Silent City’s walls, the victors laugh and play...
They’re celebrating PEACE ON EARTH, the devil’s sobriquet
for neutron radiation death in places far away.
I Know a Jew fish crier down on Maxwell Street with a
voice like a north wind blowing over corn stubble
in January.
He dangles herring before prospective customers evincing
a joy identical with that of Pavlowa dancing.
His face is that of a man terribly glad to be selling fish,
terribly glad that God made fish, and customers to
whom he may call his wares, from a pushcart.
Pagan Paul Nov 2018
The hypotenuse stretched
as far as the eye could see,
across a vast lateral plain
an horizon mathematically perfect.
And yet …
In the main square of the hypotenuse
the town crier bellowed out tidings.
The Triangle Triumvirate was unstable,
the discovery, nay re-discovery,
of the Mystery, the most horrific of Mysteries,
the Mystery of the missing

Dweeb was a box standard barbarian.
Quick to anger, slow of wit.
Like last night at dinner.
He had Three potatoes, his sister had Four.
He shouted and thumped the table,
his angry voice expunging his ire.
Then his sister had explained,
to calm and reassure him.
Three was more than Four
because it had Five letters in it.
And Five is more than Four.
He thought about his axe,
then about his abacus,
and then he ate his spuds.

The Fourth-Side drifted in spacial isolation.
Of course now it wasn't a Side.
Being attached to nothing, it was just a line,
but it had some tricks.
It could coil and curl itself
to form rude words in joined up writing.
It floated on reminiscing,
about the **** angles it had made
with all its previous adjacent lovers.
The memory caused spasms
and it formed into a rude word
that should never ever be written down.

Teena, Dweeb's sister, vomited.
She had kissed a puppy,
and was being sick in the morning,
was she pregnant?
But, it was never a puppy, always a stork.
He mum had told her, warned her
'never kiss an errant stalk'.
Her mum died of the pox, whatever that is.
Something clicked in her head.
Oh! Stork and stalk!
Well they do sound the same,
especially in a harsh barbarian accent.
But the puppy had sneezed
as she had kissed it goodnight.
She thought about her axe.
And then she threw up again.

Equations to be solved #7
Vlad the Impaler was a Barbarian
Vlad the Impaler was a Libra
Dracula was a Librarian?

Right Angle was worried.
Duly so.
If the Fourth-Side Mystery was solved
he'd have three other Right Angles to deal with,
instead of a sixty and a thirty.
The Triangle Triumvirate would cease.
An intense Quadrilateral Mexican stand-off
would ruffle his perfect two-seventy external.
He had to divert attention away,
far, far away, from the Fourth-Side.
By Jove he had it! Bingo!
Let them try to solve
the Mystery of
The Back-Side.

Dweeb loved winding up his sister.
So he hid her puppy in a box.
But now he was worried.
Was the puppy still alive?
Or dead? Or both?
This may sound like a ****** stupid question
but where did that last thought come from?
Yes what?
Yes, it was a ****** stupid question!

Teena though it very strange.
When she rang the dinner Triangle
the cat sat on the mat,
Curiouser and curiouser.
Conditioned response or learnt behaviour?
Teena dismissed the thought line,
she didn't ask ****** stupid questions.

It had no idea
about its status as a Mystery.
The Fourth-Side has issues.
Complicated issues.
It had somehow conspired
to tie itself in a knot.
And spacial isolation had become crowded.
Missing links everywhere, the sofa of time,
excommunicated integers, 1970's wallpaper,
it all floated about in spacial isolation.
Above all Fourth-Side was intensely agitated.
Couldn't anyone quieten that yapping puppy?

© Pagan Paul (06/11/18)
My psychedelic washing machine mind on spin cycle!
Kate Apr 2015
I know.

I know today is looming larger
Than the lump in your throat
That you swallowed last night as you
Stood in the shower,
Trying to wash away the feeling
Of everything-is-going-wrong
And replace it with whispers of
It's no big deal
You don't want them to know that
It hurts
Because then the questions will come
As you press your lips together
And blink back the tears that scream
I do not want to be here today.
But even louder is the whisper in your heart saying
You did this last week
You can do it again.
Maybe it's the dead of night right now and that's ok.
Because there is something beautiful
About the night sky
The infinite amount of stars
Match the amount of times you keep trying
The fact that it never ends
seems as impossible as making it through today
But here's a secret; you aren't alone.
You aren't the only shower-crier  
Please stop for a second      
Reach your hand through your warm skin
And find your heart, where it beats without question.
Tie the beats to your fingers so that you don't forget who you are.
You were created by the same man
Who made the stars.
Not cut from any pattern.
Made from the strongest materials.                    
Today is hard, I know.
But you can open your eyes.
The sun will rise soon enough, but you might as well stargaze while you're waiting.
I know you will be ok.
wrote this to myself after crying in the shower
One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound
except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember
whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve
nights when I was six.

All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky
that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in
the snow and bring out whatever I can find. In goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ball of holidays
resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea, and out come Mrs. Prothero and the firemen.

It was on the afternoon of the Christmas Eve, and I was in Mrs. Prothero's garden, waiting for cats, with her
son Jim. It was snowing. It was always snowing at Christmas. December, in my memory, is white as Lapland,
though there were no reindeers. But there were cats. Patient, cold and callous, our hands wrapped in socks, we
waited to snowball the cats. Sleek and long as jaguars and horrible-whiskered, spitting and snarling, they
would slink and sidle over the white back-garden walls, and the lynx-eyed hunters, Jim and I, fur-capped and
moccasined trappers from Hudson Bay, off Mumbles Road, would hurl our deadly snowballs at the green of their
eyes. The wise cats never appeared.

We were so still, Eskimo-footed arctic marksmen in the muffling silence of the eternal snows - eternal, ever
since Wednesday - that we never heard Mrs. Prothero's first cry from her igloo at the bottom of the garden. Or,
if we heard it at all, it was, to us, like the far-off challenge of our enemy and prey, the neighbor's polar
cat. But soon the voice grew louder.
"Fire!" cried Mrs. Prothero, and she beat the dinner-gong.

And we ran down the garden, with the snowballs in our arms, toward the house; and smoke, indeed, was pouring
out of the dining-room, and the gong was bombilating, and Mrs. Prothero was announcing ruin like a town crier
in Pompeii. This was better than all the cats in Wales standing on the wall in a row. We bounded into the
house, laden with snowballs, and stopped at the open door of the smoke-filled room.

Something was burning all right; perhaps it was Mr. Prothero, who always slept there after midday dinner with a
newspaper over his face. But he was standing in the middle of the room, saying, "A fine Christmas!" and
smacking at the smoke with a slipper.

"Call the fire brigade," cried Mrs. Prothero as she beat the gong.
"There won't be there," said Mr. Prothero, "it's Christmas."
There was no fire to be seen, only clouds of smoke and Mr. Prothero standing in the middle of them, waving his
slipper as though he were conducting.
"Do something," he said. And we threw all our snowballs into the smoke - I think we missed Mr. Prothero - and
ran out of the house to the telephone box.
"Let's call the police as well," Jim said. "And the ambulance." "And Ernie Jenkins, he likes fires."

But we only called the fire brigade, and soon the fire engine came and three tall men in helmets brought a hose
into the house and Mr. Prothero got out just in time before they turned it on. Nobody could have had a noisier
Christmas Eve. And when the firemen turned off the hose and were standing in the wet, smoky room, Jim's Aunt,
Miss. Prothero, came downstairs and peered in at them. Jim and I waited, very quietly, to hear what she would
say to them. She said the right thing, always. She looked at the three tall firemen in their shining helmets,
standing among the smoke and cinders and dissolving snowballs, and she said, "Would you like anything to read?"

Years and years ago, when I was a boy, when there were wolves in Wales, and birds the color of red-flannel
petticoats whisked past the harp-shaped hills, when we sang and wallowed all night and day in caves that smelt
like Sunday afternoons in damp front farmhouse parlors, and we chased, with the jawbones of deacons, the
English and the bears, before the motor car, before the wheel, before the duchess-faced horse, when we rode the
daft and happy hills *******, it snowed and it snowed. But here a small boy says: "It snowed last year, too. I
made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea."

