"holland" poems
late night by the holland sill
white framed and frilled
alongside the meadow
down by the grand
where cat fish
and cow pies
and silly yellow bees
make their stay
there are swings now
and empty barns
(with quiet corners
and broken walls)
echoing chambers
that speak of the past
...and little dogs
not big ones
the plaster cracks
and wheat sways
from a warm west wind
it’s about time
for that late afternoon pour
you know how it cleans the soul
old percy would say
and flanders
(the holder of those pigs)
who fed us good
with sow and milk
as we plowed the
dusty fields
into the
hot summer sun
i can still hear the screams
of river shore dreams
the grand slams
and flints run dry
the barks
and breaks
and bends
a world past
with forbes
and dolls
and crab apple trees
think i’ll take a trip
up the back lane
they’ve cut the brush
and opened the line
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 4:46 PM UTC
Rice cakes!
****
Rice cakes for dinner, rice cakes for lunch!
Rice cakes for breakfast!
****
Don’t they have anything else in this house?
house after house we’ve lived in Nihon*
and all we get to steal from our honorable
but ignorant human hosts
is rice cake and more rice cake...
I hate living in Nihon!
You know, I hear the Dutch and the British
and the Americans give cheese to their mice
even on their ships -
but rats! - what do we mice get
in our honorable land of the rising sun?
Rice cakes!
****
Rice cakes for dinner, rice cakes for lunch!
Rice cakes for breakfast!
****
Look - I don’t know about you - but I’ve had it!
I’m leaving Nihon forever
and I’ll jump onto one of these ships
that now more commonly visit Nihon’s shores
and end up in Britain or Holland eating cheese
and live on a Mouse Cheese Pension maybe for the rest of my life,
O cheese! cheese! - rather that, you know
than rice cakes for dinner, rice cakes for lunch!
Rice cakes for breakfast!
And what are you so composed about?
Lying there on the floor, looking so pleased with yourself -
are you coming or no?
OK...you stay here and join some Zen temple
and eat vegetarian rice cakes all your complacent and placid life -
but I’m going this very night
to the West
to feast and dine on cheese,
like an English gentleman perhaps, all my life...
Nov 14, 2011
Nov 14, 2011 at 9:30 PM UTC
This Letter Poem WM is dedicated to Mr. Williamsji Maveli, our Masterpoet.
Why a dedication to him? These initials WM are his names.
Accidentally also the initials of the first name of our Dutch Crown prince Willem-Alexander.
The second initial is of his wife's first name: Máxima.
I want to write also about our Royal Family, since our Queen of the Netherlands Beatrix will abdicate next 30 April 2013 and at the same time Willem-Alexander and his wife will be crowned as King and Queen of the Nederlanden.
Now you know a bit about the Dutch Royal family.
Today Her Majesty Queen Beatrix is still Queen of de Nederlanden till next 30 April 2013.
These humble verse is for you, Williamsji. Please, enjoy!
Thank you for your attention.
Sincerely,
Sylvia Frances Chan.
****************************************************************************************************
This letter W stands for WILLIAMSJI
and the next letter, an M for MAVELI
This W par accidence is also the first letter
of our Crown prince WILLEM-ALEXANDER
on next 30 April WILLEM and his époussée, his wife MAXIMA
will be crowned King and Queen of Neerlandica
Usually our country is called Nederland
the foreigners call it mostly the Netherlands
the tourists a many of them prefer to say Holland
with your permission, this dedication, if I may
can also be used as introduction, what do you say?
