"delaney" poems
"Funny, I don't remember no good dope days. I remember walking for miles in a dope fiend haze. I remember sleeping in houses that had no electric. I remember being called a ****** but I couldn't accept it. I remember hanging out in abandos that were empty and dark. I remember shooting up in the bathroom and falling out at the park. I remember nodding out in front of my sisters kid. I remember not remembering half of the things that I did. I remember the dope man's time frame, just ten more minutes. I remember those days being so sick that I just wanted to end it. I remember the birthdays and holiday celebrations. All the things I missed during my incarceration. I remember overdosing on my bedroom floor. I remember my sisters cry and my dad having to break down the door. I remember the look on his face when I opened my eyes, thinking today was the day that his baby had died. I remember blaming myself when my mom decided to leave. I remember the guilt I felt in my chest making it hard to breathe. I remember caring so much but not knowing how to show it. and I know to this day that she probably don't even know it. I remember feeling like I lost all hope. I remember giving up my body for the next bag of dope. I remember only causing pain, destruction and harm. I remember the track marks the needles left on my arm. I remember watching the slow break up of my home. I remember thinking my family would be better off if I just left them alone. I remember looking in the mirror at my sickly completion. I remember not recognizing myself in my own **** reflection. I remember constantly obsessing over my next score but what I remember most is getting down on my knees and asking God to save me cuz I don't want to do this no more !!!"
- Delaney Farrell
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 10:48 PM UTC
I need rent, but how am I supposed to get it paid
with a grand total of eight people in town?
I need space to celebrate my first taste of a private place,
but even as I dance for quarters - dollar bills at best -
I hear Mr. Delaney's footsteps, feel his molester's breath
dancing like a hot hand with its fingers to piano keys
from my shoulders to where my skull sits
on my neck!
His hands on my neck -
I hate this hole, this holler, Cacophony
I'm seeing dreams smash, firsthand,
seeing me swinging hammer
His hands on my neck -
I hate this hole, this holler, Cacophony,
but not like the life I left behind!
what I left behind, what I left behind
grows colds, grows overhead,
grows on me, grows close,
so close to the light that I lose the light
and grow cold, no friends,
no room for remorse, just
four walls, hole of black creeping mold,
a fine home to settle in, to
hate what I left behind,
love I left behind, whole worlds away.
I'm home in this cacophony.
Sep 30, 2017
Sep 30, 2017 at 6:09 PM UTC
I had the good fortune
to visit it twice,
the first time
it was like the Marie Celeste,
dark with blue doors
and old coffee dregs shining on the base
of deserted mugs,
a full perfume bottle of Narcissus
glowed on a mildewed window,
for shame I thought , sketches,
letters, catalogues
all congealed together
in sodden shop boxes
I wasn't supposed to be there
then again in a dream,
all the walls were dark pink
and shelves were filled with treasure
trinkets for sale, I stopped at a pair
of silver earrings
and crystaline figures
that danced in unison
gold and black drawings
hung the walls of a bedroom
with roses for a carpet
a melancholy light
stilled the air, I wondered
how in god's name
did he fit there,
that tiny bed
I paused here,
others came in.
Mar 18, 2011
Mar 18, 2011 at 3:27 PM UTC
everyone is complaining
I dont know why
but bæ is gone
the cat's wearing a tie
Delaney needs to die
im eating lots of chocolate
bæ left me with Delaney
and I'm lactose intolerant
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC
The spirit of Christmas was here again
As they rocked on up to my door,
The aunts and uncles and cousins, all
I’d not even seen before,
They’d smelt the turkey, they’d seen the tree
With its lights, red yellow and green,
They’d even come with their knives and forks
In case that my own weren’t clean.
They came in a rush at twelve o’clock,
‘Now we’re not too late, we trust?
We got caught up at Aunt Mary’s, then
We missed the eleven-ten bus,
She says she’ll not be cooking this year
So we didn’t have time to lose,
She’ll hurry along with a minute to spare
As soon as she puts on her shoes.’