"But that was not the same snow," I say. "Our snow was not only shaken from white wash buckets down the sky, it
came shawling out of the ground and swam and drifted out of the arms and hands and bodies of the trees; snow
grew overnight on the roofs of the houses like a pure and grandfather moss, minutely -ivied the walls and
settled on the postman, opening the gate, like a dumb, numb thunder-storm of white, torn Christmas cards."

"Were there postmen then, too?"
"With sprinkling eyes and wind-cherried noses, on spread, frozen feet they crunched up to the doors and
mittened on them manfully. But all that the children could hear was a ringing of bells."
"You mean that the postman went rat-a-tat-tat and the doors rang?"
"I mean that the bells the children could hear were inside them."
"I only hear thunder sometimes, never bells."
"There were church bells, too."
"Inside them?"
"No, no, no, in the bat-black, snow-white belfries, tugged by bishops and storks. And they rang their tidings
over the bandaged town, over the frozen foam of the powder and ice-cream hills, over the crackling sea. It
seemed that all the churches boomed for joy under my window; and the weathercocks crew for Christmas, on our

"Get back to the postmen"
"They were just ordinary postmen, found of walking and dogs and Christmas and the snow. They knocked on the
doors with blue knuckles ...."
"Ours has got a black knocker...."
"And then they stood on the white Welcome mat in the little, drifted porches and huffed and puffed, making
ghosts with their breath, and jogged from foot to foot like small boys wanting to go out."
"And then the presents?"
"And then the Presents, after the Christmas box. And the cold postman, with a rose on his button-nose, tingled
down the tea-tray-slithered run of the chilly glinting hill. He went in his ice-bound boots like a man on
fishmonger's slabs.
"He wagged his bag like a frozen camel's ****, dizzily turned the corner on one foot, and, by God, he was

"Get back to the Presents."
"There were the Useful Presents: engulfing mufflers of the old coach days, and mittens made for giant sloths;
zebra scarfs of a substance like silky gum that could be tug-o'-warred down to the galoshes; blinding tam-o'-
shanters like patchwork tea cozies and bunny-suited busbies and balaclavas for victims of head-shrinking
tribes; from aunts who always wore wool next to the skin there were mustached and rasping vests that made you
wonder why the aunts had any skin left at all; and once I had a little crocheted nose bag from an aunt now,
alas, no longer whinnying with us. And pictureless books in which small boys, though warned with quotations not
to, would skate on Farmer Giles' pond and did and drowned; and books that told me everything about the wasp,
except why."

"Go on the Useless Presents."
"Bags of moist and many-colored jelly babies and a folded flag and a false nose and a tram-conductor's cap and
a machine that punched tickets and rang a bell; never a catapult; once, by mistake that no one could explain, a
little hatchet; and a celluloid duck that made, when you pressed it, a most unducklike sound, a mewing moo that
an ambitious cat might make who wished to be a cow; and a painting book in which I could make the grass, the
trees, the sea and the animals any colour I pleased, and still the dazzling sky-blue sheep are grazing in the
red field under the rainbow-billed and pea-green birds. Hardboileds, toffee, fudge and allsorts, crunches,
cracknels, humbugs, glaciers, marzipan, and butterwelsh for the Welsh. And troops of bright tin soldiers who,
if they could not fight, could always run. And Snakes-and-Families and Happy Ladders. And Easy Hobbi-Games for
Little Engineers, complete with instructions. Oh, easy for Leonardo! And a whistle to make the dogs bark to
wake up the old man next door to make him beat on the wall with his stick to shake our picture off the wall.
And a packet of cigarettes: you put one in your mouth and you stood at the corner of the street and you waited
for hours, in vain, for an old lady to scold you for smoking a cigarette, and then with a smirk you ate it. And
then it was breakfast under the balloons."

"Were there Uncles like in our house?"
"There are always Uncles at Christmas. The same Uncles. And on Christmas morning, with dog-disturbing whistle
and sugar ****, I would scour the swatched town for the news of the little world, and find always a dead bird
by the Post Office or by the white deserted swings; perhaps a robin, all but one of his fires out. Men and
women wading or scooping back from chapel, with taproom noses and wind-bussed cheeks, all albinos, huddles
their stiff black jarring feathers against the irreligious snow. Mistletoe hung from the gas brackets in all
the front parlors; there was sherry and walnuts and bottled beer and crackers by the dessertspoons; and cats in
their fur-abouts watched the fires; and the high-heaped fire spat, all ready for the chestnuts and the mulling
pokers. Some few large men sat in the front parlors, without their collars, Uncles almost certainly, trying
their new cigars, holding them out judiciously at arms' length, returning them to their mouths, coughing, then
holding them out again as though waiting for the explosion; and some few small aunts, not wanted in the
kitchen, nor anywhere else for that matter, sat on the very edge of their chairs, poised and brittle, afraid to
break, like faded cups and saucers."

Not many those mornings trod the piling streets: an old man always, fawn-bowlered, yellow-gloved and, at this
time of year, with spats of snow, would take his constitutional to the white bowling green and back, as he
would take it wet or fire on Christmas Day or Doomsday; sometimes two hale young men, with big pipes blazing,
no overcoats and wind blown scarfs, would trudge, unspeaking, down to the forlorn sea, to work up an appetite,
to blow away the fumes, who knows, to walk into the waves until nothing of them was left but the two furling
smoke clouds of their inextinguishable briars. Then I would be slap-dashing home, the gravy smell of the
dinners of others, the bird smell, the brandy, the pudding and mince, coiling up to my nostrils, when out of a
snow-clogged side lane would come a boy the spit of myself, with a pink-tipped cigarette and the violet past of
a black eye, cocky as a bullfinch, leering all to himself.

I hated him on sight and sound, and would be about to put my dog whistle to my lips and blow him off the face
of Christmas when suddenly he, with a violet wink, put his whistle to his lips and blew so stridently, so high,
so exquisitely loud, that gobbling faces, their cheeks bulged with goose, would press against their tinsled
windows, the whole length of the white echoing street. For dinner we had turkey and blazing pudding, and after
dinner the Uncles sat in front of the fire, loosened all buttons, put their large moist hands over their watch
chains, groaned a little and slept. Mothers, aunts and sisters scuttled to and fro, bearing tureens. Auntie
Bessie, who had already been frightened, twice, by a clock-work mouse, whimpered at the sideboard and had some
elderberry wine. The dog was sick. Auntie Dosie had to have three aspirins, but Auntie Hannah, who liked port,
stood in the middle of the snowbound back yard, singing like a big-bosomed thrush. I would blow up balloons to
see how big they would blow up to; and, when they burst, which they all did, the Uncles jumped and rumbled. In
the rich and heavy afternoon, the Uncles breathing like dolphins and the snow descending, I would sit among
festoons and Chinese lanterns and nibble dates and try to make a model man-o'-war, following the Instructions
for Little Engineers, and produce what might be mistaken for a sea-going tramcar.

Or I would go out, my bright new boots squeaking, into the white world, on to the seaward hill, to call on Jim
and Dan and Jack and to pad through the still streets, leaving huge footprints on the hidden pavements.
"I bet people will think there's been hippos."
"What would you do if you saw a hippo coming down our street?"
"I'd go like this, bang! I'd throw him over the railings and roll him down the hill and then I'd tickle him
under the ear and he'd wag his tail."
"What would you do if you saw two hippos?"

Iron-flanked and bellowing he-hippos clanked and battered through the scudding snow toward us as we passed Mr.
Daniel's house.
"Let's post Mr. Daniel a snow-ball through his letter box."
"Let's write things in the snow."
"Let's write, 'Mr. Daniel looks like a spaniel' all over his lawn."
Or we walked on the white shore. "Can the fishes see it's snowing?"

The silent one-clouded heavens drifted on to the sea. Now we were snow-blind travelers lost on the north hills,
and vast dewlapped dogs, with flasks round their necks, ambled and shambled up to us, baying "Excelsior." We
returned home through the poor streets where only a few children fumbled with bare red fingers in the wheel-
rutted snow and cat-called after us, their voices fading away, as we trudged uphill, into the cries of the dock
birds and the hooting of ships out in the whirling bay. And then, at tea the recovered Uncles would be jolly;
and the ice cake loomed in the center of the table like a marble grave. Auntie Hannah laced her tea with ***,
because it was only once a year.

