"dotty" poems
Dotty was a beautifully coloured dragonfly with four wings
And a long slender body,
She was made by Evelyn on the coldest day of the year
When the ground lay under two inches of snow
And a southerly wind blew flurry flakes of whiteness
Into faces and down fronts of coats.
All the way home Evelyn held on to Dotty
Protecting her from the bad weather,
Until she was safely on the kitchen table.
When you make things your heart wants
To share so Evelyn thought of her Grandma
Who she knew would just love to see Dotty.
Now in 2018 there is FaceTime a magical device
Allowing one to speak and see pictures of
One's family and friends,
So Evelyn asked her daddy if she could
Show Dotty to Grandma.
Grandma heard this ringing in her room
Coming from her iPad.
Who can that be she thought and went to see?
And there was Evelyn with Dotty
" I wanted to show you my dragonfly
That I made at playgroup this morning".
Well Dotty was beautiful with her painted wings
And Evelyn flew her round the room for
Grandma to see.
This made Grandma so happy and they both laughed
And talked and then Evelyn showed her Bagpus on her
Own iPad and Grandma and Evelyn both sang
The mice song.
It was only a short call and soon time to say goodbye
Evelyn said "you have made me very happy "
And Grandma smiled in her heart all day.
Love Mary ***
Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 10:02 AM UTC
I'm a socially awkward person
Who comfortably pretends not to be;
My friendships are so spotty, I'd be dotty
To delude any of them not to be!
Although, its true, I have no foe,
But who would be my friend?
My silence is my shelter,
When the chaos never ends.
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 1:35 AM UTC
Do you think,
the yellow brick road,
sparkles when,
it rains?
Dorothy,
we aren’t,
in Kansas,
anymore.
The tin man,
has become,
your best friend,
and your dog,
he’s running away.
Oh poor Dotty,
I’m so sorry,
the witch,
it’s actually,
deep inside.
Don’t you,
understand?
It’s raining,
the hanging man,
he’s swinging,
and the road,
it’s sparkling.
Sep 16, 2025
Sep 16, 2025 at 2:17 PM UTC
Young Americans, all volunteers
Sampling English women and English beer
Over sexed, over paid and over here
In the scrubby bit next to Sally's house there used to stand another cottage. If you scrape away some soil you can find floor bricks. A german fighter tailed some bombers back, shot one down as it made its final landing approach.It crashed short, demolishing the cottage. When Sally first moved in there were bits of metal laying around and dials hanging in the trees. An old boy turned up one day, a surviving crew member. They gave him some bits of his old plane to take home.
On planes with names like
Frivolous Sal, Dauntless Dotty
Million $ Baby, Memphis Belle
Sylvia was a child during the war.They saw a german fighter shot down, the pilot managed to open his chute. He walked up to their house, knocked on the door and gave himself up. Sylvia's dad marched him down to the Police Station.
Braving the freezing hostile skies
Thousands and thousands of you guys
How can we thank you
After you've died?
Next to Diane's house, hidden in the trees are the remains of nissen huts built as accommodation for the airmen. Not much left after 70 years, a few concrete block walls. Now and again she used to see some misty-eyed old guy gazing into the trees.
Long after you're gone
The land remembers
Bears the scars
Of those few years of turmoil
David is a gardener in our village, nice guy, should have retired by now. Don't think his father ever kept in touch.
Mar 19, 2012
Mar 19, 2012 at 1:16 PM UTC
How Long Is A Dream?
How long is a dream,
Stream of consciousness
Mirroring –unconsciousness,
And speed of thought
Reckoned
In seconds,
Pinned into entities
Clear as a bell.
The pain or the joy of
Of a day gone away,
How long is the theme
Crammed into a dream,
The bad and the good
Reflecting the childhood dance
Of experience,
Mire of desire explicit as film.
How long is a dream
Is the same as to ask about time
And the time that it’s taken
To organize, star in, produce and direct -
(You do/are all four)
Constructions so tricky and dotty and flighty
It might take one years
To write out all those fears, hopes and wishes
Compressed into minutes
From snippet to whole.
How long is a dream,
In its limits or boundlessness
Fluff as reality stuffed into seconds.
Puzzling, perplexing,
It keeps a man guessing,
The question as madd’ning
As how long is string?
How Long Is A Dream? 1.25.2017
Circling Round Reality; Nature Of & In Reality;
Arlene Corwin
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 12:54 PM UTC
Dotty was a beautifully coloured dragonfly with four wings
And a long slender body,
She was made by Evelyn on the coldest day of the year
When the ground lay under two inches of snow
And a southerly wind blew flurry flakes of whiteness
Into faces and down fronts of coats.
All the way home Evelyn held on to Dotty
Protecting her from the bad weather,
Until she was safely on the kitchen table.
