"gable" poems
Never try to trick me with a kiss
Pretending that the birds are here to stay;
The dying man will scoff and scorn at this.
A stone can masquerade where no heart is
And virgins rise where lustful Venus lay:
Never try to trick me with a kiss.
Our noble doctor claims the pain is his,
While stricken patients let him have his say;
The dying man will scoff and scorn at this.
Each virile bachelor dreads paralysis,
The old maid in the gable cries all day:
Never try to trick me with a kiss.
The suave eternal serpents promise bliss
To mortal children longing to be gay;
The dying man will scoff and scorn at this.
Sooner or later something goes amiss;
The singing birds pack up and fly away;
So never try to trick me with a kiss:
The dying man will scoff and scorn at this.
23.4k
well, first Mae West died
and then George Raft,
and Eddie G. Robinson's
been gone
a long time,
and Bogart and Gable
and Grable,
and Laurel and
Hardy
and the Marx Brothers,
all those Saturday
afternoons
at the movies
as a boy
are gone now
and I look
around this room
and it looks back at me
and then out through
the window.
time hangs helpless
from the doorknob
as a gold
paperweight
of an owl
looks up at me
(an old man now)
who must sit and endure
these many empty
Saturday
afternoons.
6.7k
Mariana in the Moated Grange
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
With blackest moss the flower-plots
Were thickly crusted, one and all:
The rusted nails fell from the knots
That held the pear to the gable-wall.
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange:
Unlifted was the clinking latch;
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
Upon the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
Her tears fell with the dews at even;
Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;
She could not look on the sweet heaven,
Either at morn or eventide.
After the flitting of the bats,
When thickest dark did trance the sky,
She drew her casement-curtain by,
And glanced athwart the glooming flats.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
Upon the middle of the night,
Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:
The **** sung out an hour ere light:
From the dark fen the oxen's low
Came to her: without hope of change,
In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn
About the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "The day is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
About a stone-cast from the wall
A sluice with blacken'd waters slept,
And o'er it many, round and small,
The cluster'd marish-mosses crept.
Hard by a poplar shook alway,
All silver-green with gnarled bark:
For leagues no other tree did mark
The level waste, the rounding gray.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said "I am aweary, aweary
I would that I were dead!"
And ever when the moon was low,
And the shrill winds were up and away,
In the white curtain, to and fro,
She saw the gusty shadow sway.
But when the moon was very low
And wild winds bound within their cell,
The shadow of the poplar fell
Upon her bed, across her brow.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
All day within the dreamy house,
The doors upon their hinges creak'd;
The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse
Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd,
Or from the crevice peer'd about.
Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors
Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
Old voices called her from without.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,
The slow clock ticking, and the sound
Which to the wooing wind aloof
The poplar made, did all confound
Her sense; but most she loathed the hour
When the thick-moted sunbeam lay
Athwart the chambers, and the day
Was sloping toward his western bower.
Then said she, "I am very dreary,
He will not come," she said;
She wept, "I am aweary, aweary,
Oh God, that I were dead!"
3k
In the night of twinkling stars,
I spied over a gorgeous man.
I wish if he would be interested in me,
So I spied over him through the binoculars.
He lives across the window, and I am not so far,
Still I watch him through the binoculars like watching a migrant star
I don’t want to keep him out of my sight.
No matter what I am doing is crime and is not right.
I sit and hide in the window curtain by the gable wall
Linger around for the night to fall
Just to watch him walking naked through the hall
That's the secret, and I am not going to tell you at all
I chuckle myself on what I see
And wonder if he is just like me
He jumps on to the bed naked
And that is what the interesting happening
So I keep watching him through the binoculars
And wish if he would be interested in me.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 6:03 AM UTC
Tea time
And I sit alone
At the table
Hearing cicadas drone
Seeing roses climb the gable
Steam coming from my small mug burns
And without you here, I am now able
To focus on much bigger concerns
Like what color to paint the picket fence
Or where to place this quaint birdhouse
Or what to name the new little field mouse
That scurries outside where the magnolias bloom
right next to the headstone where the leaves are strewn
Mar 17, 2012
Mar 17, 2012 at 10:07 PM UTC
A bumpy track led to the old cottage. The place hadn't been lived in for quite a while but was intact, a perfect timber-framed Tudor cottage. Even the old thatch didn't leak. Just two rooms downstairs with a small lean-to on the back, the kitchen still had a Dutch oven and an old copper for hot water. A kite-winder staircase followed the central chimney up to two bedrooms.
