"firth" poems
you can hear the echo via Zizek the Slovak,
well, attire me in slavic myths and
i'll be mumbling purrs in mud too
for a helium bubble to become a comedian,
i know a jittery ******* addiction
when i see one...
if one thing the catholic schooling system
taught me was how to avoid
sniffing glue and how to recognise
a Freudian apostle - still, with all
the hippy **** you'd think
sniffing glue was what Ukrainian existentialism
prescribed with paracetamol,
catholic education just said: no no.
**** me it's the late 90s and we're talking
post-Chernobyl antics...
but that's how i see the left, leftist politics,
the right
utilises prefixes and suffixes in the
old stance of simple pre- pro-
anti-
qua-
-so so...
the left? oh they're right in there...
their prefixes are
Marxist-
liberal-
Hegelian-
whatnot...
they don't
use abstract prefixes,
their prefixes
are concrete,
they want the porridge in their mouth
to ensure a slur that never comes,
among a range of onomatopoeias they argue
from the perspective of the hushed and ushered crowd,
via one observation: Stalin clapped after a speech
to enjoin with the crowd, a real big brother,
****** never clapped, a sitting-duck method;
i'm not advocating, but by a proxy placebo dynamo
experimenting, it's called experimenting with
thought rather than practising with will,
former no chance of footstep evaluation for
cult status imitable -
the left intellectual
has no rubric of thought concerning to and fro -
it has to be concrete layered and a shut off
perfect architecture without fault -
it can't be what it is -
con-
has to be conservative
pro-
has to be socialist
you once said legitimate
transparency - but you didn't say legislation -
well, the left understood it as legislation,
the right too wanted legitimate transparency -
the green party said we could have neither
but could have the replanting of a thousand
oak trees with a Robin Hood placard on the first
oak tree replanted in Sherwood Forest...
b. ~ d. ~... shot ~100 bent arrows into a bullseye -
hurrah! hurrah! maid marian lost her virginity
too! to a broomstick rather than maradona's
fingernail toothpick!
at an essex market the cockney shouts (out of
place): *** yer courgettes! *** yer courgettes!
ta fa a pudding! ta fa a pudding!
*** yer cucumbers! tooth firth 'un!
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 9:50 PM UTC
Got that feeling in the gut?
Tummy stuck deep in a rut,
try and think of other things,
not of spewing up my ring.
Bleugh!
Give up almost right away,
cannot fight or hide today,
belly brewing like a storm.
Here it is, thick and warm.
gruggle (sound effects)
Tastes real bad up the wrong end,
whizzes round the toilet bend.
Like Senna and that Alain Prost,
my tummy has the last riposte.
Wuk, wuk, wurg.(I am NOT anorexic)
Shall I try a biccie now,
maybe milk out of a cow,
perhaps a swig of orange juice?
Whats the point, it's no use.
There's a demon in my guts,
giving duodenal butts,
feel it having so much fun,
did it get in through my ***
Have to get the pills in soon,
hope that I can keep them down,
sat here shaking like a jelly,
heres some more, wow that was smelly!
Since I came here past the border,
exported with my gut disorder.
Need a rapid puke solution,
to end my Solway Firth pollution!
Dec 13, 2010
Dec 13, 2010 at 10:13 AM UTC
Flipped in the oven sun, arched like a bow
They jumped one by one
As they found their own way through the thick foam
Of the falls of Shinn
Where the rushed and glided
Flying through the air
Like dolphins in the cool
Seas of Firth Of Forth;
Trying to find home
As the ice broke free.
Sitting on the cold rock
I feel the slime,
I feel my face burn with stinging
Coldness from the water spray
As I watch them leap
Into freedom.
I also escape...
Drinking my souvenir whiskies
From my 1970's
Led Zeppelin satchel.
Above me people snap shots with their flash
Cameras
As they rise like the sun.
Children laughing and feeling happy
Except one who wants to go home;
My brother who wants to watch TV!
Right next to him was the most beautifulest girl
I've ever seen.
