Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
"hobo" poems
(March, 1919)A LIAR goes in fine clothes. A liar goes in rags. A liar is a liar, clothes or no clothes. A liar is a liar and lives on the lies he tells and dies in a life of lies. And the stonecutters earn a living-with lies-on the tombs of liars. Aliar looks 'em in the eye And lies to a woman, Lies to a man, a pal, a child, a fool. And he is an old liar; we know him many years back. A liar lies to nations. A liar lies to the people. A liar takes the blood of the people And drinks this blood with a laugh and a lie, A laugh in his neck, A lie in his mouth. And this liar is an old one; we know him many years. He is straight as a dog's hind leg. He is straight as a corkscrew. He is white as a black cat's foot at midnight. The tongue of a man is tied on this, On the liar who lies to nations, The liar who lies to the people. The tongue of a man is tied on this And ends: To hell with 'em all. To hell with 'em all. It's a song hard as a riveter's hammer, Hard as the sleep of a crummy hobo, Hard as the sleep of a lousy doughboy, Twisted as a shell-shock idiot's gibber. The liars met where the doors were locked. They said to each other: Now for war. The liars fixed it and told 'em: Go. Across their tables they fixed it up, Behind their doors away from the mob. And the guns did a job that nicked off millions. The guns blew seven million off the map, The guns sent seven million west. Seven million shoving up the daisies. Across their tables they fixed it up, The liars who lie to nations. And now Out of the butcher's job And the boneyard junk the maggots have cleaned, Where the jaws of skulls tell the jokes of war ghosts, Out of this they are calling now: Let's go back where we were. Let us run the world again, us, us. Where the doors are locked the liars say: Wait and we'll cash in again. So I hear The People talk. I hear them tell each other: Let the strong men be ready. Let the strong men watch. Let your wrists be cool and your head clear. Let the liars get their finish, The liars and their waiting game, waiting a day again To open the doors and tell us: War! get out to your war again. So I hear The People tell each other: Look at to-day and to-morrow. Fix this clock that nicks off millions When The Liars say it's time. Take things in your own hands. To hell with 'em all, The liars who lie to nations, The liars who lie to The People.
0
10.5k
The Liars
(March, 1919)A LIAR goes in fine clothes. A liar goes in rags. A liar is a liar, clothes or no clothes. A liar is a liar and lives on the lies he tells and dies in a life of lies. And the stonecutters earn a living-with lies-on the tombs of liars. Aliar looks 'em in the eye And lies to a woman, Lies to a man, a pal, a child, a fool. And he is an old liar; we know him many years back. A liar lies to nations. A liar lies to the people. A liar takes the blood of the people And drinks this blood with a laugh and a lie, A laugh in his neck, A lie in his mouth. And this liar is an old one; we know him many years. He is straight as a dog's hind leg. He is straight as a corkscrew. He is white as a black cat's foot at midnight. The tongue of a man is tied on this, On the liar who lies to nations, The liar who lies to the people. The tongue of a man is tied on this And ends: To hell with 'em all. To hell with 'em all. It's a song hard as a riveter's hammer, Hard as the sleep of a crummy hobo, Hard as the sleep of a lousy doughboy, Twisted as a shell-shock idiot's gibber. The liars met where the doors were locked. They said to each other: Now for war. The liars fixed it and told 'em: Go. Across their tables they fixed it up, Behind their doors away from the mob. And the guns did a job that nicked off millions. The guns blew seven million off the map, The guns sent seven million west. Seven million shoving up the daisies. Across their tables they fixed it up, The liars who lie to nations. And now Out of the butcher's job And the boneyard junk the maggots have cleaned, Where the jaws of skulls tell the jokes of war ghosts, Out of this they are calling now: Let's go back where we were. Let us run the world again, us, us. Where the doors are locked the liars say: Wait and we'll cash in again. So I hear The People talk. I hear them tell each other: Let the strong men be ready. Let the strong men watch. Let your wrists be cool and your head clear. Let the liars get their finish, The liars and their waiting game, waiting a day again To open the doors and tell us: War! get out to your war again. So I hear The People tell each other: Look at to-day and to-morrow. Fix this clock that nicks off millions When The Liars say it's time. Take things in your own hands. To hell with 'em all, The liars who lie to nations, The liars who lie to The People.
