"gregory" poems
I ran up six flights of stairs
to my small furnished room
opened the window
and began throwing out
those things most important in life.
First to go, Truth, squealing like a fink:
"Don't! I'll tell awful things about you!"
"Oh yeah? Well, I've nothing to hide ... OUT!"
Then went God, glowering & whimpering in amazement:
"It's not my fault! I'm not the cause of it all!"
"OUT!"
Then Love, cooing bribes: "You'll never know impotency!
All the girls on Vogue covers, all yours!"
I pushed her fat *** out and screamed:
"You always end up a ******
I picked up Faith, Hope, Charity
all three clinging together:
"Without us you'll surely die!"
"With you I'm going nuts! Goodbye!"
Then Beauty ... ah, Beauty—
As I led her to the window
I told her: "You I loved best in life
... but you're a killer; Beauty kills!"
Not really meaning to drop her
I immediately ran downstairs
getting there just in time to catch her
"You saved me!" she cried
I put her down and told her: "Move on."
Went back up those six flights
went to the money
there was no money to throw out.
The only thing left in the room was Death
hiding beneath the kitchen sink:
"I'm not real!" It cried
"I'm just a rumor spread by life ... "
Laughing I threw it out, kitchen sink and all
and suddenly realized Humor
was all that was left—
All I could do with Humor was to say:
"Out the window with the window!"
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 5:33 AM UTC
"NEVER shall a young man,
Thrown into despair
By those great honey-coloured
Ramparts at your ear,
Love you for yourself alone
And not your yellow hair.'
"But I can get a hair-dye
And set such colour there,
Brown, or black, or carrot,
That young men in despair
May love me for myself alone
And not my yellow hair.'
"I heard an old religious man
But yesternight declare
That he had found a text to prove
That only God, my dear,
Could love you for yourself alone
And not your yellow hair."
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The young postman
Walked the midnight lane
Remembering the scent of lonely Gregory
But who is Gregory? He never knew.
Only the scent from the age-worn letters
in his hands.
Full of moths
And Lavender.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 1:22 AM UTC
Like many things in life,
Problems occur.
Problems which we are
Meant to learn from.
Like many things in life,
Difficulties arise.
Difficulties that we can
All overcome together.
For better or for worse
**the latter is more common,
for worse happens way too often,
the problems we face don't fade.
We live in this prison called life
difficulties arise as we slowly walk
to our demise,we fill our minds
that there are ways we can escape.**
The hardships of life
Are only a small part of the
Vivid painting that is life.
We are the complete image.
Though we may have tears,
Rips, piercings, and smudges,
We are still full of wonder and
Our minds are full of light.
**We embrace the order
we border on uniformity
awfully we are digging ourselves
in shelves of debt and depression.
Life is a vivid painting,
staining the realisation that death,
that the last breath taken
and the needless pain is imminent.**
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 10:42 PM UTC
The French
peasant monk
pushed a wheel barrow
along by
the abbey church;
the squeaky wheels
echoing through
the nearby wood
and throughout
the silent cloister;
his tonsured head
lowered,
back bent,
prayers simple
maybe said.
I tended
the dying monk,
aged and fragile
as an ancient script
of yesteryear;
I recalled how
she tongued me
along
my inner thighs,
bringing tears of joy
into my hazel eyes.
Dom Gregory prepared
the altar for mass,
laying the altar cloth,
preparing the priest monk's
robes and gowns,
making sure
the candles were ready;
his footfalls
like echoes
on a deep deep sea.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 3:32 AM UTC
The whole city is full of it – in the squares,
The coffee shops, the ‘blogs, the op-ed pieces
The emails, the news sites, the grocery stores
They are all busy arguing -
If you ask someone to give you change
He says the President is the Begotten One
If you inquire about the price of a croissant
You are told by way of reply that he is not
That the Supreme Court is greater, and that
The President is inferior; if you ask
“Is my cup of Blue Mountain ready?”