The place was coming up for auction. Desperately I wanted it. At the auction it made four times what I could afford. The buyer did not move in however. There was a story about him being in prison. At this time the farmers used to dispose of waste straw after combining by burning it in the fields, a practice now banned. That's how the thatch caught alight. There was no attempt to fight the fire because no-one even noticed it. Gales later blew in the gable ends, then the chimney crumbled, brambles grew over it until there was hardly a visible trace of the place left.
I wish I could have saved it. It would have been beautiful. Instead I bought a little terrace, then a detached needing renovation, then the one we have today. I got what I wanted eventually, but I still think about that old place sometimes, and how I wanted it.
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 7:24 AM UTC
Down behind the communal garages,
Our knees were scabbed and scarred,
Badges of honour, to ten-year old savages,
Earnt in chasis' of burnt out cars.
There, on the side of a wall,
Nineteen-Sixteen, had been daubed in emulsion,
Just another target for our ball,
To find its meaning ? we had no compulsion.
It was a circular Nine, like a giant comma,
And the Six was rotund, as well,
Against all the rules Sister Mary of the Immaculate Madonna
taught, in those hand-writing classes from hell.
It was similar to a giant 1690,
I'd seen in another part of town,
On the gable-end of a property emptied,
Before an our street versus your street showdown.
Then one day, the Old Fella' explained,
In 1916 we stood up for ourselves,
A pride in our nation regained,
As the G.P.O. was shook to its shelves.
"Son, we tired of crawling on our belly,
Being beaten, battered and conned,
Surely you've heard me talk of Connolly ?"
I said, Yeh he's me favourite James Bond.
But this was Liverpool, Nineteen Seventy-Two,
And me Da' had been over here years,
What he was on about, I never had a clue,
Though it was the first time I ever saw him shed tears.
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 5:00 PM UTC
The first day I met him I was impressed,
An Imposing stature at six foot four, or more.
Movie Star looks he seemed unaware he possessed.
Big Tom Selleck mustache above his lip,
Full head of thick salt and pepper hair,
Remarkable Ears like Clark Gable.
But most memorable still was his open genuine smile,
That told all there was to know about this big fellow.
It was much more than a grin, beyond a smile,
It was a visible declaration of his love of life,
His unfaltering humanity,
His sheer enthusiasm for the game.
And play the game he did and does still.
If there was something to read he read it.
A thing to learn, he learned it.
New music to hear, he heard it.
A boat to sail, he sailed it.
He once built a wooden rowing sail boat,
All by hand in the middle,
Of his Bachelor Pad’s living room.
How he got the finished boat out,
Of that, I’m still unsure.
He knew some things about everything,
And even when he didn’t, he said everything
With such conviction that you still believed him.
He was an exceptional and gifted Salesman.
A salesman that could have been a Brain Surgeon.
He traveled, always the seeker,
Devoured all the sustenance life had to offer,
Like a starving man just come out of a desert.
Ladies responded to his charms,
He could have his pick and yet all that,
Never went to his head.
In his game plan, he had something more
Meaningful in mind,
And he found it in a girl named Ann.
The rest is story book stuff, marriage and family
A life of fulfillment few of us actually find and keep.
Two children grown into exceptional adults,
One, an intelligent tall smiling man like his father,
The other, a bright lovely woman like her mother.
Quite a Legacy for my old friend to leave.
If there was love to give, he gave it,
Lessons to teach, he taught them.
His incredible life's journey is now ended
No one ever fought a more valiant battle.
With so much grace, dignity and fortitude.
Sail on my brother, my old friend.
You've skippered your ship magnificently.
As well as any man could sail his.
And for us he leaves behind,
forever shall we miss him.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 1:34 PM UTC
"Mariana in the Moated Grange"
(Shakespeare, Measure for Measure)
With blackest moss the flower-plots
Were thickly crusted, one and all:
The rusted nails fell from the knots
That held the pear to the gable-wall.
