"dickson" poems
You see me Hurrying and scurrying
Gathering my food cautiously,
Looking around constantly worrying
Sneaking around precociously.
Weaving; bobbing, always dodging
Bushy tailed little scavenger I am,
So may despise me as I dwell in their lodging
But all I want is a home so don't give a dam.
Climbing my tree like a famous mountaineer
Old and young will wave or sit and say hello,
Quickly I think it's time to evacuate from here
The all clear I see and again on the ground I go.
Fluffy and Grey sometimes even Red
Speeding around among the leaves,
Time to nest and put my children to bed
Until once more the summer itself retrieves.
Grant Dickson 04/09/2017
This poem was inspired by a Squirrel
Oct 4, 2017
Oct 4, 2017 at 11:16 AM UTC
The cold air seeped down with no heart,
What was once a sea of beauty and life,
Now had been turned to a grave of white and death,
The city had almost all but stopped living too.
Morning turned to night and yet all was still bright,
Panicking for necessities like bread and milk,
As if they were a commodity like gold and silk,
There was no lease from this grip of icy might.
The Robins so proud with their coats of glorious red,
Out playing like children on a canal iced bed,
Scattering wild seed around upon the snow covered ground,
Bobbing along like cheeky cherubim gathering with a chirpy sound.
A man stands in the not so far distance,
Stood outside clearing snow as it's finally stopped,
I ask and offer myself to give some assistance,
Is seems the final flakes have now dropped.
A path slowly appears as do others now congregate,
Friends, brothers, sister's all one with a common goal,
Time rolls on but we persist as it gets late,
A United effort from one and all like a heart to a soul.
(C) Grant Dickson 21/03/2018
Mar 22, 2018
Mar 22, 2018 at 8:09 PM UTC
Bit of a scruffy scoundrel sometimes isn't it
around ones face like a lions mane it will sit,
Varied lengths shapes and colours
the growers are all like brothers.
It's not just ****** hair
some dont just stop and stare,
others want to touch the beard
maybe reading this you think that's weird.
Taking pride of place upon ones face
designer stubble there's not a trace,
like giving your pet a comb and groom
to some a shave would spell doom.
Though this may sound perverse
to touch it would be no curse,
pogonophiliacs want to give it a stroke
to others they sound like crazy folk.
Cooks we may not all be it's true
we love our women like our beards too,
adding in a little oil and sometimes butter
served to make their hearts flutter.
( C ) Grant Dickson 04/10/2018
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 8:39 AM UTC
you see when i lost my first and only full time job, at the canberra rex hotel, and dude back in those days, it had a cafe and a pool deck a restaurant and a bar and bistro out the back, apart from getting teased in the way i did, i really loved that job, so much in fact, when i was laid off i was very depressed, and dude, i could've had depression, because the whole atmosphere changed, o got ****** into the dianetics cult, where i was made to believe i had a fucken full time job, and i had mates i hung around dickson with, then i tied up a boy, and i lost touch of my mates since then, and my paranormal voices, got me on the straight and narrow, i was seeing a psychologist, but i stopped seeing them, big mistake, because i feel happy now, with carers and psychologists, maybe i had depression, maybe i have 3 mental illnesses
depression from losing my only full time job
terretz syndrome from my drinking days, i yelled every swear word under sun
schizophrenia my silly delusions i get
is it possible i can have three mental illness's, is it possible
that is why, i am cronus, ok
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 5:11 AM UTC
I was nerdy-
Round glasses, long hair that went everywhere
Braces and chubby legs- my nose always in a book
My face- a ruddy bumpy mess with early acne at
age 10
You glanced sideways at me on the bus-
Perfect hair, trendy clothes, active party life
Made you higher- then me-
Made you better- then me-
Or so you thought, as you condescended to
smile at me once in a while
Like a dog on the street
Thank you
for reminding me
that I never belonged
Learned my social skills from books and public television
Got better with age
Used to think the best way to like a guy was to insult them
all the time
Punch them in the arm- make up teasing songs about them
While secretly I pined and longed for a hug or a kiss-
Thinking it'd make me happy somehow
You laughed at my antics- seeing right through them
And teased me about every boy I liked in junior high
Spread the rumors, thought it was a game
Joked with your friends about how silly I was
Not like rejection wasn't hard enough without ridicule
Thank you
for reminding me
that I never belonged
I was a fat seventh-grader
Trying to fit in without necessary clothes
Or the money to buy it with
Stole my moms old hippie shirts and
All my sisters stuff I could get away with-
Wanting so badly to be the girl with a certain style
You- wearing your new outfit, best haircut, trendy jeans
told me I looked ridiculous
Said each new thing was absurd
I wrung my hands- pretended I did not hear
But hopeless- cried later-
Thinking that i’d
Never be popular
Never be anyone to notice
Never be possible to love
Thank you
for reminding me
that I never belonged
Now- full grown
Hut short
I have the knowledge of how to dress
What to do, what to say,
who to talk to
But most importantly though-
Now I know
That none of it matters-
Yet even now when you stand
in the pictures you take at the party you
never thought of inviting me to-
When you laugh at the memory of high school
drama without ever trying to understand
what actually happened
When you figure Im not worth getting to know
Its easy to revert
And go back to the little girl
Wanting so badly just to belong
But I try not to and bury that loneliness deep
And in the end, Im stronger for it, I guess-
Stronger for the bruises and blows you delt-
Strong enough
To let them go
And strong enough
To let your words fade-
Thank you
for reminding me
that I don't want to belong
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 4:03 PM UTC
Am a Woman.
