"gloucester" poems
It was a glorious night for a moonlit flight
On Barry my Big Berkshire Boar
Huffing and puffing like flying was nothing
Over the treetops we’d soar
Well I never knew, that other pigs flew
As Darren came circling down
Sat proud on top his Gloucester Old Spot
Wow! What a wonderful sow
I’m sure I can claim that Darren was the same
As his jaw nearly dropped to the ground
For Darren and I, had pigs that could fly
And you don’t really see that around
“Hey your pig flies!” Darren wailed with surprise
“And we only just met for a drink”
“I didn't know you, had a flying pig too
Just what would the other guys think!?”
So we soon made a pact, with our secret intact
Everything worked out just fine
Now we’re both out at night, when the weather is right
Racing our rare flying swine!
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 6:27 AM UTC
Barefooted teenager
Sliding D&G; watches
Into a bag filled with
Addidas shoes.
It's bonfire night in the cities
Of England. Come out, children,
To the heart of the city and
Bleed it dry.
Betray your hunger,
The greed that consumes you
And the indifference bred into
Your marrow.
Bred by despair and shiny
Baubles in window displays
And worn by all those
Stars in those glossy mags.
It's a consumer's world; it's about
Instant gratification, not hard work -
Even if work could be found.
But why work if you can steal?
Bonfire night. Like when we burn that
Guy. Fawkes? He tried to destroy Parliament
But teenage angst and thugs could do in a few nights
What his barrels of gunpowder couldn't.
Alcohol and **** to last a
Short lifetime. Shopkeepers in the way
Should know better; You can't fight
Irrationality. It has no conscience.
****** loot, burn like in those
Movies about war, Grand Theft Auto,
And a million other games. Just keep
Moving so you never have to actually think.
But just in case, let's blame someone else:
Let's blame race, the Met, politicians,
The schools, the economy, parents -
Society.
Burn, London. Burn, Birmingham,
Burn, Manchester, Burn Liverpool.
Burn, Gloucester. Burn, burn, burn,
But let tomorrow be just another day.
Bonfire night. Every night.
Till they put out the fires,
Tend the wounded and
Bury the dead.
Aug 19, 2011
Aug 19, 2011 at 5:55 PM UTC
I'll go along with the thought, 'work makes you strong' just as long as I can
but,
sometimes, I feel pooped and can't jump through the hoops and that's when the dreaming kicks in for this man.
I spin in the frame of life's arcade type game and I'm lost in the wheels,
it feels
like,
riding a bike and not watching the street but meeting the idols I'd most like to meet,
like,
Gulliver,Gilbert and Sullivan,Jimmy Durante,Popeye the sailor and the Tailor of Gloucester,
lost in the throng and unaware of time carrying on,I get older,no wiser,no miser am I,
I give my dreams freely to those I love dearly.
This arcade game plays on though the moment is lost, and reality arrives if only to remind me, that life goes along and in it you'll find me,playing the machines,winning more dreams,sailing through the streams of unconsciousness.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 5:00 AM UTC
to pluck out his eyes and
stain the earth with vitreous humor.
to separate the lonely wind from its
counterpart in my soul and its
thickness choking my lungs—
to escape the death grip of
the twisting jaws and
****** talons of the
sharks that rip us raw
hawks that
streak from the sky
harpies
harbingers of
to eat the flesh that
drips like candlewax from our
febrile skin
to hold morality in one hand and
maps in the other
to learn the general principles of cartography
one must commit genocide.
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 11:27 PM UTC
i know a secret,
as small as a lump of cancer and pale
as oessin cartilage, insignificant
as the number thirty one
until the end of december.
i know a secret,
locked beneath the tongue of the demon
inside the piano,
-
spitting out keys, oxidised,
corroded, foul, cut for bone marrows
and cheap hotels and umbrage and
odium and pathological experimentations.
i know a secret,
decolourised in the shade of red and
no matter how raw you scratch me,
it will never bleed out, not even
for you.
--
they are coming, the surgeons, you say.
they are here to anatomise, to dissect, to ****
to clean, to find, to **** to dichotomise, to
divide, to sever, to **** to **** to stitch,
to seperate, to hide, to fix, to ****
to make me sick.
---
i may as well be sick.
----
i think i may as well gut out your stomach
and tie your pretty ileum into a pretty
ribbon, to a pretty street lamp,
and make you walk in a straight line
until you die, to show me
how much you love her.
silly boy, getting to her heart
was an easy as a six point
four centimeter incision.
-----
i was the faire semblant and
you were the toothless protagonist
of some drunk playwright's
filthy dream, they gave you
gloucester eyes.
euthanise me, i want
your ugly face
------
to be the last ugly face i see.
Nov 8, 2010
Nov 8, 2010 at 5:56 AM UTC
Yawning in the theatre
Sleepy Helen dozed,
Unimpressed by the performance
Her eyes tightly closed.
Richard of Gloucester,
Eyes all red and sore,
Has to be prompted his lines
As Helen begins to snore.
The man next to Helen nudges her
His face all puffed up and red,
Helen oblivious to his nudging,
Thinks she’s tucked up in bed
Torch in hand the usherette comes
And shines it in Helen’s face
But she is deep in her slumbers
And the manager mutters disgrace.
The attention of the audience shifts
From the stage to the fourth row down
And even the actors fall silent
As Helen begins to frown
She rises from her seat like a Queen
And makes for the steps to the stage
And as she sets foot on the boards
Gloucester flies off in a rage.
She turns to face the audience,
Their interest in the stage renewed
And still deep in her slumbers
Mutters, ‘We are not amused!’
The S M rants and raves
Well for him that’s nothing new
And Gloucester comes back swearing,
The air now turning quite blue.