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange:
Unlifted was the clinking latch;
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
Upon the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
Her tears fell with the dews at even;
Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;
She could not look on the sweet heaven,
Either at morn or eventide.
After the flitting of the bats,
When thickest dark did trance the sky,
She drew her casement-curtain by,
And glanced athwart the glooming flats.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
Upon the middle of the night,
Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:
The **** sung out an hour ere light:
From the dark fen the oxen's low
In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn
About the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "The day is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
About a stone-cast from the wall
A sluice with blacken'd waters slept,
And o'er it many, round and small,
The cluster'd marish-mosses crept.
Hard by a poplar shook alway,
All silver-green with gnarled bark:
For leagues no other tree did mark
The level waste, the rounding gray.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said "I am aweary, aweary
I would that I were dead!"
And ever when the moon was low,
And the shrill winds were up and away,
In the white curtain, to and fro,
She saw the gusty shadow sway.
But when the moon was very low
And wild winds bound within their cell,
The shadow of the poplar fell
Upon her bed, across her brow.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
All day within the dreamy house,
The doors upon their hinges creak'd;
The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse
Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd,
Or from the crevice peer'd about.
Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors
Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
Old voices called her from without.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,
The slow clock ticking, and the sound
Which to the wooing wind aloof
The poplar made, did all confound
Her sense; but most she loathed the hour
When the thick-moted sunbeam lay
Athwart the chambers, and the day
Was sloping toward his western bower.
Then said she, "I am very dreary,
She wept, "I am aweary, aweary,
Oh God, that I were dead!"
1.8k
There once was a woman who lived in a barn. Her walls were painted picture blue. When she crawled upon the floor, she thought my goodness I've never done this before. She ran out to the farm to see what was the matter and yelled what am I going to do with all this cattle. No one to help her. She felt all alone. she thought to herself, I better adjust my tone and she began to whistle and hum a note or two. Them off in the distant land, she saw the shadow of tan. The shadow yelled have no fear I am your Italian man! She ran back in the barn and tied the hinges tight and scurried around in fright. She spoke to the picture on the wall. She said Grandma, I did ask for this at all. She began to cook and make the worst lasanga bake. Even the ricotta cheese was fake. She said surely this will send him away. When her pan of fraud was piping hot, she invited him to smell the *** He grinned a big grim that even his mustache looked as though it would win. mmm mmm mmm he exclaimed as he touched the tin. She rolled her eyes and thought this man hadn't known what I bought. She politely said sit down and enjoy, for a good meal is needed for a big boy. She stepped in the kitchen and snickered as he took a bite and thought if this doesn't **** him I might. She heard a scream and ran back to the table. The man was gasping as he read the ricotta label. She said what is it? what is it? Is there something wrong with my gable? He laughed so hard he could hardly breathe. He said this is the ricotta my mother ate when I was conceived!
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 12:12 PM UTC
I found this ruin only by chance,
Its hypnotic Ivy, leaves me in a trance,
Hiding the features with its natural lace,
Supporting the wall, as they embrace,
The child inside me, can't help but explore,
Ascending the steps, to the withered old door,
Opening it slowly, interrupting the calm,
Disturbing the peace, like a morning alarm,
Birds fleeting, like the thoughts in my mind,
In awe of it's beauty, I left my troubles behind.
The sun breaking through, the absent gable,
Highlighting a chair, missing its table.
I come to rest in that old wooden chair,
I look up, in the suns aura I stare,
The heavens open as my spirit glides,
Out from my body as I breathe through the sky.
I am drawn to the roadside of an old country lane,
A car hugging a tree, smoke following flame,
A camera recording, from a lifeless grip,
Capturing the tragedy of a summers road trip,
Besides a body, is his newly wed bride,
Her breathing shallow, she looks in his eyes,
Calling his name, for the very last time,
Her spirit leaves, as she is drawn to mine,
Our spirits embrace as we ascend for sky,
As the heavens await the groom....
