"guernsey" poems
Sundays on the ranch are somethin',
Just after morning chores are done,
I head up to the house on a dead run,
I've called the herd and put the buckets out,
Fed the chickens, called the horse, "Old Son,"
Heard the rooster yammering at the rising sun;
Old dog is baying loud to add some fun....
Meanwhile, at the house,
The wife has rattled up the kids and lined em out,
When I come in, they clear the bathroom out,
So I can get a shave and morning shower,
And off we'll head to church in half an hour.
Or so we think....
It's then the neighbor calls to say our milk cow's swinging by,
Bell clanking off-step time to her butter-churning udder,
"She's headed north toward town!" he chortles mirth,
"Maybe she wants to hear old Pastor Perth!" I mutter.
All jokes aside, I hang the phone and grab my cap,
We pile in the truck to try and get her back....
We have a chance if we can turn her 'round above the hill....
Why is it Sundays sweet Dolly becomes such a pill?
A simple rule of nature I wish I could avoid,
Is if a plan is put in place, as sure as Lloyd,
Our Guernsey chooses then to go out on a spree,
And Pastor Perth in town prays extra hard for me.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 9:38 AM UTC
I think that I shall never see
A thing as odd as eight baby
Eight baby from a single mother
Makes me roll my eyes- oh brother
Oh sister oh brother oh sister oh yeah
Mother looked like a Guernsey cow
Is there milk enough- I don't see how?
Eight colic'd infants wailing in the night-
Draw back, draw back- go fly a kite
Eight fitful babies screaming in duress-
Moved far away left no forwarding address
Eight poopy babies dragging two pound diapers
Went to the car wash and used the windshield wipers
Eight teething babies wrangling on the bed-
Picked up a gun and blew off her head.
Mar 10, 2010
Mar 10, 2010 at 9:49 AM UTC
*enter slav digressing with the celt... yeah, saxony, once known as the northern arm's length of parody shaking oiled up speaking saracen sign language: arabica wavy wavy bye bye. you concrete those words in i roof it over, then we can both admire the rich russian vixens dry up their wealth with the saudis - we need television after all - and it’s in 3-d! and it’s 1-d head-banging closure! :)... ;( :x, :s, \: (mouth’s missing but i have a mammoth in malibu -
and my love can’t aim to have the mortgage too - but hey, girl’s heading for the one coin-flip dolphin clap; and i was a teenager once too... but played grand theft auto 2d throughout asking for a bottle of whiskey and a panda’s / koala’s bothersome diet to hunt sleep); is there some sign language translation of emoji? i just don't have the talents to enter the emoji language and become a ********* or make democracy justly an exclusion of cowards and ****** i can’t do that, let’s utilise charles the third! ‘too busy, too fuzzy,’ well hear and karma sutra the talk of the man, after all the coinage and respecting the hedgehog on his head.*
i cleaned it into a hotel like i would into a brothel,
while the suffragettes
looked like the elephant man in niqāb,
and i was ready
with the fist; although i shook less
than i spoke to mouth it off into democracy
continuing the power struggle vetoed with bodies extracted
into the count warranting mourning.
what success is it if a white boy in a western society
can’t leave the nest and establish a taxable one to suit power?
where’s the power then, in the stateless individual?
where is your power to my ******* of being given wife and house
not given? where?!
if i can’t be the individuated pawn power broker you can’t be in power... idiots!
you have to give me the ******* i “desire” to be in power, if you can’t,
you’re not in power! ave augustus ave ego!
try contort the square into a triangle by contorting **** into f*ck.... ah ****
you already did... where’s the spanks’ worth of bullseye?!
you germans have no decency in human affairs
than you have to inspect **** movies varied
by wildebeest stampedes
from guernsey into gibraltar in gifs, do you?
well i did **** off a palm tree and got a coconut for an oasis’ worth of thirst.
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 11:24 AM UTC
Come away with me
To toil upon the sea,
Come away and see
How sweet sea life can be,
I'll sing Bonnie Dundee
Off the coast of
Old Guernsey, you and me
As toilers of the sea, as toilers of the sea.
Help me put that wrecked
Romance away from me,
Help me understand
How it was lost at sea,
It wasn't destined to be,
She belonged to another not me,
What’ll be will be,
For toilers of the sea, for toilers of the sea.
I can stand it if you're
There with me,
For the solitary life at sea
Is enough to make you
Sea crazy,
With the whales
And gulls for company,
For toilers of the sea, for toilers of the sea.
We can ponder on
The ocean's mysteries,
I'll unveil a few of
My old sea stories,
You'll see how kind a tar can be,
I promise you'll be safe with me,
When we're out at sea
As toilers of the sea, as toilers of the sea.
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 11:17 AM UTC
On the radio
Bach celebrating
the Epiphany of Our Lord
(such grace and purpose
my music is yet to know),
I hear your sad voice
on the telephone
with the ‘blues so bad’,
friendless and alone.
I am ashamed; that for me
there should remain so many questions
yet to answer, and that this loneliness
you feel I rarely know,
so caught up in life am I.
For so long
I’ve had your photo framed.
Though black and white
I always see the colours:
the brown lustre of your careful hair,
your eyes of almost jade-like green,
the Guernsey red of your sweater
and that particular check of the shirt
I once unbuttoned all the way
to place my hands against your *******
that imperceptibly rose to kiss my fingers,
and when uncovered touched each palm
as if a benediction on this love we own.
Please know you are my dearest friend;
that you may reach out your hand to me
and I will grasp it with love and care
and much affection, passionate still
despite and even though
I am at sea myself
and drowning slowly
in my shame,
frightened by despair
that it should be so.
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 1:29 PM UTC
I'm on my way to luncheon.
It's only down the hall.
But at journeys end the shortest way
Seems the longest road of all.
It's most peculiar. These old walls
Were decorated plain.
But the fog dissolves to a distant shore,
As an Emerald Calls my name.
I've journeyed through the decades
Where I've heard the Church bells peel,
From the beachhead of June '44
To The factory gates in Theale.
I grew a garden proud and fair,
With a weeping willow tree.
Where my family played in its summer shade,
It still remembers me.
My trips to Ross have long since stopped,
But the earth salutes them still;
With the ghost of a car, on the shortcut
Down the side of Birdlip Hill.
My travelling days are now long gone,
But my family still recall,
That a ship came back from Guernsey
With contraband alcohol
I don't know how they'll judge me,
When my final furlong's run
But an echoing stranger’s voice talks
Of a gentle Gentleman.
I was a handsome charmer, now
I've supped time's cruel pill.
But that glint in my eye, as you pass me by
Is shining from me still.
I learned it from my father,
Snooker was my game
Now friends have all gone home
I’m tired; I've played my final frame.
I'm on my way to luncheon.
A familiar smell wafts by,
The scent of overcooked
Roast beef, the tang of apple pie.
I'm on my way to luncheon,
I drop my frame and fall.
I hear the siren whisper
Of a distant dancer's call.
I'll leave you all in peace now,
But I don't want any tears,
And I don't want any fuss now,
When you toast my passing years.
Mar 7, 2022
Mar 7, 2022 at 2:34 PM UTC