But Helen is no longer with them
She’s lost all interest you see,
In her dreams she’s back at the palace
With Prince Albert and afternoon tea
Mar 31, 2010
Mar 31, 2010 at 2:22 AM UTC
That girl doesn't know yet,
But she is going to fall
Madly in love with me.
I'm as sure of that as:
Mary breaking all the school rules;
The fox enjoying the gingerbread man;
The sky not falling on Chicken Little;
The safety of the three little pigs;
The birds eating Gretel's crumbs;
Midnight striking and the slipper dropping;
Cows jumbing moons, cats playing fiddles;
Doctor Foster making it to Gloucester;
Georgie making girls cry;
The little teapot getting steamed up;
The old man snoring;
Mary is contrary;
Old McDonald can spell;
Mother Hubbard's dog going boneless;
Polly making tea;
The wheels on the bus going round... and round;
The kittens finding their mittens, and hence, getting their pie.
Yes, that girl will fall in love with me;
I will read all the rhymes and stories
To her I read to her mother,
And she was once a little girl,
And she loves me.
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 9:17 AM UTC
I once stood in the middle of a motorway at 3am
just for fun,
I told myself, just for fun -
But I don't think it was, now I'm okay
I still sway, dream of far away but I get my exams done,
so I don't let my mother down again
so I don't hide inside from remaining friends.
I keep myself planted, smile slanted, half frown -
and I don't make a sound until I mean to,
until I breeze through,
until I need to,
this is the studied truth of the newly grounded.
I'm not into rushing things these days,
I mean I still do but less so in less ways
and my mind's all curly wurly and I have resting ***** face
and skin like a coffin -
I still can't get up early, still feel displaced
a little too often -
but this is my city now and I don't want to leave or get out,
because this time I am okay
and I'm dealing
and my anxiety still leaves me reeling
but I'm not panicking as much or screaming
and my pillows are the only ones who don't believe me.
Still,
everything is temporary, in constant flux
fresh cut grass and students in class
sunsets and sunrises
church bells and waist sizes
metal and petrol and monster trucks,
and it's all beautiful,
that's the most important thing you'll ever find out -
it's better to shine bright without background doubt
than to disappear into the darkness,
the dark mess,
I mean, I still want to run and shout but now
it's more writing my thoughts down and actually seeing the day
and not 3am standing in a motorway
telling myself, just for fun.
This is not the barrel of a gun, hard and cold
it's not the answer it's not made of gold
it's not a solution, it's the end of it all
and I don't know if we rot or acsend,
but it wasn't just for fun,
it was leaving the motor running,
it was something I was running away from -
Life,
it isn't easy, it's not like saying 'it's okay'
when it's not yourself you're telling
and when it's you, it can't be told or shown
you have to push hardest when you're alone
because finally, once clear of fear's icy gripping hands
I came to understand
that life is beautiful, even when it's sad,
it's the best thing I never knew I had,
so I started living,
just for fun.
I'm not done, you see?
I'm not done.
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 11:52 AM UTC
If we are mark’d to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires:
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England:
God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more, methinks, would share from me
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made
And crowns for convoy put into his purse:
We would not die in that man’s company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is call’d the feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors,
And say ‘Tomorrow is Saint Crispian:’
Then he will strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’
Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
But he’ll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day: then shall our names
Familiar in his mouth as household words:
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d,
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now abed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.
May 30, 2022
May 30, 2022 at 9:36 AM UTC
Hello everyone,
I'm so very sorry … I feel horrible doing this, but I have no choice. You see, I have published my first book on Amazon/Kindle! This piece (and many others) had to be taken down because they do not allow published material to be available online for free. (Go figure) I wanted to leave the shell of the posts because I felt compelled to leave all your helpful and loving comments. (Silly sentimental, I know), but I also didn't want to just have the pieces disappear without an explanation. I feel bad enough as it is!
I owe ALL of you so, SO much for all of your reads, love, and support. It was YOU that gave me the gumption to FINALLY get off my **** and publish! Thank you all for the warm comments, camaraderie, and encouragement! I will still be here, reading, uploading and just being the Rascal that I am. How could I EVER leave you guys?
The book is called “The Way I See It – FictionPhilosophySoul Food” and it will be FREE for the first few days on Kindle Select, so watch for it, if you are interested. I hope that you go and grab it. If you do, I would also hope that you find it worthy, you would leave me a good review. That will help me get in the public eye! Soon afterwards (2-3 days or so), it will be available in paperback. I will be building my Author page tonight (12/21/2018) and my website finished first thing Monday!
Find the book(s) here: www.amazon.com/author/jeff.gaines
Or find the book(s), and all about me, here: www.JeffGaines.world
Soon after, I also hope to have my first novel (a supernatural thriller), called “Wanderer” available as well!
Wish me luck!
Big, Biggest Love,
Jeff Gaines
Jun 19, 2018
Jun 19, 2018 at 7:33 AM UTC
When I return,
I'm running.
Running home,
I'm running.
Home to where the tan sand lays,
beaten by the waves that just want
to stay.
Home to where we sail
till Lawson becomes a snail,
so small and so unnoticed,
like the little town covered in tourists.
Boston to my right,
and Gloucester in sight.
We tell stories around the flames,
put the passing train in shame.
Looking up at the floating embers
as they become stars to remember.
Lighting up the harbor, rock by rock,
keep the candle going with all your
luck.
The Luminaria will make you gasp,
the little town is hard to grasp.
So little with so much beauty,
my little town is an opportunity.
Art by hand
and art by land.
When I return,
I'm running.
Running home,
I'm running.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 2:50 AM UTC