Bring out the tall tales now that we told by the fire as the gaslight bubbled like a diver. Ghosts whooed like
owls in the long nights when I dared not look over my shoulder; animals lurked in the cubbyhole under the
stairs and the gas meter ticked. And I remember that we went singing carols once, when there wasn't the shaving
of a moon to light the flying streets. At the end of a long road was a drive that led to a large house, and we
stumbled up the darkness of the drive that night, each one of us afraid, each one holding a stone in his hand
in case, and all of us too brave to say a word. The wind through the trees made noises as of old and unpleasant
and maybe webfooted men wheezing in caves. We reached the black bulk of the house. "What shall we give them?
Hark the Herald?"
"No," Jack said, "Good King Wencelas. I'll count three." One, two three, and we began to sing, our voices high
and seemingly distant in the snow-felted darkness round the house that was occupied by nobody we knew. We stood
close together, near the dark door. Good King Wencelas looked out On the Feast of Stephen ... And then a small,
dry voice, like the voice of someone who has not spoken for a long time, joined our singing: a small, dry,
eggshell voice from the other side of the door: a small dry voice through the keyhole. And when we stopped
running we were outside our house; the front room was lovely; balloons floated under the hot-water-bottle-
gulping gas; everything was good again and shone over the town.
"Perhaps it was a ghost," Jim said.
"Perhaps it was trolls," Dan said, who was always reading.
"Let's go in and see if there's any jelly left," Jack said. And we did that.

Always on Christmas night there was music. An uncle played the fiddle, a cousin sang "Cherry Ripe," and another
uncle sang "Drake's Drum." It was very warm in the little house. Auntie Hannah, who had got on to the parsnip
wine, sang a song about Bleeding Hearts and Death, and then another in which she said her heart was like a
Bird's Nest; and then everybody laughed again; and then I went to bed. Looking through my bedroom window, out
into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other
houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steady falling night. I turned the gas
down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.
Barry Stauning Jun 2016

the clock above the mantel
recites this steady prose

this house stands empty
outside its walls

the wailing wind
echoes through its halls

the crows, ravens, vultures
invited they all came

to pick and divide
the mosaic of this life

the walls stripped bare
the carpets rolled up

only the creaking floor  
protests this naked home

above the mantel the crier remains
reciting this steady prose

The Willow Jan 2016
Everyone wants to be a beautiful crier.
Everyone want to still see in their shattered mirrors of their souls.
Everyone wants their arguments moving and powerful,
like a scene from a movie,
with the other person really being put in their place, because they were
so wrong.
Everyone wants this, or to not have it at all.
Everyone wants to be themselves, but only in their best,
cleverest moments.
Everyone wants to be adored, but we must never show
that their love affects us, because to need other is weak, and
independence is strong.
Everyone hates to be wrong.
Everyone is the protagonist in their own story, and so if
others are hindering us and our goals,
they must be the enemy, they must be bad.
The thing about broken mirrors though,
is that some of the pieces are missing, but that doesn't mean it isn't
still a part of you.
So we must bounce our reflections off of others' mirrors
(this is necessary)
so we may see all our broken souls exactly as they are: beautiful.
Jedd Ong Dec 2016
(i see) two scions dance in traffic: sun and moon,
sky and stars; God’s two heirs
dancing in traffic as if they weren’t demigods but
small maya birds - transfixed
mortals, fighting to keep away from the blinding
might their status affords them.

as His children their world and its light is for their taking,
of which they can feed - or not:
they go on instead like hungry wolves, next to I, rising
(sidelined, falling) flagging down jeeps
in the thick of the Vinzons Hall jeepney stop. They bark loud
and cheerily to keep idle; from unravelling
their wax-worn strings. They are birds guided by concrete routes,
those yearning to feel its bleakness

in each syllable creeping up their gold-and-marble throats:
the soft choke of exhaust smoke
and the rosiness of their gaunt in the face of all-knowing fate:
that of snatching from death
a world not theirs. They declare: “Perseus we are not, and
Janus we choose.” They shuttlling
commuters obscure and without fuss and without end
to and fro, where they come

they spit on the universe in baggy basketball shorts
Stephen E Yocum Sep 2013
They come amongst
a cacophony of noise
and clutter, little voices,
uttering unintelligible sounds,
amid giggles and laughter.
Sometimes it's pushing
and shoving,
"Mom he's touching me!"

Leaving as they go a trail,
of ever changing strange things,
like dropped Legos, paper airplanes
rubber band and old bent nails.

Once I found, to my otter amazement
A freshly dead intact Grasshopper,
Neatly folded up in brightly colored
Special Occasion Wrapping paper.
A gift no doubt from one of them,
left right out, on my Dinning Room Table.

Other times they emerge slow and stealthy
a  pair of Ninjas, all in black and scary.
Or as merely Batman and Robin,
Maybe Spidy and the Incredible Hulkster,
All of their personas assuredly entertaining.

As they barge through my door,
they tend to sing loud a lot,
True, squeaky, off key, yet sweetly.
Most are songs I've never heard,
Or just made up for the moment.

If I'm a little down, feeling kind of blue
five minutes with them is a sure cure
Funk gone in a flash, replaced by nothing
but happy.

Consummate story tellers they can be,
The nine year old should be the "Town Crier".
No news fit to print, ever went untold
from his lips, always relayed with such gusto.
Ask him a simple "How was your day?"
and he will recite 15 minutes of vivid detail,
all for my very delighted amused approval.

The six year old is sweet enough to eat,
Always bright blue eyes a flashing,
Not to be outdone, he will try his best,
to **** right in and share his days happenings.
Little brothers need always to try harder.

We all three laugh and joke,
and sometimes I break out,
the oh so dreaded "tickle fingers",
chase them all around 'till I catch one
and then for sure their screams of delight
and giggles do indeed fill up the room,
not to mention my old soft heart as well.
These little boys are pure magic.

Watching them thrive and grow, is my tonic.
A battery charger I can't get enough of.
Smart, charming, funny, sweet, cute and happy,
the loves of an old man's life. With them around,
who needs another.

They are a precious gifts from my kids, their
Mother and Father. Another chance to have
children close, be their loving guiding grandfather.

In them I see my son as a child, now a fine
grown man, In those boys I see the very
reason I was put on this Earth,
A life of human creation, come full circle.
Terry O'Leary Oct 2014
The spider Queen, aloofly vain!
She rules a silent ruthless reign,
with black-bead eyes like pearls of rain
that damp the depths of her demesne.
A spider spins, with nimble feet,
a sticky web of grim deceit
that drapes the corners, dark, discreet,
in catacombs of her retreat.

Her jointed legs (in number, eight)
traverse the threads with stilted gait,
but often more she'll lie in wait
within the hub of her estate.

Shy spiders live their lives alone
ensconced within a silky throne;
unless a transient guest comes flown,
their lives bide empty, monotone.
Well, now and then, a sullen breeze
may twitch the toils, begin to tease –
yet nothing's caught and nothing pleas,
so patience's bid  at times like these.

But then again, when stars ignite,
may maunder by a gnat, by night,
be taught a dance, a writhing rite,
within a lace of death, wrapped tight.

Sometimes a spider's in the mood
and waits awhile, whilst being wooed –
and then, to later feed her brood,
the widow slays her mate for food.

In time a spider dies, 'tis true,
bequeathing but a residue
entwined, devoid of retinue,
in fibers decked in silver dew.
One asks "What purpose serves the GNAT –
to feed and make the spider fat?
Well, 'tis perchance just naught but that
within a mindless habitat.
"Yet, what's the aim?” you may inquire,
“at the heart of MAN's desire.
To which goals should WE aspire
reaching high and reaching higher?"

We've, through the ages, left the mire,
trundling wheels and taming fire,
doing deeds that must inspire,
nursing needy, calming crier, …

Such things as these, most may admire:
          - placid dove and war defier
            (some are bolder, some are shyer)
          - patience (mess-up mollifier);

          - humankind (Life's justifier)
          - charity (charmed self-denier)
          - tolerance (proud pacifier )
          - love of Life (folk unifier).

What more could we, as flesh, require?
Needless kneeling neath the spire?
Childish chanting in the choir?
Preaching hell's impending pyre?

No, Death's the only rectifier,
comes the instant we expire,
nothing after, sentience prior.

So, treasure Life and don't deny Her.
"if not the gnat,
the gnat is naught..."

