"croquet" poems
Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow!
It is not a color.
It is summer!
It is the wind on a willow,
the lap of waves, the shadow
under a bush, a bird, a bluebird,
three herons, a dead hawk
rotting on a pole—
Clear yellow!
It is a piece of blue paper
in the grass or a threecluster of
green walnuts swaying, children
playing croquet or one boy
fishing, a man
swinging his pink fists
as he walks—
It is ladysthumb, forget-me-nots
in the ditch, moss under
the ****** of the carrail, the
wavy lines in split rock, a
great oaktree—
It is a disinclination to be
five red petals or a rose, it is
a cluster of birdsbreast flowers
on a red stem six feet high,
four open yellow petals
above sepals curled
backward into reverse spikes—
Tufts of purple grass spot the
green meadow and clouds the sky.
7.2k
At last the secret is out,
as it always must come in the end,
the delicious story is ripe to tell
to tell to the intimate friend;
over the tea-cups and into the square
the tongues has its desire;
still waters run deep, my dear,
there's never smoke without fire.
Behind the corpse in the reservoir,
behind the ghost on the links,
behind the lady who dances
and the man who madly drinks,
under the look of fatigue
the attack of migraine and the sigh
there is always another story,
there is more than meets the eye.
For the clear voice suddenly singing,
high up in the convent wall,
the scent of the elder bushes,
the sporting prints in the hall,
the croquet matches in summer,
the handshake, the cough, the kiss,
there is always a wicked secret,
a private reason for this.
6.8k
We'd bound around
For golf downtown
Frisbees always in hand
"The students are coming!!”
Was a seasonal refrain
As we’d goofily gallivant
Mother’s Day shows
We‘re free, mother-suckers
For your kids, a show we grant
A CLOWN SHOW!
A DOWNTOWN SHOW!
THERE IS NOTHING WE CAN’T!
Rock their world with juggling
See the Doctor for what ails
Rudi and O in laundromat land
Jeanie, Splash, Allison, Donna,
Silly girls astonishing with
Leaps, jokes and handstands
Chewey, Steamboat and Grog
"Yeah-yeah! Yeah-yeah!”
Silly boys grandstanding
All hail Papa Gale! We
Funned with Cpt. Plunge
Leader of the band!
Sweet Georgia!
**** croquet!*
It was grand!
**** croquet was the official lawn game of the Sweet Georgia Brown Clowns during the summer 198x Trinity Country tour [wherein we masqueraded as a Norwegian Salmon Kissing team at a Moose Lodge Talent Show in Lewiston, CA* {true!}]: “Don’t forget your hat!”)
*(we won)
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 9:11 PM UTC
Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow!
It is not a color.
It is summer!
It is the wind on a willow,
the lap of waves, the shadow
under a bush, a bird, a bluebird,
three herons, a dead hawk
rotting on a pole—
Clear yellow!
It is a piece of blue paper
in the grass or a threecluster of
green walnuts swaying, children
playing croquet or one boy
fishing, a man
swinging his pink fists
as he walks—
It is ladysthumb, forget-me-nots
in the ditch, moss under
the ****** of the carrail, the
wavy lines in split rock, a
great oaktree—
It is a disinclination to be
five red petals or a rose, it is
a cluster of birdsbreast flowers
on a red stem six feet high,
four open yellow petals
above sepals curled
backward into reverse spikes—
Tufts of purple grass spot the
green meadow and clouds the sky.
4.5k
In all the world my Daddy is the best
Sometimes he likes to play croquet with me,
And everyday fills each moment with zest:
So that golden hours charm us with their glee.
He teaches me about Heaven and God
From the pages of our worn Bible each day,
And even though he never uses a rod
Instead Daddy teaches me how to pray.
Sometimes he teases like a little boy,
Plays the piano and sings an old hymn,
Flooding our humble abode with such joy
And say! You guessed it! My Daddy's name is Tim.
~Marian and Hilda~
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 10:35 PM UTC
To talk to the menace of man
To hear fast words belched out
Like a drunkard holding His gun
Time trickles tears
Of the one's
Left behind
How beauty moves
Is a mystery
To minds unprepared for chance
I hear year long struggles from bugles
Laced
In
Gold
And am very very bored
There are times when I speak
And I cannot recognize the voice
Somewhere far off from me
A woman pulls up her flowered shorts
Was I there to pull them down?
Or was I here?