..and his beautiful bride.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 5:19 PM UTC
His hands were callused and cracked
They were rough on my cheek
I had never been pulled in the way Clark Gable pulls them in
Like in all of those movies I had seen when I was a kid
The way I had always practiced
Back then my ringtone was the sound of bells chiming
More specifically the bells of Notre Dame
As his stubble grazed mine they rang out
He let go of my face, his untrimmed nails scratched my chin
I would weep for hours that night
Stare into the dark corners of my room
Trying to identify all of the shadows I used to think were scary
I knew now what scary really was
Scary was his hand on my rib cage
Scary was liking it
He never did call
I changed my ringtone to the whistle from Robin Hood
I was set up on a date by my best friend
She was kind
Her hands were soft and smelled like Love Spell by Victoria’s Secret
She had no stubble to graze mine
She pressed her lips on the scratch he left on my chin with his untrimmed fingernails
And I flinched
This too was scary
This too I liked
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 1:21 AM UTC
Me and dad used to watch bats;
lie on the grass in the gap
between the house and hedge.
Shards of glass
against the barely black
half-light of July.
Flying in drops and dives
twisted kites
tossed on stormy skies.
Sat on the deck
we’d hear, under the gable
the static click
of sonar, like ships;
taut sails,
riddled with mites and ticks.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 6:10 PM UTC
Me and Dad used to watch bats
lying on the grass in the gap
between the house and hedge.
Shards of glass
against the barely black
half light of July night.
Flying in drops and dives
like twisted kites
tossed in stormy skies.
Or sat on the deck
we’d hear, under the gable
the static click
of sonar, like ships;
taut sails, riddled
with mites and ticks.
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 7:52 PM UTC
With blackest moss the flower-plots
Were thickly crusted, one and all:
The rusted nails fell from the knots
That held the pear to the gable-wall.
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange:
Unlifted was the clinking latch;
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
Upon the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
Her tears fell with the dews at even;
Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;
She could not look on the sweet heaven,
Either at morn or eventide.
After the flitting of the bats,
When thickest dark did trance the sky,
She drew her casement-curtain by,
And glanced athwart the glooming flats.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
Upon the middle of the night,
Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:
The **** sung out an hour ere light:
From the dark fen the oxen's low
Came to her: without hope of change,
In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn
About the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "The day is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
About a stone-cast from the wall
A sluice with blacken'd waters slept,
And o'er it many, round and small,
The cluster'd marish-mosses crept.
Hard by a poplar shook alway,
All silver-green with gnarled bark:
For leagues no other tree did mark
The level waste, the rounding gray.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said "I am aweary, aweary
I would that I were dead!"
And ever when the moon was low,
And the shrill winds were up and away,
In the white curtain, to and fro,
She saw the gusty shadow sway.
But when the moon was very low
And wild winds bound within their cell,
The shadow of the poplar fell
Upon her bed, across her brow.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
All day within the dreamy house,
The doors upon their hinges creak'd;
The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse
Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd,
Or from the crevice peer'd about.
Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors
Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
Old voices called her from without.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,
The slow clock ticking, and the sound
Which to the wooing wind aloof
The poplar made, did all confound
Her sense; but most she loathed the hour
When the thick-moted sunbeam lay
Athwart the chambers, and the day
Was sloping toward his western bower.
Then said she, "I am very dreary,
He will not come," she said;
She wept, "I am aweary, aweary,
Oh God, that I were dead!"
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 2:11 PM UTC
No medals for those who die on Site,
Just silence, till the Ambulance has gone,
Then, disconnecting like a crumpled kite,
The twisted scaffold, he had fallen from.
No more teasing his taste in Sandwiches,
Or Football team, that lost, again,
Just back to gable-ends steep pitches
As bosses begin, to shift the blame.
After the Funeral, we drank to him,
He, who was one of us,
Those who risk life and limb,
Gathered tightly, into a nucleus.
