"hollies" poems
The music may have died for some
That day in nineteen fifty nine
Don McLean said that it ended
But I say, it's just fine
The day that Buddy died
I feel it only took a wound
and though it has been 60 years
I think it's been re-tuned
If silence reigned when the music died
The Beatles would be missing
They picked their name for Buddy's group
An act that had some hissing
The Rolling Stones...would never play
If the music died as told
There would be no Exile on Main Street
There would be no band so bold
The Hollies, well that's simple
They were named after the man
If the music had really died that day
Would Graham Nash still be a fan?
To me it took a major wound
A shot that slowed it down
It changed music's direction
Took it to another town
With Elvis silent on German soil
The Beatles took the lead
They made sure music was living
And many others did they breed
Bobby Darin, Mama Cass
Jimi Hendrix and The Pearl
Jim Morrison and Brian Jones
Made the music spin and twirl
When Elvis Died, it slowed a bit
With Lennon shot...some more
But, the music never, ever died
For those who're keeping score
For each one lost...another comes
To fill the void with sound
It may have been quite wounded
But the music's still around
Each generation keeps it
In it's own and special way
That's why Buddy's music
Is still played on air today
So, please don't think the music
Died way back in fifty nine
Just look at all who've come on since
All your favorites and all mine.
May 7, 2012
May 7, 2012 at 7:18 PM UTC
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
Every year to me, now and then
Families and hollies filled with merriment
Only steps away of the outside snow
Sprawling emotions underneath the mistletoe
Glisten, the pavement covered in hue
Journey of a thousand crystals falling anew
The icicle dew at the gutter lines in row
Constellation tales upon the sky-light glow
Enchant pines adored by ornaments
Treasured memories flew like a firmament
Wreaths to every door, signs of triumph & joy
Bringing glad tidings from God's little boy
Trains in and out of the winter-night
Gifts and glory offered with endless blithe
Hymns from a choir trailing every post
Greetings to an old friend even to the unknown
Dec 29, 2017
Dec 29, 2017 at 10:56 AM UTC
the grass, leaning in the south wind , seeming
as if emeralds, had sent tendrils up
to suckle at the yellow breast, now, high above inflamed....
over soft new
grass
like
strands of green gemstone,
as delicate as humming-bird tongues
teasing nectar
from a titan,
in the sky
triumphant in the void,
a golden bead in the baffling blue !
cattails, curling in sway...and two brown eyes bob upon the surface
of a myriad fertilities.
as if
nature itself had known, one day
a poet would come ~
to roam the rambling renascence of these remote ramparts
in awesome humility ~ and so prepared
a path afflux
that ambled near
and yes !
an
anonymous nomad
with nicotine skin and a scabbard of scandalous quills
would indeed
stumble in as if returning home
to a mansion restored to glory
and seraphic randomness....
a place
that in youth, sustained a quiet, soulful troubadour
by gospels of granite and grain, grass finch
and faun - ennobling an oracle ... but now
enticed a scholar from his cot
to jot ephemera
of outlasting spark
before dark-fall
and so... there
amid all allurement and soft machines
a word-smith gathered
poesy and prose.
muse-driven
this one served
an invisible
sovereign
one
of unsurpassed virility
who charms kaleidoscopes
with offhand sketches
rescued
from
a landfill
a basket weaver,
that unravels to
achieve pure
forms
a wineskin was decanted in dianthus and hollies -
as ampules of anagrams
were sold unscrambled, to dyslexics
without hope
a falcon frolicked above the lowborn lilies...
with eyes
too keen
to see a
blur
as the hand
of god
or a vole
as a lifeline
on his
palm.
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 6:15 PM UTC
the grass, leaning in the south wind , seeming
as if emeralds, had sent tendrils up
to suckle at the yellow breast, now, high above inflamed....
over soft new
grass
like
strands of green gemstone,
as delicate as humming-bird tongues
teasing nectar
from a titan,
in the sky
triumphant in the void,
a golden bead in the baffling blue !
cattails, curling in sway...and two brown eyes bob upon the surface
of a myriad fertilities.
as if
nature itself had known, one day
a poet would come ~
to roam the rambling renascence of these remote ramparts
in awesome humility ~ and so prepared
a path afflux
that ambled near
and yes !
an
anonymous nomad
with nicotine skin and a scabbard of scandalous quills
would indeed
stumble in as if returning home
to a mansion restored to glory
and seraphic randomness....
a place
that in youth, sustained a quiet, soulful troubadour
by gospels of granite and grain, grass finch
and faun - ennobling an oracle ... but now
enticed a scholar from his cot
to jot ephemera
of outlasting spark
before darkfall
and so... there
amid all allurement and soft machines
a word-smith gathered
poesy and prose.
muse-driven
this one served
an invisible
sovereign
one
of unsurpassed virility
who charms kaleidoscopes
with offhand sketches
rescued
from
a landfill
a basket weaver,
that unravels to
achieve pure
forms
a wineskin was decanted in dianthus and hollies -
as ampules of anagrams
were sold unscrambled, to dyslexics
without hope
a falcon frolicked above the lowborn lilies...
with eyes
too keen
to see a
blur
as the hand
of god
or a vole
as a lifeline
on his
palm.
