"grouse" poems
I've used them on my windows
To see the clear outside,
If I read the Op-eds,
I shudder, shuttered and hide.
I've spread them 'neath my plates and cups,
My shelves all neat and tidy;
But the headlines made it clear to me
My glass is more half empty.
They had a place in the litter box
For **** to scratch and squat;
I laid them round my garden plants,
They made fine insect traps.
Rolled and twirled they'd start a fire,
I could fold them into hats.
They cleaned the grease from BBQs,
And they're safe to pick up glass.
Crumple them for packaging,
They work as school book covers;
Add water and some flour,
To shape papier mache lovers.
Fold seeds in them to germinate,
Then use them for compost;
There's many ways to employ
Your Times and local Post.
But I won't subscribe to Dailies
For the felling of our trees;
And yet I miss my papers,
And the ways they worked for me.
But when enthroned,
You'll hear me grouse,
*There's no **** paper in this *********
My cell works well to scroll and swipe,
But it's only good for a virtual wipe.
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 12:49 PM UTC
The *** Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat:
If you offer him pheasant he would rather have grouse.
If you put him in a house he would much prefer a flat,
If you put him in a flat then he’d rather have a house.
If you set him on a mouse then he only wants a rat,
If you set him on a rat then he’d rather chase a mouse.
Yes the *** Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat—
And there isn’t any call for me to shout it:
For he will do
As he do do
And there’s no doing anything about it!
The *** Tum Tugger is a terrible bore:
When you let him in, then he wants to be out;
He’s always on the wrong side of every door,
And as soon as he’s at home, then he’d like to get about.
He likes to lie in the bureau drawer,
But he makes such a fuss if he can’t get out.
Yes the *** Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat—
And there isn’t any use for you to doubt it:
For he will do
As he do do
And there’s no doing anything about it!
The *** Tum Tugger is a curious beast:
His disobliging ways are a matter of habit.
If you offer him fish then he always wants a feast;
When there isn’t any fish then he won’t eat rabbit.
If you offer him cream then he sniffs and sneers,
For he only likes what he finds for himself;
So you’ll catch him in it right up to the ears,
If you put it away on the larder shelf.
The *** Tum Tugger is artful and knowing,
The *** Tum Tugger doesn’t care for a cuddle;
But he’ll leap on your lap in the middle of your sewing,
For there’s nothing he enjoys like a horrible muddle.
Yes the *** Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat—
And there isn’t any need for me to spout it:
For he will do
As he do do
And theres no doing anything about it!
7.3k
pale clouds at the summit
water color sky
cattle guard at wood bridge
creek bed running dry
split log fence downtrodden
razor back in wire
sinkhole on the wild plain
grouse fields under fire
pine bug and a lone wolf
clear cut on the trail
stump lake on the open range
kettle valley rail
raven on the hatheume
slash and burn and scar
blasted church in a tired sun
wild rose under char
thistle in the hollow
quails nest sitting high
carriage house at lone rock
curtains of july
smoke jaw in the canyon
percolator dream
silver sage in chapel
schneider's requiem
stockmen on the wrangle
big horn antler chase
table top at sunset
deacon creek in grace
quarry in a furry
lines of tinted red
spurs and blades and columns
patchwork of the dead
past the bow hill junction
cattle ropes are black
indian amphitheater
saddle on the rack
sun is at a high bake
sedimentary stone
three days on the morphine
skeleton and bone
cold water road is lonely
corrals are cut and paste
gone but not forgotten
the dust filled aftertaste
Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 1:06 PM UTC
You’ve read of several kinds of Cat,
And my opinion now is that
You should need no interpreter
To understand their character.
You now have learned enough to see
That Cats are much like you and me
And other people whom we find
Possessed of various types of mind.
For some are same and some are mad
And some are good and some are bad
And some are better, some are worse—
But all may be described in verse.