Hushed, we lifted Whiskey and Ales,
To a life, that rang with hammers and nails.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 7:16 PM UTC
Miss Billings leaned
against the doorframe
looking at Mr Fredericks
pushing a broom
on the forecourt
of the petrol station
look at the old ****
pushing broom
she said
it’s his way of getting you
to do the job kid
you looked out
the glass front
as Mr Fredericks limped
pushing broom
I didn’t see him
go out there
you said
he probably sneaked out
she said
does it all the time
it makes him feel good
to see you go
creeping out there
she pushed her glasses
up the bridge of her nose
and put her hands
on her hips and did
that Monroe thing
she did quite often
you went out
to the forecourt
and said to Mr Fredericks
I can do that
I can push the broom
he handed you the broom
and limped inside
without a word
you swept along
the edge of the forecourt
Miss Billings moved
outside a bit
and said
told you kid
that’s the way he is
bet he don’t do that
when he beds his wife
or maybe he does
who knows
and she walked off
her backside like
a poor man’s Monroe
swaying side to side
and you watched her go
standing holding
the broom
the red cardigan
the white overalls
the black stockings
and then she had gone
into the back office
through the swing door
time to get on
with sweeping
you thought
but her swaying backside
lingered in your mind
her poor man’s Monroe
right down
to her blonde hair
and the way she stood
you’d be her
Clark Gable
(in miniature)
if you could.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 3:45 PM UTC
Bougainvilleas line the house, dedicated, stoic sentinels
Ivy has replaced mortar as the only thing keeping the walls from crumbling
The windows have no glass,
But the rain is kept at bay by the gossamer webs of kind spiders.
Inside there is no furniture – only paper tomes
She sits on a pile of high school textbooks
Her table, stacks of hard cover crime novels
Her bed, a nest of magazines
There is no fridge or pantry – she doesn’t eat
But she is not starving
She devours books, has become fat on them
A varied diet: science and science fiction,
Fantasy, history, politics, philosophy
And to nourish her soul – poetry.
She doesn’t remember her name
But it doesn’t matter
She is Beowulf, Boudicca, Odysseus
Dorian Grey, the Lady of Shallot,
She is both Hero and Leander
She never leaves,
But she knows that the world is turning
The sparrows in the gable tell her so
And she doesn’t need it, no
She smiles, cries, and falls in love over and over
With the turn of each page
Her fingers have transformed into ink stains
She has lived a thousand and one lives
She holds them all inside her
She makes them live, and they keep her alive -
This is a dream that I once had.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 9:44 PM UTC
My sweet baby cubs how I love my four cuddly baby cubs.
They are full of fun and love just for me.
Oh how loving are those cubs of mine.
How could a mommy bear be so blessed to have such hug-gable, love-able cubs as these?
For I would never trade them for anything in or around this world.
For the love I have for my cubs is a never changing love.
I will always be there mommy bear forever, and ever.
Thank you Yahweh.
By: Amy Stephenson
2/20/15
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 12:32 AM UTC
For Shelby
I
O cover the gable in thistle
Let this place become unknown to all
To us only may this place be holy;
Let the moss wrap it up like a shawl.
Let the darkness prevent eyes from seeing
And hearts from remembering when
And the sun hide her grand face, agreeing
That no-one shall find it again.
Let the vines and the beetles crawl slowly
Devouring all semblance of worth;
O cover the gable in thistle
And draw it all back to the earth.
II
Once this was a temple unfettered.
My heart and hers wandered free,
Free from Time’s shadow and terror;
Nothing would tear her from me.
My spirit was hers for the sculpting,
She crafted my soul by her hand;
Prancing and gasping and gulping
We devoured the joy of this land.
Never a footstep in error
And every omen a boon--
Once this was a temple unfettered;
A monument now to my ruin.
III
This is the place where I carried her
And swore to protect her from harm;
Here her warm breath was my staple,
Here her bright eye was my charm.
Though the fortunes of fate might assail her
I am her aegis and shield
Unswerving, my love cannot fail her
‘Til the last of my strength shall I yield
See, on the hill, the black maple
And the wink of the rope’s one good eye
This is the place where I buried her
And yonder the hill where I die.
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 12:37 PM UTC
Found on Hollywood Boulevard,
these shining stars of the silver screen,
bigger and better than us normal types.
Flint Magnum, Clint Hudson, and
of course we'd be remiss to miss,
the star, Luke "The Gent" Gable.
A modern day Rat Pack were they,
in films, on shows, even on the radio,
they were all over the place, often together.
Flint Magnum was the leading man
of Deadly Picture, the horror classic,
and countless other scream-scenes.
Clint Hudson played the simple man
the every-man in every rom-com
your mind could ever fathom.
