"hurdy" poems
when my love comes to see me it’s
just a little like music,a
little more like curving colour(say
orange)
against silence,or darkness….
the coming of my love emits
a wonderful smell in my mind,
you should see when i turn to find
her how my least heart-beat becomes less.
And then all her beauty is a vise
whose stilling lips ****** suddenly me,
but of my corpse the tool her smile makes something
suddenly luminous and precise
—and then we are I and She….
what is that the hurdy-gurdy’s playing
31.2k
I (Bread and Music)
Music I heard with you was more than music,
And bread I broke with you was more than bread;
Now that I am without you, all is desolate;
All that was once so beautiful is dead.
Your hands once touched this table and this silver,
And I have seen your fingers hold this glass.
These things do not remember you, beloved,
And yet your touch upon them will not pass.
For it was in my heart you moved among them,
And blessed them with your hands and with your eyes;
And in my heart they will remember always,--
They knew you once, O beautiful and wise.
II
My heart has become as hard as a city street,
The horses trample upon it, it sings like iron,
All day long and all night long they beat,
They ring like the hooves of time.
My heart has become as drab as a city park,
The grass is worn with the feet of shameless lovers,
A match is struck, there is kissing in the dark,
The moon comes, pale with sleep.
My heart is torn with the sound of raucous voices,
They shout from the slums, from the streets, from the crowded places,
And tunes from the hurdy-gurdy that coldly rejoices
Shoot arrows into my heart.
III
Dead Cleopatra lies in a crystal casket,
Wrapped and spiced by the cunningest of hands.
Around her neck they have put a golden necklace,
Her tatbebs, it is said, are worn with sands.
Dead Cleopatra was once revered in Egypt,
Warm-eyed she was, this princess of the South.
Now she is old and dry and faded,
With black bitumen they have sealed up her mouth.
O sweet clean earth, from whom the green blade cometh!
When we are dead, my best beloved and I,
Close well above us, that we may rest forever,
Sending up grass and blossoms to the sky.
IV
In the noisy street,
Where the sifted sunlight yellows the pallid faces,
Sudden I close my eyes, and on my eyelids
Feel from the far-off sea a cool faint spray,--
A breath on my cheek,
From the tumbling breakers and foam, the hard sand shattered,
Gulls in the high wind whistling, flashing waters,
Smoke from the flashing waters blown on rocks;
--And I know once more,
O dearly beloved! that all these seas are between us,
Tumult and madness, desolate save for the sea-gulls,
You on the farther shore, and I in this street.
2.5k
I moved in with Mr McGoo , he seemed a pleasant bloke
a bit chatty for one but then beggars cant be choosers.
He gave me the guest room and a skeleton key and
a King James Bible. He left , mumbling something about an
Optometrist's appointment as he stumbled through the door.
The Flivver coughed, spat and rattled.Mcgoo was in control
and of he roared away still mumbling about pork bellies and such.
Herky jerky relic with a hurdy gurdy horn.
The winding stairs led me hither so down the rail I slid
In search of McGoo venture. To suss where the safe was hid.
Rumor has it that He struck it rich one day and promptly
sailed west and bought the House of Divine Pleasures
overlooking Frisco Bay. Who knew.
As luck would have it, he forgot to close the safe so
there it stood wide open a square hole in the southern wall.
The Standing Shiva glared at me his arms like deadly serpents
One named Beckon the next on Call. The other six arms bristled
with bronze and iron death.The Shiva winked his middle eye and
tears streamed from the other two.
The safe still hung wide open McGoo was such a bounder.
He knew me well and he could tell the weakness in my soul.
for he and I had broken bread and severed heads in youthful
days of yore. He knew I was a scoundrel and a thief.
The Shiva had a weakness for women and the drink and
him with eight arms and such became to be a bit much at the
pleasure spot in Frisco. He had to go. So
I turned and returned from the liquor cabinet a bottle of
McGoo's best bathtub Gin in tow. The Shiva came a running cross,
a smile a mile wide drooling. With arms outstretched, boy he could fetch.
Could not hold his spirits though. Never could. Out cold in no time flat.
The safe gaped open like the grave six deep.
So. I walked up slowly to it and strained to look within
There sat old McGoo's ear trumpet and spare glasses
a handful of rain checks stacked neatly in a corner.
Along with his last will and testament written out in Braille.
Just then I heard the Flivver pop. I had to stop.
close the safe. Empty the flower vase on Shiva.
Up the stairs I bounded. closed my door and started
Sleeping.
Oh McGoo , you've done it again.
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 9:51 AM UTC
THERE is something terrible
about a hurdy-gurdy,
a gipsy man and woman,
and a monkey in red flannel
all stopping in front of a big house
with a sign "For Rent" on the door
and the blinds hanging loose
and nobody home.