WILLIAMSJI is the first name of our masterpoet
he creates poems mostly about sensuality
entwined in beauty, eroticism and love
when you'll read his poetry
you wouldn't see all those I've written about him above
Instead you must use your rational ability
in the lines throughout his verse
you won't find, of course not, all that worse
instead, you will enjoy all the beauty
of his master's talent writing about sensuality
His family name is also beautiful, MAVELI
well known as the masterpoet Williamsji Maveli
both are his true names belonging to Mr. Maveli
this M reminds me of MáXIMA,
Crown prince Willem-Alexander's wife in optima
Now you know why I dedicate this poem to you
your initials are quite the same as Willem and Máxima
WM is Williamsji Maveli the famous poet
WM is also Crown prince Willem-Alexander
and his wife Princess Máxima
Still one thing hasn't been told
today the 27th April is Willem-Alexander's birthday
he has become forty six years old
a good father of three daughters,
all their first names begin with an A
princess Amalia, Alexia and Ariane
their grandma is Her Majesty Queen Beatrix
she will abdicate after three and thirty years of reign
Dear Mr. Williamsji Maheli, our masterpoet
your initials WM are exactly the same as
our Crown prince Willem-Alexander
and his beloved wife Máxima
that's why I present this humble dedication
to you today as a small Dutch presentation
© Sylvia Frances Chan
27th April 1967-2013
Crown prince Willem-Alexander's 46th Birthday
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 6:39 PM UTC
163
Tho’ my destiny be Fustian—
Hers be damask fine—
Tho’ she wear a silver apron—
I, a less divine—
Still, my little Gypsy being
I would far prefer,
Still, my little sunburnt *****
To her Rosier,
For, when Frosts, their punctual fingers
On her forehead lay,
You and I, and Dr. Holland,
Bloom Eternally!
Roses of a steadfast summer
In a steadfast land,
Where no Autumn lifts her pencil—
And no Reapers stand!
2.5k
*England 1942
The war was endless she thought it would be over in six weeks when it was declared.
now three years later she found herself in this airfield crowded with young fighter pilots flying Spitfires and the bomber crews flying the stalwart Lancaster bombers.
She was twenty eight now getting to that age of being called a spinster of the parish. The young airmen were interested in her but really only for one thing.
She worked in the photography department of the RAF and developed pictures taken by the recon airmen of France and Germany and Holland .
Recently an American had joined her in the darkroom.
He was a big man and had a crooked smile and big hands he lay on the belly of the bomber plane taking pictures he laughed and said he never fired a gun in his life.
And that he had no beef with Germans he just fired his camera at them.
He liked to develop his own pictures and they worked alongside each other in the darkroom all though the war.
She got used to his crooked smile and big hands. He got used to her being there.
The war finally ended and he went back to the States. Where he opened a small photography store and built a darkroom with his own hands.
When it was finished he returned to England on a ***** steamer to save money. He knocked on the ladies door that had worked with him in the darkroom.
She answered and he asked her for her hand in marraige.
She accepted his proposal and they sailed back to new York.
When she explored the photography shop she found the darkroom.
On it was pinned a note in his nice neat handwriting.
It said I fell in love with you in the dark my love.
But I want you spend the rest of of your life following the light with me.
She was to be my grandma and he was my grandfather.
My father was born a year later
he had a crooked smile and big hands with a love of photography.
His specaility light and shadow.
I was born much later and did not share the family love of photography and was let off by God with only a crooked smile no big hands.
Instead I used to get into trouble at school for writing poems in the margins of my exercise books.
Grandma passed away a little while ago
i was given the task of clearing her personal items from the house.
In her memory box I found the note
in Grandfathers hand that he pinned on the door
of his darkroom so long ago.
It moved me to write this story.
So Go follow the light Grandma
Look for a big man
with a crooked smile and big hands
Hes waiting for you.*
Jul 2, 2016
Jul 2, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC
~
fallen…
heroes all,
saviors-in-training,
on mission repeat;
the service-giving,
life-giving,
members of
a fighting team.
existing solely that
you and i
can spend our time
consumed
with the art
of loving well;
their actions
no less impassioned
than our own,
no less worthy,
no less loving and
no less selfless.
whatever we think
of war,
we must think
of the individuals
who move toward the fray
rather than away;
those to whom
we owe our very
everyday existence
be it extraordinary
or mundane;
to their daily efforts.,
to their repeated training,
to their daily sacrifice,
we offer
a prayer-filled salute!
and to these
who paid dearly,
to wives,
sons & daughters,
mothers and fathers,
nation with a
grateful heart,
a debt we cannot repay,
we humbly offer
our heart-filled
and loving tribute.
may you ever
rest in peace.