**** wednesday forgot its own name
Distracted by the glare of the bad masses B's
Expensive and ludicrous jewelry
To take a moment is to take a slice of life
Forgetting that you were once nothing
And soon will be
Nothing
To fret the death of the ego the work the paint splattered soul dirt
Chipped teeth line curb side markets
With trinkets and hairy arm pits
I destroyed a letter I wrote to myself today
Because the nakedness of mine own soul
Was to boring and dreary to read
For now we are the waking still lives
Of the art we all wished we could create
So close so far so long so short
Is our time here to giggle at the way a dog must walk
When it is constipated
Don't laugh at that because dog constipation
Is a
Very
Serious
Thing
Regression in the Freudian sense croquet neck tie polar bears
My mother named me after that
But not before
She shot the winning shot
In her hometown
Volleyball game
Letters of three make me sneeze
Jun 5, 2011
Jun 5, 2011 at 10:43 PM UTC
I'm sitting on your bench and thinking
about the times that used to be
How we played in your glorious garden
from breakfast time 'till tea
Croquet games upon the lawn
Or pirates swinging in a tree
We sat and watched the goldfish
Or dressed in clothes you got for free
Now I've bought my own house
I'm married and age thirty three
And I'm sitting on your bench
And thinking 'bout when 'I' was 'we'
Apr 7, 2010
Apr 7, 2010 at 11:20 AM UTC
On my garden lawn,
A croquet field of red *****
Whoops without mallet.
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 8:19 PM UTC
Today I'm trying to ignore the pain
I can imagine butterflies
Are carrying my pain to the fluffy clouds
I can imagine birds are singing to me
Instead of the constant pills I have to swallow
I can imagine that little gnomes and fairies
Are trying to take away most of my pain
Instead of the pain medicine that I take
With a snack or a meal
I can imagine that rainbows and shooting stars
Adorn the sky instead of the grey clouds
That fill the sky
I can also imagine that the day is warm enough
For our games of croquet or perhaps volleyball
Instead of the howling winds and bitter cold
That lace the air outside the house
I can try to picture myself
Reading a book underneath a sunny, shady tree
Or laying beside a babbling brook or creek
Dreaming the hours away
Instead of sitting here in the rocking recliner
Trying to ignore the pain
~Marian~
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 12:11 PM UTC
In all the world my Daddy is the best
Sometimes he likes to play croquet with me,
And everyday fills each moment with zest:
So that golden hours charm us with their glee.
He teaches me about Heaven and God
From the pages of our worn Bible each day,
And even though he never uses a rod
Instead Daddy teaches me how to pray.
Sometimes he teases like a little boy,
Plays the piano and sings an old hymn,
Flooding our humble abode with such joy
And say! You guessed it! My Daddy's name is Tim.
~Marian and Hilda~
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 10:30 PM UTC
Happy birthday Marian
A thousand mem'ries of you
blow across my mind
tiny miracle of life
held close to a mother's heart
Today you turned twelve
still I see my sweet baby
smile into my eyes
no flute to give thee
harp or cello have I none
chilled by poverty
hungry mouths to feed
our furry little darlings
their eyes beseeching
if I had more time
I would play croquet with you
and dress dolls again
hear a mother's heartfelt cry
baking loaves of bread and rolls
planning simple meals
May this humble poem
a token of my love prove
my dearest daughter
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 10:59 PM UTC
I went to the rabbit hole inside my head
I'm falling into my own madness
There's a drink that makes me small
And a cake that makes me tall
I made my path through the Wonderland
I meet the queen and the Cheshire cat
I played croquet and I smoked that thing
And the mad hatter i also met
But there's something that gave me nightmares
And it's not that cake that makes me tall
It's the mysterious looking glass room
That showed me the truth behind of it all
That mirror brought me back
To the sad and weird reality
I've learned life is what you make it be
And it's all about duality
Please do not get me wrong
Just be yourself with love and respect
Don't be selfish or silly
People are bad and eternally (?) wrecked
No, i'm not out wonderland
I just don't hide it anymore
And i don't care of what people think of it
Their thoughts are just ***** and poor
I can live in Wonderland
'Cause wonderland lives inside of me
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 2:47 AM UTC
Through the looking glass I peered, hoping,
Hoping to see another world.
Alice, oh Alice, how envy I you,
Dreaming, still dreaming,
But your dreams come true.
No one moved, not a single spoke, silence,
All around the world grew, or shrink it did.
It was you, Alice, you,
You were the one who grew.
Eat of that mushroom you did.
The caterpillar, smoking its pipe, wheezes,
In the garden, the flowers did sing.
You fell down the rabbit’s hole,
Not too long ago,
A new world you discovered.
The Cat, what was it called? Cheshire.
It’s wide grin, plump body.
Here, there, nowhere, it vanishes and reappears,
A cat without a grin, you’ve seen,
Not a grin, without the cat.
The Mad Hatter, the March Hare, seated,
Dormouse still sleeping.
Table long, tea cups and pots,
All set and ready,
Truly a Mad Tea-Party.
The Queen, oh, Her Majesty, Red hearts,
Loyal subjects pay their respects.
Golf, was it? No – croquet, you played.
Flamingos and hedgehogs,
Certainly a difficult game.