I said, ‘Oh good!’ as they filed on in
To wash their hands in the sink,
Then counted heads and I gulped and saw
The turkey begin to shrink,
A single bird for eleven heads
Or twelve if you counted me,
I might just get a wing and a prayer
When feeding this family.
They found the chest with the beer in ice
But there wasn’t enough for all,
So they corked and drank the fine Rosé
That I’d had displayed on the wall,
They ground the peanuts into the rug
And they spilled Chablis on the couch,
Then kept on stumbling over my feet
And all I could say was ‘Ouch!’
They sat around with an hour to wait
While the turkey started to brown,
And talked of family members that
They thought were coming on down,
But then the topic they all enjoyed
Was raising its ugly head,
‘You’d never believe,’ said Cousin Steve
But Auntie Caroline’s dead!’
‘I heard she fell from the Pepper Tree
With the pruning shears in her grasp,
Into a deadly swarm of bees!’
You could hear the others gasp.
‘And George, remember George, he was
Your Uncle’s cousin’s son,
He fell right under a train; they said
He had a blindfold on.’
Then Gustave from the German branch
And Heidi from the Swiss,
Had both expired in some dread fire,
I’d not heard any of this!
‘Delaney died in Ottawa
When he fell dead off his horse,
And Orson choked on a bottle of coke
That was really chilli sauce!’
I cleared my throat before I spoke
‘I would hate to interrupt,
But listening to your Death Watch List
Has made my mind right up.
I don’t know a single one of you,
You've not been here before,
But you’ll find who you are related to
If you’d like to try next door.’
David Lewis Paget
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 12:40 AM UTC
Two Angels
Little hands
Big hearts
Once playing
Loving life
Carefree
God's gift
Precious
Innocent
Protected
Suddenly without answers
Two beautiful hearts taken
Loved ones hurting confused
No rhyme or reason to help make sense
A community so small
Affected in so many ways
Wanting to help
Comfort
They pray
Loss for words
Not wanting to cause further pain
Sorry for your loss seems so little
Compared to the mountain of pain
Two huge souls
Have traveled to heaven
To reside in the House of our God
Looking down on family
Wishing they could give comfort
They ask God to help
Guide
Support
Comfort
Candles will fill the night
Like twinkling stars in the heavens
As a grieving family
A supportive and caring community
Come together to pay tribute
Far to young to leave us
Will leave a mark on two communities
Will be remembered by all
Two beautiful hearts
Smiling down from heaven
As our Lord keeps them safe
Sleep well little ones
We know you are at peace
Jaden and Delaney you will be missed.
Written By: Jennifer Humphrey
Dedicated to Jaden, Delaney, and their families
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 11:34 PM UTC
(Short Story)
The questions burned inside of me
searing through my guts to my core
leaving a trail of ash through this house
treating my blood like gasoline
smoke rising to my head
melting my brain
Down to this;
One question -
Did he do it?
I could hear my heart beating and watched the hairs on my skin shake a little from the rumble of its thunder.
I asked this question to myself over and over. First, in disbelief. Not letting the facts in front of me fully sink in. But as hours passed, the question began to change and I began to see the woman in the mirror staring back at me a little bit differently.
We’ve almost been here. Time and again. This place of such uncertainty and unknown. But never this close. Not here where we are today. I poured a glass of wine and kept the channel 3 tv on mute. Leaned against the cabinets and granite counter top in the kitchen. I put my head down. Starting at the residue of water stains on the glass that I had chosen. These water stains are disrupting my peace, I thought. Just another flaw in this house that nobody else sees. Infidelity allegations, sleepless nights, bedroom fights, and now this?