I never saw this.
I hope to God I never will.
Whoop-de-doodle-de-doo.
Hoodle-de-harr-de-hum.
Nobody home? Everybody home.
Whoop-de-doodle-de-doo.
Mamie Riley married Jimmy Higgins last night: Eddie Jones died of whooping cough: George Hacks got a job on the police force: the Rosenheims bought a brass bed: Lena Hart giggled at a jackie: a pushcart man called tomaytoes, tomaytoes.
Whoop-de-doodle-de-doo.
Hoodle-de-harr-de-hum.
Nobody home? Everybody home.
1.6k
The warm sun dreams in the dust, the warm sun falls
On bright red roofs and walls;
The trees in the park exhale a ghost of rain;
We go from door to door in the streets again,
Talking, laughing, dreaming, turning our faces,
Recalling other times and places . . .
We crowd, not knowing why, around a gate,
We crowd together and wait,
A stretcher is carried out, voices are stilled,
The ambulance drives away.
We watch its roof flash by, hear someone say
'A man fell off the building and was killed--
Fell right into a barrel . . .' We turn again
Among the frightened eyes of white-faced men,
And go our separate ways, each bearing with him
A thing he tries, but vainly, to forget,--
A sickened crowd, a stretcher red and wet.
A hurdy-gurdy sings in the crowded street,
The golden notes skip over the sunlit stones,
Wings are upon our feet.
The sun seems warmer, the winding street more bright,
Sparrows come whirring down in a cloud of light.
We bear our dreams among us, bear them all,
Like hurdy-gurdy music they rise and fall,
Climb to beauty and die.
The wandering lover dreams of his lover's mouth,
And smiles at the hostile sky.
The broker smokes his pipe, and sees a fortune.
The murderer hears a cry.
1k
Off the hook
out of place
out of site
can be replaced
no one home
by that name
on the road
a different game
what up
yo man
who you think I am
a hurdy gurdy purdy man
monkey dancing
just for you
toss away
too bad for you
gotta get that **** on through
cause karma is
what karma does
evens things
the way they was
Jan 29, 2011
Jan 29, 2011 at 4:38 PM UTC
dripping wet emotions
with defensive underwear
tripping ghetto potions
an expensive teddybear
you're a wordy birdy whiddler
of some truth I wouldn't know
and I'm a hurdy gurdy fiddler
of some sooth I shouldn't show
you alight a quiet yearning
you aflame my frozen soul
feels so right the night so burning
but I don't claim my chosen goal
in the blissless listless morning
I begin again to go
you're a kissless mistress scorning
any kin my sin will sow
and the end my friend is calling
my life petty all alone
will she tend and fend my falling
or be a pretty little stone
2012 Lyn
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 6:11 AM UTC
The chimp and the monkey
Were fighting rather funky
About who was the greater ape.
Along came a killer
A monstrous gorilla
And left both their mouths agape.
Then a talented gibbon
Wearing a blue ribbon
Played a fine hurdy-gurdy.
A local photographer
Insisted he recorded her
When he said “Watch the birdie!”
Monkey see, monkey do
Is a childish kind of game;
Like one-upsmanship and chicken
And going to prison,
It often turns out the same.
Hello, wake up and smell the smoke
You’re burning down your future.
Your school-ground behavior
Has gone rancid in flavor;
You boys need to pull yourselves together.
In their pugilistic oblivion
The warring simians
Might have fought until perdition.
Had not their mates protested
Their battle got arrested
Due to their marital conditions.
You see, even dumb creatures
Understand the features
And benefits of a nice residence.
What a sad kind of animal
Makes his home life pitiful
By setting a warlike precedence?
Monkey see, monkey do
Is a childish kind of game;
Like one-upsmanship and chicken
And going to prison,
It often turns out the same.
Hello, wake up and smell the smoke
You’re burning down your future.
Your school-ground behavior
Has gone rancid in flavor;
You boys need to pull yourselves together.
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 9:36 PM UTC
There were tigers, bears and elephants,
The day that the circus came,
And dwarves and clowns in our tiny town
It never would be the same.
The people stared as it passed on by
It was like a grand parade,
If only we’d known what was going down,
It was time to be afraid.
The tent went up in the open field
Behind old Barney’s store,
And lines of booths for the local youths
At a penny or so a draw,
While lines of coloured bulbs lit up
Where the fairground rides were set,
And musical hurdy-gurdies sounded
Just like a passing jet.
Then girls in flimsy bikinis flew
Up and under the top,
A giant net underneath them, yet
In case that one might drop.
The Ringmaster with his hat and whip
And his giant, curled moustache,
Kept all of the ******** riders straight
In line, and under his lash.
