"greensleeves" poems
Farewell, to my voice wich vanished beneath the echo of those mountains, disappearing in the far distant, out of reach
The summer sun burns through my skin, lightens up this cold heart of mine for the first ime in a very long time, but even this won't last,
Yet I have no reason to be sad, this agony is bittersweet you see,
Constant change around me, without me changing one bit, it is as if I have become stuck in some kind of loop, unable to ever advance,
What does the future hold for one who has given in to this madness?
Farewell, to all the flowers which were blooming majestically this summer, now withering over to the merciless, drought like heat,
The greensleeves of nature are to already become colourful,
Farewell to all the warmth you have given me before you slipped away into the sea of time, moving on without thinking twice,
When the lullaby of a vampire is sung it'll be time to shut my eyes,
Because then I can be sure that I don't want tomorrow to come,
Farewell to the times we were friends conveying about silly things,
Now everyone can rejoice, once my voice is gone,
Farewell, left behind, I can no longer even cry
~Umi
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 4:42 PM UTC
the sound of the ice cream van
evokes memories of summers
wearing shorts on hot tarmac
which you can almost smell
the heat coming up on your legs
a blast of warm air and fumes
as an engine fights the heat
to bring you your chosen treat
passed from an impossibly high
window already dripping onto
a hand that you pray won't drop it
coldness on the tongue anticipated
but still not ready for just how cold
something can be in contrast to
the baking sun on the back of your
neck, mission complete ritual satisfied
until you hear again the Pied Piper
like chimes of Greensleeves outside
Apr 3, 2023
Apr 3, 2023 at 5:25 PM UTC
Quiet, hallucinating Ombrophile seeks Pluviophobe
to convert to own religion
Must like ******* in the woods at night
& being happy to fight
angrily over nothing & to believe
in little green men
My personal hobbies include punting on the river
& singing ' Greensleeves'
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 11:01 PM UTC
the thing about me is that i am a dreamer
i imagine far away coasts and stormy seas
in my bed while listening to fantasia on greensleeves
i imagine i have it all
being charmed by the prince of the renaissance
a forbidden love between big and small
in my bed listening to 12 danzas: oriental
but i suppose time is fading for us dreamers
the coasts are fading and the storms will reign
for we learn to remember
they are only dreams and dreams will come again
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 6:23 PM UTC
Greensleeves.
that's the tune
every day
around about noon
******
Greensleeves.
Elizabethan ear ache for
a Walter Raleigh or a Francis
Drake, cornets
with a flake?
Greensleeves
******
Greensleeves,
wish the man in the ice cream van would play some Eminem
then I might stop moaning.
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 1:27 PM UTC
The roses of the garden where but an illusion,
the looking glass was filled with a dead man's dream,
Of flying bullets and a blazing gun,
Our blood was washing down a carbon stream.
I see these visions of another time,
Filling my head with the school-bell chime,
And so the white doves came,
And took me on their shoulders,
And when the night was tame,
The world did seem so much colder.
The sun shone thru the trees,
That's all I could see,
Was the weight of the world,
On the back of a boy,
And his busy brain swirled,
Like a broken Christmas toy.
And so the leaves fell in golden grace,
And my tears swelled in sweet embrace,
The death of a father,
And the sin of a lover,
Seemed to me to be a bother,
And so I ducked for cover.
Behind the pickup truck,
Beneath the carpenter's chair,
Two girls tempted lady-luck,
And the brothers stopped by the village fair.
Until the leaves fall gray,
And the sister-wives see the light,
Cry little boy who can't stop to play,
Beyond the simple town,
Where the Greensleeves start to fight,
And the masses to pray.
Jul 13, 2018
Jul 13, 2018 at 11:36 AM UTC
Cold & alone
on a dreary wintry-morn,
I read Greensleeves.
She must have been
someone truly-special
for Him broken
to have written,
such heartfelt words.
O, the pain of love!
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 9:34 AM UTC
(20 minute poetry)
Stop me and try one
but
the ice lolly man
pedals on.
I shout for a cornet,
he cannot hear me
where once he was near me
he's now far away.
No ice cream today then
and when will I get one if
the lolly pop man
won't stop?
Greensleeves and
ice lolly memories
I wonder if Shakespeare
were here would
they stop for him?
This is fantasy
a Central line
romance for me
nothing to do but watch
faces
expressions,
shoe laces
undone
stop me and tie one
hold on I might buy one
the tube rumbles on
in tune.
Dec 7, 2016
Dec 7, 2016 at 1:52 AM UTC
oh i was a bad man, a bad bad man... i better pay up, and say my prayers; you won't give me the Bob Dylan meadows of Kentucky tomorrow... you won't, just drive-through assertions on centipedes, Alistair Armstrong on the moon, the discovered and boring Alaska and Antarctic... what else, tortoise Tsars talking penguin? before the science gets there, the fiction will be repulsive to begin with.
and to think a tyrant like Henry VIII
could write the anthem (greensleeves) that's not
god save the queen, and allow the queen her head?
but i'm sure the proverbial fancy of England
undermined both William and Canute
with her willing ways and her
hip-borne sways...
to mind i have but the Arabian girl
in mind her elephant costume of Baghdad -
but of course i revel is speaking for
all things human -
a timely message some would say with
choking at the joke - and i too,
for to hear the cockchafer, candle-lit moonlight
the baking of potatoes, the old ways of communism
spoken from the woods, ancient adverts
for the creased shirt, i'd be the African
Bambo boy of tomorrow;
wild man of the north, whitened, ain't
Eskimo, and ain't no believer in superstition -
a man that feeds no soul to only feed the mind
and this, requested world, clean shaven
and happy tie-tight-dressed for the day-job,
loose feet numbering 7 inches in 12 inch shoes,
my tongue of a pauper in a wallet of a billionaire
spending a lifetimes's worth of food
and whatever vanities dragged into the stench
of a squat.
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 8:51 PM UTC
The hull was that of a freighter, merchant,
Old, but still under steam,
It rose from off the horizon, distant,
Out of somebody’s dream,
Its livery had been dull and black
But now it flaked and it peeled,
The paint rose up on bubbles of rust
It was once designed to have sealed.
And from its stack there was dark grey smoke
That rose and spread on the sea,
Fouling the air in a narrow track
So they wouldn’t be seen by me,
We put the coastal cutter about
And raised the flag in the sun,
So Sally could see we were headed out
As she went on the Black Dog run.
The day was done it was almost dusk
When we entered that trail of smoke,
The freighter, ‘Emily Greensleeves’ must
Have burnt off a ton of coke,
We only saw her faint through a haze
And never a single crew,
But only Sally up on the bridge
As the dog came rabbiting through.
The dog, as black as a tinker’s ***
Raced back and forth on the deck,
Not so much as a chain restraint
Or a collar stud at its neck,
It stood there slavering down at us
When we got up close with a gun,
And often we thought to pick it off
When out on the Black Dog run.
But then the freighter would slip away
Deep in its trail of smoke,
And we’d be left alone in the bay
Trying to breathe, not choke,
Others have said they will bring her in
This ghostly girl, with a gun,
But nobody’s able to pin her down
When out on the Black Dog run.
David Lewis Paget
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 2:44 AM UTC