An African Woman.
Am drawn by simplicity, outstanding features of them all.
I Love Butterflies.
I Love eyes. I Am taken by looking deep into someone's eyes.
I was brought up to mingle with Tom Harry and Dickson.
I did it...and it was fun, until they asked something from me, and that's when I knew it was different.
I would sit down, and for minutes, stare at Beth or Lydia Or Yvonne as they played.
Going round the field as they let out the shrill giggles.
The smiles on their faces, irreplaceable.
Girls to me, were the most beautiful creatures on earth, after butterflies.
And I adored them even more each day.
That's where I felt happy, peaceful and pure, in their midst...women.
Till date, I adore a woman.
The touch, so gentle, can't compare it to anything.
The voice, so melodious.
The care, we clean together, cook then massage each other after a long day at work.
Even the fights, we know we are always going to get through, after shedding a tear or two, then kiss and make up.
People in the world may call me weird, or whatever they wish.
But am happy, this is WHAT IS NORMAL for me.
This is who I am.
A Woman Lover.
No apologies, because I haven't done anything wrong.
Love, CAN NEVER be wrong.
©The Unspoken
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 4:22 AM UTC
You turned your back on me today
didn't even have the guts to say,
Cast out like a homeless person
Only teaching me one more lesson.
I was slowly getting my life back
Seeing me fight barriers and tears,
Finding music as my therapuatic track
Back and forth I went for a few years.
Building me up making me strong
Then with one swipe I was gone,
Not caring if it was right or wrong
As least I knew for a while I shone.
You took your patronising aid
Threw it back in my joyful face,
All the love and care you displayed
Then lit the fire while in bed I layed.
I may glow brighter as you fall
When your gone I will still be here,
setting a spark with one swift call
But I will remember have no fear.
(C) Grant Dickson 08/07/2018
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 7:29 AM UTC
Here we are as we sit and rejoice
Singing in union for God one voice,
Today the first if his son's advent
Voices of his children from heaven sent.
Today we gather to share our gifts he gave
Sharing in a world he died to save,
I looked over and wondered why ideas called hear,
This I Did for a year now it's very clear.
Each Sunday we begin with a song to start
A smile; a handshake, a hug even a hello,
No matter which it's a welcome from the heart
A prayer; a recital; a chat; a refreshment afore ye go.
It's in the Lord we come to rejoice
United as one he hears our voice,
The children go to learn and play
Joyfully returning with what they made today.
Today isn't just any Sunday
It's the first of four in our advent,
Born of Mary and Joseph in a manger he lay
Two thousand years passed to return one day.
Remembering our saviour like loved ones who pass,
As we sit at the table waiting for Christmas.
copyright Grant Dickson 03/12/2017
Dec 3, 2017
Dec 3, 2017 at 8:16 AM UTC
The smell of burnt toast
The smoke alarm sounding
The Sweet aromatic hint of coffee
The familiar sound of breakfast TV
The erratic coughing of the old Lady
The constant barking of next doors hounds.
The Siblings shouting at each other while dressing .
The babies shallow cry all from an open window.
Then the regimental voice we all know and come to love.
" Shurrup you're all giving me a headache" and the split second silence followed by " Oye you up yet C'mon you'll be late AGAIN !!"
The passionate loving voice of a stressed Mother sorting her troops.
Alas the neglected sound of silence fills the air...........until tomorrow.
