"fells" poems
Balcony Life:
Sometimes I just watched outside, and it was a glorious day.
Children actually played. Groups sunbathed and basked in beer
Ice-cream vans were heard not far from here
Above a plane heading somewhere etched its mark
traced in nothing but just plain blue sky,
for miles, as far as the eyes could see.
Up the motorway, the sun ignites on speeding sunroofs
Toward the Campsie Fells set in a haze of bottle green
The white trickle of yesterdays snow cut like some dyslexic ancient symbol
A place for misspent youth and baking trays on icy days
A hot cheap brand coffee in a chipped petrol-token mug
Perched on weathered wrought iron painted brown like last year
Meant so much in that moment grasped and shaped like glass with glee
I remember that there is life in this here estate sometimes
Watching as you do,
from your own slice of life on your patch of balcony
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 10:24 AM UTC
The rigger journeyman was city bred,
But Cumberland was in his bones,
He saw the hills above the doors,
He saw the fells above the roofs
And when the great pain came,
His eyes belonged to them again.
By Ruskin Street he stopped to choke
At forty six, his wife beside,
My father's line revealed to me,
A farming, rigging family tree.
His place of death recorded so,
Not 'in' or 'at' but 'by' they wrote,
Impressionistic, vague, but true,
Or careless hand for riggers, who
In city great of small account
By Ruskin Street,
Out for the count...
The journey ends
And Benson, male,
No sails will mend.
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 8:04 PM UTC
His skin weaved in the golden sand,
Shone under the sun of his motherland.
Hair a tangled meshwork of thread,
Reminiscent of the nets his father spread.
He had no toys but crystals and shells,
that he collected onshore in lonely spells.
His food, the raw salty fish,
Swiftly with skill that he gut and dished.
He goes and lays down in wet sand,
the spirit of which he loves to no end.
He sings to the mermaids and in mud he rolls,
and the sea laughs with him in breaking shoals.
He is made of blood but ocean too,
he knows no music but woosh woosh woosh.
He wishes to marry a girl of the sea,
who'll dwell with him in his fantasy.
He turns his head and closes his ears,
while people run away from the ocean in fear.
Destruction and death loom ahead,
The blue ocean rises violently filling the town with dread.
Like a heavenly curse it fells on the town,
crushes and sweeps like the tragedy bound.
With his holy hand it avenges it's kin,
and his water that was treated as nothing but bin.
It tears every home away from it's root,
just like how the humans did its fish loot.
And squeezes the life out of the fishermen,
that feast on the dead of his homeland.
It starves and suffocates many men,
who made him breathless with oil spills time and again.
Like a storm it rages and plunders.
In minutes, wrecks havoc on the land and rips it asunder.
It gradually descends back to it's nest,
Satisfied with the curse it did impress.
The next day a body lay on the shore.
Like a coffin did it mud wore.
As people looked on it, they could not help but chant;
***The Child of the Ocean lies strangled in its waters,
We feed things love and they destroy us and slaughter.***
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 9:05 AM UTC
Two sparks of glass dancing on the currents
like two feathers with silk stiffened by salt.
Broken bottles to the midnight seascape sent
unsteady as whispers, sharp as the cold.
I’d drift as part of chandelier like rain
be the anglerfishes’ luminous snare
to tresses of jellyfish dresses vain
as the smooth face reflecting there.
On the plateau the sand will frost our smiles
smoothing those edges to a bent jigsaw piece.
This cold Desert of ebb raked sands and fells
from the bottle’s great birth into the sea.
Making blood fire by joining sparks by hand
as others join stones in returning to sand.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 12:08 PM UTC
when i get this bad i feel like i'm trapped in a room and i'm running out of oxygen.
my breathing gets faster and shorter.
the walls close in.
my chest fells like it has 100 pounds on it forcing my ribs to cave in.
sometimes i feel like this for a second, other times days.
but then there's certain people and they 're like my oxygen .
they help me breathe.
it's hard when they aren't around.
i need them.
they're my oxygen.
i'll die without them
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 10:13 PM UTC
Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room,
And hermits are contented with their cells,
And students with their pensive citadels;
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,
Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,
High as the highest peak of Furness fells,
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:
In truth the prison unto which we doom
Ourselves no prison is: and hence for me,
In sundry moods, ’twas pastime to be bound
Within the Sonnet’s scanty plot of ground;
Pleased if some souls (for such there needs must be)
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,
Should find brief solace there, as I have found.