Continue reading...
73
Once I lived deep in a forest My bleeding heart turned to stone I disappeared out in the shadows A hollow tree I called home I know what it is to be a hobo Train to train, same house twice I know how it feels to beg and borrow To share my roll with scratchy mice Once I even tried to phone home But the number slipped my weary mind And when I finally did remember It all seem such a waste of time Do you know what it's like to be a hobo? Nobody knows you when you're down Memories haunt you like a cold wind I was lost but now I'm found Now I live upon a mountain High above the raging sea Timeless, old but not forgotten This hobo nature inside of me...
0
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 9:23 AM UTC
HOBO ANTHEM
Oh sleepless night What a trick on me you play! For the reason I cannot sleep Is because I anticipate the day We build our day up To have it elapse at night But how too often a time I experience A continuance through the night Oh how unfair to me you see For nighttime is a break much overlooked Because I walk through the day quite sleepily Which is difficult in a day so overbooked Sleeping figures Rejuvenating minds Your mind is cultivating in peace While my face is forming lines Oh how I wish I didn’t get so worked up I expected this to happen Which ironically is the reason My tiredness has been dampened I lay in bed, ready Ready to try this out A pleasant sleep is all I wanted Without completely passing out How I get so jealous when You lay there and drift to rest While I’m dealing with two polar issues-- Either abruptly collapse into sleep or else from it slowly digress Oh sleepless night, you tease me so You fool with me and upset me so For when thinking of tomorrow I surely know I’m not going to be as lively as my potential. It’s like I’m a hobo on Fifth Ave Looking at the rich not realizing what they have I get excited over spare change While you collect your pay checks again and again So let’s face it, tomorrow I’ll be miserable And I’ll look forward to when the clock strikes night But then the hours I have will become considerable So I’ll lay there restlessly and drift away just before the light. So I’ll get a taste of what sleeps like But I’ll never get to experience it right. Oh you cruel, mean sleepless night! Where dwells your brother so known as the “Goodnight”?
0
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 4:53 PM UTC
Oh, Sleepless Night
Oh sleepless night What a trick on me you play! For the reason I cannot sleep Is because I anticipate the day We build our day up To have it elapse at night But how too often a time I experience A continuance through the night Oh how unfair to me you see For nighttime is a break much overlooked Because I walk through the day quite sleepily Which is difficult in a day so overbooked Sleeping figures Rejuvenating minds Your mind is cultivating in peace While my face is forming lines Oh how I wish I didn’t get so worked up I expected this to happen Which ironically is the reason My tiredness has been dampened I lay in bed, ready Ready to try this out A pleasant sleep is all I wanted Without completely passing out How I get so jealous when You lay there and drift to rest While I’m dealing with two polar issues-- Either abruptly collapse into sleep or else from it slowly digress Oh sleepless night, you tease me so You fool with me and upset me so For when thinking of tomorrow I surely know I’m not going to be as lively as my potential. It’s like I’m a hobo on Fifth Ave Looking at the rich not realizing what they have I get excited over spare change While you collect your pay checks again and again So let’s face it, tomorrow I’ll be miserable And I’ll look forward to when the clock strikes night But then the hours I have will become considerable So I’ll lay there restlessly and drift away just before the light. So I’ll get a taste of what sleeps like But I’ll never get to experience it right. Oh you cruel, mean sleepless night! Where dwells your brother so known as the “Goodnight”?
Continue reading...
44
I’m born, the world is warm I learn about God, Love and Peace is never forlorn Memories of compassion and safety like a song No more lessons lately, wonder what went wrong? A sting of a Bee in my heart said they were gone I tried to reach the next of kin a lot, but only felt next to sin along Once, I heard a Lion Queen roar And so the young had to leave and be in the raw
0
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 3:33 AM UTC
HOBO “How Orphans Became Orphans”
Gabby Abrego I'll never let you go go unless we go to Mexico and you be come a hobo! Then I'll go. and fetch the so co. so we can dance to disco eat enchiladas with adobo pick the **** out of our Afros! We'll feel so funky, the people will get spunky when we arrive on donkeys, and ride around their towns! We'll befriend all the junkies and give them howler monkeys, it'll be so funny we'll laugh until you cry! Ohh! Gabby Abrego I'll never let you go go unless I get you prego then I'll run like mad! cuz if we had a baby I'd stop being lazy get as famous as THE LADY support you like Eminem did for his baby. So Never Ever leave me Or I'll succumb to Scientology and go even more crazy my world'd become a mystery. I'd rather be a rhino rather be tricked into a ***** rather be married to Bono in a movie starring J.Lo be forced to live with Yoko Ono have red eyes like an albino than to ever be with out Gabby Abrego!!!