Rainbows were in her auburn hair
Burning with autumn sun,
Blossoming with winter snow drops.
Her hair was like the river itself.
Her eyes were as green as the four leaf
Clover I held in my hand.
Maybe I was lucky to be in love.
Her eyes for that very second floated into mine
As she smiled
And I smiled back.
God how much I wanted to kiss her.
She was utterly beautiful.
But in that very instant she was gone
And I was never to see her again....
In the autumn light
Showering shadows
Were starting to collect crystals
In the melted waters below
And the gold is beginning to spread
Upon the leaping salmon.
©Jack Aylward
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC
We’re the salty dogs of mo-der-ni-ty,
Robot starfish programmed so expertly
(And we’d like to state most em-phat-ic-ly
There’s no cannibalism in the Royal Navy.)
As we sail the blue waters virtually,
There’s a thigh for you and a femur for me
(Just a wee little joke, as you can plainly see;
There’s no cannibalism in the Royal Navy.)
We sing along to Yanni and John Tesh
Though we’d prefer to have them in the flesh
(It’s their haunting tunes we find quite tasty;
There’s no cannibalism in the Royal Navy.)
We serve the nation and prove our worth,
Map the sewers of Brixton, gnaw on Colin Firth
(He treads the boards in-spi-ray-shun-ly;
There’s no cannibalism in the Royal Navy.)
When our duty’s done and the day is through
We have a most proper naval bar-be-cue
(Though we replace officers most fre-quent-ly
There’s no cannibalism in the Royal Navy.)
Oct 3, 2017
Oct 3, 2017 at 7:39 PM UTC
The sands are alive with sunshine,
The bathers lounge and throng,
And out in the bay a bugle
Is lilting a gallant song.
The clouds go racing eastward,
The blithe wind cannot rest,
And a shard on the shingle flashes
Like the shining soul of a jest;
While children romp in the surges,
And sweethearts wander free,
And the Firth as with laughter dimples . . .
I would it were deep over me!
1.4k
Not in this chamber only at my birth—
When the long hours of that mysterious night
Were over, and the morning was in sight—
I cried, but in strange places, steppe and firth
I have not seen, through alien grief and mirth;
And never shall one room contain me quite
Who in so many rooms first saw the light,
Child of all mothers, native of the earth.
So is no warmth for me at any fire
To-day, when the world’s fire has burned so low;
I kneel, spending my breath in vain desire,
At that cold hearth which one time roared so strong,
And straighten back in weariness, and long
To gather up my little gods and go.
1.2k
i.
Hallow thou art, mine
sacrosanct wayfarer;
Sacred heart, raiment
Of January's start,
Thou art the
Beginning
Of spring
And summer's sunshined arise in full-bloomed mesmerize.
The firth of thee, circulates inside of me.
O' Asian delicacy- thou art that righteous tree of
Life. For thine way's art insight's, *********** to the human thought, for thine countenance canst not be store bought. O' thy intelligence canst not be door taught. Destined Jane, O' foreordained, I knewest thee, thou knewest me, in bygone land's.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedicated ( Filipino rose)
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 12:51 AM UTC
is it Thursday already
sheep all move
he is cocky
that catched rat´s tale..
it is balm that sooth
firth of forth
in my crib
i laughed..
lime in the coconut
ad lib..
i broke down
on this day..
and turned to
sound
it was somewhere
to belong o..
and two legs
sure sanctuary
a beauty of vistas
your eyes..
