"forelock" poems
Fresh Spring, the herald of loves mighty king,
In whose cote-armour richly are displayd
All sorts of flowers, the which on earth do spring,
In goodly colours gloriously arrayd—
Goe to my love, where she is carelesse layd,
Yet in her winters bowre not well awake;
Tell her the joyous time wil not be staid,
Unlesse she doe him by the forelock take;
Bid her therefore her selfe soone ready make,
To wayt on Love amongst his lovely crew;
Where every one, that misseth then her make,
Shall be by him amearst with penance dew.
Make hast, therefore, sweet love, whilest it is prime;
For none can call againe the passèd time.
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THE HORSE'S name was Remorse.
There were people said, "Gee, what a nag!"
And they were Edgar Allan Poe bugs and so
They called him Remorse.
When he was a gelding
He flashed his heels to other ponies
And threw dust in the noses of other ponies
And won his first race and his second
And another and another and hardly ever
Came under the wire behind the other runners.
And so, Remorse, who is gone, was the hero of a play
By Henry Blossom, who is now gone.
What is there to a monicker? Call me anything.
A nut, a cheese, something that the cat brought in.
Nick me with any old name.
Class me up for a fish, a gorilla, a slant head, an egg, a ham.
Only ... slam me across the ears sometimes ... and hunt for a white star
In my forehead and twist the bang of my forelock around it.
Make a wish for me. Maybe I will light out like a streak of wind.
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I’ve got to tell you,
yes, you, Muse,
that you can be a real little **** sometimes,
just flirting with me
and merely swirling your skirts.
And I’m so ******* vulnerable!
You hear that? I’m weak!
I’ve been meekly saying yes, yes,
thankee missus, so pathetically obsequious,
while tugging my forelock, or something else,
before scribbling about these ridiculously tantalizing
little glimpses you’ve been flashing me,
just the merest ****** of insight,
when I so desperately need, you know,
the whole ******* vision, the complete picture.
Yes. The whole enchilada!
Now look here.
You’ve got to go a hell of a lot farther than just flirting with me!
I need some of your hot little chilli, see?
Something, you know, incendiary!
You hear me?
Maybe sink my teeth right into your euphorbia poissonii!
Yes!
Even if this ******* well kills me.
Mike T Minehan
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 9:06 AM UTC
On the seventh day we paid the rent
and what was meant for food
gave us one more week to brood on inequality and the inferiority of our position.
One condition we stipulate,is not to tempt the hand of fate or providence
and not paying rent would surely dent the image that we try to make
and though it breaks my heart to part with nine and six a week
and even if I know the landlord's got a bleedin' cheek to charge this much
I touch my forelock and say,
'good morning Sir'.
An air of doom and gloom descends it all depends on what next I say,
will I pay this ghastly fee to keep a roof over Marjorie (the wife) the kids and I
or will I look the landlord in the eye and let him know that he's a thieving crook and intimate that he should go and **** himself and take the rent book too
what do I do but lay the nine and six upon the table with the pale blue rent book and do not say, 'go **** anyone'
me and the missus and kids will stay on for another week while seeking out some other place where barefaced robbery is a crime.
In another time the landlord would be shot his houses all forfeit
but today that rotten toff has got it all, it's like a noose tied round my neck,a millstone that drags me by the ***** and puts me down
I ought to push that bad lot in the 'cut' and let the baftard drown,
and I said nothing, not a sound escaped my lips
the class system trips me up and weighs me in and while I drink a bottle of sour milk he drinks Geneva gin.
Poor people and peasants never win
the odds are bent in favour of more rent and that rotten sod will nod and shake his head
I'd wish him dead but that's another sin
and like I said,
poor people and peasants never win.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 5:41 PM UTC
I watched as she sat alone
Blonde haired girl surrounded by empty wooden seats.
beneath her were shots of martini—
Her thumb and index finger constantly went towards and away her red lips.
She was Amid *** hungry men—
If only she knew.
If only she knew she was in a haunted house, and it had found something to feast upon.
Too intoxicated to discern the eyes fixed on her like an owl
Or an eagle studying its next prey.
I could see the hunger in their eyes as they await her to gulp more of the Devils water
Until her eyelids can no longer stay open,
Just to fornicate with her helpless body.
Sturdy white men,
Sleeveless shirts to show off their serpent tattoo,
Forelock long enough that it tickled their spine—
Their gaze alone will make your heart race.
I'll be ****** to leave her alone in this bar.
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 9:39 PM UTC
It is as if I am alone in a sand desert
In my chair, of course,
(See the poor photo, the head inadvertent)
Bay watching the sunset perform,
Except for the gusting 25 mph wind,
Easy-pretend it is July Fourth.
The sun sparkles my customized
Fireworks.
This time I have the desert deserted,
The bay is empty, the few pleasure boats
Obeying my cease and desist request.
Just me, the water sun sparklers,
The wind, and of course, you,
Besides me, as I have countless imagined.