Hmmm... wonder what that means...
Holden Caulfield
2. That movie that I saw last weekend that I thought you would like
3. The mix tapes you made me. I still listen to them in my car
4. The way I dance and wondering if you would like it if you saw me.
5. The Kooks and how you hate them.
6. Hospice
7. Late nights sleeping alone and knowing you're awake, but oh so silent.
8. Wondering if you're thinking about me too
9. The poems you wrote me. Your handwriting is classy.
10. The picture of Hilary Duff on my desk reminding me to be good
11. My bed and how you used to be there.
12. My friends and how you used to be one of them
13. Uptown
14. My ticklish spots that no longer get touched
15. My cat... he misses you.
16. Speaking Spanish and how you used to correct it, and sometimes be impressed
17. Wearing bows in my hair. How you used to love them.
18. The clothes I bought at that thrift store yesterday. I wonder if you'd like them.
19. Mehermahermahermaherm
20. Listening to Bright Eyes.
21. Listening to the sound of loneliness.
22. Coffee and how you say "Americano" with a roll of the tongue.
23. The last bit in my tea and how it's "too sweet to swallow."
24. Sitting close on the couch. Your hand stroking mine. Sneaking a kiss on the cheek.
25. Missing busses and missing you.
26. How I used to cheer you up.
27. The stars and sheep and roses.
28. Seth Rogan
29. Meditating and how I can't do it with you constantly clogging up my brain.
30. Laughing
31. I never learned to salsa dance with you and your brutally honest hips.
32. Carrot Creme Brulee
33. Hand dance duets
34. The empty spaces between my fingers
35. Your grey corduroy pants are my favorite.
36. When you called me your coriño.
37. How you would have scoffed at me copying and pasting an "ñ".
38. Attempting to show you music you would like.
39. Failing at showing you music you like.
40. Sending you hearts.
41. Arching my back.
42. Eating ice cream and how I'm better when it's here.
43. How I'm better when you're here.
44. How Cory is better when Topanga is there.
45. Italian Night Clubs
46. You and Me and Everyone We Know
47. Tyronne Street
48. Ice Land
49. Getting lost.
50. Drunken parties and thrashing fists.
51. Second chances
52. Being half of something.
53. Wearing your cardigan
54. Long embraces and never wanting to move.
55. Doing my homework with you sitting next to me. Not letting you read over my shoulder
56. Teaching you about the body.
57. Your smile, and how you give a little chuckle every time I see it.
58. How we used to laugh about nothing.
59. Really bad cookies.
60. Butter face.
61. Jealousy
62. Hating modernized Shakespeare
63. Confessions
64. Embarrassed faces buried in pillows
65. Incredulous about me hating Elvis
66. Miles ******* Davis
67. Singing softly to the radio
68. Playing the piano. Singing for you when you're not around.
69. Wondering if you're reading this right now.
70. Hoping that you've gotten this far down the list.
71. Be the Pitta to my Vata
72. Kate Upton has saggy *****.
73. I just want to make spaghetti with you.
74. How you hate ellipsis
75. Wondering whether or not I spelled that correctly because I know you would judge.
77. Leaving tearful voice-mails
78. John Lennon and Yoko Ono's Rolling Stone cover
79. Looking at art, wishing I was Monet.
80. My sundress on the floor.
81. Not seeing that new movie in theaters (the one that won all those Oscars) because I only want to see it with you.
82. Getting angry when Kacie B. didn't get the rose on the Bachelor and knowing you're angry too because Courtney ***** as a person.
83. I'm an ugly crier.
84. Hitting bread pans
85. Your green plaid jacket
86. Vulgarity
87. Insecurity
88. "Back and forth. Forever."
89. How that one song reminds you of me and I still don't know why.
90. How you deserve the best
91. It makes me sad that I'm at number 91 and you're still nowhere to be found.
92. Going to ballet class with the anticipation of seeing you afterward.
93. You asking me how ballet was, whether you were interested or not.
94. whispers "Let me be your hero."
95. Never seeing your fur vest.
96. Holding hands when we shouldn't have.
97. Velvet leggings
98. The last wonder of the world.
99. I fear that I will forget what your face looks like.
100. Reaching one-hundred with so much more to say.
Alternative title: 100 Things I Have to Give Up If I Want to Live
Venus, when her son was lost,
Cried him up and down the coast,
In hamlets, palaces, and parks,
And told the truant by his marks,
Golden curls, and quiver, and bow;—
This befell long ago.
Time and tide are strangely changed,
Men and manners much deranged;
None will now find Cupid latent
By this foolish antique patent.
He came late along the waste,
Shod like a traveller for haste,
With malice dared me to proclaim him,
That the maids and boys might name him.

Boy no more, he wears all coats,
Frocks, and blouses, capes, capôtes,
He bears no bow, or quiver, or wand,
Nor chaplet on his head or hand:
Leave his weeds and heed his eyes,
All the rest he can disguise.
In the pit of his eyes a spark
Would bring back day if it were dark,
And,—if I tell you all my thought,
Though I comprehend it not,—
In those unfathomable orbs
Every function he absorbs;
He doth eat, and drink, and fish, and shoot,
And write, and reason, and compute,
And ride, and run, and have, and hold,
And whine, and flatter, and regret,
And kiss, and couple, and beget,
By those roving eye-***** bold;
Undaunted are their courages,
Right Cossacks in their forages;
Fleeter they than any creature,
They are his steeds and not his feature,
Inquisitive, and fierce, and fasting,
Restless, predatory, hasting,—
And they pounce on other eyes,
As lions on their prey;
And round their circles is writ,
Plainer than the day,
Underneath, within, above,
Love, love, love, love.
He lives in his eyes,
There doth digest, and work, and spin,
And buy, and sell, and lose, and win;
He rolls them with delighted motion,
Joy-tides swell their mimic ocean.
Yet holds he them with tortest rein,
That they may seize and entertain
The glance that to their glance opposes,
Like fiery honey ****** from roses.

He palmistry can understand,
Imbibing virtue by his hand
As if it were a living root;
The pulse of hands will make him mute;
With all his force he gathers balms
Into those wise thrilling palms.

Cupid is a casuist,
A mystic, and a cabalist,
Can your lurking Thought surprise,
And interpret your device;
Mainly versed in occult science,
In magic, and in clairvoyance.
Oft he keeps his fine ear strained,
And reason on her tiptoe pained,
For aery intelligence,
And for strange coincidence.
But it touches his quick heart
When Fate by omens takes his part,
And chance-dropt hints from Nature's sphere
Deeply soothe his anxious ear.

Heralds high before him run,
He has ushers many a one,
Spreads his welcome where he goes,
And touches all things with his rose.
All things wait for and divine him,—
How shall I dare to malign him,
Or accuse the god of sport?—
I must end my true report,
Painting him from head to foot,
In as far as I took note,
Trusting well the matchless power
Of this young-eyed emperor
Will clear his fame from every cloud,
With the bards, and with the crowd.

He is wilful, mutable,
Shy, untamed, inscrutable,
Swifter-fashioned than the fairies,
Substance mixed of pure contraries,
His vice some elder virtue's token,
And his good is evil spoken.
Failing sometimes of his own,
He is headstrong and alone;
He affects the wood and wild,
Like a flower-hunting child,
Buries himself in summer waves,
In trees, with beasts, in mines, and caves,
Loves nature like a horned cow,
Bird, or deer, or cariboo.

Shun him, nymphs, on the fleet horses!
He has a total world of wit,
O how wise are his discourses!
But he is the arch-hypocrite,
And through all science and all art,
Seeks alone his counterpart.
He is a Pundit of the east,
He is an augur and a priest,
And his soul will melt in prayer,
But word and wisdom are a snare;
Corrupted by the present toy,
He follows joy, and only joy.

There is no mask but he will wear,
He invented oaths to swear,
He paints, he carves, he chants, he prays,
And holds all stars in his embrace,
Godlike, —but 'tis for his fine pelf,
The social quintessence of self.
Well, said I, he is hypocrite,
And folly the end of his subtle wit,
He takes a sovran privilege
Not allowed to any liege,
For he does go behind all law,
And right into himself does draw,
For he is sovranly allied.
Heaven's oldest blood flows in his side,
And interchangeably at one
With every king on every throne,
That no God dare say him nay,
Or see the fault, or seen betray;
He has the Muses by the heart,
And the Parcæ all are of his part.