I put the glass down, found my way slowly in my Saint Laurent Swarovski crystal-embellished satin pumps through the dim, echoing hallway to the den. My place for morning light and his for evening company and cigars. I looked all around, starring at every wall. Flashbacks of us stripping down, him gripping my waist as he thrusted inside of me while I held on to these walls for stability. A house that has seen many things. If these walls could speak I may not believe their stories.
But this story, is difficult to disbelieve. Not revealed from walls, but through the power of the news media crew. Unfolding and developing stories ringing in my ears. Like high frequency waves making me dizzy. The story of Anna. The last breath she took and the last person to see her alive. The man they believe to be her lover. A quiet man, intuitive, logical and a realist. A hard working, loving and devoted family man. My husband, Oliver. Now under the authoritative custody of the Mipson county sheriff department, as a prime suspect for the ****** of Miss Anna B Delaney.
Details of the scene have not yet been released so it is still unclear and most inconceivable to imagine what happened to Anna.
Jun 16, 2018
Jun 16, 2018 at 11:29 PM UTC
there arent many things
that make me upset
to the point of non recognition
but trying to **** someone im still in love with is one of them
and i dont appreciate it friend
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 12:05 AM UTC
The sun had not even risen when
Delaney opened his eyes,
To colours, bent through a prism, and
Rotating there in the skies.
He thought it might be the Northern Lights
But they’re not seen that far south,
And with them came a crackling sound
To sow the first seeds of doubt.
He rose and walked to the window,
To stand by the sliding door
That led to his private balcony
On the hundred and twentieth floor,
The world below was in darkness and
In shock, he began to shout:
‘Hey Mary, get up and look at this,
The lights of the city are out!’
The lights of the city were out, all right,
There wasn’t a glimmer of light,
In all the teeming metropolis
Not even a car’s headlight.
Mary sleepily rose from bed
And joined him there by the door,
‘It isn’t the dark that does my head,
What’s that on the balcony floor?’
And there in the shade of the balcony
Was standing a monstrous beast,
Its talons several inches long,
Its beak was a foot, at least,
It suddenly opened enormous wings
Then steadily folded them back,
With eyes that promised a thousand things
And one, the threat of attack.
It saw them there through the plated glass
And rushed across for its prey,
Hit the glass and it looked surprised
The two were backing away.
‘Call the firemen, call the police,
That thing will need to be shot.’
‘The signal seems to have gone astray,
And the cell phone’s all we’ve got!’
The sun came up through the morning mist
And it lit the city square,
Delaney got his binoculars,
Nothing was moving there.
The power was out, so there was no doubt
They were locked in their flat, for sure,
The door to the stairwell wouldn’t budge
On the hundred and twentieth floor.
No light, no heat, and down in the street
No cars that streamed that day,
It was just as if electricity
Had suddenly gone away.
Their door had a pin, and powered lock
As did every door below,
A hundred and twenty floors locked in
With nowhere they could go.
The day wore on in the morning sun
And the birds had multiplied,
Looking like pterodactyls they
Swooped over the countryside,
And five came down on the balcony
Of Delaney and Mary’s flat,
The food in the fridge was spoiling as
The ice dripped out on the mat.
They couldn’t cook, they couldn’t eat,
They couldn’t open a can,
The electric opener wouldn’t work
Nor the cleverer works of man,
And the pterodactyls sat in a row
Out on the balcony floor,
With eyes of hate they would sit and wait
Til someone slid open the door!
David Lewis Paget
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 5:34 PM UTC
(From Ireland, a novel by Frank Delaney)
"As you probably know, nobody can actually write a poem. There's no such thing as writing a poem. That's not how poems are made. Oh, yes, there's the physical business of pen, ink and paper, but that isn't whence a poem comes. Nor may you send out and fetch a poem from where it's been living. No, like it or like it not, you have to wait for a poem to arrive.
The people we call poets, by which I mean true, real poets-they're merely very keen listeners who've learned to recognize when a poem is dropping by. Then they copy down what the poem's telling them in their heads."
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 2:43 AM UTC