0
Jul 12, 2010
Jul 12, 2010 at 1:01 AM UTC
A silly poem for my best friend, Gabby.
Hobo Sun, My heart beside me Hobo Sun, This life defile me Hobo Sun, Oh here I'm following... chorus I hit those streets, tracks, highways, and I'm following, follow every-day, I'm following, every-day. My Hobo Sun, Your path known Hobo Sun, Mine not so Hobo Sun, CAN'T YOU HEAR ME! Hobo Sun! HOBO SUN? chorus I hit those streets, tracks, highways, and I'm following, follow every-day, I'm following, every-day. Hobo Sun, I'm homeless... Hobo Sun, I know this... Hobo Sun, Have nothing Hobo Sun, You're everything... chorus I hit those streets, tracks, highways, and I'm following, follow every-day, I'm following, every-day. Hit those streets, those highways, Hit those streets, tracks, highways, Hit those streets, every-day Hit those streets. I hit those streets... alcohol drugs those streets, my tracks, high way chorus I hit those streets, tracks, highways, and I'm following, follow every-day, I'm following, every-day. chorus I hit those streets, tracks, highways, and I'm following, follow every-day, I'm following, every-day. *
0
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 8:55 PM UTC
PYTHON
I'll be on the front lines Fighting fireflies on a Golf Course With a butterfly net Collecting ghosts in mason jar to plant back on the cemetery The crows are making nests in the skull of your family They accidentally put the wrong name on yours And in Latin! It's ok though, because you're (were) Are?  a nihilist The river Nile is the best stream of consciousness Known to man and of Course that's where you drowned your metaphorical thoughts While you hung yourself above a treadmill trying to pretend you wanted to be a better man But you only ran away The Stonehenge is the front gate to your home           It's made from       billboards and Pictures of static When you're dead you                         Live in White Noise You're turning my lights on and off                as I'm trying to sleep haunting me in my over easy eggs making the yolk run in words "Miss me?" And of course I do But you are as good a my imaginary friend When I'm walking in the park with all the scarecrows you make the dandelions float, no amount of wishes is bringing you back I know boards of wood are easier to you than the termites eating the tumor in my brain           from the insanity you're causing me So instead I paper mache my room with love letters from you that got lost in the mail because you stole them for me A banksy bankrupt in original thought I'm building a tiny forest              of matches If I can't sleep I'm joining you So you pack your bags, hobo style but with Picnic baskets and dead leaves Seancing yourself With the crystal ***** of my eyes I lost you in some newspaper ad about a Home for sale Does it come with a family? How is that legal? But I lost you because I bought the wrong copy and couldn't find that one blurry word that was you saying Good morning I lost you at sea   And in my dreams       And to your own hands    And to my own memory I'm dancing with wolves Called Alzheimer's because I'll die with a disease of age Instead of house burning, building leaping Front Page Then we'll go live in abandoned amusement parks with creaky Ferris wheels turning Like you in your grave And me with the Cycle of Life
0
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 7:34 PM UTC
Camping in Cemeteries
I'll be on the front lines Fighting fireflies on a Golf Course With a butterfly net Collecting ghosts in mason jar to plant back on the cemetery The crows are making nests in the skull of your family They accidentally put the wrong name on yours And in Latin! It's ok though, because you're (were) Are?  a nihilist The river Nile is the best stream of consciousness Known to man and of Course that's where you drowned your metaphorical thoughts While you hung yourself above a treadmill trying to pretend you wanted to be a better man But you only ran away The Stonehenge is the front gate to your home           It's made from       billboards and Pictures of static When you're dead you                         Live in White Noise You're turning my lights on and off                as I'm trying to sleep haunting me in my over easy eggs making the yolk run in words "Miss me?" And of course I do But you are as good a my imaginary friend When I'm walking in the park with all the scarecrows you make the dandelions float, no amount of wishes is bringing you back I know boards of wood are easier to you than the termites eating the tumor in my brain           from the insanity you're causing me So instead I paper mache my room with love letters from you that got lost in the mail because you stole them for me A banksy bankrupt in original thought I'm building a tiny forest              of matches If I can't sleep I'm joining you So you pack your bags, hobo style but with Picnic baskets and dead leaves Seancing yourself With the crystal ***** of my eyes I lost you in some newspaper ad about a Home for sale Does it come with a family? How is that legal? But I lost you because I bought the wrong copy and couldn't find that one blurry word that was you saying Good morning I lost you at sea   And in my dreams       And to your own hands    And to my own memory I'm dancing with wolves Called Alzheimer's because I'll die with a disease of age Instead of house burning, building leaping Front Page Then we'll go live in abandoned amusement parks with creaky Ferris wheels turning Like you in your grave And me with the Cycle of Life
Continue reading...