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 5:09 AM UTC
Rising up above foam-crest waves
the Highlands call me home
Yes, call to me in Gaelic tongues
to leave my water’s roam
Riding across waves of ocean's far
to reach this wondrous shore
I'll soon be there on ancestral land
known by lives before
Then nearer still, the waves reduce
I find a river wide
I sail within its Lowland shores
upon the Firth of Clyde
As stars reduce by the morning's rise
more wonders take their shape
I see cliffs all lined with moss and grass
that form this wondrous scape
This beautiful land with its rugged build
bids to me "come explore
and climb straight up to a Highland lake
then to the Upland moor"
So along the Clyde I sail my craft
and enter Scotland's soul
Like a Tartan's weave this water binds
a nation as a whole
To the North you see the mountains raise
so rugged and wild and free
To the South are hills with moors that roll
calling all "look, come see"
But it was the Clyde than won my heart
as I sailed to this place
For it opened wide, like arms stretched out
granting a sense of grace
Aug 21, 2010
Aug 21, 2010 at 10:16 AM UTC
I stayed inside most of today
And watched Netflix
Somehow, as soon as I envisioned you as Colin Firth
In Bridgette Jones's Diary,
I couldn't help but think
"Am I your Renee Zelweger?"
I certainly ramble a lot
And say things I end up regretting
I don't make sense sometimes
I do silly things
I get into uncomfortable situations a lot
I certainly believe that I embarrassed you as well
But we didn't end up together
Like Mark and Bridgette
Every time he kissed her
My toes would tingle
As I remembered the way you kissed me
And when they went to bed together
I remembered things about you I have tried hard to forget
You are my Mark
And I used to be your Bridgette Jones
But I am not her anymore
You have a new girlfriend
But she is more like a lost puppy
Than your leading lady
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 12:21 AM UTC
This rolled growth of sweet Mother Earth,
now between my fingers I hold
her breath, bated, much like my worth.
Barefeet and barebones, renewed dearth
of repose, sanity consoled
by role - growths of sweet Mother Earth.
I’ve worked sweat from my brow, my girth
diminished. Love sits in green bold -
her breath, baited, much like my worth.
We consume each other. Rebirth
my sunken pulse from mellowgold,
this growth of mother. Rolled sweet earth,
up in smoke around Cheshire mirth.
With numbed senses, today I’ve sold
my bated breath, much like her worth.
And so we journal language, like Firth,
while The Sativa Saint extols
this rolled growth of sweet mother earth,
her breath, bated, much like my worth.
Jul 11, 2010
Jul 11, 2010 at 2:45 PM UTC
I saw the note on the mantelpiece
When I got home, rather late,
I knew that something was wrong when I
First saw the open gate,
The house was still and the air was chill
As I called her name, Lorraine,
The note said, ‘Don’t try to follow me,
I’ve caught the evening train.’
I stood for more than a minute
Staring down at her tidy scrawl,
And didn’t breathe for a minute more
‘Til I thought that I would fall,
She’d often threatened to leave me but
I’d put that down to pique,
I stood there now with a furrowed brow
And a future, looking bleak!
I studied the train timetable
Was she going West or North?
The West Express would have left, I guessed,
She’d head for the Firth of Forth,
I backed the car from the garage
Dipped the lights and stepped on the gas,
And headed on up the Great North Road
Beside the railway tracks.
The train was fully a mile ahead
It was lit like a silver snake,
Winding in and out of the bends
And easy to overtake,
I pulled abreast by a hillside crest
To a carriage, just on the rise,
With a single female passenger,
Who sat there, dabbing her eyes.
I knew that the train would stop at York
So I raced on there instead,
Jumped out and ran to the station
While the blood had rushed to my head,
I caught the train as it pulled on out
And I found her on her own,
Weeping free, with her back to me,
She thought she was all alone.
She jumped when I sat in front of her,
And I reached on out, in vain,
‘Why did you even follow me,
I thought that I’d made it plain!’
‘You know I never could let you go,
You mean all the world to me!’
She turned and looked out the window
So I knelt there, down on one knee.
I fumbled deep in my pockets, felt
For the only helpful thing,
Slipped it onto her finger, then
A big brass curtain ring,
She laughed and said, ‘You don’t mean it!’
But her eyes were bright with tears,
And I said after I’d kissed her
That I’d meant to ask, for years!
‘You know that you’ll have to come on home
At five, or six at the most,
No more of your office parties where
I burn and spoil the roast!’