Our crooked dock
Finger points back at me,
Sagely saying, enough poetry for one day.
But the dock is always crooked jealous,
Unless I include him in my sunset poems
So now he is smiling, albeit crookedly.
Some of you have,
Spent a few minuets of your day
Writing/riding along with me on my
Fire engine hose of words dousing.
Water welled up at 3:56 when I
Asked for a miracle of my own,
After waking and reading your poems for hours.
Here I am scratchin out one last at bat,
After being
Mesmerized by your goodworks,
Wondering why, again, I try.
So now let us write a breakup stanza.
I'm breaking up with you,
Until earlier-than-dawn tomorrow,
Though I was but one of many of your
Lovers took and taken,
Now discarded, I won't take no
For answer.
My shirt shivers, my forelock whips,
The clouds have banked my sun,
The wind is stiff, brooking no weakness,
I am total alone, how to make you believe,
That letting go, is difficult, almost impossible.
Until when, when we kiss again,
The back of your neck is my map,
My tongue the bridge between us.
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 8:14 PM UTC
Alice sits in the large
window of her father's
library, looking at the
garden and trees and
fields beyond. Silent
except for distant voices,
from the billiard room,
where her father is
with friends of his.
Laughter, deep, haughty.
She hates it when the
men see her, and want
to haul her, onto their
laps to play horse riding
and over hedges in the
fox hunt. She pretends
not to hear. The garden
view brings Dougridge
to sight; the gardener
pushing wheelbarrow
of manure. Seldom speaks,
nod of head, touch of
forelock type. The men's
laughter gets louder; she
imagines herself tucked
up in her mother's arms,
safe, warm, and out of
harm's way. Mother is
out for the day. Taylor
drove her; he of sour
face, dark eyed and hair.
Alice holds her doll tight
to her chest, arranging
the mother made dress.
One day, one time, one
of her father's friends
held her on his lap and
tickled her to tears, his
thick fingers squeezing
her thighs, his alcohol
breath in her ears, soft
wording sounds, she
didn't understand, she
wanted to get down,
and did. They laughed.
She still felt his fingers'
grip long after the laughter.
She sees the maid from
the kitchen throw stale
bread to the birds, thin
girl, thin arms and fingers
and features. Brought her
breakfast in bed once,
when unwell; sad, quiet,
sickly girl. The laughter
stops. Doors open
and close. Voices, greetings
and farewells, an odd laugh.
Then silence. No going
riding on a hunt today,
no horse-play; no perched
on knees with thighs finger
squeezed. She hugs her
doll and kisses its head.
Your mother will be back,
but not until you're asleep,
and tucked in dreams and
bed, her grumpy father said.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 3:18 AM UTC
Silver, black, white, gold
Northern lights shining like old
Shadows dancing in the cold
Manes shaking uncontrolled
Hooves stomping in the snow
While their sterling eyes glow
Tails swishing in the wind
Heads waving at the bend
A forelock flying in the breeze
A wisp of a pearly waft
Drifting, about to freeze
A breath so soft
Horns swaying to the gust
Silvery, onyx, ivory, gilt
Passing on the trust
To never wilt
Their pale eyes open wide
Dance to the light
As if to glide
In the night
The starry night
Silver, black, white, gold
Northern lights
Full of secrets to be told
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 4:40 AM UTC
(20 minute poetry)
We're supposed to open the air vent,
cement ourselves to the oxygen supply?
and pray tell me why?
I want to float in the endless avenue of an infinite space
live in the vacuum with enough room to manoeuvre.
But we've been conditioned to breathe and think it's an automatic reflex,
an impulse they say.
Sour thoughts to start and my day starts this way,
they're ******* the life from me
and keeping me in poverty
in the underground sea we all drown together
tethered to a millstone
ground into bonemeal
fed to the slaughter
wholesale
and
when those rivers of Babylon run dry they'll **** on the sand,
landed gentry they may be
but no touching the forelock for me,
just leaving somewhere which is just about anywhere
and everything I am,
sticking to a plan which is as yet unclear
holding on for dear life even though life is cheap and
somewhere is just where I weep.
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 2:11 PM UTC
The way you clinch your grim forelock
Seems flowing by,like podre* of chalk
A minute i have,just sixty seconds
And if that flew,i would have no amends
Sometime they pass just looking for you
But i enjoy that,and yes that’s true
Sometimes i spend them on your smile
Which makes me happy,atleast for a while,
And then sometimes its just your voice
Which dumbstrucks me and leaves no choice,
To stop thy time,is what i think
Just 60 seconds,until i blink
When i see your face,all sorrow flows by
And i feel i can touch the sky
60 seconds is what i had,
To finish my story, which makes me mad
Because you are scenery,without a frame
To flow outbound and increase thy fame..
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 2:46 AM UTC
To pop-god Jacko:
Squealing, chirping, moonwalking,
Flinging that forelock...
Jun 7, 2021
Jun 7, 2021 at 6:33 PM UTC