The barista answers that Congress is nothing
In the squares, the coffee shops, the ‘blogs,
The op-ed pieces – the whole city is full of it
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 3:58 PM UTC
Not prison, nor killed,
But his memoir's fulfilled
He named me Ann Williams
Amidst hints he instilled.
His fact is our fiction - demurely disguised.
Bad move, Tomas Gregory
You're tied to your lies
Unwise, catalyzed
Your pathetic demise.
**|
|
|
|
\/
'**
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 2:17 PM UTC
Good old Gregory Goose was Gladder than any Gander could be and not Just because Nelson the Ninja Snail had said he was "JUST-DUCKY" ! This was a Very Special morning for Gregory Goose, in Fact it was yesterdays Super Special situation that made His Delight so DELICIOUS. The comment by Nelson the Ninja Snail, had simply added to His Glory! Gregory's Special Situation Had been the Unexpected Announcement that HE was to be Named "TEAM-CAPTAIN" for the Annual "Hog Wallow and Here's Mud in Your eye" CONTEST ! ! "Oh the delight" He thought, "I am to be Captain, after waiting all these years". "ME" he exclaimed ! "Captain of the South Forty Blocks"...... "W O W ' ! ! At the most convenient time of the day, Harold Hippo, Candy Cow, Curtis Chipmunk, Marvin Monkey, Beatrice Bovine and Larry Lynx decided to make a Personal call on Good Old *GREGORY GOOSE . Keep in mind Now, That Harold, Candy, Curtis, Marvin, Beatrice and Larry we're the *INSIDE, of the "INNER-CIRCLE". JUST ASK THEM !! They were on the INSIDE ! ! Well, when Gregory Goose heard the Knock at the door, He opened it with a Great Big Grin, That ONLY Gregory could Give! Before Him stood the "J U D G E S " of All Contests and Efforts. *Gregory was Beside Himself ! ! Instead of Seeing a group of Smiles and Handshakes, He saw Staring Eyes, Necks that had been stiffened AND *Gnashing of Teeth. Beatrice Bovine was the First to Speak, "Gregory, it has been brought to our attention that you had a conversation with Nelson the Ninja Snail,, and YOU didn't Rebuke his statement of being called "JUST-DUCKY". "As a result of this, *WE decided YOU "Cannot Be" CAPTAIN of the Hog Wallow and Mud in Your Eye Contest, PERIOD ! ! Gregory Simply smiled, Looked Straight into their Eyes, Quietly said "BYE", Softly Closed the door.... Turned Grinning, Knelt to his Knees, PRAYING, Thanking GOD, for the FACT,, That he, Gregory, He was Made just a *LITTLE BIT PECULIAR ! !
Jan 10, 2011
Jan 10, 2011 at 3:19 AM UTC
*We lose so much talent to addiction
Some of you may not care, but I do
This is my tribute to them*
**Alan Wilson
Canned Heat
Jimi Hendrix
The Jimi Hendrix Experience
Janis Joplin
Jim Morrison
The Doors
Brian Cole
The Association
Billy Murcia
New York Dolls
Danny Whitten
Crazy Horse
Gram Parsons
The Stooges
Gary Thain
Uriah Heep
Elvis Presley
Gregory Herbert
Blood, Sweat & Tears
Keith Moon
The Who
Sid Vicious
*** Pistols
Lowell George
Little Feat
Jimmy McCulloch
Wings
John Bonham
Led Zeppelin
Darby Crash
Germs
James Honeyman-Scott
Pretenders
Pete Farndon
Pretenders
Paul Gardiner
Tubeway Army
Gary Holton
Heavy Metal Kids
Phil Lynott
Thin Lizzy
Andrew Wood
Mother Love Bone
Brent Mydland
Grateful Dead
Steve Clark
Def Leppard
Johnny Thunders
New York Dolls
David Ruffin
The Temptations
Kristen Pfaff
Hole
Shannon Hoon
Blind Melon
Bradley Nowell
Sublime
John Kahn
Jerry Garcia Band
Jonathan Melvoin
The Smashing Pumpkins
Billy Mackenzie
Associates
West Arkeen
The Outpatience
Nick Traina
Link 80
John Baker Saunders
Mad Season
Bobby Sheehan
Blues Traveler
Wes Berggren
Tripping Daisy
Allen Woody
The Allman Brothers Band
Carl Crack
Atari Teenage Riot
Layne Staley
Alice in Chains/Mad Seasons
Kurt Cobain
Nirvana
Dee Dee
Ramones
Robbin Crosby
Ratt
John Entwistle
The Who
Howie Epstein
Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers
Jeremy Michael Ward
De Facto
Tim Hemensley
GOD
Dave Schulthise
The Dead Milkmen
Rick James
Kevin DuBrow
Quiet Riot
Ike Turner
Gidget Gein
Marilyn Manson
Jay Bennett
Wilco
Michael Jackson
The Rev
Avenged Sevenfold
Paul Gray
Slipknot
Mike Starr
Alice in Chains
Amy Winehouse**
*We are not bad people, we just have bad ways
Yet, not many understand*
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 4:49 PM UTC
Gather people
for a story
so profound,
Not created by me,
But a rare, rare reality,
Where forces so profound converged,
Generations forward
were forever altered.