81
do we you or i live life? I think so we live life and experience things like the cosmos – nebula's, constellations and galaxies the speckled white backdrop of purple green on a black satin sky at night – so magnificent we live life and experience things like that hobo – cold and homeless an image of pure sadness we look at the wretch and feel despair – he smiles, his shallow and sickly eyes say the opposite. So we wonder what is his story, his history – a mask we live life and experience things like a rainbow – an optical illusion that has no end and no beginning, it is infinite and we reach and reach and grasp and grasp and and we never get a grip – a mirage we live life and experience things like children – inebriated adults proclaiming a grin of innocence and a smile of sweetness in small form – we cling to our youth, much like the rainbow or the lion seeking his prey we hunt for it – **its momentary ** we live life and experience things like exhilaration – riding a roller coaster, a high speed car chase – watching a man land on the moon, falling in love, and the times when childlike excitement fill our bodies – the escape life is so magnificent, who we are behind the mask, how we see a mirage, and its momentary fleeting passing, and our escape –living for the escape.
0
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 6:33 PM UTC
a life spent escaping life
Who? ... What are the choices? ---- None --- --- Christ the hobo the freight train The buggered boy the ****** *** The boy in the basement video games The blind man's bluff the the walking lame --- Who? . Why you ask? -- I don't know what else can I say?
0
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 12:43 AM UTC
done
A CLOWN IS... A ~ one of a kind C ~ CRAZY Clown L ~ LAZY Clown O ~ ORNERY or FUNNY Clown W ~ WHITEFACED Clown N ~ NONSENSICAL Clown A Clown can make one happy A Clown can look very sad A Clown can be called Apple Annie And wear an Apple on her head. A Clown comes with many names It depends on who they are. There was a Hobo Clown named Emmett Kelly, Jr. Who always made me sad, for he wore old rags, and walked real slow, But he wasn't very scary, for that I was real glad. And then there was BOZO the clown Whose horn he beeped, and beeped and beeped At least he was a funny Clown, He never wore a frown. The scary one was Penneywise the dancing Clown From the movie IT... He was the scariest Clown I ever saw Fingers real long, and he lived in a sewer. Now since I love dancing, one would think he was my favorite...for he was called the dancing Clown. But when he climbed out of the sewer, and hid behind the doors, Let me tell you folks, I wasn't watching any more... But let me add my favorite Clown Her name is Polka Dot... She's been my friend for 60 years She keeps me laughing, even when she's not in costume... Polka Dot's real name is Ginney Jean She IS A CLOWN my favorite kind of friend. by ~ judy
0
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 7:19 PM UTC
A CLOWN IS...
1. Go on a scary ride 10 times in a row. 2. Go Skydiving. 3.Make a time capsule. 4.Spend 1 day without talking. 5.Say yes to everything for a day (expect if it is: harmful, embarrassing...). 6.Face my fears. 7.Learn how to drive a car. 8.Go camping for a week (with friends). 9.Go without TV for a month. 10.Donate blood. 11.Walk around barefooted for a day (SolesforSouls). 12.Dress like a hobo for two days. 13.Drink 100 cups of coffee (& stay up all night). 14.Take a picture of a jellyfish. 15.Change my style. 16. Read 10 classic books in a 2 days.