You’ve seen them both at work and games,
And learnt about their proper names,
Their habits and their habitat:
But
How would you ad-dress a Cat?
So first, your memory I’ll jog,
And say: A CAT IS NOT A DOG.
And you might now and then supply
Some caviare, or Strassburg Pie,
Some potted grouse, or salmon paste—
He’s sure to have his personal taste.
(I know a Cat, who makes a habit
Of eating nothing else but rabbit,
And when he’s finished, licks his paws
So’s not to waste the onion sauce.)
A Cat’s entitled to expect
These evidences of respect.
And so in time you reach your aim,
And finally call him by his NAME.
So this is this, and that is that:
And there’s how you AD-DRESS A CAT.
3.2k
On the top of the Crumpetty Tree
The Quangle Wangle sat,
But his face you could not see,
On account of his ****** Hat.
For his Hat was a hundred and two feet wide,
With ribbons and bibbons on every side
And bells, and buttons, and loops, and lace,
So that nobody every could see the face
Of the Quangle Wangle Quee.
The Quangle Wangle said
To himself on the Crumpetty Tree, --
"Jam; and jelly; and bread;
"Are the best of food for me!
"But the longer I live on this Crumpetty Tree
"The plainer than ever it seems to me
"That very few people come this way
"And that life on the whole is far from gay!"
Said the Quangle Wangle Quee.
But there came to the Crumpetty Tree,
Mr. and Mrs. Canary;
And they said, -- "Did every you see
"Any spot so charmingly airy?
"May we build a nest on your lovely Hat?
"Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that!
"O please let us come and build a nest
"Of whatever material suits you best,
"Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee!"
And besides, to the Crumpetty Tree
Came the Stork, the Duck, and the Owl;
The Snail, and the Bumble-Bee,
The Frog, and the Fimble Fowl;
(The Fimble Fowl, with a corkscrew leg;)
And all of them said, -- "We humbly beg,
"We may build out homes on your lovely Hat, --
"Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that!
"Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee!"
And the Golden Grouse came there,
And the Pobble who has no toes, --
And the small Olympian bear, --
And the **** with a luminous nose.
And the Blue Baboon, who played the Flute, --
And the Orient Calf from the Land of Tute, --
And the Attery Squash, and the Bisky Bat, --
All came and built on the lovely Hat
Of the Quangle Wangle Quee.
And the Quangle Wangle said
To himself on the Crumpetty Tree, --
"When all these creatures move
"What a wonderful noise there'll be!"
And at night by the light of the Mulberry moon
They danced to the Flute of the Blue Baboon,
On the broad green leaves of the Crumpetty Tree,
And all were as happy as happy could be,
With the Quangle Wangle Quee.
3k
Is there anything glorious about August the twelfth?
When people privileged with exceptional wealth
Think it their right, to blast the sky
And the birds that fly, ne'er so high.
Is there dignity to the flurry that follows?
To be first delivering corpses to fellows
And consorts, dining in fair London town
On the shot blasted flesh, fallen down ...
To British soil, the land of the free!
So free, to be trapped in iniquity,
In pursuit of what some think to be glorious
But surely Blake's heaven would be furious.
David Applin
2018
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 2:39 PM UTC
Once we're on the slippery slope,
With assisted suicide,
That's when the sick people,
Have nowhere left to hide,
Now that the clock is ticking,
Where will it all stop,
Next is the old folk,
We'll chop them till they drop,
Down Syndrome men and women,
Elderly, infirm who can tell,
Doctors must authorise,
Shipman did that well,
Then there's the druggies,
We'll have to use a rope,
Injection would be stupid,
Like giving them more dope,
They'll not be the last,
The unemployed are next,
They'll not be sent a letter,
We'll do it all by text,
Get them all lined up,
We'll do them one by one,
Give them the death injection,
Nowhere left for them to run,
The fat ones need to go,
Costing too much cash,
Eating too much food,
Use a knife to slash,
If your neighbour's a bit different,
You know, a bit like that,
Take out your weapon,
And stab him in the heart,
Clear the jails out,
The place if your a crook,
If we need more killers,
It's the very place to look,
Dignitas will be redundant,
We'll **** them all in house,
It'll be good business,
Shooting them just like grouse,
Forget about the smokers,
Assisted suicide's not their game,
With their lungs and breath failing,
They're dying just the same,
Life is so **** precious,
Killing's against God's law,
Commandment number six,
One of ten we shouldn't withdraw.