Where one person's heroics
were another's fatal error
Where a family's love
was smothered
in
the churning waters
of Big Lagoon.
Big Lagoon sits
north of Agate Beach
shining treasures can be found
in the gathering sands
To the west,
The ocean rises and falls
To the east,
The lagoon's placid grassy waters roll.
It was an Indian Summer's warm, warm day,
Everything it promised was delivered.
Two days after Thanksgiving,
I remember it well,
the fog was gone,
the sun was high.
A family dog beach walk
Howard and Mary,
Olivia,
Gregory, every one called him Geddie,
Geddie's girlfriend, Lily.
The family dog, Fran, chasing sticks
in the ocean and in the sand.
Time stopped for
a diamond moment,
sun reflecting off the ocean.
To chase a stick
Fran ran
a ten foot wave
took her under.
Geddie ankle deep edged forward
when within that frozen moment
another giant wave emerged
the cliff that is the sand gave in,
in the merciless embrace
of the terrible wave,
He was pulled under.
Down the beach
Howard ran
plunged into the waters
to save his son,
He only found
Kingdom come.
While Geddie made his way
out of those frozen waters
and could not find his father,
Called by what unknown voice,
He dove back under,
Not to be found
for hours and miles later.
What is the power of love
which would propel each one?
Mary watching this unfold
could not abide their fate
and herself plunged in
for one last attempt
at saving grace.
The ocean says
"Many have fallen in
but few survive."
Mary and Howard
rolled
in and out
in that frozen water's breath.
While Olivia and Lily
frantically
called 911
and struggled on the beach
out of reach.
The power of the ocean
the power of love
had made three
one.
30 minutes later
Fran ran out
looking to play
one more round.
If by the Pacific Ocean
you stand
see urgent footprints
in the sand,
By chance
you hear the plaintive cry
of
"Marco Polo"
voices calling to one another,
It is the ocean singing
their last lullaby.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 12:36 PM UTC
Beautiful lofty things; O'Leary's noble head;
My father upon the Abbey stage, before him a raging crowd.
"This Land of Saints", and then as the applause died out,
"Of plaster Saints"; his beautiful mischievous head thrown back.
Standish O'Grady supporting himself between the tables
Speaking to a drunken audience high nonsensical words;
Augusta Gregory seated at her great ormolu table
Her eightieth winter approaching; "Yesterday he threatened my life,
I told him that nightly from six to seven I sat at this table
The blinds drawn up"; Maud Gonne at Howth station waiting a train,
Pallas Athena in that straight back and arrogant head;
All the Olympians; a thing never known again.
1.8k
"Fall swooned
Left me drunk in a field
Dandelion wine for a year
And i packed up the dust
Of all that i owned
Handkerchief hung from a pole
I rolled out the day that the apples fell…"
- Gregory Alan Isakov
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 5:31 PM UTC
The last drops have been swallowed,
And the last vestiges
Of post-wage labor
Libationary sorrow
Swagger slowly off
Into the night
Across cracked pavement
Like slugs after rain.