The elephants were herded in
And stood on their great hind legs,
Trumpeting sighs, and rolling their eyes,
Just like a dog that begs.
The clowns raced in and disrupted all
Clambering over the seats,
And roused the crowd, that laughed out loud
At all their ridiculous feats.
At ten, the tent had begun to whirl
And the audience went still,
As hounds had bounded in and around,
The Hounds of the Baskervilles.
A massive bell had begun to chime
The Ringmaster’s coat turned black,
He grew in size right before their eyes
And some had a heart attack.
He grew two horns on top of his head
That made him look like a goat,
And then a shimmering tail of dread
Slid out, from under his coat.
‘You pays yer money and takes yer choice,’
His voice boomed out in a bit,
The prayers prayed and the screamers screamed
As the floor sank into a pit.
The first three rows fell into the pit,
The rest of us stood and cowered,
While he just floated and cracked his whip
Over his pit of power.
And flames shot up from the pit below
To the chime of the Black Mass Bell,
We knew we stood at that terrible hour
By the Seventh Circle of Hell.
Our lips were sealed, and I risk my soul
And any future of grace,
By telling you all just what went down
In this, now devilish place.
You’ll see the field behind Barney’s store
Lies burnt, still black with their blood,
Where once the Devil’s own circus came
And set up in our neighbourhood.
David Lewis Paget
Dec 3, 2017
Dec 3, 2017 at 6:32 AM UTC
Feet firmly planted.
Eyes peering into ciy lights . My old friends had waited patiently.
The merry go round would stop. The hurdy gurdy would stop with
Deafening silence. As if what.
As if the token was never paid.
As if the effort was never made.
As if the book ran out of pages with no happy ending.
Optional. Washed away. History told by the one eyed griot
Who had long since gone deaf.long ago lost a marble. But could not
Do the tally.
As if nothing matters but the most recent revision.
As if trutth was a street walker working for her next fix.
As if the distortion was a virtue.
Years in the salt mines. Drudgery and dillusion paassing for
Infinite hope. The yolk bit deep the lash was a given annointed
as saviour.
As if the piper played for gratis.
As if the contract was written in wine.
As if one side payed while the other played.
Blood is thicker than *****
Like minds meld in commonality.
The twig lays close to the branch
As if that is the last word.
As if all is wellin mudvill.
As if Casey put it over the fence.
As if.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 1:29 AM UTC
Seems like I was twenty
just the other day
Like ***** said
"Aint It Funny How Time Slips Away"
I've been buried in bones
raking over old stones
Forcein' grunts & groans
from note bending overtones
realing in my mind
for some kind of a marker of time
Pacing the years
And all of the moments so dear
Markers in a haze glancing rear
In a flash I was thirty
Two ex-wives, it was *****
Never a dull moment before fourty
Ever played a Hurdy Gurdy?
Scrap books & scapes of a sojourn
compiled, organized, the page turns
Fifty kicks you in the *****
one no longer walks so tall
Where in H E double Ls
Did the time go?
May 28, 2010
May 28, 2010 at 1:45 PM UTC
the splint to mountains trollop
and ecstasy of luminous death
a sunging light is hurdy gurdy
and
to behind
their rocky stiffened pose
it's a plunging ***** of deeply laughing violet
Dec 11, 2010
Dec 11, 2010 at 12:55 AM UTC
Sunrise
grabbed me
stabbed me wide awake and took me on a boat ride across the wide and sparkling lake of a bright new, brand new day,but
I can't forget of what yet will come,
Sunset
with its smoking gun, so full of doom
which will play me on a hurdy gurdy dancing to the waning moon,
and of the two I much prefer,
the gentleness of morning air,the touch of freshness on my skin,the will that wills me to begin and start again.
It is strange that as the world moves on, the mountains never seem to change,
rivers always spill towards the sea,like me they know which way to go and flow.
So rich
So full
the promises which pull us on to new endeavours,to reach new heights and scale those mountains of our nights.
Remember though,
the gun sight's aimed
the smoking gun cannot be tamed,it's in us all and everywhere.
I share these thoughts with you as morning struggles through and grabs my arm
to charm and take me
douse me in the lake and make me see
The beauty of what day can be.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 11:14 AM UTC
Carousel
by
jude Kyrie
*All my life I rode the painted pony.
Round and round and up and down
No matter how I begged to get off
It went round and round and round
To the laughing hurdy gurdy sound
One day my frozen heart will stop
And they will put me in the ground.*
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 4:27 AM UTC
The furniture of complacency comes burdened with
Eyeshadow & Mercurial past-idlings/
I have no theatrics to share with you dear
Eccept the sidewalk for all its smoke,
Accept my heart for all its dust
Nervous flames of a violet under close inspection
Deemed too upset for office countertops!