Painting the roses red, they were,
Red, red roses. The gardener,
He grew them all wrong: White roses from the trees,
Card soldiers, hard work.
Roused, awakened, your sister came, running,
A dream you thought.
It must have been, maybe,
The mushroom in your pocket, the white rabbit’s glove,
You know where you’ve been.
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 10:39 AM UTC
’Tween hither and thither we wended our way
skipping, dancing through sand dunes, in seascape croquet.
While woven in waves watching dolphins at play
I first tasted her lips in the ocean’s wild spray.
Mystic moonbeams, suffusing clouds’ shimmering sails,
unleashed us and whisked us down sensuous trails,
soon evoking the trills of untamed nightingales
as our passions pervaded green valleys and dales.
Being spectres of splendour in wanton sashay
we mastered our meaning in love’s matinee –
the breezes, in passing, slowed down to survey
blazing bodies embraced in youth’s blooming bouquet.
With the wind as our wings, till the Never we flew,
two gypsies, on junkets through dusk’s residue
gently floating like pollen to everywhere new,
so eluding pearled teardrops that paint the past blue.
Yes, we gamboled and gambled, two waifs led astray,
with our shackles afire and anchors aweigh –
rising higher and higher, the sun lured our sleigh,
teasing time was our temptress, night’n day after day.
Having stars in our eyes and all time as our view,
we’ve drifted, like dreamers where sprites rendezvous
and feasted on laughter and sipped morning dew
while rambling forever as one made of two.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 4:07 AM UTC
Her Heart Dainty As A New Born Kitten,
It Is Impossible To Not Become Smitten,
By A Young Mind So Pure And Bright,
Someday She Will Be The World's Light,
Her Heart Is Beautiful As A Flowery Bouquet,
And I Would Even Play A Game I Dread With Her:
Croquet...
Because That Is How Much I Admire Her
The Weeping Willows Smile When They See Her,
The Birds Greet Her As If She Is Snow White,
She Is Such A Beautiful Young Girl,
With A Heart Filled With Holy Light
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 8:16 AM UTC
She lived along the Atlantic coast
and had a collection of lobster pots
by the porch
and her lawn was trimmed for croquet
smelled of clams at low tide
the house was set near barnacle rocks
just beyond a stand of trees.
I found her by looking in a phonebook
next to her name it said, "Poetry Journals,"
so I called the number, and said I was on my way.
"Is that ok?" I added hesitantly.
“Well, yes,” she laughed, “You can come buy one.”
I passed the sign for fresh eggs
and arrived at a black wrought iron gate that said,
"Poetry Journals - 2 for $5.00."
“You’re the first one
who’s ever made it all the way to the house for a journal…”
“In four dozen years,"
she said.
Then she asked,
“What’s your name?”
“I don’t really have a name," I said.
She nodded and understood.
She'd heard from Byron
that the Banshee drags souls out to sea
but sometimes the nameless
manage to float back looking for poetry
these lost ones are like driftwood
bringing a sense of chilly dusk
a retrospective on the sea
in a seashell
appearing by happenstance
at low tide
"yes, I hear a distant mumble of waves,"
she might have said of me
I was one of the lost
turning her porch into a quay of despair
the first one in almost 50 years
who had made it so far
to latch on
until high tide
when the rush of sea returned
washed me out again clinging for dear life
to a raft of poetry
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 11:02 AM UTC
If only, on that fateful day,
my Draft Board had been on LSD.
They might have sent me to Wonderland
to explain croquet and the proper pouring of tea;
they might have sent me to OZ
to get into Dorothy's pants or train flying monkeys;
they might have sent me to Hogwarts
to get an advanced degree in something useful;
they might have sent me to Narnia
in search of ****** pelts and talking mice;
they might have sent me to Never Land
to counsel Captain Hook on anger management;
but no, instead, imagination failed utterly,
and those patriotic imbeciles sent me to Vietnam.
If only, on that fateful day,
my Draft Board had been on LSD.
Jan 29, 2017
Jan 29, 2017 at 7:27 AM UTC
Rising from the darkness,
the evergreen dilemmatic soul
waking from the displeasures
bound by reluctance.
And slowly it slithers
upon the filth in life
only to fall back
into the reverie.
Disgraced eminence,
of this priceless concoction.
Enigmatical views,
but doomed by nature.
Born to change,
with time , with people.
To stay phlegmatic
as it writes its own destiny.
Dreams of falling into
the lap of luxury
like any ordinary soul.
But with a hint of transgression.
No robotic means,
just emulation.
Pulled by the ties of
prevalence.
Swindler of identity,
benevolent of jauntiness.
Passes through many loops
of croquet.