~
*post script.
serving you and me from Camp Lejeune, North Carolina,
these fallen Marine heroes are:
Capt. Stanford Henry Shaw III of Basking Ridge, New Jersey;
Master Sgt. Thomas Saunders of Camp Lejeune;
Staff Sgt. Liam Flynn of Queens, New York;
Staff Sgt. Trevor P. Blaylock of Lake Orion, Michigan;
Staff Sgt. Kerry Michael Kemp of Port Washington, Wisconsin;
Staff Sgt. Andrew Seif of Holland, Michigan; and
Staff Sgt. Marcus Bawol from Warren, Michigan
http://www.marinecorpstimes.com/story/military/2015/03/13/names-of-7-marines-killed-in-helicopter-crash-released/70277156/
(the four fallen Guard members remain unnamed at this time)
next month my son is deployed
to points classified to us his parents.
i can only think about his sacrifice
in terms of time, money, exposure to danger …
and his safe return!*
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 5:27 PM UTC
Playing her parchment moon
Precosia comes
along a watery path of laurels and crystal lights.
The starless silence, fleeing
from her rhythmic tambourine,
falls where the sea whips and sings,
his night filled with silvery swarms.
High atop the mountain peaks
the sentinels are weeping;
they guard the tall white towers
of the English consulate.
And gypsies of the water
for their pleasure *****
little castles of conch shells
and arbors of greening pine.
Playing her parchment moon
Precosia comes.
The wind sees her and rises,
the wind that never slumbers.
Naked Saint Christopher swells,
watching the girl as he plays
with tongues of celestial bells
on an invisible bagpipe.
Gypsy, let me lift your skift
and have a look at you.
Open in my ancient fingers
the blue rose of your womb.
Precosia throws the tambourine
and runs away in terror.
But the virile wind pursues her
with his breahing and burning sword.
The sea darkens and roars,
while the olive trees turn pale.
The flutes of darkness sound,
and a muted gong of the snow.
Precosia, run, Precosia!
Of the green wind will catch you!
Precosia, run, Precosia!
And look how fast he comes!
A satyr of low-born stars
with their long and glistening tongues.
Precosia, filled with fear
now makes her way to that house
beyond the tall green pines
where the English consul lives.
Alarmed by the anguished cries,
three riflemen come running,
their black capes tightly drawn,
and berets down over their brow.
The Englishman gives the gypsy
a glass of tepid milk
and a shot of Holland gin
which Precosia does not drink.
And while she tells them, weeping,
of her strange adventure,
the wind furiously gnashes
against the slate roof tiles.
2k
The Flak hits the wings and body of the plane
506th Easy Company
Of the 101st Airborne
The leg bag
Tore right off
They jumped lower than they should have been
Tracer bullets burning holes through the parachute
Tracers spraying around in the air
Firing in every direction
Paul "Buck" Rogers
Lands in a tree
Some worked their way down
Through a farm area
To a hedge row
Easy Company captured and destroyed
The guns at Brecourt Manor
Saving countless lives on Utah Beach
They helped to liberate the Dutch
Angels from the sky
The black and white footage is amazing
The gratitude and love the people show
To the men is wonderful
Finally free after four years
Of Occupation by the Germans
Battling from village to village
Along "Hell's Highway,"
Easy Company crossed Holland to the Rhine River
Nine men of Easy Company
Lost their lives
Battling in Holland
By the End of the Holland campaign,
Easy Company had been on the frontline
For more than 70 days
On Dec. 16, 1944
****** launched his offensive into the Ardennes
The Battle of the Bulge would become
The largest engagement
In the history
Of the U.S. Army
600,000 soldiers would fight in the battle
Easy Company was told to hold the perimeter of Bastogne
Surrounded by Germans
Branches knocked off of trees
Holes in the ground
Artillery attack
88s, mortars, rockets
They jumped into foxholes
He could see all the shells hitting from the foxhole
The wounded got relief from battle
Maybe a ticket home
If they died they were at peace
At Berchtesgaden
They uncovered artwork
In Zell Am Zee, Austria
Easy Company helped secure
The surrender of 25,000 German troops
On November 30, 1945
The 101st Airborne Division
Was inactivated
Day after Day
They fought together
Fought for each other
Knowing some would not return
This veteran said,
"I cherish the memories
Of a question my grandson asked me the other day.