His many signs cannot be told,
He has not one mode, but manifold,
Many fashions and addresses,
Piques, reproaches, hurts, caresses,
Action, service, badinage,
He will preach like a friar,
And jump like Harlequin,
He will read like a crier,
And fight like a Paladin.
Boundless is his memory,
Plans immense his term prolong,
He is not of counted age,
Meaning always to be young.
And his wish is intimacy,
Intimater intimacy,
And a stricter privacy,
The impossible shall yet be done,
And being two shall still be one.
As the wave breaks to foam on shelves,
Then runs into a wave again,
So lovers melt their sundered selves,
Yet melted would be twain.
corazon Jan 2019
I hate when people cry
for me
a little

you hear them breathe
with their mouth
their nose
is clogged up

cling onto the past
poor woman
poor heart

crying in the bed beside

poor nose
poor mouth

stop crying
I hate it

I hate when people cry in front of me
I've never done such thing
so vulnerable
a sense of weakness
yet powerful presence
makes me uncomfortable

I can't help but wonder
ʷʰʸ ᵃʳᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ᶜʳʸⁱⁿᵍ
ʷʰᵃᵗ ᵈⁱᵈ ʰᵉ ˢᵃʸ?

ᴵ'ᵐ ˢᵒ ᶜᵒˡᵈ
ᴵ ᶜᵃⁿ'ᵗ ᵗʳᵉᵃᵗ ᵒᵗʰᵉʳ'ˢ ᵉᵐᵒᵗⁱᵒⁿˢ ʷᵉˡˡ
ʷʰᵉⁿ ᴵ ᶜᵃⁿ'ᵗ ᶜᵒⁿᵗʳᵒˡ ᵐʸ ᵒʷⁿ
Lain Ender Mar 2012
Tell me wistful wisteria,
Why do you shed those regal tears?
Is it for a fallen child,
A bud of love so dear?

Can you tell me violet crier,
Why flows your petaled pain?
Did you lose a lover?
Does it hurt to speak their name?

Or wisteria, darling tear stained one.
Is this glumness misconceived?
Does happiness reprieve just hold you,
and bring you to your wavering knees?
Its been a while. I've been busy with trying to get licensed in such in such and working a small collection of short stories which are almost ready to be edited.  If all goes well soon they will be available for cheap on Kindle.
BR Sep 2013
three of us
sat a table
as one of us had peanut butter
and the two of us has ichiban soup
discussing the things that came to mind

We walked to our favourite street walking to one end
to the other

we watch the river flow

strolling down a narrow path
filled with green ad yellow leaves
as falls comes in

We come on this little

one of us sits on a rock
the other takes pictures
and me skipping rocks across the water

we start walking back
as we stop at  a unique bush
as we discuss what it could be called
one of us say
"in french its pronounced  "seul pleurer" "

we're quiet for some time
breathing in the moment
we have

we talk about the seasons we love
we laugh
we're friends

cloudy afternoon

good days
september 6th 2013
Finn Schiele Jun 2013
One day, darling.
One day, we shall meet.
One day,
We lock eyes across the room by pure chance.
Whilst I am playing a wallflower
and you are playing a rockstar.
In the midst of my seeing
and your being seen.
We look directly into each other’s pupils.
One day, darling.

And I see a town crier,
my voice and feet,  in your face.
Maybe you see a poet, a dancer.
A storyteller.
Your spigot. A minstrel.
Like a fairy that whispers
charming sweet-nothings in your ear.
One day, darling.

You give a smirk
that gives me flutter.
I touch your shoulder with my pinky
as I reach for the plastic cup to fill it with another dose of cheap wine.
Your skin perks up and contracts.
I act as though I didn't notice,
but you know it was deliberate.
And I know you know.
My half-hearted bashfulness.
Your half-arsed cockiness.
We drink ourselves to semi consciousness.
As we indulge in our awful drunken dancing,
your hand slips in and rakes across my abdomen, and
my hand lingers around your bony hips.
I want to just grab handfuls of your ****.
However, even drunk, I am not that bold.
One day, darling.

I ditch my friend who dragged me there.
You fall straight onto my bed.
My bedroom in a flat I share with my best friend.
I look at your feet dangling off the edge of my bed,
kicking off the shoes.
I think of how quickly you have claimed my space.
And how much it excites me.
I slither in next to you.
And you engulf me, wait for me to overflow.
Both of us half aware, but fully euphoric.
One day, darling.

In the morning, you fry up my flatmates bacon,
scramble some eggs.
In my kitchen wearing nothing but
your underwear and t-shirt.
I make tea.
When you ask, I simply say I don’t have any coffee.
There’s a bag in the pantry. I just can’t be bothered to take out the press.
We eat together on my balcony.
Barely dressed.
Sober but painfully hungover.
Your smirk is now a softer grin,
but with the same glint in the eyes.
We don’t speak a word,
because it gives us headaches.
I put the dishes away and
set up a pool chair in the balcony.
And we cuddle up under the sun,
feeling the light breeze on our ears and brows.
So naturally. Naturally.
One day, darling.

We break every rule written in Cosmopolitan,
told by our friends from school,
by people on television.
Those mind games to test each other or
guess our feelings become moot.
Because your hands become so
comfortable to rest my head in.
and I enjoy the weight of your head on my back,
like it belongs there.
And because there is no time to ask, wait, or waste.
One day, darling.

We spend countless days on the beach,
bathing in salty water, sand, sunlight, and each other.
We smoke kush and you buy me a ****
because I can’t stand spliffs.
I drawl on about my quasi-Marxist stateless communist utopia.
You stare at my face, not saying a word
and smile, even though you don’t give two ***** about a word I’m saying.
And I know you don’t.
You take me to bars and parties and social gatherings,
and I go everywhere you want me to.
Even though I never leave your side,
or speak to anybody else.
I go every time.
The days I cannot move an inch away from my couch
because I drown myself in useless, endless influx of thoughts and emotions.
You stay-
Sometimes, just far enough that I can’t feel your over zealous heartbeats full of life,
but close enough you can see me.
Sometimes, pressed up right next to me so I cannot make a move.
We drop acid together and spend the whole day
doing nothing but hallucinating while sipping my signature honey-lilac lemonade.
We pop a molly and have ***.
Which short-circuits my brain a little,
and brings you closer to the thing you call god.
You sing my words and
I dance your tunes.
So quickly, your fingers learn my hair.
And my palms know your chest so well.
I have never been so excited and comfortable.
You, of course, have never been so fascinated. Enchanted.
One day. Yes, one day.

And the summer comes to an end.
Because the earth didn’t actually stop
the day we met (no matter how much it felt such to us).
You go back to school, and I probably move on to a new city.
I give you my email or whatever.
But it’s useless.
Because you are young and new.
You have many things on your agenda -
people to become, things to acquire, places to be.
And because I won’t keep still.
Because drastic changes are so inevitable for both of us.
The world is so large for both of us.
Still, I know (I mean, I know) you have carved
a permanent spot in my mind.
But I can only hope I am the same to you.
Because, suddenly I don’t know a thing about you.
Woody Jan 2016
It's hard not to think of death in the winter
when you see ghosts in every breath and bitter
winds pierce your center like icy splinters.

I started a fire burning bridges on the pyre
of last year's desires but cold hard facts don't expire
and the outlook is dire according to the town crier.