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 1:53 PM UTC
Let's boogie
in the electric synaptic light show club
called "Us."
Jackhammer legs quake the place
as everyone hums to the rhythms of their synchronized eyelids
and lungs pumping out golden dolphin breath.
Together copacetic drinks are raised and clinked
echoing like a hummingbird's wings shimmering in the afternoon sun,
Great Spirit, the bartender serves up a round on the house
of midnight snow owl whisky
for those ruminating Rumi and Hafiz's poetry,
the ones already beaming crystal quartz incandescence
from their heart and minds being present in the swaying
space that is the sacred spiral grouse dance.
Some peeps puff tree in the maui wowie mahogany lounge,
the prairie dog smoke carves the air
as these folks reflect and stare at their streams of consciousness
like a blue heron waiting for that third eye fish
for dinner.
The mirrors reveal our inner higher self children
of the moonrise kingdom building the iridescent
bridge to the rainbow road.
When when it's last call
we shall tiptoe home like drunken mice
stumbling up the melting sphere clock
to rest upside down opossum comfortably
giggling giggling thunderous heyoka whispers
into each other's shoulders
until the aquarian dawn.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 9:52 PM UTC
In the cloudy evenings with strong hints of rain
You heard them once and you heard them again
The air would rend with their cacophony
The torrents would send them in ecstatic glee.
Even a few years back you could find them around
The harbinger of monsoon with harsh croaking sound
On your yard and garden in quite large packs
Frolicking for insects, the great jumping Jacks.
They scoured the marshland in search for food
Calling in monotone and setting you to brood
With your mind gnawed by the incessant rains
That rattled your thoughts and the glass window panes.
But then lands were devoured by the human sharks
Soon disappeared open spaces and parks
Came up apartments and rows of house
Urban growth you accept without grouse.
Now in the lonely evenings with fair hints of rain
The rains will be back but you won’t hear them again
Their habitats are gone there aren’t left any bogs
And with these are gone your neighborhood frogs.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 4:58 AM UTC
#
Along the priarielands--
rolling hills previously
roamed
by wild buffalo.
Grouse
sage hens
prairie chickens
pheasant
hungarian partridge
and now you--
You, in that pretty, flowing
summer dress- walking that
line.. between planted field
and wild prairiegrass
and not a blade is broken.
Wind-- moving the grass and
nearly-ripened crops like
slow rolling waves
out on the sea.
Me.. watching you
move.. just watching you-- move..
along that line between
beautifully-planted
and natural..
and moving with understanding;
flowing--
ever-growing
knowing.. sweetly knowing
that there's a glowing
from what you are showing-- me;
Not a blade of grass or crop is
ever harmed by your movements
instead.. like me, they thrive--
leaning into you
whenever you are near.
. . .
I am the grass
the blade
the crop-- ready for harvest
the bison
and the upland bird
the forever wave hello
of the tall grass of the prairie.
And you are as much a
part of it all
as you are of me.
Like the native grass
and the native Lakota
that have both
always known its ways..
you were always meant to be here.
#
Sep 11, 2022
Sep 11, 2022 at 2:11 PM UTC
I do not like my state of mind;
I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn's recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk.
I cannot take the gentlest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.
For what I think, I'd be arrested.
I am not sick, I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;
I do not like me any more.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men....
I'm due to fall in love again.