2.3k
This poem was witten by my godfather Hilair Beloc 1870-1953
When I am living in the midlands
That are sodden and unkind
I light my lamp in the evening
My work is left behind
And the great hills of the South Country
Come back into my mind
The great hills of the South Country
They stand along the sea
And its there walking in the high woods
That I could wish to be
And the men that were boys when I was a boy
Walking along with me
The men that live in North England
I saw them for a day
Their hearts are set upon the waste fells
Their skies are fast and grey
From their castle walls a man may see
The mountains far away
The men that live in West England
They see the Severn strong
A rolling on rough water brown
Light aspen leaves along
The have the secret of the rocks
And the oldest kind of song
But the men that live in the South Country
Are the kindest and most wise
They get their laughter from the loud surf
And the faith in their happy eyes
Comes surely from our sister the spring
When over the sea she flies
The violets suddenly bloom at her feet
She blesses us with surprise
I never get between the pines
But I smell the Sussex air
Nor I never come on a belt of sand
But my home is there
And along the skyline of the Downs
So noble and so bare
A lost thing I could never find
Nor a broken thing mend
And I fear I shall be all alone
When I get towards the end
Who will be there to comfort me
Or who will be my friend
I will gather and carefully make my friends
Of the men of the Sussex Weald
They watch the stars from the silent folds
They stiffly plough the fields
By them and the God of the South Country
My poor soul shall be healed
If ever I become a rich man
Or if ever I grow to be old
I will build a house with a deep thatch
To shelter me from the cold
And there shall the Sussex songs be sung
And the story of Sussex told
I will hold my house in the high woods
Within a walk of the sea
And the men that were boys when I was a boy
Shall sit and drink with me
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 4:43 PM UTC
Not everyone can fell everyone's pain,
Heart only fells the heart's pain,
Something happens to my heart,
When you are in pain or get hurt.
Your tear is like a deep ocean,
when tear drops from your eye,
I feel like i am drowning,
In a deep ocean of painful tear,
My eyes smiles, when you smile,
My heart cries,when you cry,
For me your tear is like hell,
your smile gives me pleasure of heaven.
your smile is weaker than your tear,
your smile can't hide your tear,
Not everyone can see pain behind smile,
the one who loves you truly can see.
If anyone ask me "what is hell"
I will tell about your tears,
If anyone ask me "what is heaven"
i will tell about your smile.
I know you more,
than you know about yourself,
I think about you more,
than you think about yourself,
I love you more ,
than you love yourself.
Dec 12, 2017
Dec 12, 2017 at 10:46 AM UTC
My November comes conceiving sorrows
Despite layers over layers, the **** shows
Pregnant sorrows are like still borne children
And still borne children, the fiction of the unaware
Always stuck in that muddle of grief,
Not begun; yet not leaving
Out here, November Nights gain an hour
And, my sleeplessness too
Y'day night I woke up in three tunnels of time
As if, passing through some corridors and trapped
Somewhere; for a long time
I feel an envious abandon to
All those trees that felled their leaves
Through the trees and felled leaves
November gives me a cold lonely road
To tread, more backwards than ahead...
Mired lines mar the November vision
Can insinuations offer 'clarity on Intentions?'
Fall fells a lot, below the bare branches
Awaits a lot of leaves, crushed hopes and dreams
I lay bare, awaiting this November to turn over
@ all rights with Author
Nov 10, 2016
Nov 10, 2016 at 3:14 PM UTC
Today, my train of thought
Is a bit off track.
It's a dark and confusing smokestack.
You see, questions abound.
So buckle in as I go to town.
Which cider you on?
Apple or hard?
If a tree falls on a copier
And no one is around to see it,
Does it make a forest?
I'm rooting for yes; but quite unsure.
How many coins can a fountain hold?
I wish I knew.
Is Paul dead or the walrus?
Is Paul dead AND the walrus?
Coo coo ca choo.
What's the beef about red meat?
It fills but kills? It sells but fells?
Who knows!
The proof is in the pudding.
All other desserts are unsubstantiated,
I suppose.
If peanut butter leaves Los Angeles
Traveling east at 100 miles per hour,
And jelly leaves New York
Traveling west twice as fast,
Will they become a sandwich when they meet?
What a treat if they did.
Maybe one day these
Universal questions will be solved.
But for now, I'm quite dizzy
From all the lunacy involved.
Catch you later...