'Grandpa, Were you a hero in the war?'
Grandpa said no
But I served in a company of heroes."
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 1:52 PM UTC
Tonight Ill lie awake waiting for the reprieve of sleep that will never come. My eyes will bore holes in the night sky for stars. Like a moth eaten blanket that covered up the outside light. My heart will sink to the center of the earth like stones and heavy metals. Arms crossed hugging myself so tight. Thoughts twist and curl through my mind like the dark waters in the sound. I’m sitting upon the breakwall that I’ve built, held steady by the mortar of my past life. Prior planning leads to stable landings.
The water leaked into the cracks that you made. I sandbagged but it meant nothing. It was like dutch fingers in cracking dams. Contents pouring out to water Holland’s tulips.
I held steady so long but recent lapses in judgement left me open and waiting.
This time, like the last, I read the weather report wrong. Sunny days relapse into clouds and rain. My stray into meteorology took me down dark streets at night passing empty parks with vacant swings and lonely slides. Houses filled with slumbering occupants. Tired streetlights lighting up void roadways like ancient nightlights. Somehow I managed to find my way home. Back to where I’ve always been. Stagnant between the surf and the cliff face, I sink to swim
Aug 4, 2012
Aug 4, 2012 at 1:54 PM UTC
It is warmer
In Paris
They talk about
The weather
Eat frugally
Hamburgers made of
Indian cows
Turnips from Sweden
Potatoes
From Holland
Gobbledegook
And sign on
The dotted line.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 5:02 AM UTC
As Farm tractors brush the hayfields of Summer
White Holland turkey's and dairy cattle share
enclosed greenery ..
Late morning vegetable harvest , the cackle of
laying hens and Chinese geese , our Postman smiles
and waves with his Noon delivery ...
Hereford cattle on the move , Fig trees feeding
songbirds , bumblebees and hummingbirds working
the afternoon flowers ..
Tubular bells in town , just over the horizon strike the one o'clock hour ...
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 1:11 PM UTC
i used to lay next to you while you'd sleep
and wonder how you could possibly have more secrets to keep
than you've got eyelashes
you've got more eyelashes than there are tulips in holland
and even that was never enough to keep me from wanting more
it wasn't my excitement that would keep me from my sleep
it was just that you snore
that ********* snore
and in my wormy brain
it means that you were subconciously bored
i always failed to work the whiskey on your breath into our amorphous algorythm
no real measure for our frosted-glass-pleasure
just bruises left to treasure
on our hearts
and necks
and spirits
we got good at it
spending every night
with so much left unsaid
that it was almost as if i could hear it
with my ear pressed to your ribs
like post-dated reverberrations from all of our forgotten arguments
echoing through the void of our emptied bottles
and in the cherry-pits of our chests
it was all just a long line of tests
measured pressures
and recorded reactions
it was an intellectual's game
who will be the first to break?
in retrospect
i think we took turns
and as much as it still burns my eyes
and breaks my mind
to know that there are tears left to cry
it feels alright
i guess that's the part i always liked
that ache left in the morning
sometimes i blame my parents
for letting me believe
that love was as simple to understand
as the plot of a disney flick
they should have told me the truth
that it's really just sick
twisted delusions of our infatuated brains
and that the more we try to change it
the more it stays the same
that the more you say its name
the less likely it is to show its face
i'll never know if it was love
or insanity
either way
s o m e t h i n g still remains
and all looks pretty much the same
from this side of the window pane
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 12:43 AM UTC
I can tell you all about betrayal
And heartbreak
Just ask about the time I spent alone on your birthday at your headstone
Let's talk about our car rides
And the way you ripped up the map
Then set your destination to the insides of my chest cavity
And how you expected it to be perfectly paved to your veins
Or when you thought
my soul was the key to your north node
I wanna talk about how every time I watch a star die out
It's just a reminder that memories don't last forever
At least ours didn't
Or maybe this is me trying to forget you like you forgot me
Id give anything just to speak with you one last time
And ask you to teach me how easily it was for you to leave someone you once called home
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 3:44 AM UTC
With the addition of one.