When you make things your heart wants
To share so Evelyn thought of her Grandma
Who she knew would just love to see Dotty.
Now in 2018 there is FaceTime a magical device
Allowing one to speak and see pictures of
One's family and friends,
So Evelyn asked her daddy if she could
Show Dotty to Grandma.
Grandma heard this ringing in her room
Coming from her iPad.
Who can that be she thought and went to see?
And there was Evelyn with Dotty
" I wanted to show you my dragonfly
That I made at playgroup this morning".
Well Dotty was beautiful with her painted wings
And Evelyn flew her round the room for
Grandma to see.
This made Grandma so happy and they both laughed
And talked and then Evelyn showed her Bagpus on her
Own iPad and Grandma and Evelyn both sang
The mice song.
It was only a short call and soon time to say goodbye
Evelyn said "you have made me very happy "
And Grandma smiled in her heart all day.
Love Mary ***
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 1:20 AM UTC
I want to tell y'all a story
About a man named McCrory
Made a law about who can use what *****
The rest of the world thinks he is dotty
This man is a bigot
Can you dig it?
North Carolina really wonders
How he could make so many blunders
But soon we will make him pay
When we throw him out on Election Day!
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 11:25 PM UTC
a shell, contoured and carved with an aged elegance so accentuated that it practically screams its 'i'm so much better than you' chant, or
rather than scream, it whispers it softly for only my misshaped ears to hear, so that the dignified mutter echoes like a beautiful musical instrument played wrong in the crevices of my head
and
i stupidly stand, my feet sinking in the so-tainted sand, trying to come up with a retort, witty and cold enough to knock jeremy clarkson off his feet and back into top gear following a mild repercussion aimed at a light-hearted producer - instead of acknowledging the fact that *it is a ******* shell on a ******* beach*
but
miss common-sense-defying with the too-happy polka-dotty headscarf and the five-minute-hipster-outfit that took an hour and thirteen minutes to form is intimidated by the shell that reminds her incomprehensibly of herself.
she's been reading too much john green.
or she's realising the truth, that she is an empty shell on a beach so trodden on that hansel and gretal would lose their footprints, that she is beauty and magnificence and elegance but she is empty, made of things she takes away from her television endeavors and her bookshelf, and she is empty.
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 10:03 AM UTC
I fear one day I should have daughters,
Yet I already know their names:
Ruby, Jane, Dotty, Maggie, Charlotte.
Would it be a blessing or a curse
If they turned out like me?
My mom told me when I was young
“it ain’t easy being a woman, I’m sorry.”
Sure as **** that was true.
I swear I never took that woman for a fool.
I can’t help the way it plays in my head
The pain in a woman’s eyes
Her smile so alive
It tells every lie
Deep down she’s half dead.
As I walk this path myself
Just as generations before
I wonder if that’s why
Little girls have such pretty names
To have something to keep it together for.
I’m older now and I still dream of their faces
How they’ll do right by
Our family of strong women
Whose names they were given.
Don’t be sorry, Mamma dear,
You pass your burdens to me
So our family can survive another year.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 1:18 PM UTC
Dotty lies in ******* bed,
he’s gone to fetch Sammy
his poet friend and will return
in a few days. She sniffs
her brother’s pillow, smells
his hair oil and aftershave.
She snuggles into the bed
for warmth, pulling his duvet
tight around her, imagining
it’s him holding her, his arms
about her. She has a headache,
a coming near the edge, migraine.
Feels sick, light leaking through
the curtains makes it worse.
She puts her head under the
duvet, shuts out the bright light.
She smells him better here, his
love of scent, his personal choice.
She hears birdsong from the garden,
a blue *** great *** unsure which.
Willie’d know. She squeezes her
eyes tight keep out whatever light
might intrude. ******* left her some
of his poems to type up and file away.
Later in the day, she muses, once
the sickness and migraine’s gone.
He had a good day yesterday with
the poems, she recalls, him reciting
over and over as they walked, her
scribbling down, pencil and pad,
her finger and thumb holding the
pencil tight until they felt numb.
After they returned home and sat
by the fire and he spoke them out
one by one. She loved the one about
winter dawn. She turns over, faces
the wall, her head buried into *******
warm indentation. In the darkness
she recites the poems one by one,
the words pouring from her lips,
following each other like children
out to play. She shuts out the dawn
chorus of birds that celebrate the day.