It's not my aim to hold my feet to the flame
if it's all the same cold dismal place name
we claim at the end of the waiting game

as I blow ghost breath on a cold winter's morning.
zebra Jul 2018

oh I forgot cannibal
I'd love to have you to dinner

Mon Papy.
Mon Papy n'a jamais eu de poème,
Afin de lui faire comprendre à quel point je l'aime.
J'ai donc le devoir de rectifier cette erreur,
Qui, depuis quelques temps, ronge mon coeur.
Depuis que je suis petite, tu m'as fait découvrir la belle vie,
Apprendre à faire du vélo sur deux roues en fait partie.
Tu m'as montré comment jouer aux boules,
Et comment orienter mon cerf-volant pour qu'il s'envole plus haut.
Tu m'as fais goûter le meilleur miel du monde,
Celui que tu allais chercher dans ta combinaison de super-héro.
Moi je pensais que tu étais James Bond,
Tu me disais, "ca roule, ma poule",
Comme si tu n'avais peur de rien,
Même pas des oies qui nous courraient après dans le jardin.
Avec toi je joue au scrabble et aux petits chevaux,
Tu gagnes toujours haut la main, et on ne peut s'empêcher de crier "Bravo!"
Je me souviens de nos soirées Fort Boyard et Koh-Lanta,
Rien de mieux qu'un bon feu, une famille réunie, et du chocolat.
T'avoir dans ma vie est un cadeau de chaque seconde,
Parfois j'aimerai le crier sur le toit du monde,
Pour qu'ils sachent tous la chance que j'ai,
D'avoir un papy comme toi, que je suis si fière d'aimer.
Même **** de toi je te sens près de moi,
Tu réchauffes mon cœur avec des sourires.
Tu sais bien qu'avec toi je ne peux que rire.
Tu m'aides à donner le meilleur de moi-même,
Tu sais bien que ta fierté fait la mienne.
Dans ma tête tes chansons résonnent avec clarté,
De la souris verte à la claire fontaine,
Ta voix berce mes souvenirs chaque jour,
Et mon angoisse disparaît dès que j'en entends les contours.
Mon sourire apparaît dès que je pense à toi,
Et mon cœur se remplit automatiquement de joie.
Andrew Rueter Jun 2018
Their lives bleed into mine
What am I becoming?
As long as I'm bleeding in line
I can hear war drums drumming
I feel my purity and youth leave me
As their lack of couth feeds me
And their sweet tooth bleeds me
Until eventually I too am greedy

In this ****** atmosphere
Our ***** past is clear
Inspiring future fears
And hardened tears
Drowned by beers
And empty cheers
Through the years
Until we're here
As a ****** stranger
Head banger
In Jesus' manger

This blight
Of life
As a simulation
Of assimilation
Into a nation
Of incineration
In a ****** mire
Lit by the fire
Positioned higher
I call my sire

I fidget in the cage
Of this pivotal maze
Called the Digital Age
I'm in need of healing
From this dark feeling
That I'm an innocent child reading
A book about a grown man bleeding
Always met with a hateful greeting
While sympathy is fleeting
Being replaced by our own jadedness
After living with those who hated us
We develop defensive thorns
Resembling demonic horns
To match public scorns

My first love
Drew first blood
And I couldn't halt the blood loss
Exacerbated by the mud toss
Of the sinister town crier
Exposing my heart's desires
So I said never again
For the bleeding to stop
When dealing with men
Is like meeting the cops
Aware that I'm defenseless
They start beating me senseless
So I become a judge myself
Part of the sludge for my health
I won't budge unless it's for wealth
Accepting the cards I was dealt

They bled into me
Now red is all I see
No way to get free
So I follow their lead
And choose to bleed
As they pray and plead
It becomes my turn
To cause the burns
That I had learned
When I was spurned
And lost my purity
Now blood cures me
Can be found in my self published poetry book “Icy”.
Meteo Nov 2015
What are the chances,

I keep seeing these wolves, and

you keep coming back?

If those I loved were lost
The Crier’s voice would tell me—
If those I loved were found
The bells of Ghent would ring—

Did those I loved repose
The Daisy would impel me.
Philip—when bewildered
Bore his riddle in!
DG Feb 2019
Whenever I cry it isn’t obvious.
I’m not loud and I don’t get ugly
I just sit quietly, breathing, my eyes slowly dripping, as I’m thinking
About the things and the people that got me to this point
But most of all, myself.
Robin Lemmen Feb 2019
I always trust the wrong person
With remnants of my heart
Giving away parts of me
They think they want
But reality is messy
Fantasies write better on paper
And fights are only romantic in movies
I am an ugly crier
A malicious fighter
An incredibly complicated version of normal
I whisper to myself to make me feel special
Life is nothing like they will tell you
Because it's incomparable to anyone else's
I don't know where I belong
I have seen many a place
But home is a concept to me, estranged
I am young but sometimes the world
Makes me feel so old, soul heavy
I wish I knew
How to turn anxious thoughts into
Precious gold for I would surely
Be the richest of them all
Melochany moods sipping ice coffee
In my underwear tapping along
To my favorite album
I find solitude in music
I find peace in unexpected places
But stray from comfort found in strangers
Help me, is all I know to ask
But when offered I refuse
I am the biggst burden of all, to myself
When Dagobert adorned Franco caves,
Clovis iniquity built a realm portentous?
Ate fruit from olden, -licentious ways…

Portentous realm thus be-stow-ed,
No king in truth but a nave?
Nave only to a Catholic po-et.

Hearken crier old kingdom days,

Oh Franco brave!
Oh Franco brave!

Oh Franco brave!
Oh Franco brave!

In regret of Dagobert's disturb-ed grave.
Kara Jean Jul 2016
The moment I feel it
The point I've figured it out
Seconds away from being a whole
A mind in control
The walls,
The house,
My world
begins to sweat
My heart feels irony in my soul dying
I run frantically
There's still time everyday
We scream and pray
Fixated on a break
To bad it's on fire
Others envy as you rise higher
If only they knew your heart was tired
Self-worth never acquired
Still we run
The winding path kissing your morning breath
Nothing changes
Time to admit
Your heart finally turned to charcoal
The darkness has no forgiveness
Somewhere in the middle section
With a world full of alcohol, tears and desires
No one notice you were a crier
You sit in loneliness
Proving you're a ******* fighter
There is still life in the smoldering soul
One day the run won't be so tiring and old
Hope or bitterness hits and you die in emptiness
Cleanse me in a chlorine pool
My white dress floats
Eleganntly holding my figure together as my skin burns off
God screams
No one hears
I sit in a universe I only see
Mother Earth stop haunting me
A dream form made to torment her
Today we lay no longer breathing
Free is still currently a lie we put into our speech
I lay lifeless in a straight jacket built upon fear
Madeline Oct 2011
"You know, what the most annoying thing is?"
Stacking box, after box, after box
in her empty-floored home.
"Knowing how," stack, "lost," stack, "I'll be."
She drops to a box, face in hands. "******* it."
What do you say
To the widow of an adulterer,
To the crier of sorrows
you've never known?
"I'm sorry."
"******* it, you're sorry. Everyone's sorry."
What do you say to all the bitterness
of a woman stacking, stacking, stacking
The boxes of her new life?
I sit on the divan by the window. "What do you want
me to say?" I ask.
"****, I don't know." Sighing. "Say you know
He really loved me
And that even though I'm just your pain-in-the-***
and stupid older sister,
who's made too many mistakes to count,
and who's never ever been there when you need her
because she's too busy with her
******* accident
of a husband,
you really love me too."
Looking up at me
with tear-swimming
mascara-ringed green eyes
under a black fringe
of artistic bangs.
"Of course I really love you." The automaton of my voice.
"You're my only sister."
Tears falling onto
white velvet wrists.
"I really miss him.
That *******."

If only
he hadn't been
the adulterer

With me.
Emily Mar 2014
my mouth tastes like pennies and your hand is too warm on my thigh under your parents table and i wish you would move it and i know the way you squeeze softly would be attractive to other girls but i am not other girls

i used to read books out loud to you and when i stumbled over words you would stroke my hair and i don’t think you even heard a word i was saying

you say you love math because there is no uncertainty and i think about how i am never a fixed point and i wonder if this is why you’re not always there when i wake up

you tell me you know me better than myself

my face feels too tight and flushed and i am not a crier but i wish i was now

you like to control me and i like to control me and i feel guilty for this

her lips look very soft on your cheek and it’s been a few months but i remember you never let me kiss you in public. she has bigger eyes than me and i still think about you

there are 2 bottles of sleeping pills and my favorite knife and a pack of cigarettes under my bed and i kissed a boy whose name i don’t know last weekend and it felt good

i haven’t cried myself to sleep in three weeks

your hand is too high up on my leg and i want to go home
David Barr Nov 2013
Gargoyles surround our city of masonry genius and a haunting practicality is displayed in its omen simplicity.
We know that fairgrounds can be fountains of doom – obscure environments where innocence may collide with strategic and predatory wiles.
So we must ring the bells in the high towers and allow the town-crier to proclaim his message without hindrance, from ancient waterspouts.
Close the gates of the country manor and focus upon the sophistication of the dance, where captivating etiquette conceals her heartfelt fornications. Will you approach and indulge yourself of that which is available? Come on. You know that you want to.
Melissa Sherwood Jul 2015
When I think of you I hear a baseball game.
Thousands screaming around us as the 2nd baseman gets the second out at the bottom of the 5th
Thousands of voice waves fill the stadium
For once my ADHD clogged mind is able to focus on one single thing

When the thought of you crosses my mind
I remember car rides
Aimlessly driving
Like time, the car flys
Blurry lights
Red light
We blow through it
Your arm like a switch blade
Cuts aross my chest
Time slows and you say
"Sorry it's me being protective
I guess a force of habit."

