"horsey" poems
Flashback,
To that time we played blackjack
I was impressed by your ability to shuffle all the cards just like that,
&then; you showed me a magic trick with pistachio shells
Oh what a friendship it is when someone buys you peanuts and opens all the shells
Yeah confession;
You're in my sci fi screenplay
I think I wrote about you in the most innocent way
And theres a song that,
I currently have on replay...
And a smile that can't help but shine when I see your face
What a moment it is when you're sitting there on the bus and you just want to photograph it
Life's a chess game, and now its your move..
I'm standing on the front line,
I'm giving my horsey to you (haha)
Oh this life's a chess game,
One wrong move and I'll lose....
But here right now we're at a stalemate
All my pieces were going but the piece that remains, patiently waits
For you..
Oh with you I never want the game to end so soon
And I know that we can't fall in love
Cause we've got different ones for us
But what a friendship it is when none of that matters no more..
You're the chess opponent I've been waiting for,
You are.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 3:31 AM UTC
No second chances!
No do-overs!
That is one of the regreatable rules of time.
No more pigtails & pretty dresses,
No more Horsey-back & Piggy-back rides,
No more Tee-ball & Soccer,
No more Marry Poppens & Wizard of OZ,
No more Popcorn & Video games,
No more homework & bed time stories,
No more marshmellow roasts & snipe hunts,
No more sand castles & sand dollars,
No more Sparklers & Pinwheels.
No time to pause & reflect!
It can only cause regret!
Enjoy it along the way while you can.
Everything is temporary.
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 11:57 PM UTC
All day panda girl reclines
Exercise she declines
Horsey girl will bring you luck ( U )
Her legs are strong and she drives a truck
Bonobo girl is worth consideration
Taking account of her reputation
Cat girl charms you with her eyes
She chings her claws and claims her prize
Crocodile girl will make you happy
Until she gets a bit too snappy
Dormouse girl may give a peep
Together you'll have a lovely sleep
Turtle girl will be just swell
If you coax her from her shell
Wallaby girl needs some space
To hop about from place to place
Tarantula girl gives you pangs
When she shows her fearsome fangs
Cougar woman's after me
Completing my fantasy
Menagerie
Jan 18, 2012
Jan 18, 2012 at 1:33 PM UTC
The party starts at ten to three.
On the second floor,room twenty two
two vicars who had come down from Crewe were wondering just what to wear, to the shindig going on down there.
They collided,both decided to put on crimson frilly frocks,this was not a 'do' for cassocks or for smocks.
Room forty four up on the forth,was Lucy Ann,a double barrelled name of course,a horsey type who came by invite to liven lively up the night.
In number ten slept teacup Ken,who had never once imbibed,the porter was slipped a twenty,but was bribed to keep his big mouth shut, as ties were cut and Ken found Zen in a brandy glass,
and discovered parties were a gas.
The police arrived to room fifty five and found Miss Sterling doing the jive around the severed head of Fred the cook,
poor Fred never had any kind luck.
There is no escape from the party at Lancaster Gate and those who come are those who'll die
but the party is so flamin' good I'll try to sneak in,got to take a peek in room number twenty seven,where it's said,that the lady there can show you several kinds of heaven before you meet your doom.
Got to get in, get a room,check in time expires at noon.
I shall no doubt expire,naked by the fire in
room, one o one.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 4:44 PM UTC
there is no new, only renewal:
the space between brain and mind
the harder shell a skulking humanizing container,
the neuronic heart cells,
brain stem and heart bloodstream
scented/stented,
deny the newness of no new claim
the tower of ourselves built on the babble
of old images and read readings,
songs in seconds recognized by just the first two notes,
the point is this when do you become a grownup,
when new is but renewal, with a hint, a pinch,
of a new insight maybe recognized
now, how will you know me new when your eyes
search the iron bank cellar, where,
by voice deep, by fuzzy photographs, what tissues will connect
when the new sight knows me from too many old poems/songs?