0
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 1:28 AM UTC
16 things to do before you turn 16
Chicken is very good watermelown ***** xbox one is awesome I may or may not be a hobo
0
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 12:03 PM UTC
Stuff
I REMEMBER here by the fire, In the flickering reds and saffrons, They came in a ramshackle tub, Pilgrims in tall hats, Pilgrims of iron jaws, Drifting by weeks on beaten seas, And the random chapters say They were glad and sang to God. And so Since the iron-jawed men sat down And said, "Thanks, O God," For life and soup and a little less Than a hobo handout to-day, Since gray winds blew gray patterns of sleet on Plymouth Rock, Since the iron-jawed men sang "Thanks, O God," You and I, O Child of the West, Remember more than ever November and the hunter's moon, November and the yellow-spotted hills. And so In the name of the iron-jawed men I will stand up and say yes till the finish is come and gone. God of all broken hearts, empty hands, sleeping soldiers, God of all star-flung beaches of night sky, I and my love-child stand up together to-day and sing: "Thanks, O God."
0
2.2k
Fire Dreams
Tell me what you see when you look at me. My eyes? My pert, soft buttocks? My beer belly? Do you even see anything at all? Maybe, you don't even register me. Maybe, I just walk past you and you walk past me and we both just ignore each other. There is no special recognition, not a hint of longing or regret. Just a casual, accidental bump because you were on the phone talking to some random ***** named Trish. Or, maybe, just maybe, what you see, sets your libido on fire. You can't bear to look at me because it's like looking at the sun; You think that if you stare too long, your eyes will burn and you'll go blind. You're afraid that one more fevered look in my direction will be the last one it takes to make you jump on me with such lust as to make Casanova weep. I dunno, Maybe it's not as bad as that. Maybe what you see makes you remember those long weekends spent by the lakeside, reading poetry and discovering what it means to love yourself again. Maybe you just take a quick peek to get you through the day even though your heart wants to stare forever. Hell, it might even be the genuine article: That be all and end all, The one true form, That greatest thing: Love at first sight. Or, y'know, maybe you were just looking at that hobo behind me, vomiting into a bin.
0
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 8:28 PM UTC
Love At First Sight
No trains in this town Not the passenger kind, anyhow Unless you are a hobo Riding the rail Singing clickety-clack, clickety-clack Dreaming of a girl A pint of Beam A lost dog named Woof wearing a red bandana Warm nights Sunshine Sweet Georgia. r ~ 5/25/14
0
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 5:19 PM UTC
Train
A special invite i got To a ballroom party today. Do I look like a ballroomer, I'm a filth **** dirt Hard working man who plows his field. I'm not meant for some fancy suit dancing. Unless. There's a fine poetry lady to dance with me Then I'll be whatever the invite wants me to be.
0
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 9:59 AM UTC
Ballroom bearded hobo
I write long stories Short, medium as well I write because I think that I have something to tell I've met people in my writing All living in my head They come to me in daytime And they speak to me in bed I don't know if I've met them There's a chance they may be real But, they're there inside me living Letting people know just how they feel I've singers, painters, dancers blindmen, kids who like weird things teachers, stutterers and hobo's crippled kids and kings I'm not sure if I've met them But, by now, I know their names I know everything about them And I know, no one is the same They keep me entertained and I hope you like them too I've got to move some boxes in my head To see if I can find somebody new.