Apr 14, 2023
Apr 14, 2023 at 3:42 PM UTC
(HORROR & FANTASY FICTION)
On a dark, damp night beside a country campfire,
tales of The Timberman are shared near the mire,
of Sadie's Swamp, where not so long ago,
The Timberman came and the death toll rose.
No one knows from whence The Timberman came,
but that it was on an October night in the rain,
with hate in his heart and a love of fear,
a taste for fresh flesh and a thirst for tears.
He comes brandishing an axe of the sharpest steel,
fells trees in his wake whilst seeking out his meals;
then stalking his way through the brush without stopping,
he seeks out his victims for his fatal chopping.
The Timberman's axe would arise and then fall,
shattering bone, splashing blood, flaying flesh and all,
hacking and striking to the shriek of their screams,
reveling in the flow of their blood-gore in streams.
Then, alas! -before the chase would begin,
there'd be nary a sound nor sight of him,
just the ****** remains of his brutal hunt:
hacked human bodies and scarred tree trunks.
Sep 18, 2010
Sep 18, 2010 at 6:50 AM UTC
I cannot forget with what fervid devotion
I worshipped the vision of verse and of fame.
Each gaze at the glories of earth, sky, and ocean,
To my kindled emotions, was wind over flame.
And deep were my musings in life's early blossom,
Mid the twilight of mountain groves wandering long;
How thrilled my young veins, and how throbbed my full *****
When o'er me descended the spirit of song.
'Mong the deep-cloven fells that for ages had listened
To the rush of the pebble-paved river between,
Where the kingfisher screamed and gray precipice glistened,
All breathless with awe have I gazed on the scene;
Till I felt the dark power o'er my reveries stealing,
From his throne in the depth of that stern solitude,
And he breathed through my lips, in that tempest of feeling,
Strains lofty or tender, though artless and rude.
Bright visions! I mixed with the world, and ye faded;
No longer your pure rural worshipper now;
In the haunts your continual presence pervaded,
Ye shrink from the signet of care on my brow.
In the old mossy groves on the breast of the mountain,
In deep lonely glens where the waters complain,
By the shade of the rock, by the gush of the fountain,
I seek your loved footsteps, but seek them in vain.
Oh, leave not, forlorn and for ever forsaken,
Your pupil and victim to life and its tears!
But sometimes return, and in mercy awaken
The glories ye showed to his earlier years.
1.6k
It wasn't exactly my plan
To give the world the upper hand
In turning me
Into what I appear to be
That is a Bionic Man
It was an innocent start
This hardening of heart
That no longer fells sorrow for the troubles of man
I'm afraid this heart's made of steel
That no longer can feel
Making me out to be a Bionic Man
What about the warm hand I used to hold out
To the stranger in doubt
Now this hand has become as cold as ice
I find that these days
That it barely waves
To the neighbors that I have in my life
Bionic Man, Bionic Man
No want for the unwanted
When there's no love for fellow man
I've become a machine
No need for those who are in need
When I've become what I am
"The Bionic Man"
Then there's the mind
That is cynical most times
Not knowing who are what to believe
I know it's not right
But this mechanical mind
Forms opinions before facts even seen
Steely gray eyes when they stare
Show they could not even care
What goes on between you and me
Sometimes they're droopy and tired
When not properly wired
They're numb to all the things that I see
Bionic Man, Bionic Man
No want for the unwanted
When there's no love for fellow man
I've become a machine
No need for those who are in need
When I've become what I am
"The Bionic Man"
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 7:49 AM UTC
The greater masters of the commonplace,
Rembrandt and good Sir Walter--only these
Could paint her all to you: experienced ease
And antique liveliness and ponderous grace;
The sweet old roses of her sunken face;
The depth and malice of her sly, grey eyes;
The broad Scots tongue that flatters, scolds, defies;
The thick Scots wit that fells you like a mace.
These thirty years has she been nursing here,
Some of them under Syme, her hero still.
Much is she worth, and even more is made of her.
Patients and students hold her very dear.
The doctors love her, tease her, use her skill.
They say 'The Chief' himself is half-afraid of her.
1.4k
You were raised without praise
where storms are the norm
catch
the wind
that crosses the tide
trudge the dread and take that stride
break the violence
where curses were built
Satanic crutches
fells the mind
crave wisdom that fleeces the foe
stretch the sinew
and grow
your
... spine...
dream the dream
leave hate behind
and
refrain from crime
brown leaf
Pray!!!
stay alive
in this bright future
you
were born
to
survive.