!when the babies gather round for lifting up, sky scratching,
when the old man grand father, carries three upon his back,
a nonpareil horsey ride,
when the doorbell rings
I’m older than now, you’ll say,
read your wild mercury back pages,
taking the grays of our mutually curly
Medusa locks as a renewal gift offering
that will someday
match mine!*
May 27, 2019
May 27, 2019 at 5:16 PM UTC
Trees always have to go out with a bang, don't they
explosions of bursting color
freeze-framed fireworks of fall
bursting and cascading,
leaving ashes and hot coals to cool in soft grass
...I used bursting twice, didn't I?
alright, let me go open up my thesaurus...
blast? pop? rupture?
just replace it with one of those and call it good.
Back to the poem:
my popped-collar peacoat straightens my back
gotta match my posture to the pompous portrait
black wool on an over-scratched scratch paper
might as well just pick it all off
allow the color some room to expand
(I don't even own a peacoat, I just like the metaphor and imagery)
you could set the sentinel alight for the same effect
a more smokey atmosphere, sure,
but the color would be a little brighter
and I'd have the mushroom of smoke to match my coat
I've substituted my earbuds with the crunch crunch crunch
of leaves
crunch crunch crunch crunch crunch ––––
shoot that one looked good but it just flattened
crunch crunch crunch
invariable sound
back to my Beats by Dr. Dre
The arrow of geese points south
...
that's really all I have to say about that
some sort of metaphor about flapping my arms and following them?
I like jacket weather though
better stay grounded
hands in pockets; arms in long sleeves
insert some connection to death to match nature's descent into winter
Gosh, this season is too good to stand for something so sad
let's go jump off the roof into a pile of leaves
drink hot soup and get cuffed
watch steam and frost paint picturesque mornings
read in a dogpile of blankets
Winter may be coming
but so is spring ya goof
get off your melancholic horsey
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 12:10 AM UTC
Once I had thought that wizards existed
and I was king of Persia.
I drew with chalk on the ground
and sang to the birds, thinking I could speak their tongue.
(In my mind...)
I could fly, far to distant lands.
I could morph into animals and warriors,
defending the Queen Grandma from the evil villain Grandpa.
(In my mind...)
Long ago, those dream were real.
There was no difference.
(In my mind...)
I was invincible.
(In my mind....)
Then life hit me.
(In my mind...)
Grandma and grandpa could no longer play horsey
and aged to a ripe old age.
I morphed into an adult, with bearded chin and hairy chest.
My wings were clipped and I was forever grounded.
(In my mind...)
The birds tweeted, and my chalk broke.
My crown was tossed into the bin with my childhood.
(In my mind...)
Wizards only exist in books. Persia is long gone.
Where did life go?
Give me my wings back.
Crown me again.
Let me fly high, let me be king again.
All of this, in my mind.
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 12:06 AM UTC
Pay attention everyone said Lilliput
I have an important announcement
We're going to have a wonderful picnic
For our family on Thursday , poppits only
The groans were heard all over the palace
Are we riding there , asked Horsey Anne
No we jolly well are not
And you scrum half Zara , are not either
We're motorcading it , without staff
Another really loud royal moan
We are each taking everything we need
And that includes you ex pork of York
'OOHH NNOO' she gurgly grunted
Less of that , and NO toe suckers allowed
Nor arrive in a kiddies helicopter either
And you Wills missus more clothing
You make my blue blood run cold
Next Thursday then , you picnickers
What have you brought asked Lilliput
Silver knives and forks hoarsed Anne
Paper plates grunted Flossy Fergie
Plastic cups , whimpered Wills missus
Lav paper for tissues, gidded up Zara
Big tablecloth bellowed Camilla
Have none of you brought food said Lilliput
'NO' they all mardily whinnied
None of us even thought about it
And you mumsy H.R.H. what have you brought
'NOBODY questions me , you pipsqueaks
LET'S ALL GO HOME NOW !