2.1k
The warble frocks and debutantes,
Soprano trilling nightingales,
The extras dressed as elephants
And tenors with their penguin tails;
They mingle at the opera house
With canapés on silver trays;
Then dine on pigeon, goose and grouse,
To reminisce their finest plays;
When Romeo found Juliet
The crowds were on their feet for days,
When mighty Caesar’s end was met,
The press regaled with highest praise;
Such fine upstanding citizens,
So crisply draped, so brightly gowned;
The marvel of these denizens,
So rarely seen, so well renowned.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 2:29 AM UTC
He died with his boots on
but he was no hero of mine
he was the famous grouse
and hen pecked husband
of a cuckolded wife.
having made the stickleback and
jaundiced Moon resolute .
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 11:37 AM UTC
He was sent to Aldershot for training
He would learn how to **** or be killed
The training was all done with broomsticks
When he thought back it made his blood chill.
His unit was sent down to Portsmouth
To board a ship and go over there
It was packed to the gunwales with weapons
And the rations left no room to spare.
He practiced with his rifle on the journey
Like others who’d not held one before
He’d no sense of the horror he’d be facing
Nor the violence he’d always abhorred.
It was such a small piece of shrapnel
Caught both eyes as a shell case shattered
He never saw his two boys as they grew into men
Missing out on so much that had mattered.
His wife who he loved always helped him
And a life with new interests grew
He learnt how to read the braille papers
It pleased him he’d still know the news.
But the trauma from the experience scarred him
And ire with politics grew by the day
So he took to his new odd braille keyboard
And wrote articles and letters to complain.
He could sense the new way that the wind blew
In the corridors of power in the House
There was money to be made in new weapons
And politicians ignore those who grouse.
Then again two decades later it started
Another war that would mean more dead men
The obscenity rose like a bile in his throat
So once again he took to his ‘pen’.
©JRW2014
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 6:37 PM UTC
Trickling water through a brook,
Down from the mountain and into a stream,
Gently carving into the land a tale,
A sad yet happy tune for all to hear.
Mountains to those not from here,
Hills to its inhabitants,
Safeguarding those who live here from the poisons of the modern world,
Locking away it's people in a small slice of time.
Moonshine is made here,
Where the big bucks wander,
A place where the turkey, elk, and illusive bobcat roam free,
Where the hawks, warblers, and grouse abound,
Bears trundle,
And hill folk dance and sing.
Jan 6, 2023
Jan 6, 2023 at 12:17 AM UTC
Like indolent dream washed away
by the sea's uprising
passivly yielding
into a sheltered thought
for i can't explain
this weathered plot
it feels like years since we've touched.
Maybe in another life
a better chance
maybe in another dream
with a sweeter glance
maybe my heart
with a different stance.
Another day of
gibberish grouse..
May 6, 2018
May 6, 2018 at 12:14 PM UTC
Is there a humour therapist in the house?
Sitting here, chortling, do not grouse,
If you abuse crumpets, men,
You undermine your own best interests, do you ken?
Then you don't get crumpet, men,
Or is men a rude word,
You're reaping what you earn,
You want a cup of tea from me?
Chortle, the magic word is please!
You would not believe this ham,
Feeding the world this spam,
You want fresh vegetables?
Frozen food, not dementiable,
You can get another better than me,
So what's wrong with you, prithee?
Yes, the catering staff is on a sitdown strike,
You'd best find yourself a loving wife,
Chortle, shut up snivelling, you grouse,
Is there a humour therapist in the house?
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 11:07 PM UTC
When I was eight, I threw a rock at my cat.
I wanted something to love me, and he
didn't. Unfamiliar with rage and unskilled
at throwing rocks, I missed and hit the fence.
I was and am ashamed of this.
I wasn't that kind of kid.
Once, a boy sent me photos from Scotland,
daybreak over the snowy moors where he
hunted grouse with his father. He was skinny,
and sweet. I stopped writing him because I
had a thousand words for love, and he
couldn't spell any of them.