When your name slides into my brain through one of the holes in my face
I am graced with the memory of silence
Silence at 4:03am in the morning
I learn you're a silent crier

If I ever glance at the clock at 5:13 in the morning
My photographic memory will play for me
That time of us laying under the trees
Watching the night fade
Then attempting to figure out
How to get me inside without waking up my parents

When you dwell in my head I remember a few lessons
You taught me patience
Patience is good for the young naive soul

6 months of silence and suddenly the memory is no longer sweet
I think of you less
I receive a letter every few weeks
You sign your name with a heart
PS a promise that you'll be coming home soon
6 months ago I promised I'd wait for you

Lover I am lonely
I crave your arms and only your arms to hold me
But it's been 26 weeks without you and my patience is growing ever so weak
dex Aug 2016
[read the parts that look like gibberish backwards]*

July 24, 2016

When the sun rises in the West,
           that is the day I will forget
           the day that I will reinvent
           the day that I will cease to exist.
There are times I fight fire with fire,
           and when it is ice, I am more actor
           and when it is water, I am more faux
           and when I forget, I am more myself.
More often than I care to admit,
                            I am quiet because I cannot
  ­                                                breathe
         ­                                                  dream
                            I am quiet because I do not know
                                    what else
                                           to be.
I never meant to be your ghost.
I never meant to be your grief.
I never meant to be what I am, but I
do not     have               a   say.
I am change,       am adaptation
  am fear,             am recognition
I don't know how to tell you what I am,
I don't know what I am myself.

    of course I remember
    of course I
    of course

Don't let me leave, or I will go.
This thing that I will always know,
will take me away before you can say, no.
Don't let me go, or I will leave.
This tendency is to deceive,
is to protect all those who grieve.
My love, I cannot breathe.
My love, I cannot breathe.
My love, I cannot breathe.

I left behind that second soul.
I left behind all that I know.
I left behind, and so I grow.
luos dnoces ym dniheb tfel i.

I do not know who, but I can guess as to what-
-I am.

I say to run if you know how,
  say, I'd run, if I knew how
  say, I'd run, but where would I go?
I would run to you, and what good would that do?
I would run to you, I would beg you to run, too,
                                 I would teach you
                                 I would show you
I would do my best to unknow you
             for I am dangerous,
                   I am.
I'd unknot you and set you free,
I'd show you all I'll never be
I'd show you how to leave me.
I'd show you how.
I'd show you.
I hear the stars sing,
they mimic
those words, those words:
“To protect you”
In a voice that haunts my sleep,
Like a face that travels my dreams.
A warning I cannot scream.
A life that is all I see.
A you that is more me than me.

Oh, how I wish I could tell you.
uoy evol i,
eid lliw eno, erif hguone toh ot dna
em si ti yarp i
em si ti yarp i
em ekat esaelp, erif, **
evael ton lliw eno siht fi.
erif, **.
htob su llik tonnac i
ton lliw
erif ot eid tsum eno fi tub
em si ti yarp i
em si ti yarp i
em si ti yarp i.

deb nwo ym ni peels tonnac i kniht uoy od yhw?
thgir ehtaerb tonnac i, evol ym
ereht ma i nehw ton.
maerd i nehw ton
kaeps ot yrt i nehw ton
diarfa os ma i, evol ym.
elims i, ecnelis ot deirram
diarfa os ma i dna.
eil a i ma? rotca na ma i.
diarfa os ma i.
diarfa os ma I dna, hturt si tahw ton wonk i.

July 25, 2016

I was an earthquake before you found me.
I was the antithesis of calm,
                                 of rational
                                 of right
                                 of sincerity
I was a wrong, I was a lie
                         (eil a i ma?)
I was,     I was
I   cannot   be
          not now or in a hundred years.
I am changed.
Will be changed.
Am. I am changed.    i   a m   c h a n g e d

The name of a rain gauge living in the desert
  her name is hope
                   is why
                   is let go
                   is forget
  her name is never again.
She is dry, dry, dry.
She catches tears, she does not make them.
She does not cry.
But she dies to hot enough fire,
          (eid lliw eno, erif hguone toh ot)
       she is the one it will be
       (em si ti yarp i)
       (em si ti yarp i)

Time, the illusion, he is a key player
            he scrambles words like eggs
       (sgge delbmarcs sih dah uoy evah?)
            he steps by when no one is looking
       (spets eh yaw eht nees uoy evah?)
Time, the illusion.

Sister, the allusion, she is question and is queen
             her intentions crystal clear
             her approach direct and true.
Sister, the allusion, foreboding
sister. the allusion.

July 26, 2016

did you know that she cries in her sleep?
          her parents always just say she's not a talker
          because they can't stand to tell people
          that she is actually a crier
          and she doesn't blame them.
did you know that he loves music?
              only because he can't have it, you see
              only because no one else tasted that night
              only because he can never go back.

The November sunshine is a lovely thing.
   (emoh nrehtron reh)
In those days before Death showed its teeth,
     those days were so very warm,
                                  so very kind.
when the lighting was good
I swear, we could see for miles.
we had so many plans for the years to come.
             so many ideas
             so many hopes
they still visit occasionally, you know
they come through the back door
they think it is still their house
they think they are still welcome here
they never noticed that everyone else was gone
they never smelled the death on my hands
they never saw the blood on my shoes
they never saw the blade on the bathroom counter
they never slipped in the tear stains on my cheeks
they never realized the fridge stayed full
                                       while I stayed empty
they never saw the plea in my eyes
they never trusted the cross hanging on my neck
                                                   but i did
Or at least I thought                        i did.

those old smiles
                              they will not leave me be.

Do you know what a living lie looks like?
I know that you do. I do, too.
She can be beautiful, can't she?
reh ta kool neve uoy nac woh?
reh evol ot dnats uoy nac woh?

i    a m    c h a n g e d
i    a m    c h a n g e d
i    a m    c h a n g e d

derednow i nehw gnorw ton saw i, llew
flesym gnihsawniarb saw i fi.
thgir i saw?

You are rather quite good for me, see:
I forget when I am with you.
I am so focused on you
        worried about you
that I forget to remember,
and I think it is a new sort of lovely,
like a snapdragon planted in a snowdrift,
like the asteroid belt, but sideways.
like Orion, like his precious indifference.
Like a thing I should be sorry for,
         but all I can muster is a thank you.
a snapdragon in the snow.
a snapdragon.

white suits me just fine.

i do not know what is real.

July 31, 2016

did you know
that four days ago,
I slept in a real bed
               for the first time
              in nearly two months?
               four nights I retired
               to a real bed
I am now back to my futon
           or that narrow rock shelf
                         as I believe I once called it.
I haven't slept much the past four nights,
but when I did, I dreamed of you.
                (I always do)
It's been spoiled for me now, sleeping in a bed.
I shouldn't say it, but here
                   ( and only here )    I will:
I never want to sleep in a bed without you again.
It goes even deeper than an
            i don't want to       an
            i never want to

it is also an
   i cannot.
Simply put, I cannot.

I've tried, my love, I truly have, but
                 my eyes will not close
and when they do,
               I see only you
                 my lungs will not breathe
and when they do,
               I swear I breathe you
                 my heartbeats will not slow
and when they do,
                I know I hear you.
I can't fall asleep; not even the restless kind.
Not there, not in that place.

I have not cried myself to sleep in a long time,
but I did that last night.
I prayed until my mind was numb
                       my face, numb, too
(the Hail Mary is my favorite
          and I didn't know who else to call)
but my waterproof heart stood strong
and sent me dreams of you.
the ones of you are always so
yet those brief moments make me feel
as though you've been there all along.