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 2:53 AM UTC
Noon, I’m next in line behind an old man.
“I want to withdraw fourteen dollars,” he says.
The teller, a young woman with a soft sweater, says
“There’s only—let me check—yes—fifty-two cents.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” She tilts her head. “Sorry.”
The sorrow is genuine.
He wears a pinstripe suit, frayed,
wafting an odor of smoke and earth.
A smartly folded handkerchief, breast pocket,
has a dark stain. His silver beard
is neatly trimmed.
On one wall above the safe is a giant
mural of teamsters driving a stagecoach.
The man says, “There might be—”
“No. It’s always the same.”
For a moment he closes his eyes,
a slow blink while indignities of a lifetime pass.
Without a word, the young woman slides a sandwich
over the countertop through the teller window.
“Blessings on you,” the man says with a nod,
and he walks away with a limp.
I cash my check, a big one
from three days of messy labor
for a matron of the horsey set.
“He lives by the creek,” the teller says
without my asking. “Under a bridge.”
Outside the bank, in the parking lot of glistening cars,
I look around for the pinstripe suit, the silver beard.
I might offer the man something.
He might refuse to take it.
Anyway, no matter:
he has disappeared like the last stagecoach.
Only the blessing remains.
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 12:35 PM UTC
Nothing in particular
Just high
Addicted ****** ****
**** my liver
Kidneys
Dissociation is the key
I've spotted the freight train
Have I made it?
Bring me there I beg you
Spoon me
Me, the spoon, all me
Drink DRINK like a FISH
pop pop pass percocet
C-c-c-c-c-cocaaaaiiinneeeeee
***** ****** bored, dumb
**** my LIVER AND KIDNEYS
Dolla dolla nose job **** a stuffy
**** me on a tuesday, sneez sick puppy horsey
Cant finde me
Kant fine me
Run run run run run baby, yes ya do
Explain but not excuse
Substitute kkkills as much
Methadopamine or a xany ***** one night
Dextrahydraphetamine, ketamine meta-clean
Don't try. Understand to
Completely
Every spring runs dry
**** son, 'least enjoy the high
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 2:50 AM UTC
Helen looked up
at the rain drenched sky
as you both stood
under the extended roof
of the coal wharf
off of Meadow Row
she had on
her dark blue raincoat
with the hood
which was over
her head
and her thick lens glasses
enlarged her eyes
as she peered out
looks like
it’s in for the day
you said
pulling your coat
around you
to keep out
the chill
just as well
I didn’t bring my doll
Battered Betty
she said
she hates the rain
you stared out
at the downpour
it seemed endless
why does it have to rain
on a Saturday?
Why not a school day?
you said
Helen took off
her glasses
and wiped them
on a small white
handkerchief
you watched her
as she wiped them
her small hands
at work
the glasses
being cleaned
and cleared
you look pretty
when you’re wet
you said
she looked at you
do I?
she said
sure you do
you said
but not otherwise?
she asked
you looked at her
as she put on
her glasses again
well you look prettier
you added
staring once more
at the rain
no one’s said
I was pretty before
she said
they usually
call me four eyes
or horsey teeth
well you’re pretty
you said shyly
not wanting to get in
too deep
a horse drawn
coal wagon
went by
as you both stood
beneath
the extended roof
the horse trotting
along in the puddles
on the cobblestones
the driver
staring sternly
into the pouring rain
you wiped raindrops
from your nose
and flicked them
into the air
am I really?
she asked
gazing at you
the hood of her coat
framing her face
yes
you said
and your teeth
are fine
don’t worry
what others say
and she put
her arm under yours
as you looked away.