I pick up the chemtrail
Left by my father
And follow it to
A makeshift master suite
Wedged between a
Rundown groundskeeper
Shed and the unkempt
Wilderness beside the
Desolate bike path
In rural Seekonk.
The rest of this comatose
Town in this overdosed
Commonwealth
Are separated
By enough trees
And undergrowth
And small
Night creatures
Calling to each other
In the dark
That they can't hear
The nightly
Rattle of .38
Rounds my father
Sends flying into the trees.
The pistol was my
Grandfather's,
Brought over from France
In 1947.
My father cries
As he pulls the trigger
Over and over
Sporatically,
Like a Sung Tong,
His eyes wild,
Darting side to side
In milky blue trails
Back and forth
And up and down
Across the dark
Chasms of his
Eye sockets.
When the chambers
Of his firearm
Run dry he fills them
From the box
He took from my basement,
In his old house,
Where he stockpiled
Ammunition for
Twenty two years.
I've learned to stand east
Of my father when
I make the visits
Expected of children
When their parents
Are old and trapped
In the recesses of
Their insanity
Or nursing home
Or empty nest,
Because he always
Aims west.
I wait for tonight's
Box to be empty,
Then slowly walk
To where my father
Is huddled,
Clutching the pistol
Like a teddy bear.
He is breathing heavy,
And has **** himself.
He hears me coming,
Turns, and smiles
Upon recognition.
"I got em good mikey,
Got good, not taking
My land from ME
Mickey, never going
Blow south,
See it?"
I pull the pistol I've
Brought from my waistband,
The one my father,
Gregory Bishop,
Gave me on my
Eighteenth birthday.
The weight in my hand
Is deafening,
The illegal ivory
Is seamless
And cold against
My palm.
I raise my arm,
Aim,
And pull the trigger.
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 5:28 PM UTC
( Song )
Europe in the dark age, was swept by an ignorant plague
While Ireland was known for poets, scholars, and saints
Invaders, would have Éire destroyed while only hurting themselves
For it was the Celts, who taught poetry to ancient Greece
They tried to burn her culture down
But the ashes of Ireland proved fertile ground
Green is the pearl, seed of the vine; great garden
Love Songs of Connacht
Beaten, almost forgotten she was
Her sons sent off to the colonies
And Ná Fíle; her poets, became beggars in the streets
They tried to burn her culture down
But the ashes of Ireland proved fertile ground
Thank you Lady Gregory!
Thank you A.E.!
Thank you Will. B. Yeats!
Thank you Ó Rathaile, Ó Carolan too!
Thank you Mr. Synge!
Thank you most of all Douglas Hyde
Green is the pearl, seed of the vine; great garden
Love Songs of Connacht
They tried to burn her culture down
But the ashes of Ireland proved fertile ground
Thank you Lady Gregory!
Thank you A.E.!
Thank you Will. B. Yeats!
Thank you Ó Rathaile, Ó Carolan too!
Thank you Mr. Synge!
Thank you Standish Ó Grady, and Pearse!
Thank you Connolly, James!
Thank you Merriman, Ferguson too!
Thank you Rua Ó Súlleabháin!
Thank you James Clarence Mangan!
Thank you Tommy Davis!
Thank you most of all Douglas Hyde!