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 5:51 PM UTC
a soft white snow flake
gossamer gowns of hollies
belts of velvet leaves
Nov 12, 2010
Nov 12, 2010 at 4:31 AM UTC
At long last summer is here,
Time to lounge in the garden
And then have a beer.
My porch is boiling,
Have opened my front door.
No more Winter toiling,
This sun I do adore.
The bees are busy buzzing,
They’ve got a lot to do.
Those flowers they still are budding,
And there’s a lazy-rhyme for you.
Ready for your mid-year hollies?
You bet I am, you say.
Ice cream and lollies,
You’ll soon be on your way.
The beach will sure get busy,
No parking on the prom.
Lemonade so fizzy,
Going down like a bomb.
Great time for walking,
Out in the countryside.
Lots of time for talking
Or going for a ride.
My favourite cove awaits me.
A time to really chill out.
It really will be stress-free,
Time to have a scout.
Yes I really love summer,
That’s all I have to say.
Time to be a newcomer:
I’m on my way.
Paul Butters
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 5:59 AM UTC
When questioned what was nature,
i laughingly said s&m;
ravishing red roses thorns were meant for torture
but some indulge in them
Misunderstood poison ivy is
for her dark and seductive touch
leaving her victims perturbed with the faintest brush
shunned by the hollies for her dark and twisted roots
she finds solace in clandestiny
where she indulges in sinful truths
But if the darker side of nature
is perceived as such a sin
and on one hot july night the forest shall ignite
i’ll let the fickle flames fade into me
because the smell of burning saffron can be quite alright
Nature is a playground
and we dabble in different mounds
often forgetting the vines
that are to hold us down
to submit or not to submit
let ivy tell you
for one
false
move
the
vines
will
bruise
you
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 1:09 AM UTC
a boy looks at me
on the train
and I exit
a blister of electric through
the tracks
my shoes
lightning struck
by blueberry muffins
I run
the cold
40 degree cloud
then a thought of you
I smile
a frozen broke in
hollies
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 12:47 PM UTC
This morning was cold and a foggy one.
It reminded me of a past colder morning,
When the holiday hustle and bustle had just ended.
I was here....at Windwood Park,
My arms squeezed across my chest.
While briskly I walked, a strong wind blew
And by me, a flock of black birds flew...
I passed along house gardens, with Christmas trees,
With angels and stars on their tops still lighted.
Further on was a row of evergreens,
Upright, unaffected by the cold December winds,
High above the Magnolias and Hollies.
Beside the orange-purplish Birds of Paradise
Stood two smaller, obliquely grown pine trees;
Leaning, but undaunted by the sway of the winds,
No angels, or stars to show....instead, I watched as
The Crows approached, and on the tree tops, they alighted...
And then came another group of three,
And then several more followed suit,
And settled
On the nearby trees,
Blurring the tree line...until
The treetops were darkly shaded....
High above, they perch...on the grass, they search,
On the streets, they cross, pick up food, doing
What birds of the same feathers do---to survive...
A group of beaked, footed, dark crescent creatures
On top of those trees, so green with life,
Against a sky pleasantly clear and blue...
The contrasts, the events I witnessed, lingered with the cold...
A small patch of darkness...emerging,
Widening, prevailing, gaining power,
Can eventually conquer a whole world.
The White Egrets, Herons, the Finch,
The Bluebirds, Junkos and the Parrots
Usually grace Windwood Park with their presence...
Only the Blue Jay was brave enough that cold morning,
While a large number of Crows scattered,
And bravely, skillfully scavenged,
Through the wet, verdant grass,
Through the tall cans of thrash...
This morning, the cold brought back these events...and
I thought of the violence and starvation existing in places worldwide,
The prevailing restlessness, the senseless killings...the children....
No more concern for human lives...and
I thought of Nigeria...
And Pakistan,
And Paris, France,
And those that happened before them,
And those that are about to happen...
Sally
Copyright 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
...we never know what we may witness when we step out of our
comfort zones...