May 8, 2012
May 8, 2012 at 2:40 AM UTC
I might have known
said Dotty
I might have known
you were just like
all the rest of men
but
said Brintskin
don’t you but me
you slime snake
Mother always said
men weren’t
to be trusted
and she was right
I should have listened to her
instead going off with men
at such a young age
but hang on there
Brintskin said
I was getting a lift
in a woman’s car
after a hard day’s work
sure
Dotty said
sure you were
I know women
and I know men
and what happens
when they get together
and what did she want huh?
want to show you her etchings?
no it wasn’t like that at all
she just asked
did I want a lift home
after work and I said yes
Brintskin said
I bet you did
I bet you couldn’t
get that word yes out
quick enough
why I bet she had her ******* off
before you could blink an eye
and as usual
you had to get
caught out didn’t you
and Dotty paused
for a moment
to pour a drink
and sip it
all the while
glaring at Brintskin
and he stared at her
as if she’d changed
into a bullfrog
and then she sighed
and said
well what happened?
nothing happened Sweetie
Brintskin replied
she just offered me
a lift home in her car
and I said yes please
and so she gave me a lift home
Dotty sat down
in the armchair
and crossed her legs
and Brintskin studied her thighs
as the skirt rose up
as she sat down
and Dotty said
ok so maybe I believe you
maybe what you say is true
and I am just getting
the wrong end
of the stick
you sure are
Brintskin said
following the line
of his vision
as far as his eyes
could go
and caught a glimpse
of ***** line
whiter than snow.
Feb 22, 2012
Feb 22, 2012 at 2:57 AM UTC
Our beloved Aunt Bertha.
She didn’t see pixies and elves
She saw ********* and jerks
With no obvious perqs!
That's the breaks of being someone
That, all by themselves,
Can have arguments and fights
And even though it wasn’t right
That is who she was, unique;
Immune to other people’s pique,
Surrounded by unseen creeps.
But she loved us kids, she did.
And found us when we hid
And cooked cakes and pies.
The love in her eyes spoke clearly
And nearly bowled me over
Because it was not deluded.
Yes, her quirks intruded on us
But we let her cuss and rail
At invisible fools. Those the rules.
She couldn’t help herself a bit
And that was the end of it.
So, we listened covertly
And overtly smiled at her a lot
Knowing what we had got
Was the dotty aunt they put
In the attic in the old days
In less loving times and ways.
But we loved her and wanted
A place not haunted by wardens,
And nasty nurses robbing purses,
Where she could live her life.
She liked to sing and dance
And every time I got the chance
I danced with her, as thin as a zipper
I guided this middled aged aunt
And when she started to pant
We changed the music to slow
And right back she would go.
She sang the tunes from the war
And more from movies and shows.
Can anyone know how great it is
To share with someone impaired
And know the gift you have shared?
Apr 7, 2018
Apr 7, 2018 at 1:28 AM UTC
Dotty screws the pen lid,
puts the pen down, folds
her hands in her lap. *****
has finished his poem, he
is now silent, his muse has
gone. She watches as her
brother sits back in his chair,
pushes his fingers through his
dark hair and sighs. That makes
her almost cry, that poet muse
going like that, him sitting there,
face empty, sighs leaving him
instead of words. Tonight she
will enter it all in her journal,
after cocoa and a biscuit and
Willy’s kiss and him gone off
to bed, humming to himself.
She will sit by lamplight, take
out her pen, and write on the
clean page, how he wrote,
what he wrote, the words,
the muse, the leaving of him.
She will leave out the kiss,
the embrace, the seeing each
other face to face. ***** hates
writing things down, he just likes
to sit when the words come and
he can speak them and let Dotty
write the words in the air floating
there. He gets up from his chair,
paces the room, his hands behind
his back, his words gone, his mood
dark, becoming black. Dotty looks
at her hands, entwines her fingers,
makes a church, makes a steeple,
looks inside, sees ink stained people.
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 3:30 PM UTC
i used to play guitar,
as i also used to fiddle with
my fingers, against the thumb...
titilating experience...
playing guitar?
let's just say...
how would a guitarist read
a morse version of
braille,
would it be easier
to read the morse
version of braille...
or just braille?
numbed tips of fingers
of a left hand...
∴
morse braille
. _ ⠁
_ . . . ⠃
_ . _ . ⠉
_ . . ⠙
. ⠑
. . _ . ⠋
_ _ . ⠛ (g)
. . . . ⠓
. . ⠊
. _ _ _ ⠚
_ . _ ⠅
. _ . . ⠇
_ _ ⠍ (m)
_ . ⠝
_ _ _ ⠕ (o)
. _ _ . ⠏
_ _ . _ ⠟ (q)
. _ . ⠗ (r)
. . . ⠎
_ ⠞
. . _ ⠥ (u)
. . . _ ⠧ (v)
. _ _ ⠺
_ . . _ ⠭ (x)
_ . _ _ ⠽ (y)
_ _ . . ⠵ (z)
point being... you really must have
tender finger tips to read braille...
which also implies...
if were not born blind...
when you were not blind
and had to roughen your hands up,
with some mediocre "waste of time"
akin to playing a guitar?