Of all the nations of the world
Only Ireland's dream is a poet's dream
Green is the pearl, seed of the vine; great garden
Love Songs of Connacht
Great garden
Love Songs of Connacht
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 10:17 PM UTC
well it was the alternative to gregory isaac’s night nurse... but then the bouncer on the catwalk with flares... skidding up on a rhyme and cooling it with an edge of the appropriately cut fashion... chased it.
innit kamikaze (rap’s shortchange in shaken pears
for martini bond and chanced cockney slang in shakespeare,
all 90’s groove though)
lyric’o gangsters
in the mollusk slush
two’s up freed
with the sly sly s.o.s. sloth
chinning up to the chariots of nero’s double for portrait:
naa na na na na na na na na na na na na naa,
naa na na na na na na na na na na na na naa
(i miscounted... didn't i?) -
where kurt cobian’s yeah yeah yeah used to be
along with r.e.m.’s cowboy astronaut.
come mike jagger with me the liszt skeleton
of b & w’s worth of crescendos tipping lazy waitresses
with a toreador’s worth of breezy napkins folded, flapped and sneezed into -
i’ll be dumping my shadow into splits for extras to boot frying it in
the hiroshima of paparazzi’s blinking.
failures are worth other people’s success when playing the lyre to a burn out of capitals:
anyway, edinburgh is the ultimate cameo in the literary bloodline
begot by paris for the 20th century ultimatum of identity scripted.
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 8:38 PM UTC
So it seems like the night terrors never really go away
They just get replaced,
Same trembling fear, just a new face.
As a kid I used to spend hours awake, being scared.
I was scared of the dark,
Used to turn the lights off and run fast
To get under the sheets, so the dark couldn’t engulf me.
I was scared of the dogs,
That their bite was worse than their bark,
Crossed streets so they wouldn’t cross my path.
I was scared of being me,
Behind alcohol I hid
Downing shots and beers, so i could blame it on this.
I was scared I wouldn’t fit in,
Would dominate every conversation
So there wasn’t a part I couldn’t be in.
I was scared to admit that fear was a deep part of me,
I thought if anyone knew they would think i’m weak.
And I’m still scared, but now fear has a different face
I stare deep into it’s eyes and I don’t tremble in the same way.
I am scared that death will take me sooner than I think
And rob me of the future I have built in my dreams.
I am scared I’ll lose my family, the anchor in my life
And without them, well I would shortly join them in the sky.
I am scared of myself and the voices in my head
If I do what they tell me, will I have anyone left?
I am scared of failure, are my dreams too big?
What if I don’t get there and I gave everything I could give?
I’m still scared, but now I see it differently
Cause I’m slowly uncovering the courage underneath.
©Gregory Loftman
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 9:00 PM UTC
Take me back to the asylum
Where the walls beg to breathe
Where everything is carefully broken
Where you can hear touch and see
Those souls that never want you to leave
Watch your step in these walls
Let yourself feel the pull, not the push
Everyone rides out their highs till the falls
To wait till they're given the rush
To feel you must allow just as such
Feel the crawl upon your skin
Their hands and breath pervade you
From where? They stay within
And in your mind they barricade you
Be not afraid, its how they'll persuade you
Tell me why you're here
And what is the reason you stay
I ask you why must I feel fear
And why you can't be in the mood to play
This cold wasn't here during the day
Definitely not in this way
Mother I'll guide you home
Take Gregory and the children and go
You're surrounded but still feel alone
And something is making it so
And from the darkness it flows
My ankle it will not let go
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 12:33 PM UTC
I Am 25
Play Poem Video
With a love a madness for Shelley
Chatterton Rimbaud
and the needy-yap of my youth
has gone from ear to ear:
I HATE OLD POETMEN!
Especially old poetmen who retract
who consult other old poetmen
who speak their youth in whispers,
saying:--I did those then
but that was then
that was then--
O I would quiet old men
say to them:--I am your friend
what you once were, thru me
you'll be again--
Then at night in the confidence of their homes
rip out their apology-tongues
and steal their poems.
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 1:31 PM UTC
outside,
the evening tries to paint freckles over our
skin until the light starts to dip
low behind the trees.
we sit on the steps of the front porch
and greg says
*well you'll never find yourself someone if you
don't learn to be a bit more ambitious*.
the sun melts across the
skyline while mom slaps him with a *gregory
wayne you leave her alone* in that
i-have-raised-six-children-and-i'm-tired
tone only she has.
it feels like something is stirring deep
inside me. like there is a
current building in my stomach and rising
toward my lips with each pressed back *i'm
gay i'm gay i'm gay* but i tamp that down,
instead tell him i feel like i'm boiling because
that's somehow more normal.
just what's causing that in ya?
my hum is eaten by dad stepping out on
the porch, lighting a cigarette and filling the
empty section of my step.
pop i think this one's a little different.