Nov 9, 2021
Nov 9, 2021 at 5:41 PM UTC
Of cherry blossomed orient
and of deep desert Sahara
I thought, and in the same moon shade
and under each dark sky I walked.
Of grey ****** mounts
and of green turf fells
I thought, and under each effervescent light
and beneath each blue atmosphere I walked.
Why did I walk? Through orient and Sahara?
Why did I think and have these thoughts?
Well, I had a question and I thought my destination
had an answer to that question. My destination was you
and I have my answer.
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 6:06 PM UTC
Things we used to be
Or rather that which we are still
We as in I
I as in you
You as in me
Just a pair of eyes
Disembodied, disinherited
Then a word or two
Spoken uncertainly, with imperfect diction
Next came a body coated matte
Appearance totally flat
A reprisal of the reeling mind
Discontented, self remarked
Struck like fells of flak shells
Wrack
Emotive motion to inhale pain pill smoke
Foiled
Spoiled through imparts of ignorance
Palette saturated, severance pre-packed
Wheeze ever
A bio beat box, palpitate off tempo
Disharmony collate
Chaos culture, we the cancer self-castrating earth
Bastardized with sickly sounding mirth
Loudest, proudest, irreverent
Disclaimers
Naked
Reclamation
The origin known as nature
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 7:57 PM UTC
I've searched and searched never finding it
Famliy and friends said i was good
But it means oh so much more to hear it from a stranger
I've removed the vail and spread my wings
I've tryed to seattle at alittle place they call myspace
Found it to be dull and most were jaded
I tryed to to show my face on facebook
but they were busy stairing in the mirror
i searched for a new home not find one that fit my likeing
untill now
I've found a place to share my most personal form exsression
Hello poetry fells oh so right
Jan 21, 2010
Jan 21, 2010 at 7:56 AM UTC
i want to crawl
out of my skin
air my blood vessels,
calm their restless
nerves, drinking only
makes it worse
i choose to merge
muscles with elements
hot to cold,
snow covered
organs breathing
on their own,
and when i
put them back in
the blood beats
differently,
on the bus rides & in
the traffic jams
i smell tree pines,
fells, mountains
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 9:16 AM UTC
Dear muse, I penned this verse with feather quill,
To gently praise your beauty of renown,
My words to float aloft your gaze until,
They softly kiss your eyes like thistledown.
One single thought of you is all I need,
Pure beams of gold to light my dulling day,
A gorgeous wildflower peers from tangled ****
And paints a splash of colour to my grey.
My lonely shadow drapes this em'rald shore,
With somber heart I yearn your close embrace,
Between us how wild stormy waters roar,
Such tempest I would brave to see your face.
Fond kisses blown on gentle winds your way,
Warm breezes seek wherein the fells you stray.
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 10:46 AM UTC
The shockwave hits your throat
so fierce, it forces your own voice
from your own body.
The momentum it contains, unconstrained
by your silent spectre
rushes forward like thunder
into the levee of your knees, and strikes
the way lightning fells trees.
You're nothing but lymphnodes, flood
and weight, now.
The rest, like last night's dream
washing away the moment before you remember.
The aftershocks ripple like echoes,
capsaicin in the nerves
of all your timber limbs
dismantled and thrown to the horizon.
You hover above
what it felt like
to exist.
It rests on the tip of your tongue, a moment.
Nobody really knows the difference between
a moment and eternity.
Below the folds of water, sweat and skin
the ground is offering whispers
bubbling soggy underfoot.
They might be yours.
They say it comes from the ground up
Channels reaching channels to connect
in a flash
a crack
again
to body
even
if only
a moment.
Jul 6, 2018
Jul 6, 2018 at 5:53 PM UTC
Insecurities are usually masked by specific external characteristics.
Looking back, I can visualise dead wasps as they floated in water-filled jam jars on the foundations of the Campsie Fells.
Please, will you save all your kisses for me amidst this mass observation of our voyeuristic society?
I give thanks for the blood that pumps through your veins. Can I explore your labyrinth within these flittering and electric shadows of death?
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 10:12 PM UTC
Am I good enough for life.
My head fells up with doubts and questions...
What am I doing wrong? Have I turned into a monster no..
That's not it... What am I doing wrong..
Am I good enough for any one...
Feeling the agony of the past being used as bate, as a toy or a paper plate ...
Past..... Laugh what? am I not good enough..
No more replacing me, no more cheating and leaving me, no more exchanges, no more doubts of my worth....
If im not worth for you then what am I worth for.....
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 4:23 AM UTC