0
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 8:05 PM UTC
My people
I feel like a comic strip hobo With no money for deposit And still I step from slapstick to cement and hope court jester is enough here I have come out of the rain and into your home Drawn to you Though there is no pie in your window No ghostly fingers of your sweet smell beckoning me in You make me feel Like a ghost in a graveyard Praying for a new harmonica inhale and exhale So that this music can sound more like a dance for two A panic waltz for feet trying to match your grace And today Darlin' There is honey between my teeth A sweet sound Our love is backwards Blacklisted An elbow torqued and knuckle gutted dry heave halleluja Arthur Miller would have written a satire about our love I remember our early conversations You said you didn't believe in god I said that he was a fantastic literary device You said though you didn't believe in god that people themselves could be godly I suddenly wondered what you would look like with a jerry curl "Let's not call it godly," I said "What then," you said I don't know I just know that Your eyes are like second winds like Breathcatch memories of highway carjackings where you were the one left on the side of the road The warm summer pillow of your stomach And the peel of my face away from it Is sticky like candy Your stomach is like candy in that way So is my face I can be sweet too Your smile is speechless like the speakers are speechless And the music has stopped and our bodies are still save for your smile That quivers like fire And I am a comic strip hobo With a bandana backpack and not much to offer But I am drawn to you You make me feel like harmonica breath You make my mouth feel like honey
0
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 4:34 PM UTC
I am a Comic Strip Hobo
I feel like a comic strip hobo With no money for deposit And still I step from slapstick to cement and hope court jester is enough here I have come out of the rain and into your home Drawn to you Though there is no pie in your window No ghostly fingers of your sweet smell beckoning me in You make me feel Like a ghost in a graveyard Praying for a new harmonica inhale and exhale So that this music can sound more like a dance for two A panic waltz for feet trying to match your grace And today Darlin' There is honey between my teeth A sweet sound Our love is backwards Blacklisted An elbow torqued and knuckle gutted dry heave halleluja Arthur Miller would have written a satire about our love I remember our early conversations You said you didn't believe in god I said that he was a fantastic literary device You said though you didn't believe in god that people themselves could be godly I suddenly wondered what you would look like with a jerry curl "Let's not call it godly," I said "What then," you said I don't know I just know that Your eyes are like second winds like Breathcatch memories of highway carjackings where you were the one left on the side of the road The warm summer pillow of your stomach And the peel of my face away from it Is sticky like candy Your stomach is like candy in that way So is my face I can be sweet too Your smile is speechless like the speakers are speechless And the music has stopped and our bodies are still save for your smile That quivers like fire And I am a comic strip hobo With a bandana backpack and not much to offer But I am drawn to you You make me feel like harmonica breath You make my mouth feel like honey
Continue reading...
56
City almost done now, the fun somehow has left these streets, but weary feet are tramping home, sick to death and weary to the bone. Rtoseberry avenue postcode EC1 and then it's gone. Clerkenwell green, scene of many unpleasantries leaves me and on to St John's street and more city feet. Old street not paved with gold except for the elite and more weary feet tramping on. It's the end of another day and the city always had its way with the few and the lucky ones escaped by bus, not us, we went hobo on the city street, tramps and dodgy people, feet so sore and where if when we look to see the Shoreditch box park know we are not far or free of Hackney and the night falls dark across me. I do I do Said twice, but in my heart I knew it wasn't so. I go because I must've been and seen it all before and though I know it's rotten to the core it draws me like a magnet and I am being trawled by some megaline or dragnet. The streets beat me down and the pirates in this ***** town have stolen me away, just another bedtime story written underneath the evening stars and just another ending of the day.
0
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC
55 bus route ( tubeless blues)
eight, nine nine, eight, nine Hello, father, spare me a dime, and pay the mime with five landmines; **** off the bridge if we've got time. Appalachian Yeti-man: set fire to the trashcan. Call me hobo-stan, and if the beard fits grow it. Show it; show me the D. Dentistry, stay with me; Explain for free: "Dichotomy of the mind" thoughtfully, for a time. Robot-o me, Mr. Oregato. Set phasers to **** stunningly. Make fun of he for bad grammar and intellectuality. He dumber; me smarter. She's aderall; I'm martyr. Destroy my innards, Captain. I need them not. She leaves me rot, and he feeds me Scott. Scottie doesn't know that Fiona and me eat him in a van while he's sleeping. Cannibal, call me Hannibal, and she's the Jane to my Tarzan, pulling the fruits of my loom.