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 4:33 AM UTC
I have known pain
In every form
All too well
My box of memories is filled to the rim with moments so vivid
That if I close my eyes
I can almost taste the blood between my teeth
Pain has been
Someone I have turned to
When emotion has defeated feeling
Sometimes just a pinch of the skin
To remind myself
That I am real
That this
Is real
Pain is an alarm clock ringing
Begging us to wake up
In a world full of dreamers
Who just cant seem to face reality
Without pain
Without the sandpaper glued to our palms
Life would slip right through our fingers
Pain is attached to every year of my life
Marking the moments that mattered most
From ages where seconds of happiness seem blurred
And mostly pain is remembered
Age 4
Chin shattering against the kitchen floor
Skin and bone to hardwood
When a game of horsey with my older brother
Goes too far
Stiches sewing me back into place
I can still taste the melted twix bar that I was given
For being such a good patient
Age 7
Scrapes from falling off the bicycle
Were enough to get me to stop trying
Needless to say
I never learned how
Age 12
Words thrown at me like razor blades in the school cafeteria
Hurt enough for me
To use them against myself
In fits of aching rage
My body refuses to let me forget
Age 15
Watching my father
Sick from chemotherapy
Hunched over in agony
Hair falling to the ground like the ashes of cancer victims
Watching him suffer
Hurt more than any broken bone
Than
Any paper cut
Scratch to the surface
The worst kind of pain I've learned
Is the kind that can not be erased from memory
With a rub to the eyes
Is the kind where
You are forced to watch
Loved ones
Experience it
Without being able to help
Or do anything to ease their discomfort
The worst kind of pain
Is being witness
Is being bystander
Pain is more than a bully
Pain is a backstabbing neighbor
Who pulls a gun to your head just when you think you've got it right
Is a ghost
A physical form that fades
But remains forever alive in memory
In the faces of people you've hurt
In the scars of skin that forces you to remember what happened
What happened
Does not define you
But the thing about pain
Is that whether or not you want it to
It shapes you.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 4:02 AM UTC
Bernie Sanders hatched a scheme
to rant an old progressive theme.
He left the greening mountain heights
to bellow forth for Social Rights
descending to our nation's valleys
milking the faithful at his rallies.
Mr. Sanders sold the farm,
sounded socialist alarm;
Trading professorial tweeds
for bloviating human needs.
He set the lefties all a-twitter
bartering the sweet for bitter.
He glared through academic glasses
at the doubtful working classes
wondering why they failed to note
just why and how they ought to vote.
Sanders patched up race-relations
fixing holes with reparations,
working up his magic wonder:
horsey voice of righteous thunder
till the clouds hung heavy and gray
portent of a darker day...
Warming up leftover Hope
he spared no change for hangman's rope,
sputtering on, he blew a gasket
redistributing our basket
scolding, bellowing, pumping fist
and waving fingers from the wrist
like politburo retro-chic
a tousled old white-headed freak.
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 9:05 PM UTC
Horsey, horsey, don't you stop,
Make your feet go clippetty-clop
And make your tail go swish
And your wheels go 'round-
Giddyup! We're homeward bound!
I like to travel through the country,
I like to travel through the town.
I like to hear old Dobbin's clippetty-clop,
I like to see the wheels go 'round.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 8:56 AM UTC
Older man
seeks horsey lady
for bare back rides
outdoors
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 8:41 PM UTC
were we but souls fed to the crows
and worms that had us as only that?
no wonder our thinking turned morbid
and said: earth our home, fire our enemy,
coffin our mansion our flat our roaming-room,
coffin birthmarks it's earthen superiority over fire
which fire entombs given sway; let us chopin the rest,
and have us as a spelling mistake
to akin rock an armadillo rolling with
stoppages of "roll a ***** rock out with a poet
asserting ***** the by-product and poetry the
begotten famished youth!"
for the head to pop-up less readier for blow,
than blow on helium than horsey ready a hark...
macho australian flex, and biceps to give to
blown-up treadmill versus catwalk loot,
she ***** cha cha cha lip-gloss for a footprint,
she wore it with a fascination for language,
getting bored with sign symbols > > > (sharp bend /
quick & trendy instant graphic ooh):
in the real world red started trending,
and black was a usual tuesday for karl lagerfeld
who said: wear the same **** over and over again,
and play the anorexic ******* to wear different
**** every day... be a fox among chameleons...
wear the same black tunic, turnip, tuck and shackle
otherwise known as a waistcoat all year round...