©Grant Dickson 04/03/2016
Aug 16, 2017
Aug 16, 2017 at 5:07 AM UTC
Let the doctor heal you of your misfortune
Get here in my office I'll play the romantic tunes
I can't even see you in this drug induced fumes
How about just dessert and than we find a room
Come here, lie on the the table and let the doctor operate
Take of your clothes, i'm a doctor don't hesitate
It's an emergency and we have no time to waste
We need to operate now or it'll be too late
Let me just take a Look at your private place
Oh you look so wet now, maybe you need to get laid
I'm a hopeless romantic but there's no time for a first date
You try to cover yourself but there's a different expression on your face
So let the doctor,
Take you for a wild ride
Got the prescription,
There's a load of pills that I hide
Hello I'm Dr Dickson
I'll operate on you tonight
I'm the doctor addiction
Now open up your legs wide
It's getting hot let me take of my white coat
Operating table is so Rocky, feels like I'm on a boat
Hands of perfection running back and forth
Here take my poking device, grab and hold
You look so familiar , have we ever met before ?
I think I did your sister too, how is she, still sore !?
I think we're running dry, need to apply the **** a bit more
I hope you'll be satisfied, when you walk out of that door
Everything happened so fast I didn't even catch your name
I can be sloppy sometimes, so I'll take that blame
But hey I'm a doctor, you can scream all you want, no shame
I hope you like the service and you can visit me again
But let's not talk now, it's the part where I need to concentrate
Don't you worry now, there's no need to sedate
Here, you can hold my hands as I penetrate
It'll be over soon for there's another appointment and I don't want to be late
So let the doctor,
Take you for a wild ride
Got the prescription,
There's a load of pills that I hide
Hello, I'm Dr Dickson
I'll operate on you tonight
I'm the doctor addiction
Now open up your legs wide
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 10:38 AM UTC
Our paths have different ways
Each one a new discovery,
Like the sunny or rainy days
Wondering what's going to cover me.
Here we are again another year
Not knowing what our future holds,
Living; looking around in a constant fear
Together we wake as our story unfolds.
This is the year of the young people
Help guide them in making good choices,
Encourage them to reach the highest steeple
They are our future let's hear there voices.
©Grant Dickson 01/01/2018
Jan 1, 2018
Jan 1, 2018 at 5:56 AM UTC
Worn out to extent of collapse,
My body clock about to elapse.
Turning from a strong mountain,
Cascading like a giant fountain.
Crumbling into a pile of rock,
Life slowing hearing it tick tick.
Feeling it's time to close my eyes,
Waiting for tomorrow's hidden disguise.
Time to dim the bright light,
Then with a sigh say night night.
This bodies ready for the heap,
Sweet Dreams my friends it's time to sleep.
© Grant Dickson 09/02/2016
Aug 16, 2017
Aug 16, 2017 at 5:13 AM UTC
T'was the night before school,
and all through the house.
Not a sound could be heard,
Not even a mouse.
It's that time again good grief ,
the uniforms nicely pressed .
Parents gave a sigh of relief,
kids back to school looking there best.
Hip hop hooray we all say,
at least till the next holiday.
Copyright Grant Dickson 14/08/2015
Aug 16, 2017
Aug 16, 2017 at 6:34 AM UTC
Keep your hands above the Mason Dickson line
You don't have to make the right desicion now
Some of this old beat slang
is right off the cob
So let us Ride and get Dixie fried
With some small town gin mill cowboy
I can see you're interviewing your brain
so for now I'll just leave you alone
because I'm just a pearl diver
at a greasy spoon
and soon we will be in jail for hanging paper with that runway in a strip club so I guess we better just jungle up in Varicose Alley.
Jun 8, 2017
Jun 8, 2017 at 5:37 AM UTC
Enlisted they were mostly lads so young,
sent off to war as songs from Vera were sung,
Young miss Ashwell started it all so well,
across europe ****** was giving them hell.
A century has now come and gone by,
Yet the memories of those brave won't die.
Through the wintery cold and icy rain,
Each soldier battled hard so many suffered in pain.
They ask us why do we remember our brave,
Wreaths of poppy's are laid on the unknown soldiers grave.
Today as I write this tribute to those brave,
Another young soldier is put to his grave.
When or will it all ever come to an end,
Fighting in another war another country to defend.
(c) Grant Dickson 01/11/2018
Nov 2, 2018
Nov 2, 2018 at 9:08 PM UTC
La palma, talle juvenil del aire,
el granado, mi brasa superada,
mi George Dickson, sangre bien rizada,
violetas, miniaturas al desgaire,
han de rodear mi casa, la del sueño
y del ensueño musical y breve,
con una dicha asordinada y leve
y un bien medido bienestar pequeño.
Empezar en pobrezas armoniosas
la conquista de panes y de rosas,
que me entreguen la paz de cada día.
Medirme la ambición con una vara,
que nunca pueda resultarme cara,
ni darle pena ya a Santa María.
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