They seems to have so much fun.
Just by removing one.
With the addition of one.
They grew to be better.
Then they once was.
Mary got to sing a little more.
Notice her lead upon Touch, a simple additive song.
These are the ladies called, the Seventies Supremes.
Led by the voice of the sweet vocals of Jean Terrell.
A voice you can tell so different than Diana Ross.
Who recorded an album called boss?
And I'm not talking anything from her.
And sweet Cindy Birdsong.
Another member, who grew into her own.
And shared more vocalistic leads as a co-lead singer.
It Time To Break Down, with his bass beat.
Would have anyone dancing upon their feet.
Stone Love, taking them in areas that Holland, Dozier Holland never thought of.
These were the Supremes.
Which by this time only four membrs were upon hits.
We can't forget Flo.
Who were apart of the original hit trio?
Frank Wilson, accepted the challenge of the seventies unit.
And left them with an imprint that fans will remember.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 10:12 AM UTC
This feels just like
Another cliché because
You're the girl
I wanna sit under
The stars with
On a dark cold night
On the roof of my car
Cashmere blankets covering
Naked bodies
Wrapped inside one another
Conceiving constellations
Fingers pointing as
Patterns are shaped within
The sky above us
You're the girl I wanna hold
So tight that I'll always believe
I'll never lose you
That the vastness of your beauty
Of your warmth and persuasion
Never absconds
Leaving me searching through
Oceans and land
Just to taste the water of
Your love
The purity
How tranquil it leaves me
Like a baby lulled to sleep
I call you Mary Jane
You leave me high and I begin
To believe I am at one with
Those stars we are naming above
Because if I am a star above
And you are named as one too
We will never lose one another
That is why I want to sit
With you
On the roof top of my car
Out in the abyss of my surroundings
And stare above and sing a lullaby
Of my love
And count those stars until
Calmed and soothed we fall
Into the slumber of love
Only a cloud can carry
And awake anew to the rising
Of the sun
The intensity of the passion
Imploding within our bodies
A fiery sky of red and yellows
Until all that is visible is blue
Lighting a blank canvas of fields
Where we begin to sketch out
Our love
Yet again.
© Sia Jane
---
*"I think that I could be fine
If I could be Mary Jane Holland tonight
I think we'd have a good time
If you'd meet me and Mary Jane in Holland tonight."*
Lady Gaga
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 10:23 PM UTC
I was always told to carry on, don't look behind at your past.
But you also told me to watch my back.
I can't help but be teased by my past, when I'm constantly watching my back.
A few told me to not question, "why?"
and well, again I repeat myself, but, why?
why is what gave me the answer to whom my real father is.
why is the demon that lives within the five Ws.
Who? What? Where? When? Why?
or so it seems that some teachers and ivy league schools would like replace "Why" with "How."
oh, wretched fools.
you can not erase this word from the world that I live in.
not today, not tomorrow, never.
and let us remember, it is the fool that sleeps.
and although I adore my precious slumber,
where I dream like no other,
wake me. shake me. shatter and break me.
free me from my dreamland prison.
watch me strike. hear me scream. you call me crazy?
well it's true, I haven't gotten much sleep these days.
send me to my room, send me to bed,
rest your weary head.
and when so scared, I will run to the safest place,
I know.
I'm sorry,
but am I?
Deep down, you can't tell me you do not
feel it. And I was not kidding when I said
that I am Mother Nature's child,
looking for comfort from the sun.
Uncle Mike always said it, "You're not as stupid as you look."
and to this day, you both ask me why I say this.
you ask me why I am so insecure, was it the divorce?
was it the attempted kid nap? was it the ten different Father figures in my life?
The wolves in Holland, the wolves in hell.
Like a child who played the lion attacking
Daniel in the Den.
It was my sister who was playing Daniel.