(I will avail you of the screaming that goes on here)
Machinery of white sleep
Surrounded by freckles & laughing
That makes the headboard shake/there is drunken quarrel on the street
There is pacifying the horror of someone's misgivings ! Everything in its place like a jewelled
Skylight or the hallway aroma of stale cake
& a hundred starving dogs quiver at the sight of you
(the sea decides that it doesn't want to **** anyone again
my shoes are starting to wear down
The ********** mouth of the sea is sorry
Is so sorry for all those it drowned
The lion cloaked in laurel caged at the center of the sea
Is growing old
& sick with innocence)
Bloodied flowers crown her hair and shy roots remember the wars of her thickened heart
The softness behind her ears like spots of April honey
(A veteran of what we are capable of inflicting on each other!)
I know the stench of the sidewalk,
Mirrors do translate the language of thoughts/
Remedies are concocted under invisible snow
(mist & directionless droplets make clear the sky and
The whole temporary palace of
Picketed clouds,
A visual hurdy gurdy)
In darkroom tone-
We, resigned to another daybreak
In seeking the holy flowerbed-
Do smear our kissing words to
Lipless leaves
& mournful faces
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 1:07 AM UTC
**Heatstroke
By
Jude Kyrie**
*The naked sun sets the world on fire.
A scalded sky like a funeral pyre.
No rain in sight as the heat goes higher
Like musical notes.
Sit the birds on the telephone wire
No peace for me no cool blue moon.
No respite from their crazy tune
The chirping crows turn the volume higher.
The birds are notes on the telephone wire
That awful hurdy-gurdy sound
Makes my head spin round and round
If I had a gun I would surely fire
At those infernal birds
upon the telephone wire.*
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 5:57 PM UTC
Dully, the dewy eyes make their way towards a bed
And not, before something should be said:
The cure seems to be tomorrow.
The panacea for all death, lethargy and sorrow
Is tomorrow, which washes over us
A wave, the new day, fresh salt and water
And anything sad and onerous
Goes away, or at least can be approached by the daughter
Of today’s dying mother cell, and all hope lies
In the next day, because if not now, then mañana, demain, zavtra
Therein lies the happy ever after, after
After today, as the loom of life keeps on weaving
And the thread of life keeps on beading
And the sighs of life keep on leaving
And the tides of life keep on receding
And washing in again upon the shore
Washing my beached body evermore
Until I choose to stand up as I may
Stand, rise, up and seize the day –
By Jove, how am I so bare, so salted, so lost?
“Day one, or one day, you decide”
Oh prefect of 2017, where am I to hide
From your words? Where am I to hide from a host
Of other words, phrases, calling me out on “laissez-faire”?
The tide will wash over and over
The tide will erode the cliffs of Dover
The tide will erode me with time and lack of care
Because the rhythm cares not,
Though it bares us on
The music won’t stop,
As we dance as one
The machine keeps grinding
The barons keep minding
The hurdy-gurdy keeps winding
And Time keeps binding
And the poet keeps writing
And keeps writing, and biting
Her nib
And her lip
And thinking this sounded better in my mind
Than put down to pages unlined, undefined
Nothing can be defined, only compared
There is no pen that can know,
No knowledge that may be shared
Only pondering
Wondering
Musing, when the muse gives
When one feels one lives
When one feels, one lives
When one reels, one gives
When the world keeps reeling
And I keep feeling
And this page is keeling
And your eyes are peeling
But I did not come to write horror –
I wanted to give hope for tomorrow,
Which will surely come, but, audi vocem meam
Te imploro: *** venit, carpe diem.
Mar 7, 2021
Mar 7, 2021 at 6:30 AM UTC
Upon stars orbits dust,
you circling too distant,
moons do reflect on,
stalled an iris.
By in rollicking hurdy,
tatty circus flows, the
sideshow vendors
hear my sigh.
Fragrant sweet pearls,
pink rose waters slide
Mars raining onto
snake skin.
Asian dwarf orchids,
burning in fragrance,
seen luminescent
ebon petals.
Till again beside me
waters sweep slate,
to a satyrs dance,
my arabesque.
Jan 2, 2018
Jan 2, 2018 at 5:39 AM UTC
Hollow days and painful nights
In the itching sweat of illness.
Photos of another life
In sunlit fields of memory
Are glued to scrapbook pages
And the book locked in the cupboard.
Broken teacup on the floor
Dropped or thrown - who knows.
The Ferris Wheel no longer turns
And the Hurdy Gurdy has gone silent.
Effort does not pay the rent
That ratchets ever upward.
Blood and tears are valueless
And the race is almost over.
ljm
Apr 24, 2022
Apr 24, 2022 at 10:52 AM UTC