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 1:44 AM UTC
Here in America, number who knows what in education,
Where we excel in standardization,
Of souls and resumes
Where you need a 4.5 gpa
And hey, I know I’m one of the ones in the 1%
I’ll repent for my hypocrisy in saying “break free”
I know, poor me, being reduced to numbers just isn’t my thing
4.33, schedule block B, math, PE and chemistry
Sometimes it’s hard to breathe
I can feel my chest cave and shrink
That chewing glass feeling
And imagine the kids sitting on the brink of failure
Which has grown to become something:
A cacophony of the anti American dream
And therefore we’re stripped of autonomy
In the land of the free
“I pledge Allegiance to”
The US public education system which finds its niche in the fact
That witchcraft seems to be the way to survive it
Deviation from the norm is only embraced for a profit
So basically unless you’re an actual prophet I’d color in the lines
It’s not like you could find the time
After the 7 hours of school, 3 for homework, 2 for sports, 7 for sleep, 2 for eating, and half a minute for breathing
So on Gregory, on Denise, to your 9 to 5s
Of course there’s those that thrive
Living their best life outside the American Assembly line, like in algebra there’s an exception to every rule
So I’ll run the rat race September to December to spring break to summer and then start it over
I’ll chew my glass, if you’ll fill one up with champagne for June of 2020, when the real world begins,
Because the world of high school and imaginary is where I live.
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 8:04 PM UTC
The Cheshire moon smiles down on me tonight.
I’m completely out of synch with this cycle,
once again in the trough of the ever oscillating wavelength of life,
of emotion, of shifting energies, of morphing shadows casted upon by the apathetic celestial bodies who glide along through the heavens with such certainty, such staunch punctuality
as to give hope where there is none,
to know the sun will rise,
to know with certainty, with utmost faith that the moon will fall,
that the biting cold in the still night will turn into golden rays of illumination and warmth in a mere few hours,
a transformation that if somehow seen for the first time, would constitute as a miracle.
Apathetically they trudge along in their formations repeating their cosmic dances into eternity, the hands of the clock, casting shadows which decree time as we know it;
we kneel before the laws set forth, faithful and non believer, criminal and saint, man and women, there is no question of fealty,
for all subscribe to the church of time,
the tracking of shadows,
the calendar of Gregory.
The shadows smile at me tonight, but I don’t smile back.
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 4:19 PM UTC
when i started to smoke marijuana aged 20
with this russian cupcake of falling asleep in a seashell entwined
i took to listening to: ***** & the maytals, culture,
israel vibration, damian marley, stephen marley, ziggy,
basil daley, brenton dowe, bunny wailer,
burning spear, cornel & the brentford rockers,
earl zero, freddie mckay, jackie mittoo,
keith hudson, king tubby, lloyd robinson & brentford disco,
lone ranger, peter tosh, soul vendors, sound dimension,
the heptones, the new establishment, wailing souls,
willie & the brentford rockers,
winston & the new establishment...
i sometimes wish i went into the stoner rock direction
to experience that side of the ethnic cultural exploitation
of a certain intoxication... anyway, whatever...
i forget to mention barrington levy, gregory isaac,
alpha blondy and sort of classify collie buddz as reggae’s eminem.
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 8:27 PM UTC
Aye that's what I'd say
eclipses are good for sunstroke
"Do you write left aligned?"
Me........ A **** socialist?
And here I am again
Crawling back to my poetry
Like a dog crawls back to lick it's own *****
That was written 1400 years ago
Thanks Gregory
If You Don't Know me By Now
Banging out from my hi-fi
while she quietly snores
And dribbles on my shoulder
If I shut my eyes
there is still a white square
No matter how hard I try
There will always be
One more white square
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 6:54 PM UTC