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 1:46 PM UTC
the grass, leaning in the south wind , seeming
as if emeralds, had sent tendrils up
to suckle at the yellow breast, now, high above inflamed...
over soft new grass
like
strands of green gemstone,
as delicate as humming-bird tongues
teasing nectar
from a titan,
in the sky
triumphant in the void,
a golden bead in the baffling blue !
cattails, curling in sway...and two brown eyes bob upon the surface
of a myriad fertilities.
as if
nature itself had known, one day
a poet would come ~
to roam the rambling renascence of these remote ramparts
in awesome humility ~ and so prepared
a path afflux
that ambled near
and yes !
an anonymous nomad
with nicotine skin and a scabbard of scandalous quills
would indeed
stumble in as if returning home
to a mansion restored to glory
and seraphic randomness....
a place
that in youth, sustained a quiet, soulful troubadour
by gospels of granite and grain, grass finch
and faun - ennobling an oracle ... but now
enticed a scholar from his cot
to jot ephemera
of outlasting spark
before dark-fall
and so... there
amid all allurement and soft machines
a word-smith gathered
poesy and prose.
muse-driven
this one served
an invisible
sovereign
one
of unsurpassed virility
who charms kaleidoscopes
with offhand sketches
rescued
from
a landfill
a basket weaver,
that unravels to
achieve pure
forms
a wineskin was decanted in dianthus and hollies -
as ampules of anagrams
were sold unscrambled, to dyslexics
without hope
a falcon frolicked above the lowborn lilies...
with eyes
too keen
to see a
blur
as the hand
of god
or a vole
as a lifeline
on his
palm.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 1:04 AM UTC
A frigid February night,
the moon resplendent in its fulgor,
while a prevailing bristled cold wind
dashes across my dry face,
I inhale the cold, brittle air:
nitrogen, oxygen, argon, carbon dioxide,
whistle through my lips,
like a trice ballet, it delivers life into my lungs
hoarfrost, as huellas are left behind,
in remembrance of its path.
At night I feel at ease,
beyond what
an aubade can offer.
Gazing up into the dark abyss,
I am overwhelmed by the
union of neighbors that float above me
in sync with the moon:
Mercury, Venus, Saturn, Mars, Jupiter,
and the assemblage of mythological
Greek god’s only visible before dawn,
watch me, observing my every move.
Winds encircle the night,
disrupting the stillness of
the undressed oak trees,
their branches swaying back and forth
as to wave hello, or is it a goodbye?
Winterberry hollies dance at their feet,
untouched snow glistens,
and mirrors the dazzling assembly of stars.
Within the woodland, mysterious sounds
echo through the silent, cold:
a cackle, a flutter, yipping creepy sound,
nature’s orchestra coming at me
from all directions,
cautiously listening, as I attempt
to decipher the resonances.
I exhale.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 1:01 PM UTC
Blood pumps through the veins of a weary traveler,
Every pulse salivating the teetering skepticisms of reality;
flowing through the fragile doubts of terror-
an omen to suffering and constant lack of fervor
The burden of unsatisfactory and the tattered walls of a loose mind start,
Constantly creaking and promising to give way
and crumble unto the molded floorboards of a heavy heart.
a bullseye in happiness with a wandering dart.
The bones as broken hulls to a ship that’s lost sight,
Abandoned shores tempting her for haven
and taunting the starving crew with false delight
another block of cinder to give way and lose it’s might.
20/20 eyes yet blind in bitter harmonies of fowl follies,
Visions of future calls to dreams that were broken before pieced
and carried to better men on royal and despairing trollies.
remembrances of a body drenched in longing and wrapped in hollies.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 1:19 PM UTC
what I'm trying to say is, you are in deep, its getting close to whatever was your ending, you're not the person you thought you were, take yourself closer to god, take yourself closer to shaking rock, rattling at your feet, the exact anwer, I'm presenting it to you, and it isn't pretty, your armies are rowing away from you, you sea sick ******* try to make some connections, try to make the hollies folly, the desperate hands that claw out for you have nothing better to do but to sit and wait at your doorstep, you have nothing to fear yet, you crave a bit of comfort, the warmth, the deep breaths, the p
nothing nothing notthing
to have one, and to have it project ut with a climactic answer, ready fret the next one, sweating out the future, leading to a corruptible past, finishing last, those heavy concrete jungle stinging bleachers, sticking to your skin, sweating out the pores, my answer for tonight is still more questions,
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 4:57 AM UTC
Rough spoken men with hands like shovels
Overbearing women full of laughter and cuddles
***** brick mills and deserted old pits
United and City and kids with zits
Redundant old docks where boats used to sail
Now luxury penthouses for the rich to prevail
Finney, Kingsley and the great Robert Powell
The Hollies, the Beatles and the Gallaghers scowl
Tony Wilson, Factory Records and his rebellious acts
Hadrians Walls reveals many artefacts
Strangeways, gangsters and criminal ways
But our streets are safe as the government says
Tramstops, trainlines and buses fly along
Taking the North West’s finest to the places they belong
Canal Street, China town and the Northern Quarter
Scarily high death rates in the cold bitter water
Pride, Eid and diversity through the streets
Down the motorway lies the Cavern where the Liverpudlians still meet
Tragedy and solidarity and the beautiful bee crest
This is my place of birth this is the North West
Jun 19, 2018
Jun 19, 2018 at 6:14 PM UTC