0
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 1:40 AM UTC
Fester
Judith took me to the derelict cottage just off the wood in the Easter recess from school she opened up the back door and into the kitchen with its smell of damp and decay it's been empty for years she said my sister and I used to come here and pretend it was our own cottage smells horrible I said ignore the smell she said pretend it's our own cottage and we have just moved in after marrying when did we marry? I asked after we left school she said smiling she walked into a larger room with wide windows looking out onto a large overgrown garden we could grow some of our own food she said looking out the window I looked at the hanging wallpaper and a damp patch on the ceiling and our children could play out there she said what children?  I asked when did they come along? after we married she said I don't remember I said smiling you will if you pretend better she said moving through to another room at the front I noticed a space where a picture must have hung because it was cleaner than the rest of the wall I like this room she said this is where we will sit and have our TV and radio and the children can sit with us and we can cuddle them I nodded playing along let me show you upstairs to the bedrooms she said so I followed her up the creaky stairs her green skirt swaying as she walked three bedrooms she said one for us one for our boys and one for our girls she stood in the front bedroom looking out over an untidy hedge onto the road this is our bedroom she said turning around looking at it all our bed can go there she said pointing to a wall on the left and we can have a dressing table and dresser the room was empty and smelt over by the right wall was a pile of **** some one's been here and dumped I said probably some ***** or hobo she looked at the **** and said who's dumped in our bedroom? I laughed it isn't our room yet pretend she said I pretended the **** wasn't there and we went into the other bedrooms and she said this was where such and such will be and out of the window the overgrown garden seemed vast with an apple orchard to the left she touched my hand and squeezed it we will be happy here she said I looked about the room years after   the cottage smelt ranker and she was dead.
0
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 2:16 AM UTC
EMPTY COTTAGE.
Judith took me to the derelict cottage just off the wood in the Easter recess from school she opened up the back door and into the kitchen with its smell of damp and decay it's been empty for years she said my sister and I used to come here and pretend it was our own cottage smells horrible I said ignore the smell she said pretend it's our own cottage and we have just moved in after marrying when did we marry? I asked after we left school she said smiling she walked into a larger room with wide windows looking out onto a large overgrown garden we could grow some of our own food she said looking out the window I looked at the hanging wallpaper and a damp patch on the ceiling and our children could play out there she said what children?  I asked when did they come along? after we married she said I don't remember I said smiling you will if you pretend better she said moving through to another room at the front I noticed a space where a picture must have hung because it was cleaner than the rest of the wall I like this room she said this is where we will sit and have our TV and radio and the children can sit with us and we can cuddle them I nodded playing along let me show you upstairs to the bedrooms she said so I followed her up the creaky stairs her green skirt swaying as she walked three bedrooms she said one for us one for our boys and one for our girls she stood in the front bedroom looking out over an untidy hedge onto the road this is our bedroom she said turning around looking at it all our bed can go there she said pointing to a wall on the left and we can have a dressing table and dresser the room was empty and smelt over by the right wall was a pile of **** some one's been here and dumped I said probably some ***** or hobo she looked at the **** and said who's dumped in our bedroom? I laughed it isn't our room yet pretend she said I pretended the **** wasn't there and we went into the other bedrooms and she said this was where such and such will be and out of the window the overgrown garden seemed vast with an apple orchard to the left she touched my hand and squeezed it we will be happy here she said I looked about the room years after   the cottage smelt ranker and she was dead.
Continue reading...
142
I watched you today; I admired your strutting decadence Unruly, dishevelled bird of jagged honesty Ruffled, disrespectful feathers that shine And reflect your begging, squawking call You and four of your friends, Dragged down a helpless potato I Left out for you; Pinioned it to the ground With strutted abandon Oh bird much maligned; Bird of ungainly beauty Hobo, derelict, winged, caller When you murmur the Shaking stirred skies With your flocks, The noise black swirled and reckless Never fails to make us catch our breath That such flock - formed beauty could come From a ragged kingdom call Makes my own wings; Take Flight
0
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 6:01 PM UTC
Starlings
It was always 1907 Freight car The Hobo would fall asleep in a freight car yard Having no place to actually live But a good heart that wants to give However, the Hobo happens to be a noun and not an adjective It was the Holy Smoke Freight yard that caught the Hobo’s attention But this Hobo’s story is his own presentation A Hobo broke and having no job Negative reactions feeling like a mob The Hobo once had a home But he was yet all alone The only thing he would do at this point was to continue to roam The Hobo was one who always loved to travel The thought of the entire United States with inspiration in captivation of marvel So one freight car became the Hobo’s personal home He travelled everywhere and got rest beyond compare The Hobo travelled far He got around without a car The freight train would normally stop in a town or a nearby city But numerous people had no pity However, the Hobo didn’t pity himself He refused to be like everybody else He lived and rode the freight train as if it would be a lifetime But the freight car was the Hobo’s space A freight train having no problem with the Hobo ride The Hobo lived his life in being his stride.