And once, I took your love for granted. It was vanity;
I felt like the lost works of a prolific master.
I wanted someone to delight in discovering me,
to wonder where I had been. It was easy to
blame you; all those years and you didn't
know what you had.
If you believe in all possible universes,
I aimed for the fence and hit the cat.
I married a sweet, skinny boy who will never
love a poem. I never had anything to prove
and I don't need you to forgive me.
Oct 22, 2011
Oct 22, 2011 at 2:03 PM UTC
it is small and has
a coat of fur
on this fact we'll
all concur
a dozen or more
were kept at the lab facility
where a researcher was
testing their reasoning capability
these animals are prolific
breeders
they're extra-ordinary
off spring seeders
they can be problematic
to growers of grain
many years ago there was
an infestation on the western plain
if you see them running
around your house
you'll say unto yourself
them critters ain't grouse
Apr 28, 2019
Apr 28, 2019 at 7:05 PM UTC
It's never ending,
The drains overflow,
Cars bathe pedestrians
Who are already drenched.
There's a cool breeze
Blowing in this city of wind.
It would be perfect,
If I didn't live in the city.
Take me to the moors
Where the grouse nest
And the choughs graze.
To the sea of heather.
The smell of wet earth,
Pummeled by car exhausts
Poisons the streets and
Like me, the trees try to escape.
I could wander the moors
Till I reach the cliffs
Where the salt of the Atlantic
Makes love to the gorse.
The shelter given
By a rotting house
Cannot be compared.
I would rather roam the moors.
May 7, 2011
May 7, 2011 at 12:38 AM UTC
snow sparkling, drifting
down through the darkened wood
a grouse drums, unseen
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 4:00 PM UTC
The living to themselves gossip attract,
but at death eulogies mitigate lies.
Love and care from he who breathes is withdrawn,
but his slumber does attract parties.
Fake mourners with feigned tears in burials act.
They rip off and use the grieving as pawns;
Their loss is their gain, their tears their laughter.
To fill their stomachs, they sob and flatter,
as they to misery dance, from dusk till dawn.
Whilst alive, at my deeds everyone frowns.
But at death, I am a departed 'saint'
whose sepulcher you spray with costly paint.
If you must celebrate me, do so now.
Do not in reverence to my casket bow.
Visit me now in my ramshackle house,
sharply rebuke me if you have a grouse.
Do as much you can to show you love me,
do not when I sleep go on bended knee.
Never belatedly show your respect
by attending my funeral in retrospect.
Jun 23, 2023
Jun 23, 2023 at 7:22 PM UTC
i used to love...
but now i grouse about it
i stammer in the wake of my oblivion and suffer bliss no more.
i'm grounded. you are far too keen a villain.
you are dead last in haste
to revenge my unkempt village.
i hate your name
but praise it.
at least
i use
to.
now watch my heart unclaim it.
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 11:23 AM UTC
Not to greet the dawn of the day
At care free weekends
Leisure infused lethargy
For him it was up 7 at 10 AM
He was at sixes n’ sevens
Quipped from cuddle of bed
At the warning warrant
Of piled up weekend errands
He sipped tea n’ clicked on screen
To play music of unseen scene
As he surveyed household
To bring home into his fold
Cutlery rattled prattled
Vessels cranked in sink
Threatening to stink
If not surfed to shine
Used clothes hanging banging
Summoned washing wearing
Carpet in sequence flared up
To mop it up long along
Bathing tub demanded its bath
Well before he had his bath
As he peeped out a while
For refreshing breeze
Waving blades of grass
Accosted to trim their size
Sinking hope of a post lunch nap
Grouse of grocery then unveiled
And kid’s unrest for the day-out outwit
Took a long drive for the joy ride
Week end outing weakened though
Alas! Weary weekend seemed longer than week
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 8:02 AM UTC