"dryden" poems
Pressed for a poem
he thought he’d write
to say he loved her
and quite right too
he thought that
love should be
a statement thick
with words so tender
true yet gentle
as that soft complaining
flute he heard
in Dryden’s slick
immortal ode that
‘in dying notes
discovers woes
of hopeless lovers
whose dirge is whispered
by their warbling lute’
Oh yes come you and I
let’s like music
untune the sky!
But my dearest this day is not
the feast of Sancta Cecelia
but of a Roman priest and martyr
beheaded by the Flaminian Gate
for marrying Christians in the street.
And when imprisoned by Claudius’ decree
healed the sight of his jailer’s daughter
Lucy – by leaving her at his death a letter
‘I hope your sight gets better in time’
and signed it ‘from your Valentine ‘
(with two kisses one for each eye)
. . . and it did
Such love can
make us see anew
can help us be
forever true and
gracious to each other’s
cares each other’s woes
and live in hope
(let’s really try)
to be together
always
you and I
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 7:53 AM UTC
Mrs Dryden
sat behind you
on the beach
combing your hair
you watching
the racing tide
the sounds
on the shingle
the other people
sitting or walking
or playing ball
or flicking Frisbees
each to each
her fingers
parting strands
patting down
waves of hair
she maybe reflecting
on the night before
in the cheap hotel
the creaking bed
the second rate
furniture
the Full English breakfast
she having
a young guy
between her thighs
she spoke
of her husband’s failings
his betrayals
his preference
for younger women
you taking in
the scarcely cladded girls
sitting or walking the beach
out of your safety zone
out of reach
and Mrs Dryden’s fingers
moving down your jowls
her lips kissing
your neck
at the back
her breath
whispering words
you thinking
of Miss Fox
the year before
how you nearly went
all the way
(as they used to say)
until her parents
came back home
too soon
spoilt the fun
of one on one
look at that ship
passing over there
Mrs Dryden said
pointing out to sea
her other hand
holding yours
her words carried
on the air
and you imagining
Miss Fox
maybe sitting there.
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 2:56 AM UTC
Back home, the snowflakes flitter
down
languidly
as if avoiding the sameness of the blanket below.
The fragrance of black coffee,
a conversation in subtle tones, and
Miles Davis’s smoothest meanderings
waft in from the study.
Bruise-blue flames give the room
a soft glow, lending a gentle luster to the cat’s
matte black fur, spine arched in luxurious mid-stretch.
Back flush to the ground, I take it all in with
young eyes, young ears, hungry for those
sensory delights. Soon, the flames
fade into simmering, lightless embers,
as the final barely-blown note dwindles.
She whispers “goodnight” in that familiar, hushed
voice, ending a vivid memory with a sweet refrain.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 3:23 AM UTC
Mrs Dryden
met Benedict
by the train station;
she’d told her husband
she was off
the weekend
seeing friends,
in London
take in a show,
which one
she didn’t know.
Benedict saw her coming,
dressed to the nines,
hair done, new shoes
and coat and scarf,
to keep the cold out,
about her throat.
They boarded the train,
took seats together,
aware of others,
but none they knew.
They conversed,
held hands, kissed
now and then
when none was looking.
London was all bright lights
and noise and rush
and they booked a room
in a back street hotel
where they made love,
took a bath, and then went out.
The show was good.
The meal in the restaurant
was fine and they spent time
wandering the streets
looking in shop windows
on the back
to the cheap hotel.
She talked of her husband,
her kids, and how
her husband ******* girls
behind her back,
how he lied,
gave ******** talk,
imagined himself
some Casanova.
Benedict listened,
spoke of his art,
talked of books,
ideas of philosophy.
She put her hand
over his abdomen,
rubbed, rose higher
to his chest, then lower.
In the dark room,
neon lights
flashed off and on,
her face came
and went, her *******
captured coloured
in the flashing lights.
They made love again
and again. Outside was
a gun shot quite near.
Voices calling. Some
one laughed. After the ***
and conversation,
after putting coins
in the heater,
they bathed.
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 7:18 AM UTC
A long time ago, before the days of Henry VIII, There was a young farmer.
Dryden had inherited his land from his recently passed father.
It was a luxurious plot, the greatest and largest around.
There was however, Dryden noticed:
A large area of land his father never used.
Time passed and eventually Dryden decided he would begin to farm that land.