I was so thankful that I got to see you tonight
               that you held me in your arms
                       you rubbed my back
                       you kissed my face
                 (oh, what a joy to be yours)
I didn't mean to keep you late
My love, I hope you know
Anywhere you want me:
This is where I'll go.

My dearest love, I hope that you can sleep.

August 5, 2016*

My life, my days, I have a confession to make– a few things to say–

G: I know you see it all, and I hope you can forgive the things I forget to say. I hope you can stomach the thing that I have become. I hope you can stand it when the time comes.
J: I'm sorry she missed your funeral because of me; it's a thing that haunts me in the night
G: I tried to run at the gun, but somewhere along the way I became the gun. I mow them all down just by breathing. Is this what you had in mind when you said I was a gift?
D: I don't blame you for what you do. I'd be trying to drown my misery, too, if I could stand it
J: I know why you didn't go to the hospital for all those weeks, and I'm sorry I didn't get to you sooner. I hope that things are better now. I hope you'll break the pattern.
J: I am so sorry for what I did to you. I can never repair that damage and I will never forgive myself, not even after I'm dead
M: you're the bravest person I know. I'm sorry this is all you've been given
P: you must have been something special, for her to love you like that. Thank you for being what you were for her.
M: I'm sorry for coming to see you the last time. I didn't realize you had forgotten who I was and I didn't mean to upset you so close to the end
G: I wish I knew how to ease this pain for you, how to speed the process of this healing
L: you were right all along, and I still wonder what would have happened if I'd never thrown you away
M: of all the things you said to me when I couldn't sleep, “to protect you” is the phrase that echoes in my mind every time I walk into a dark room. I still flinch at shadows, I still love dragonflies, I still have my guardian, I still remember
E: two planets colliding, you shattered me. I'm sorry I left my mark at all, I'm sorry I burdened you
H: November thirtieth, I was saying goodbye in the loudest way I knew how, the tailgate, your laughter, and the stars. I think you'd been drinking that night. I promised I'd never forget. Still haven't
A: I still whisper “rainbird” and think of you, of that summer, of those dreams. I remember all the time
S: you were so beautiful. We never told you enough. Your laughter still echoes in the hallways of my heart on the warmest summer nights
C: I'm sorry I am where I am, I'm sorry I know what I know, I'm sorry that I can never fall in love with you, that I can never go back
S: I should have never fed the little wolf that growled, “chase her,” should've locked it away to starve in the darkness. I'm so glad I never ruined you, I'm so glad you stayed so far away
H: it will never go away. I'll always miss the precious gemstones you carried in your eyes, the summer night that never was
A: things never should have gone that way. I'm sorry I destroyed something so true and hopeful
T: we would've drowned in each other's misery, we can't even swim in our own oceans, it's better this way, I know that you agree
S: I should've seen the signs, I should've made a change. I hope you're eating again, don't become your mother's daughter
A: even our music couldn't bridge the gap that 1700 miles creates. I don't know how to not miss you, I hope you never miss me
M: I'm so sorry for what I said to you, I'm so sorry I wasted our last moments together, I'm so sorry I let you hurt for so long, I'm so sorry I didn't know, I'm so sorry I pretended I still didn't once I finally did. You were the quietest secret
T: would that I could, you know that I tried
K: you had a chance, you always had a chance
G: you're the only one I cannot fathom
H: I should've been better, simple as that. It'll always be love but it'll always be an afterthought
C: should've never let you get to me, should've never stooped, should've quietly walked away
J: I'm sorry you were caught in the crossfire
M: thank you for always being my older brother, for loving me even when I was so awful to you, when I was so awful to everyone.
M: I'm sorry that I was so mean. I was so sick, still am, always will be, but I'm kinder about it now
E: I didn't know how to do better
S: how did we stray so far? The sickness started early for us; I'm sorry I went along with it
P: I'm sorry I don't defend you better, I'm sorry I didn't turn out to be the person you thought I'd be
K: I always wanted to be like you.
R: you were the best medicine, once upon a time
G: I still smile when I think about you, I hope life is treating you well, I hope you never give away that precious grin of yours, I hope that you're happy

My song, color,
do you believe what I have become?
I cannot bear it when you will not look at me
I'm the lonely kind of miserable that just is
the kind that never goes away
because it has always been there

my favorite sound has always been
the nuclear alarm siren
so maybe that's why, when I heard your voice,
i couldn't stay away
maybe that's why
as I join the wreckage left in your wake
I am content
because I knew the blast was coming
the instant you opened your mouth
to say hello
maybe that's why
I still confuse “hello” with “goodbye.”

Delayed till she had ceased to know—
Delayed till in its vest of snow
Her loving ***** lay—
An hour behind the fleeting breath—
Later by just an hour than Death—
Oh lagging Yesterday!

Could she have guessed that it would be—
Could but a crier of the joy
Have climbed the distant hill—
Had not the bliss so slow a pace
Who knows but this surrendered face
Were undefeated still?

Oh if there may departing be
Any forgot by Victory
In her imperial round—
Show them this meek appareled thing
That could not stop to be a king—
Doubtful if it be crowned!
Analise Quinn Sep 2013
“I’m an easy crier,
But sometimes I cry the hardest.
And my laugh doesn’t sound too pretty,
But I always laugh the loudest.

I’m a fast talker,
But I don’t lisp as much anymore.

I chew my lip,
I can’t tell you how many smiles
I’ve faked,
And if “I’m fine” is a lie
I’ve lost track
Of how many lies I’ve told.

Because I wear my heart on my sleeve,
I’ve earned quite a few battle scars,
But my heart’s always been for
The underdog.

I’m misunderstood,
Sometimes I laugh when I shouldn’t,
Sometimes I speak when I should only be seen.
I’m thin-skinned, not exactly loud-mouthed,
But if you gave me the choice
Of whether to whisper
Or shout,
I’d scream for all I’m worth.

I mess up,
I freak out,
I have nervous ticks,
Sometimes I use cop-outs.

I worry too much,
Sometimes I overthink,
Sometimes I don’t think enough.

I should be more careful,
I should be more selfless,
I need to practice grace,
Be less worried about my face.

But all these things
Make me

And yeah,
I need to be more selfless,
I need to not be vain,
But I’m going to have my struggles,
And someday they’ll be my past,
But I have good qualities too,
And they’ll always be part of me.”
Denel Kessler Jan 2017
The old songs don’t feel right
wrong key, out of tune
somebody wake Sinatra
reclaim these wayward melodies
My Way, New York
New York

seat of the Queen
a gilded new King
everything he touches

money equals tower
Freudian crystal skyscrapers
the fitting measure
of a brittle man
who has not strength
to speak the truth
recites instead from
a book of fables
the moral to every one
those in glass houses
shouldn’t throw stones

the town crier proclaims
the truth does not matter
no one cares

hold tight that red hat
lest it be snatched
by a rebellious wind
see it now, a symbol
framed in white and blue
rising above the crowd
boots on the ground speak
shiny brass buttons
on a pert military coat
don’t a revolutionary make

the peddler of lies is just
a liar once-removed
“alternative facts”
brash fabrications
with a fancy semantic bow
such a pretty package
such a pretty family
the biggest crowd
in all of history
let the whole world


this most
perfect union
All credit goes to Kellyanne Conway for the term “alternative facts”.  
; )
Timothy Kenda Oct 2013
And as he lit himself on fire
he though "you are all just liars"
And he knew deep in his heart
We wouldn't die for our beliefs
As the flames grew ever higher
and the man became a pyre
We realized right from the start
We were never really complete
And as we watched this martyr burn
Before us into ashes he did turn
We knew that he knew what it all really means
He would burn for his beliefs right out there on the street
For all of us to see he burned right in front of me
Sending a terrifying message with his manufactured scene
It is obscene, that we won't even stand up for our dreams
We get herded just like cattle to the end of everything
But that man, he went and chose a different way
He didn't want to be herded for another ******* day
I appreciated all his rage and his savage final play
And I think I understood right then what he was trying to say
Screams sounded out from the hollows in the daylight
As the people rushed towards ash and dust just so that they might
Help to save a poor depraved and crazed man with firm beliefs
It was at that moment that I felt like I could finally see
I doused myself and shouted out against the worlds injustice
I followed the example and led the most extreme of protests
I wept and screamed as my body burned, though I am not much of a crier
But sometimes in order to change the world you must set yourself on fire

— The End —