I put my hand on my heart right there
And I quelled her, with a look,
It has to be pretty special when
The master marries the cook!
David Lewis Paget
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 11:44 AM UTC
( hebrew translation) English version below this....
טארן שלנו לנבול להיות מודגש, פגם אף , ולא לטמא.
ידו של אלוהים ' החזיקה את המברשת; O ' זירת מהפנט.
כשאנחנו ועשינו להבחין במרחק אחד אחרת עם הגיבורה בהתגלמותה שלנו,
לנבול צנוע אנו להיות, הפשט הרחק גאווה ארצית.
שוב אני אגיד לך, שנאה שאף יכול להיכנס כאן,
נצטרך לעמוד באוויר פירת גביש ; נולד מחדש בנצח,
הצנצנת של האסט של עדן מאוחסן הדמעה של שלנו.
זן מלכת השער הצרה,אני אעמוד ליד השערים,
בלבוש המלאכי לנבול מחכה לך;
אני אהיה זוהר , שלא אאחר .
( English version )
Ourn tarn shalt be blazoned, none blemish, nor defiling.
God's hand' held the brush; O' the scene mesmerizing.
when we shalt descry one another with our eyne,
humble wilt we be, stripped away from earthly pride.
Once again I'll tell thee, none hate can enter here,
we'll stand aloft the crystal firth; reborn in eternity,
Heaven's jar's hast stored our tear's.
Enter in the narrow gate queen,
I'll stand beside the gates,
Angelic garb wilt await thee;
I will be glowing, do not be late.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Prophetic poetry
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 10:13 PM UTC
The engines roar
Movement is ****** forward
Shaking in the vibrations of its force.
Looking out of the small window
I see the Earth passing away beneath us
Those green, green fields, that once held my dreams
Are fading into the distance
Those trees and hedges, that once echoed my soul
Will become in time tender past memories.
Lines are crossing the land below
Gray lines
Upon them matchbox replica's move to and fro.
Roof tops with chimneys bursting forth,
This world looks so different from up here
Little villages and towns scatter the patch worked quilt
A domain of little people, Leprechauns
I see myself down there, staring up, The Soul,
Waving farewell to its body.
Deep inside
Wells those tears of parting
Of saying farewell to the hearts final beat.
I lay back my head
Close to my eyes
Feeling the parting of friends and family, the place
I shall always call my home,
That land these hands have held, its texture
Like a women's Lily soft skin,
No soil on Earth clings stronger to the bone, no dream as bright
As dreams of journeys home.
In my silent thoughts
I hear the cries of friends,
Echoing the haunting voice of home and place.
Yet! I did leave her like an ungrateful lover,
And how she has grieved for her wondering companions;
Clinging to her children with every essence of her form
But I shall always dream of her,
Of her tenderness and her warmth,
Farewell my dearest Mistress, My aching heart.
Your Lover
Your child
Now has left your womb.
But I shall return dear breath, back to you
As the western Winds return again upon the Firth
To lay but once more within your arms,
to feel your form beneath my flesh
And like the fragrance that flows gently from your image
My Soul and Body,
Together with yours,
Shall forever roam.
Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 19, 2011
Mar 19, 2011 at 8:41 PM UTC
Random goes tandem with insane in the brain,
I try for the score that is more then the rest,
Passed test, the best.
Yet no one knows nothing now and everything later,
Can't understand the thoughts in my mind, the kind that you find
To be strange and deranged will all be changed.
But hence they make sense in the right pretense
The stream of my dreams pour forth from the lake of my mind.
The mirth of their birth from this firth is too fast to grasp.
Dripping down into darkness, slipping through fingers, ripping open a tear
Never meant to be there. Don't care how I fare,
Or stand there and stare, stealing dignity from me as plain as can be.
Myself is my own, neither water nor stone
I may be alone but am still flesh and bone,
And may my thoughts be known
More or less,
To be meaningful to the meaningless.