But The Gent was the biggest of them,
leading roles in dramas and thrillers,
and comedies, and even chillers.
Oscars and Tony's and even a few Annie's,
won this shining star. Critics adored him,
and the masses wanted to be him.
It can be said with a grain of truth,
that the pack was best when together.
Whenever they met, magic was made.
Their life's epic finally culminated,
in a 4-hour glory, of action and drama,
it won every award, with praise galore.
Fiery Flint and Careful Clint wrote the yarn,
and played their role fitting, while the Gent
directed and led this star-studded affair.
Citizen Kane could hardly compare,
to the grandeur and scope of this tome,
with it, their reputations forever sealed.
Clint, Flint, and the Gent who favored
a fine hat are the finest fellows of our
and maybe any era of film or culture.
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 6:54 PM UTC
I have blue eyes and racerback vest
a swallow and black heart tattooed on my chest
a girl in black jeans, and a pierced tongue,
reminds me of a time when i was young
listening to music i know i can never play
because i wasn't built that way
i like takin pictures of my friends and their moves
i like to dance to music in any groove
i wanted it all, now its all right here
and i can expect the unknown without any fear
i am nothing without her there
and my eyes i can feel begin to tear
she is my edge, the one i jump upon
(she is my feelin, the whisper in my ****** song)
and i thought better, i thought i had a clue
no, **** off, i knew better than you
i told her straight, she is my all
she txt me back, when will you call?
and i thought, jeez, i am founded, i am gently aground
i am not shipwrecked i am now a new sound
and i write these words because i wanted you all to know
that you have watched me burn, reap and sow
and now i have no words that mean more than i love her
thoughts are colours, my speech a blur
and thinking is not the same
i laugh a lot, i have no shame
we danced on the bed and made love on the table
she is my foundation, my east wing gable
flowers fall where before grew a ****
she talked to me and planted a seed
and i was not scared i am now more stronger than ever
i can face my demons whatever the weather
prouder than **** i am of being with this girl
and she is my life, she is my world
i have a skull tattooed on my back and my hip
and secret swirl which a trace with my finger tip
i am found i am now found, i tell thee
i thought i was before but i was still marooned in the sea
so is it real, this?
no its a mother ******* starblazer of a good triple forever sequel
she is mine forever, transformers in disguise
fix up, look smart
come see me baby and tell me a story
like you did the night you held me till i fell asleep
i love you, i, love, you......
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 6:19 PM UTC
I am the night clerk
I work the graveyard shift
I've checked in many people
Never saw anyone check out
When they walk in
the night bell rings
I think
What's all of that crazy thunder about
I've checked in
the wild and weary
the tormented and scary
The pious
the martyrs
the dancers
the fishermen
Even
Bob & Ted
Carol & Alice
Clark Gable
he stayed here too
Everyone looks me in the eye
pleading for a room,
I have many
the night is late
only the dead are awake
Some nights, though, it can be quiet
I put my feet up on the desk
watch another season of the soap opera
The Young and The Restless
There are no regulars
No one returns
Not even
the dopers
the smokers
the flatulent
the token takers
When everyone is checked in
That crazy thunder it stops
But the night is long
There's sure to be another storm.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 10:39 PM UTC
It's no fable.
During the forties, who didn't admire Clark Gable?
With the common sense of Rhett Butler.
For instant.
Who didn't want to be Cary Grant?
In Affair to Remember.
Admiring and loving a woman forever.
Who doesn't know a shy man like Gary Cooper?
Who came across as a true trooper?
Who stood his ground in High Noon?
And what man didn't burn for Elizabeth Taylor?
With the beauty to make them roar like the MGM lion.
Or is it only me.
Maybe, I'm just living a Hollywood's dream.
Thinking of things I wanted to be.
Lights, Action, Camera.
Is all I use to remember.
When I was pretending be Tyrone Power.
Maybe I was Sean Connery.
Doing all the secret agents type things.
Maybe I'm the Lone Ranger or the Cisco Kid.
Out to do justice for those in need.
These are the things that fantasies do.
When you realize pretending is better than a toy.
Which has been replaced by computers.
Nov 16, 2012
Nov 16, 2012 at 8:05 PM UTC