The star singer at Readington Reformed Church.
If only every memory didn't trigger
every bit of trauma, that I've been trying to hide.
So I ran from why, I hid from why, I spat in the eyes of why.
However now, I love to meet and greet why with
a firm handshake.
I do this because I love why, and why loves me.
For why and I are similar and we both can play
this game of life together.
And at times when we add fuel to the fire,
we will remember, that fire is warm,
and fire protects.
But we must watch each other,
and remember that fire does burn.
Baby, the fire in my heart,
it burns and yearns for years to come.
and no, I can't say I'm sorry if it ever does burn out.
My secret fire never burns out when I am alone.
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 8:05 PM UTC
I’m finally taking Dad to see the world,
He’s been before, but not this far,
Not with his boy. He’s so excited!
Trees and houses, cows and stone
pass us by, sitting side-by-side in the train.
He’s with his boy. He’s been waiting for this day.
Quiet, but I remember his thoughts.
I know him better than myself.
He’s so happy to be here!
England, Germany, Italy and Greece,
Holland, Spain, Austria and France.
He’s waited so long!
We cry together on the Norman graves,
Two generations lost, two present.
Father and son, together.
I planted your Oak today, Dad.
I know you will grow big and strong,
Just as before. Like your father, like his son.
Earth from the Old World, mixed with you,
will foster this seed, and make you new.
I can see your smile in the leaves!
And your grandchildren will know you,
When they climb the branches
That grow from your ashes.
Jun 28, 2010
Jun 28, 2010 at 10:01 PM UTC
Slouched atop the bookshelf resting his fluffy head
against much loved Rudyard Kipling's finest.
He watched the day to day stories of King Anthony
'The child ruler of the world' and his beloved younger sister Anya.
Avoiding arguments downstairs in the dying segments of daylight,
the boy's reassurance to Anya showcased rare moments of humanity
not seen by Little Weissel's beaded eyes since occupied Holland.
Amongst his stuffing was still memories of his first best friend,
in which many a day was spent quietly hiding away,
listening to the sound of boots roaming around the house.
King Anthony reached his hand out in full view of the aged bear's face
and plucked him from his perch.
As warm as the bear felt to him, he felt to this plush relic, whose eyes
would dilate in the melt of such moment if only they could.
From his arms passing down to her trembling ones;
she was looking for solace in the wake of mother and father's quaking
voices in the kitchen.
For Little Weissel it seemed like 'what was old is new again'
and now after spells after neglect he was experiencing a second
lease of life.
As the war downstairs fizzled out into quiet evening, King Anthony and Anya were locked together, both tenants of sleep with
Little Weissel just as lovingly clung to as the first moment he'd been clutched.
Maybe in the new harsh terrain, the scabby mass of the little bear
could once again feel the need to be needed as any good plaything deserves to be.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 4:44 PM UTC
Splendid soldier you
I'm merely your descendant
barely fit to footstep follow
I'm discipled , My kindred hero
Foreign soils desperately dank
Churchillian's major tactical outflank
Death by bulleted blight
******* German bight
Evil eradication in Holland's nether land
Liberation free , Guaranteed
Twas his life he gave
Home to a war hero's grave
Death knell to heroic soldier blue
And maybe I'm a tad bitter 'tis true
My Blood lost his life to a gameplan
After all what's a medal without the man
Martyn Grindrod
My tribute to my Grandad
William Fred Grindrod
20/12/1918 - 30/11/1944
Who would have been 100 years old today.
Dec 20, 2018
Dec 20, 2018 at 8:47 AM UTC
*
Kinderdijk stands like thimbles in the dusk.
The sky, thick with grey, settles on the ****
Holland is its stereotypes, we trust.
Windmills sail in the breeze, near canals tight
With straight, flat flows. Tulips bloom in the dust.
Great wheels of cheese roll through the streets at night.
Bridges rear up over canals, can’t rust
From the waterways thirsty tourists like.
Here, life is keenly measured, never brusque.
The Dutch pursued this pace since thrifty tykes.
Their simple, ordered pleasures do not rush
The spirit of progress, shining in light.