Jan 25, 2010
Jan 25, 2010 at 7:03 PM UTC
According to astrology,
The stars arrange themselves to bind
The destinies of humankind
Born under their hegemony.
What malice made those twinkling lights
****** my children, and yet spare
A father to forever bear
Grief that embitters, and ignites
A hatred for my very birth,
And the cursed womb that gave me life.
****** in this vale of loss and strife,
Pushed through that vile and ****** firth,
I live and suffer till I die.
Are the stars locked in crystal spheres
To trace their paths throughout the years,
Quite powerless to nullify,
The ruin and the doom they chart?
Or do they skip across the void,
Giddy, and cruel, and overjoyed
To wither a poor father’s heart?
If they’re condemned to blight
The fate of any mortal born
Under their aegis, they must mourn
The sentences their glint must write.
If merciful, those stars must share
The misery their shining brings,
And their own brittle glimmerings
Must lance their conscience with despair.
Extinguishing those stars that ****
Unwillingly is clemency.
Annihilation sets them free.
But if they’re vicious, it will thrill
My aching spirit to ***** out
Ill-omened and malignant stars,
Child-murderers, and the bêtes noires
Of fathers, even if devout.
Such wicked lights disgrace the night,
So, emptied, let that banner shut.
An expanse cleansed of glittery ****
Contracts so closely and so tight
No spirit banished from its rest
Can enter through that dismal gate,
Once happy, now disconsolate,
Dropped in a world they will detest.
Into that gap, the day before
And the day afterward will close.
So that cursed hour cannot expose
A naked child to famine, war,
Plague, and the agonies this world.
Inflicts upon the bad and good.
If in the womb, I’d understood
The pain awaiting, I’d have curled
Up tighter and would lock my knees.
Shutting the door, I would return
To a green glade and gurgling bourn,
A haven from atrocities.
Mar 13, 2022
Mar 13, 2022 at 3:12 PM UTC
firth -
part
of the
sea; ebbs and
flows - an inlet of
the ocean at a wide river
estuary, a place where mourning songs are sung and
souls are lost and found and secrets revealed and waters are wide; a place to breathe for once.
the firth is where there is a separation of ways.
where we walk down one river each
and we don’t look back
go forward
forget
the
past.
Aug 30, 2021
Aug 30, 2021 at 10:58 PM UTC
Like a kangaroo in a pouch
Sitting on her mother's couch
Giggling with toothless firth
Cycling of her amusing birth
Sleeping with an innocent heart
Knowing nothing of her dearth
Being born in a penniless heritage
Lacking jollity of first rate privilege !
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 4:56 AM UTC
what happens when you're the sole
male in a supermarket,
filled by females,
cashiers, and the customers...
you walk in, you walk out,
which is not as bad as being intimidated
by nine prostitutes while
you wait your turn..
you walk in, and then you walk out...
with aud lang syne
booming from your ears...
(i kannie **** cry at tje track..
mountains man... just mountains...
i kannie not cry...
or forget that i danced the Kayleigh
without donning the kilt)
o heart o thistle...
o my dear earned hands,
to hand over the land
worth of till and toil...
my own and sole wish...
that Scotland take my heart
and gives unto it... bloom...
once upon the cobbled stones
of the Royal Mile...
then upon the dawn of day,
upon Arthur's Seat...
for what i am worth,
to have but this sight,
of seeing far an wide...
Edinburgh...
the only city whereby i refused
the ingenuity of the compass...
Firth of Forth...
however welcome
or unwelcome...
through to the backstreets of
Dundee...
and behind the history of Glen Cove...
i cry...
because Scotland is the only
"convenience" of home know to me...
a home, that is more...
it's an ideal...
an.... idea...
England can never be it...
England could never be "it"...
England was merely
the handing over of Hong Kong under
Blaire...
it was the Labor government...
the late 90s...
but Scotland was
so much more... and will forever
be more than just much more...
had the heart eyes,
it would see this thistle baron
as for what i see it as...
as i leave it, as i've left all prior
palaces of my habitation...
always the fonder memory,
than a fond-of experience
among the living...
may the dead serve the same exacting
justice upon me,
as i, among the living,
revive them... back t life,
and the knife of mortality's
burdens...
and us do our part,
to part,
with a hope of once more,
congregating, in either a heaven,
or a hell.