and they'll all puppeteer themselves around you
gladly ogled eyed all year round:
it might be summer in the sky, but on the catwalk
it will be silver birch dressed in khaki for oaken
wrinkles... and so on, and so forth... worth a rot...
had i turned to x-ray white suit and black shirts...
but the girls would have minded to adorn
a waste i claimed to be simplified by:
keep them thin, keep them anorexic...
the fatter the model the more materials we'll
waste tailoring: chubby gets the boot, the kick,
we need thin models, because the chubby ones
take up too much geography when cutting a leopard skin
print of silk for underwear.
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 9:02 PM UTC
Perched on his knee
a time of glee
we were going to play horsey
jumping up and down
always acting the clown
he made me giddy with joy
my uncle, a big strapping boy
My memories are distant
I wrack my brain, torment
trying to think when we stopped visiting
parents busy, his life not permitting
He went down a wrong track
couldn’t find his way back
alcohol ruled him, so I’m told
he still young, but his body old
he died at thirtythree
alone unfortunately
I’ll always remember him with a smile
he was my role model for a long while
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 10:25 AM UTC
How to express this strange impress of words?
Or, culled in the inbetween moments,
little impossibilities budding
perfectly strangely, becoming
possibilities which crowd a little closer,
seeking air, mewing, speaking
and robusing the hidden bud-bid for notice?
Notice me here in one green piece
of innocent horse-verse, nosing dry day.
By day an effort, by night white strikes of words,
struggling through to metaphoric sights,
suddenly, ***** span,
***** and fan this little stage
of mine, here, now lines
and lines of verse con-
spicuously present, myrrhing, purring,
pudding catty-watty to horsey hey-ho-ho.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 5:46 AM UTC
We decided to offer a non-event
For it hadn’t been done before,
We ordered a super, over-sized tent
And the grass to grow on the floor,
But the tent was cancelled the day it came
And the grass returned to the man,
For who ever heard of a non-event
That ever ran strictly to plan?
There are music events, and party events,
And horsey events, equine,
Racing events and crazy events
And lazy events, sublime.
There’s events to do most anything
Which is why I thought it true,
That the most exciting event of the year
Would be one with nothing to do.
We’d offer an awesome Rock event
With a band who wouldn’t be there,
And a totally gratis haircut, meant
For the men without any hair.
A skin tattoo for the motley crew
That we know as **** and tatts,
Then tell them the ink was really glue
For manufacturing hats.
The roads would be blocked for an hour or less
With the cars that never came,
We’d put the non-event posters up
They could read them all in vain.
I hear we’re up for a Nobel Prize
For giving it up on Lent,
That one and only, never to come see
World Class Non-Event!
David Lewis Paget
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 2:43 AM UTC
i’m getting the impression that almost everyone is selling out, the interesting bits in their life, and leaving their actually interesting bits boring, boring as in terms of expected complication and subsequent confrontation of that famous boxer known as spouse; 400 reads... ye ha ha giddie up horsey!
there are so many tears in her eyes
even though she smiles.
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 8:47 PM UTC
I'm heading home for Christmas
(Snows on the way)
In a plane, then a cab and a sleigh
Bringing presents and prizes I've made
Giddy yup horsey! I musn't be late
Of God we are saints, of myth this Nick
This mystical and elusive controtionist
Over rooftops, down chimneys without a slip
Hanging stockings and mistletoe
For an occasional kiss
Stretch and yawn and wiping sleep from our eyes
Hey there's frost on the window
On green bows dancing lights
On the mantle the the stockings "Oh boy, what's inside!?"
There's no coal in my stockings, that isn't right
There's no coal in my stockings but I need it for heat
Then on with the stockings to comfort my feet
Dec 14, 2018
Dec 14, 2018 at 2:57 AM UTC