0
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 3:30 PM UTC
A HOBO’S PERSONAL FREIGHT CAR
The city's shrouded in smoke today smoke coats my mouth, throat & eyes & I know, I know.        I should be writing in form, in rhyme - villanelles, sonnets, terza rima       some say there's too much free verse, some say, it's like everyone's jumped on the bandwagon        yet the most of the magazines still all want rhyme                  but sometimes this is just the tune                                     your heart sings, a broken smile                                     & the way the images build up                                         waiting to sail like ships in the harbor & besides, should we really be writing in villanelles when we are the Mad & I see now, the best minds of our generation, the gifted, the naked wastrels of the coming apocalypse, talking to lamp posts, screaming of Ginsberg's Moloch & the wrongs they did us, yet not destroyed even as we scream locked behind whitewashed walls in razor-blade glint & halogenic glow of ECT or walk the empty streets at guerilla dawn & dusk, bearing the ample weight of our drugged-up minds like those martyrs of the old Soviet Union & clinging on to memoirs of our stolen, interrupted, spiritual awakening, searching for the redemption of litter in this hobo life,  changing countries like some change bed sheets, others rooted by the invisible chains of familiarity & home, still calling for the road, oh Kerouac, the fallen angels of tomorrow strung out on sweet childhood memories & jazz in starved sunsets, picking themselves up to pick at their scab wounds, spitting at corrupt governments, bitter with alcohol, writing poems of unrequited love to poets far better than us, while Elvis croons in the background & a Baboushka spits sunflower seeds in the Russian town of my ancestors & an open air film plays in black & white & this colorless summer is nearly over & they still haven't lifted their sanctions them with their stone gods of war & psychiatry, always lining up the next undesirables : you could be next, yes you with the rainbow eyes you the believer, you the dreamer of visions Oh pity them, the children of smoke, blind to the vagabond, the poet, the lover lost children always seeking out the same roads the city is shrouded in smoke & I wonder if it's not always been there & if we're living amongst blind men ones that never read poems or else how could all this happen
0
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 11:22 AM UTC
Smoke
The city's shrouded in smoke today smoke coats my mouth, throat & eyes & I know, I know.        I should be writing in form, in rhyme - villanelles, sonnets, terza rima       some say there's too much free verse, some say, it's like everyone's jumped on the bandwagon        yet the most of the magazines still all want rhyme                  but sometimes this is just the tune                                     your heart sings, a broken smile                                     & the way the images build up                                         waiting to sail like ships in the harbor & besides, should we really be writing in villanelles when we are the Mad & I see now, the best minds of our generation, the gifted, the naked wastrels of the coming apocalypse, talking to lamp posts, screaming of Ginsberg's Moloch & the wrongs they did us, yet not destroyed even as we scream locked behind whitewashed walls in razor-blade glint & halogenic glow of ECT or walk the empty streets at guerilla dawn & dusk, bearing the ample weight of our drugged-up minds like those martyrs of the old Soviet Union & clinging on to memoirs of our stolen, interrupted, spiritual awakening, searching for the redemption of litter in this hobo life,  changing countries like some change bed sheets, others rooted by the invisible chains of familiarity & home, still calling for the road, oh Kerouac, the fallen angels of tomorrow strung out on sweet childhood memories & jazz in starved sunsets, picking themselves up to pick at their scab wounds, spitting at corrupt governments, bitter with alcohol, writing poems of unrequited love to poets far better than us, while Elvis croons in the background & a Baboushka spits sunflower seeds in the Russian town of my ancestors & an open air film plays in black & white & this colorless summer is nearly over & they still haven't lifted their sanctions them with their stone gods of war & psychiatry, always lining up the next undesirables : you could be next, yes you with the rainbow eyes you the believer, you the dreamer of visions Oh pity them, the children of smoke, blind to the vagabond, the poet, the lover lost children always seeking out the same roads the city is shrouded in smoke & I wonder if it's not always been there & if we're living amongst blind men ones that never read poems or else how could all this happen
Continue reading...
47