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 8:41 PM UTC
T’was planet X that passed one night
Giving the people awful fright
So bright and red
Knew we’d all be dead
And somehow that’d be alright
It flew with glowing red horns
Early one bright springtime morn
Symbolizing death
Like children on ****
Or married men looking at ****
Sending comets and asteroids to earth
One large one took out ole Perth
So many have died
And the ones left just cried
As if we had all been cursed by Firth
For years we felt the debris
Like in autumn the falling of leaves
But these always burn
And we never learn
To at least try to hide under the eaves
So humanity faded away
Over the course of 200 days
Life came to an end
From the original sin
If only we had known how to pray….
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 4:24 PM UTC
"People throw rocks at things that shine."
Her window was anything but transparent
Residue and memories had embedded themselves
Into the glass and scars marked the paneling
Chipped pieces of tape from 12 years before
Grasped onto its surface because it no longer
Had a picture of a childhood best friend
To frame next to the sunshine and clouds
There was still an impression of her nine-year-old
Hand print from when she watched her mother
And father screaming in the yard and later
Silently begged her mother not to leave as
Car tires squealed on the road parallel to the window
Heat still radiated from when that boy took her
Up against the curtains and glass as
Another boy watched from the yard with
A camera and no one told her 13 was too young
Streaks cascaded down in a mixture
Of blues and grays that came from rainy
Afternoons spent weeping over the loss of
Her never failing God who had left her stranded
Far too many times, especially when it came
To the boy who left her when she lost a baby
At the age of 14 without telling her
Until she had already left the clinic
The locks and springs were broken by the time
She was 16 from almost leaving her drunken
Father practically in a comatose state
On the couch they had found on the side of a road
By the time she was 17, the once
Reflective glass was obscured by the firth
From her life lived in a multitude of change
But every night,
Pebbles hit her bedroom window.
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 2:41 PM UTC
Yay,
I seeketh one's firth to calm these nerves
Yay,
I need one's curse I shalt not escape!!
Yay,
I long for her affection's when the rain pour's down
Yay,
For her to sweep me from mine feet, to throw me to the ground!
Yay,
I seeketh a lost queen of myrrh
Yay
As a dog I'll moan, as a cat she'll purr!!
Yay,
To overcome me with bedtime stories
Yay,
No voids nor gaps, beauty and the beast in glory!!!
Yay,
For her to allure me in deadened aeon's
Yay,
Illuminated by animate neon!!!!
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 9:20 AM UTC
A wandering glare catches on those who pass
And judges them based on class
Scrupulously picking every soul apart
Based on the apparel within their shopping cart.
..................................................................................
He speaks of intrinsic worth
And models himself on Colin Firth
Despises the idea of beauty as a single minded ordeal
And clothing worn with the inability to conceal
And yet, every woman he dates is a stick
Well versed in ******* ****
With a mind as blank as an empty page.
And clothing better suited for a stripper's stage.
..................................................................................
She speaks of a lack of care for material things,
And spits in the face of wallet fuelled flings,
Says she cares only for the mind
And those who appear overly kind.
Yet, every man she dates is a ****
Worried only about gorging her on his *****
They all buy her every form of earthly delight.
And each raise their hand to her, as is a property owner's right.
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 7:49 PM UTC
To She
who whet
the corven wing,
her skin pulled back
an open firth unraveling
her scarlet mood
the first
among the thirsting.
To Her
that swallowed whole,
the rye, the blade
that clipped the startled shoulder,
carpal deep in gleaming brine,
who shivered time a potent pleasure,
Garlanding
the golden hurt,
that life was
never hers..
Beholden to
a tethered ransom
rivered in her stars...
May 26, 2021
May 26, 2021 at 12:54 PM UTC