Yet saves its inscrutable soul
from the disrespectful world.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 1:07 AM UTC
They say
you will be extinct
by 2032
the Queen of Hearts'
favorite past-time
the joy of summer
a sign of class
& breeding
in your time
brought over
from France
during Charles II's reign
the memory
of playing you
in that mansion house
across the river gorge
amidst the roses
will stay with me forever
as a sign of the Britishness
I lost abroad
& when he left
* Queen of Hearts - from ' Alice in Wonderland' by Lewis Carroll
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 9:04 AM UTC
trunks filled with junk and the crunk juice flows
flunked out pill popping junkies with no cash go
drunkenly to the shrunken head show
knowing they stunk.
The monks dunked funky mumps victims
on bunk beds and licked them
instead of fixing lunk-headed situations
with linkin-log technologic advances
drinking dogs retrofitted with dance moves
groove on the wooden floor while ****** bore
the Moors with tales of divorce and random ***********
on all fours in doorways
during bad plays on the interstate…
demonstrators, unregulated, on roller skates
wait at the gates of the ingrates filled with hate
and throw pie plates with fated accuracy
and the belated bureaucratic picnic
nitwits in knickers knuckle bump
and plump debutants snicker
the wicker croquet mallets
perform ballet in the chalet
and I have to valet the cars –
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 5:35 PM UTC
How do you tell if she’s a lady,
When she’s turning eighty five?
She doesn’t wear much jewelry
No furs or fancy styles.
She doesn’t play croquet,
But likes to root instead through dirt.
Her uniform’s a crumpled hat,
Old shoes and a muddy shirt.
You can find her on any sunny day,
Outside in all weather,
Stacking stone and hauling hay.
Collecting white stones & robin feathers.
But don’t dare swear or she’ll object!
Don’t watch **** TV or
She’ll tell you what to do instead:
“Rake some leaves or sweep this floor!”
She might strike you as old Rose Sayer,
Prim, proper and cold.
And to God each night she’ll say a prayer,
“Jesus please, don’t let me get old!”
Dedicated to Mom, Who Believes in Living Forever
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 1:30 PM UTC
I remember how we would
Play croquet in the meadow
Oh it was so very fun
Especially with you
And I shall never forget those
Lovely golden memories
Out in the Summer sun
In the meadow
Where the flowers grow
And where the birds love to sing
And warble their songs
In the Summer sunshine
~Marian~
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 1:07 AM UTC
Don't wanna live in the city lights.
Wanna hideaway at night.
Want love to blind me.
Only truth to find me.
Love to bind me.
Knots of raffia
Make me a basket.
Red yellow and blue.
Fill it with your honest truth.
City lights hidden dreams.
Poor visibility screams.
You wear your bikini.
Just covers some bits
Like a songbird.
A lady with wit.
Knots of raffia
Create me a basket
Red yellow and blue to make a neat basket.
Load it with love and fill it with flowers.
Weaving, binding true love over hours.
Stitch me a quilt all of my own.
Darling, the comfort of laying alone.
Lost in a sandstorm.
With grit in my eyes.
True love is lonely.
It reaches the skies.
A lonely Skua appears, poaching my eggs.
Some where behind me lay both of my legs.
They were walking in circles perpetually.
Not sure what they're doing but they wanna be free.
Chains discarded on my bed.
Off I go.
Met the red queen
It's off with my head in an instant.
A game of bowls or croquet maybe.
Nods in her honour.
Well done Milady.
What a strange poem or maybe a song.
Love is vacant, bing bang ****
(c)LIVVI
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 4:22 AM UTC
The most curious thing in my acre of lawn
This morning, the day when long winter departs
The brown croquet ball of the rash Queen of Hearts
A bristly thorn bush of quills tinted fawn
I watched as he plodded so wobbly on
He snuffled and snorted with hesitant gait
His little nose twitching and smelling the air
He spotted not apples, but he did not despair
The cat had left food which he noisily ate
I watched and I realised how I could relate
The long snooze impending, he had to prepare
Half his life wasted no time for a mate
And prickly spikes would make love hard to share
How sad life would be if each hug ripped a tear
Pain is much worse when you hurt those you lean on.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 11:05 AM UTC
Treasure your holidays
in Llandudno, Alice.
Skip along the promenade,
play tag on the beach
and when it’s time for bed
wave goodnight to the sea
as it drinks the sunset.
Go boating on the Thames.
Paddle your fingers.
Listen to stories, doze.
Chase a talking white rabbit
sporting white
kid gloves.
Take tea with a dormouse,
play croquet with a Queen:
this is not your dream
but makes you smile.
Don’t wish too hard
for womanhood,
it arrives soon enough.
You’ll be feted, photographed,
posed as holy Agnes
and noble Alethea.
With "dreaming eyes of wonder"
Discover Alice
in your own looking-glass.
And when it’s time to dance
in your bridal gown
cherish the moment.
Two sons will die
fighting for their country.
Remember them
as flames that burn
long after each candle’s
blown.
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 1:08 PM UTC