"goode" poems
Dear Prudence, Julia, Michelle, Mr. Moonlight, Eleanor Rigby, Dizzy Miss Lizzy, Lady Madonna, Lovely Rita, Rocky Racoon, Lucille, **** Sadie, Clarabella, Her Majesty, Nowhere Man, Penny Lane, Carol, Long Tall Sally, Maggie Mae, Johnny B. Goode, Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds, Moonlight Boy, Martha My Dear,
You Like Me Too Much. It’s All Too Much. I’m So Tired. The Night Before Yesterday Memphis, Tennessee, I Saw Her Standing There. Polythene Pam.
Not A Second Time She Said She Said “Hey Bulldog. I Want To Hold Your Hand. Why Don’t We Do It In The Road. Here, There and Everywhere. Something.”
I Want To Tell You I Should Have Known Better. “Wait. Slow Down. I Just Don’t Understand. Tell Me Why.”
“Because I’m Down. I’m Happy Just To Dance With You. Hold Me Tight”
“I’ll Be On My Way”
“Please Please Me”
“Get Back. Help!”
And I Love Her
All My Loving,
Mean Mr. Mustard
P.S I Love You
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
*A Poeme from ye Penne of
ye right learned Professor Peter Buttocke
collected by hysse Pupille Edna*
There is an ancient Shittah in my Garden, eldritch and right dun in alle Aspect
Wherein dwelleth a loude and noisome Ouzel, ye like of which I have ne'er yet seen
Under thysse our goode Goddes fayre Welkin up in ye Skye above us alle.
This foule and unwholesome Beeste, with trespassynge shote-like ****** Effusiones
Hath performed ye veritable Antithesis of kindly horticultural Edulcoration
For whiche Sinne I shall emasculate ye Brute, so God may grant me Pow'r.
Sudating at ye Nostrilles I advance, my trustie Stang at ye ever-ready,
And I prepare to eject it from yon Pollard, having previous shattered
Alle its horryd Frangibles with one brave bolde frampold Blowe.
Thwacke! A last Piffero-reminiscent Warble escapeth loude from its fowle coronoid Appendage;
Right severe Damage and harsh fatal Ruine of Nature irreversible have I caused
To ye shaggie shamelesse little avian Runte, whereon Goddes smile hath ne'er dawned.
Thus descendeth it to the Faeces-bedecked Herdwick, and I titubate triumph'lly o'er its conticent Corpse.
And were there yet a duodenary Set of ye Frass-Depositors, I would not give a Demi-Testrel for their Survyvall
Should they e'er again infringe the sacred Privacie whych ye ancient Shittah enjoyeth in my Garden.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 6:37 AM UTC
.
L i k e
a Rolling Stone
SatisfactionWhat's
Going On R e s p
ect Good Vibra
tions Johnny B.
Goode H e y
J u d e S m e lls
Like Teen Spirit
My G eneration
A Change is G o
nna Come Y e s
terday Blow'n
in the Wind Lo
ndon Calling I
Want to Hold
Your H a n d
Help! A Stairway
to H e a v e n L ight My Fire
Purple H a z e H ound Dog L e t
It Be One No Woman , No Cry
B o r n t o R u n
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 4:23 AM UTC
Your scrawls slants rightward, with g's that look like s's.
The stamp is always square with the envelope's corner,
and you include the time of composition beneath the date.
Three months apart and I can hardly picture your hands anymore,
the way your left palm must drag behind the pen, leaving this trail
of smudgy footprints that tiptoe around your words.
I read of your dreams: to drive an old convertible down I-15,
listening to Tom Petty– the pinnacle of American existence, you say;
to have a daughter; to still go to concerts at age 40.
You tell me how you designate different books for bedtime
and for doing laundry. Sometimes you secretly listen to Colbie Callait.
And you've found yourself praying lately, most often for us.
You say you are thinking of taking up the banjo,
but will I ever get to watch your fingers wander its strings,
your tongue resting on your lower lip in concentration?
As my eyes scan the lines and I draft my reply, I find myself
wishing for more than a pen-pal-lover; that you would show up
at my door and I could hold the hand that crafts these words.
Your bedtime story version of us begins, "Once upon a time,
there were two extremely attractive, smart, funny, people..."
You wrote that you hope it has a happy ending.
I hope so too.
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 2:15 PM UTC
We watch from space
Safe in our spaceship
As a small rock planet,
That has orbited it’s star
Over seven and a half billion times –
All those billions of its years –
Is peeled away
And eaten
By that very sun
That gave it birth.
Two and a half billion years before,
This star ran dry of hydrogen
And grew
From yellow dwarf to red giant.
Now, nothing is left of three of its worlds,
All engulfed by flame
As the sun grew
Into a giant ball of death.
All history is gone.
Nothing to show
For countless civilisations
That adorned the third planet.
But oh what’s this?
We spot a tiny spacecraft!
Must reel it in.
Examine it.
It has a name:
“Voyager 1”
Inside: a Golden Disc!
A Golden Record.
We can play it.
Images of hairless bipeds.
Ancestors from that third planet.
Sounds of animals and someone laughing.
Images of bipeds taking sustenance.
And best of all
More sounds
Of something called “Rock Music”:
A being called “Chuck Berry”
“Singing a song” called “Johnny B. Goode”.
For we have feet too
And it makes them tap.
Paul Butters
© PB 12\12\2019.
Dec 12, 2019
Dec 12, 2019 at 2:02 PM UTC
Oh wouldn't it be nice....
Ironically however,
If she was to wake up
And the first thing she
Sees is my soul.
Second thing,
The heavens opening up
Flowing purity on
A union of imperfections.
Finally, her welcoming the
Warmth of my morning-
Breath kisses
Like the sun piercing
Through the window seals
Goode Morning
Mar 4, 2018
Mar 4, 2018 at 8:34 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
Avon Man and the Mystery of His First-Best Bed
I gyve unto my wief my second best bed…
-Attributed to Shakespeare in his will. Or Churchill. Or
Milton. Or Elvis. Or Some Famous Man. And Shakespeare
was secretly a Catholic. (No, he wasn’t.) (Yes, he was.) (No, he
wasn’t.) (Yes, he was; I read it on the InterGossip.)
That second-best bed doesn’t matter a pop
Those anyones whoever slept in it are deads
Memorialized as dashboard bobbleheads
At Ye Olde Anne Hathawaye gifte shoppe
Kinge Richarde nevere cryede, “mye kyngdome fore ye bedde!”
Yea, goode olde Sirre Erpinghame joked, “Now lye I like a kynge”
So what’s the deale withe the firste-beste bedde thynge?
Thatte seconde bedde is where the Widowe rested hir hedde
Ande thusse ye scholares maken withouten cessatione
Unsupportede argumentes and allegationes
Jan 25, 2024
Jan 25, 2024 at 9:31 PM UTC