When he arrived at the small plot, he realized it was perfect farmland.
The soil was perfect , sunlight was plentiful but the dirt remained moist.
Dryden began to sow the seeds he had brought.
It was strenuous and demanding work.
Dryden worked for seven hours and finished right in time to leave before the sun went down.
When he turned to look at his work however, Dryden saw a campfire, burning brightly.
Dryden approached slowly, when he got to the fire, to his shock, there was a small Devil sitting in it.
It was Blood red with grey cloudy eyes, the feet of a goat and arms the size of a baby's.
At the sight of Dryden it began to do a dance. It was repulsive.
"What is your business here?"
Dryden asked in a brave demanding tone.
The creature began to cackle.
It said this:
"This land is full of potential, this land will bare much treasure. You will give me half of all that you grow on this land this year, I have no use for money, but the fruits I desire"
Intimidated, Dryden could find no way out of the deal, but then a thought came to his head.
He said:
"Fine you may have half of what is grown here. To make it even I will take what grows under the ground and you may take what is above ground"
The devil agreed and went away in a wicked manner.
Dryden however knew this season was for beets not the corn.
The devil was not all knowing, so he did not know this.
When the time came to harvest, the devil returned.
While Dryden loaded is basket with beets to sell.
The little devil was empty handed, save for a couple wild berries.
The devil was furious, and called over Dryden.
He said:
"You tricky man, how dare you. This time I will take what is below ground."
Dryden agreed.
Of course this time the corn sprouted, and when the devil returned he saw this.
Dryden approached and said:
"There you go Little Devil, You've gotten what you wanted, regardless of what you desired. Go now, do not come back."
The devil was upset at himself for its lack of knowledge about farming and left Dryden and his land alone for the rest of his life.
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 3:48 PM UTC
"For truth has such a face and such a mien as to be loved needs only to be seen. "
JOHN DRYDEN, The Hind and the Panther
:) love this, and I'm non-denominational ( raised Catholic)
take in the corn and spit out the cob. IT's not the word of God, and I believe that some see the truth and hate it, because they are in a state of rebellion. Spoken from experience.
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 1:22 AM UTC
He wants to love the people
of the United States and others
around him. Heat and let you
cool. However, my heart
is very full and strong. Advertise
carefully, to be sure of the name
of wheat. I do not like this stupidity.
I'm on my own but I'm a passionate
driver. "So, there are time tactics
to" talk "about infection, breathing,
fear, sadness, depression, pain,
depression, sadness, syringe
and the other two" when there
is agreement. "I lost to save my
life." I did not know that, but he said.
"Sadness, depression, definitely
at hand, cheating, poverty, hot salt
and hope of losing a word, instead
of bringing doctors, teachers, teenagers,
Guggenheim and Sicily, California,
Father Gregory, Caliban and true
democracy; Megan: John Milton,
Blessed Laura, Our formation
is not only the face of the people,
our sun is our heart, we are cold
and we're touching "now", Saint
and word; The reason for the process.
"A little pain, the cat" I do not know,
I do not know, but I can not say it.
"The dog in New York and Tom Ham,
John Dryden, John Keats, the teachers,
the teachers, our teachers, our teachers,
our teachers in Arizona every year,
18 and over at 21 The Gypsies (g)
California, the real boyfriend
and the Holy Spirit are the new Boy,
Megan and useful leaders in Africa,
Money Money, Muslim Women
and Holy God, "Holy God." Holy
God is truly local, but It's a bit hot,
but my heart is very careful about
the name of the grain; Nonsense
for me, I hate but you know
"As you have." Saint: the text
of the processor, the life conflict,
the fear of the child, the sadness,
pain and sadness of Valentine.
"I was so, I did know, but I cannot
say." Unfortunately, with sadness
comes self-control, Thomas because
I'm a child and I know Pilates, said
John Carpenter and Professor,
Captain's Team 18 "An interesting
****** orientation - has acted,"
said John E's corporation, "Muslims
and Children's Beds "by Hallyu Bly,
Achini LE of the printed Tululani
Geryrich, called Abu Ibrahim,
the gym, Megan's Gothic Islam,
Women and Healthy Saints, Gemini
Qinqing T (100) California State.
"Powerful" global developer "
For the people of the world ...
Feb 18, 2019
Feb 18, 2019 at 10:35 PM UTC