Turning, ever turning, the windmills must
Show the elegant face of Kinderdijk.
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 3:32 PM UTC
child- small voices sag
bomb-smoke rises from the ground
far off, birds still shake
Billy Striker blown
to Holland, the north sea wind
took weeks to fall
beforemourn chimneys
slate rooves yawn hunger,
one cigarette draws breath
moon crater on the
road to Derry, limousine
sarcophagus lands
siren scream and scrape
tears rigor mortis frozen;
the sea now quiet
hands across water
missing fingers, Gabriel
silent, the watcher
he’d stopped to look
smile asking the time of day,
pressing the trigger
one small death for man
one giant death for mankind,
eyes search behind moons
bicycle wheel turns
awkward lazy arm protrudes
broken flaying skin
obliteration,
scalpel dissects argument
camera’s detail
a.m. paper print
fortresses build stone by verse
each wall a chapter
retaliation,
leopard stalking, counter plot
begun in blueprint
burnt flesh of kingdoms
republic’s frost bitten dogs
bark anger blood ***
interrogation,
splattered kneecap agreement
hands shaking silence
investigation,
no stone unmoved, evidence
a silent quarry
old man keeping dust
one eye swollen, hunching armour
his grief in buckets
MChallis © 2015
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 9:53 PM UTC
Poem about my wonderful grandfather
John Walker served his country in WWII
It was something he felt obligated to do.
In combat he risked his life
Even while he was facing strife
He wrote his family back at home
While he was on another roam
Slept, ate and celebrated his birthday
In a foxhole while there was gun play
A short break John took from war
He listened live to Dinah Shore
Met the nice people of France and Holland
There he bought some Chocolate Almonds
Posed in a painting for Martin Koblo
John said, "He was a very nice fellow"
When it was announced that the war had ended
John wrote home and said "I feel quite splendid"
"I’ll be home honey, just as quick as I can
Can’t wait to see you, Margaret and Ann"
Copyright 2013
All Rights Reserved
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 3:13 PM UTC
Holland park to Queensway
Safe as houses
North Acton to White City
Stay on the train
Finchley Road to Wembley Park
"All change please"
"This train terminates here"
West Ham to Star Lane
6 minutes to walk 6 minutes to wait.
Elephant & Castle to Lambeth North
IWM you know what I mean!
East to West North to South
Oyster at the ready!
LNDN
O I love it!
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 5:03 PM UTC
Mary Jane
Wrapped in cellophane
her body an empty cavern
an embodiment of losses
tastes of bitter Mary Jane
Holland.
Baby miracle of life
a stab in the dark
a twisted knife
to the heart, breathe
Me.
Life had stained her
a reflection upon,
a broken glass mirror
a blue mooned
Sky.
Tornado fires; paper dresses
deep volcanos filled to the brim
ashes & dust
tears bring pain
burns holes in
Skin.
Cleansing comes
blood oozing out
attacking this monster
living inside
python green eyes
Robotic.
Dancing with demons
poisonous addictions
hells aftermath
skulls, crossbones
signify splintered
Souls.
Yours for slaughter,
surrendered in this wasteland
my mind created
when you were first
Gone.
Butterflies cover *******
love hearts & roses,
form tattoos across,
my spine, enviously decorating
this bare form, one alive, one
Ghost.
Drink me up, make it quick,
**** me dry, dear Carmen
please don't cry
it's all an alibi, one that
Sings.
A lullaby; a secret way out
how tranquil it leaves me
a baby lulled to sleep, I
call you Mary Jane
Holland.
My lover, my life,
it's nothing more, I
am at one, with stars we name
in this infinite
Universe.
If I am a star above
& you are named as one too
we will never be lost
wrapped together, conceiving
Constellations.
That is why I want to sit
with you, on the roof
top of my car, out in the abyss
of my surroundings
&
Stare above, sing a lullaby
of my love, count those stars
until claimed & soothed we fall
into the slumber of love.
Only a cloud can carry
& awake anew to
the rising of the sun
an abstraction deferring
multifaceted realities.
© Sia Jane
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 5:46 PM UTC