**** you're ******
no, literally...
because if braille is the answer...
and you have thick finger-tips?!
that's it...
unless of course,
braille is replaced with morse...
test: i write with my right hand...
but... if i were to read?
i.e. use my left hand
for both playing the guitar
and reading?
braille, or morse?
morse!
at least it is adherent to some
sort of translateable
arithmetic / quasi-algebra...
you must have very tender
finger tips to read braille...
i tried it a few times,
given that its provided on
most of the packaging
of pharmaceuticals in england...
i.e. diabetic type 1,
born with it,
diabetic type 2,
overdid the chocolate...
sorry, my finger tips are too rough,
shouldn't have learned to
play the guitar,
i couldn't read you braille
with these fingers...
but if you translated braille
into morse?
chances are...
i probably could.
plus? i wouldn't require tender
fingertips, akin to a french origin
braille reader...
give me morse, blind?
i could read it...
but, the current braille?
requiring tender french
finger-tips? no hyphen,
solely dotty?
well... good luck...
finding the next blind lemon jefferson...
who, apart from playing the guitar,
could also read braille...
good luck!
Mar 29, 2019
Mar 29, 2019 at 1:30 PM UTC
Chasing camels knowing nothing
Faded, crossing the grass!
Dollar signs in my hair, nothing nothing, despair
Something sweeps along!
Pirates (become) cool again, kingdoms crossing dens
I wonder what keeps you afloat!
In the end however
You shall ought to ought discover
You better pay attention
Cause those wallabies won’t be merciful today
An hundred ***** dozen
The earth’s cosmic crap
Don’t worry about a thing
Let it all hang out loose
The floating desert above my window
Seeing cacti from miles around
That melty feeling in the floor
Buddy, buddy, buddy, buddy
Cortisone, Caroline, chlamydia
Ryan Reynolds’ ***** fat old swine
Never letting go of this once-ward prime
Purple moles with drills on their heads
Green dotty daughters of pinkness concoction
Creation of the nullness of the black thing-a-mah-bob
Relapse and relax, do your slam thing.
Dec 27, 2017
Dec 27, 2017 at 8:02 AM UTC
We women
Have our brains inside our knees
Are crazy about shopping
Talk too much
Cry without any reason
Break everyone’s heart
Are weak, dumb
And yes mean and rude
Never accept our fault
Treat our husbands like slaves
Don’t get sarcasm
Get offended too easily
Are dotty about wealth
And are gold diggers by nature
Is there anything left?
In your long list of misogynist ****
Do tell me
So we can finish it one go
I mean what’s the point in repeating
The same lame jokes everyday
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 4:25 AM UTC
I just might have to trip
To the Anza-Borrego Desert State Park today, I've longed for a good park experience lately, this place, a place of the Colorado desert of southern California, hot dusty climate, just might match my skin, or will it crisp my skin off my grainey bones, its open 9-5pm, I think I might be a naughty dotty and stay past park hours. Looking forward to the fishhook cactus, and the
Apricot Mallow's. A good trip for this man of old and hollow.
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 12:01 PM UTC
I did not expect to get such a surprise,
When I opened the door, not believing my eyes,
It was long-lost cousin Johnny, standing right there,
The wayward son of my dotty Aunt Clare.
“Well hello,” he exclaimed, tipped his hat with a grin,
“You’re a sight for sore eyes, well then, shall I come in?”
And without missing a beat as, “yes of course?” I stutter,
He steps boldly indoors, and I recall he’s a ******
“So, how’ve you been?” he asks, as I make us some tea,
“Oh, you know, pretty good - let’s not talk about me…
And yourself?” I inquire, ‘it’s been such a long time.”
“Tis, true,” he replies, “but I’m mostly quite fine.
The thing is though, I’m in a bit of a mess,
It’s all been rather a source of stress
And I may need somewhere to stay for a while,”
He gestures around, with that old winsome smile,
“I just need a place to sleep, wash and eat
Till I sort myself out and get back on my feet…”
Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 2:22 PM UTC
.numbers numbers, numbers, always these concerns for numbers; as ever, concern, for the wrong sort of numbers.
unlike that old english saying -
it's not what you know,
it's who you know
...followers, followers, blah blah dotty dittos...
it's not who you are -
it's what you do
that matters more on
that blue-chip verification "VIP"
polo club.
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 11:39 AM UTC
Living in the circle
of a Hawthorne tree root
Cassandra the white
sits in cradled silence
while a fairy-dust moon
perches glowing in a fay sky
aqua vapors
dotted by stippled stars
deep in thought
she touches gnarled limbs
shall she take
her will-o-the wisp wand
and lead another human child
on a very dotty journey
bespangled by
pixie-dusted lights
she laughs out loud
at the thought of her trickery
and the fay games of wooded sprites
Jun 2, 2019
Jun 2, 2019 at 5:45 AM UTC