"draughty" poems
Chlamydia, you grumpy cow!
You're twice as grumpy as Sarah the sow.
Half as happy as Jennifer hen,
But ten times better than all the men !
Chlamydia, Chlamydia,
we never will get rid of yer.
A fixture in the draughty barn,
giving us milk and a gossipy yarn.
Have some grass and Chrstmas cake,
have a snooze and then awake,
to a surprise picnic on your floor,
then you can be a grump once more.
Jan 2, 2011
Jan 2, 2011 at 7:12 AM UTC
.
No my Darling, that is not snow.
Its not winter, it should be colder.
No my Darling, that is not snow.
Its just dandruff on your shoulder.
No my Dear, I am not in pain.
Neither am I hurting, or showing grief.
No my Dear, I am not in pain.
Its the lettuce in between your teeth.
Yes my Love, I am listening.
I was just temporarily distracted.
Yes my Love, I am listening.
But your friend is so attractive.
No my Sweet, its not that draughty.
Its not windy, you've got it wrong.
No my Sweet, its not that draughty.
Your skirts caught in your thong.
No my Darling, that is not snow.
It can't be true, its a wrong fact.
No my Darling, that is not snow.
Its just ******* on your compact.
© Pagan Paul (31/03/17)
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 5:53 PM UTC
The morning mists still haunt the stony street;
The northern summer air is shrill and cold;
And lo, the Hospital, grey, quiet, old,
Where Life and Death like friendly chafferers meet.
Thro' the loud spaciousness and draughty gloom
A small, strange child--so aged yet so young!--
Her little arm besplinted and beslung,
Precedes me gravely to the waiting-room.
I limp behind, my confidence all gone.
The grey-haired soldier-porter waves me on,
And on I crawl, and still my spirits fail:
A tragic meanness seems so to environ
These corridors and stairs of stone and iron,
Cold, naked, clean--half-workhouse and half-jail.
3.3k
Just as eating is the test of pudding, we can't really do anything with our deliberately inward-flowing, draughty tears. Our residual, mushy, pathetic life is divided into three hundred and sixty-five tiny particles not only by Time or the calendar - but every day has that cheesy, almost shameful story to the core, according to which: we should adjust better to our alternate endings. Love ready to unfold would draw in vain increased comfort if there were no roots, seeds-germs left from which the whole emotion would sprout; why does the delicious roasted coffee, which we brew in the dim light of dawn, also have the smell of burnt *****
Because we must naturally inhabit the accumulations of lasting annoyances, so that later they can't say about us: "Well! This was also that kind of person!" As if the spiritual-physical connection had already - in many cases - finally come to an end, i.e. a person must always compromise with himself first and foremost, and bargain at the same time.
He often stumbles or gets lost in flooded jars if he is not paying enough attention, and because sooner or later the body also stretches itself towards the horizon of Nothing. The goals and planned ideas seem to testify to conscious helplessness; why should the disillusionment nicknamed permanent be skinned when there is still usable emotion there?! A state of voluntary death also outlines the order of the living, where they can go. From inside, the World already seems like a torn Band-Aid.
Sep 25, 2025
Sep 25, 2025 at 12:15 AM UTC
DEAR Craoibhin Aoibhin, look into our case.
When we are high and airy hundreds say
That if we hold that flight they'll leave the place,
While those same hundreds mock another day
Because we have made our art of common things,
So bitterly, you'd dream they longed to look
All their lives through into some drift of wings.
You've dandled them and fed them from the book
And know them to the bone; impart to us --
We'll keep the secret -- a new trick to please.
Is there a bridle for this Proteus
That turns and changes like his draughty seas?
Or is there none, most popular of men,
But when they mock us, that we mock again?
1.2k
• This great division of space. •
And the untamed plants.
Geckos...
Pose as domestic pets -
slide along its faded railings.
Casing draughty walls,
tethered to rafters loose lashing;
hanging in jungle green.
I clean up the wild flowers
that float in the a i r, without
explanation, without wrong measure.
Is as it comes -
I am ashamed that this is all I want.
A testament to solitary hawks in the upper branches.
Flutter in memory carefree cardinals
in this leaf-strewn place,
Dragonflies form wing-prayers
We kneel and peel our shoes off,
drop our feet to sleeping grass
to be closer to the narrow splendor.
Peacocks honk rough phrases, asking anyone.
Commuting the tracks, between valley stream.
I linger limbo roads
On the jungly drive,
pass a farm that repeats
its exotic fruit tree, the elbows of orange blossoms
Guava groves, avocado arsenal,
saturated ocean views beyond pestyflower frills.
At the life proof gate. This world is untidy
with its muddy banks, with its eyes.
1000 flower bloom
Listening feral fowl, ungulate shake
Retirees friendly fire,
Long forgotten barbwire crossing creeks
the mountain lost in a sea of green
This land, like me, is free
To live a less domesticated dream
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 12:24 AM UTC
in church old
draughty, cold
listen to sermon told
twenty times or more
even the vicar sounds bored
seats long oaken planks
window stained glass,
beautiful,
but,
drear on this dark
and cloudy, autumn morn..
does god really live here
in this dismal place
or does he choose to live
in a heart filled with grace.
i suppose if omniscient the answer
is both.....
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 6:37 PM UTC
What splendour exceeds that of the ocean?
Could its grace by any at all be denied?
Far from city life fraught with commotion
the sea softly lulls with each passing tide
For where waves are boundless, with teal painted crests
naught but seabirds will break my reverie
On a draughty ship, catching winds from the west,
by this time tomorrow ‘tis there that I’ll be
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 2:43 AM UTC
The winter wind howls loud outside
My draughty room is chill
But deep inside I’m warm as toast
For you are with me still.
The cold bare branch of winter taps
Upon my window pane,
Now when your love comes tapping too
My heart is wide again.
I tried to lock and bar the door
To keep cold winter out
But still it creeps in everywhere
And spreads its ice about.
I tried to lock and bar my heart
To keep the pain at bay,
But when your love comes creeping in
It melts the bars away.
So though my window’s firmly closed
My heart is open wide
And welcomes in your warmth and love
To my heart’s fireside.
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 11:47 AM UTC
and we would get up early
so early that the stars
would still sit high
in the dark night sky
we would drink milo
out of plastic cups
and eat oval arrowroot biscuits
spread thickly with butter
we would line up to go to the loo
one last time before piling into
the old car, sliding across bench seats
half our world packed into the boot
then we were off, on the old country roads
still sleepy for the first couple of towns
stopping at Jacaranda for a cup of tea
lukewarm, milky and sweet from the thermos
half a cheese sandwich each, and a fearful trip
to the draughty long drop toilet...looking for redbacks
the whole time, but only finding spinning daddy long legs
after that back into the car, for two hours of
winding our way down, the big hill,
listening for the clearnote call of the bellbird,
watching for wallabies and wombats on the road fringe
and the bigger kangaroos, bouncing away
across the clearings...
at the bottom of the hill, Grafton a quick stop
to stretch our legs eat the cupcake,
used to bribe us into decent behavior up to that point
and another vist to the conveniences.
before the run down the coast,
past the big white resort
and into Brooms Head,
for a week of surf and sun
fish and chips, buckets of prawns,
frosty fruits and sunny boys
in tent and caravan,
swimmers and towels,
we were tribal and free,
roaming the tideline
staying up at the campfire,
sleeping and waking
with the birds......
always such an adventure....
those idyllic days of summer
Mar 11, 2017
Mar 11, 2017 at 8:02 AM UTC