"hutch" poems
Speculation proved
contagious,
misinterpretation
crept silently on patchwork soles
(odds n' sods messily stitched,
tittle tattle did no favours)
like a flu it spread,
hushed curiosities rested
outside ol' Hutch baker's door,
where even a freshly oven'd
batch might strain an ear
or five to net nearby tongue trading,
seeds straining on their brows.
Even those Mother hens
had a cluck or two left in them,
rumours about the
'Dust mite Martyr'
as she was dubbed,
“Does she have no shame,
sitting pretty in Matrimony's dress?”
one heaving checkered breast commented
titling her beak
to gain a better look -
At that shriveller slumped,
an examiner of the cobbles
with such a religious stare
her lids traced stones
within the darkness,
a traveller -
wanderer not to be trusted,
especially not
with bloodied lilies tangled
within her gleaming mop.
Oct 25, 2011
Oct 25, 2011 at 1:58 PM UTC
It seems Freedom was very short
In fact history tries hard to really abort
Oh Freedom Oh Freedom
When will we ever see the kingdom?
The past struggles continues in the present
Our own Leader is gone, but who will continue to represent?
God’s eyes have always been our guide
It is truly him we should abide
It seems races have separated according to a bunch
But it is true thinking with planning in the hutch
Is it a thought or just understanding mine?
Oh Freedom Oh Freedom
I weep in my sleep
The idea of not feeling the Freedom cuts ever so deep
The only thing I own is Freedom in my mind to keep
Freedom still being a fight
We can’t tire, but continue in numbers being might
Dr. Martin Luther King had the plan all along
Freedom is definitely where we all belong
Circumstance must change into equality
Respect must change into honor
Pride into dignity
Freedom being reality
I was not meant to be a slave
I have a place, and don’t need to behave
Respect is what I deserve
Dignity in looking ahead, and not down
No chains will ever keep me bound
I will never be silent and will always echo a sound
Oh Freedom when will I truly be free
I am keeping my eyes on thee
He is truly the key
I am a proud individual
I achieved where others said I couldn’t
I established where others said I wouldn’t
Equality is what we need
Only when Freedom is added and only then we can proceed
This is not a personal creed that was just made up
It’s not some silver spoon that came with a diamond cup
Who says Freedom is only for the chosen?
This is a nation and all are candidates for prosperity
Where there is a civil rights, there is a pen and paper to write
Sign Freedom on the dotted line
Remember our Civil Rights is what is combined
Stand up my Brothers and Sisters
Raise your arms and hands up high
No needing to ask the question of why
We all stand together for Freedom and that includes I.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 10:00 AM UTC
Ryan he likes slags called kim
I wonder if Kim's fat or slim
Is she ugly, is she grim
I guess Kim's good enough for him
Kim she's Ryan's piece of trim
Is it because she licks the rim
Are other slags out on a whim
Maybe their filled up to the brim
Bus stops talk they say so much
They seem to have that magic touch
Slags lives scrawled on shelters hutch
Straight to the point, not double Dutch
No other slags are good enough
perhaps their skanks and far too rough
Slags called Kim, must be so tough
When Ryan does not get enough
Not slags called Julie, Emma or Jane
Jodi and Rachel must be too plain
Just try Michelle, are you insane ?
Limiting tarts is loss not gain
Is Ryan partial to whips and chain ?
And Kim obliges him with pain
Kim must be different with the cane
It's no wonder he wants Kim again
Kim maybe great, from where your stood
She's just a **** who likes hard wood
Come on now Ryan, you know you should
There's other slags that's just as good
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 2:15 PM UTC
Uncle Mike was heading south
To Jamaica he would head
With the amount of hair that poor Mike had
He could only have one dread
A conference for his workplace
A nice resort and lots of sun
Mike was set to go an party
He would work and have some fun
But if you've read my other poems
Mike is not ...well, tuned in
You see his trip was almost over
Before it even did begin
The day that he was leaving
Mike was notified by mail
He needed a new photograph
For his ID card....no fail!!!!
He was already at his hotel
When the notice came to say
You must send us a photo
Or you can't come here to play
He bought himself a camera
A poloraid and then
He tried to take a picture in his room
A true multitasker among men
He put the camera on the hutch
Bent a hanger down to length
And then he tried to push the button
but, the hanger didn't have the strength
He knocked the camera all about
Taking pictures of the walls,
One picture of the tv set
And four photos of his *****
This would be a no go
He had to ask someone instead
How do you ask a stranger
Take my photo on my bed?
He made the plane to Kingston
Found the hotel, settled in
Now, Mike was in Jamaica
And the real fun would begin
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 6:26 PM UTC
I put conkers on my door-frame, to keep spiders at bay,
I like my bedroom messy so I don't put things away.
I wish I had a pony, but I know I wouldn't drive it,
I wish I had a bumblebee, but I've no hive to hive it.
I'm a vegetarian but I've no views on rights of chickens,
I love to read the classics but I've no views on ****** Dickens,
I own a hundred thousand scarves but never would I wear one,
I'd envy those who have tattoos, but I would never bare one.
I light candles everyday but they make me cough,
I respect those that speak in Art and understood Van Gogh,
I drink coffee everyday, but never liked it very much,
I've never had a rabbit but I own a cage and hutch.
We all do little, crazy things that no one understands,
we lose control and lose ourselves and always change our plans.
The ones they think are crazy are the ones who cause the change,
whether you love or hate them, you always know their names.
So if you're building up an army , piece by piece by piece,
please remember normal friends, you need one oddball at least!
Oct 7, 2011
Oct 7, 2011 at 7:48 PM UTC
Acclimate away you accustom to rabble streets, calculate thy cantankerous beef with another diabolic past!!
Destine connoisseur,
Old things get older while thy love stays newer!!!
What a hope to hope for something!!!!
Bare faced sophomore,
Soporific enducing trips to styles of maxed out galore....
Domineers on every corner,
Where youngest of mourners art ourn own children,
Gravitational to all pull ins,
Guided by ourn own sins we set our own adversities!!!!
When wilt we climb out of ourn own hutch?
Our brittled bunch doesn't think of two but one!!
Jilt all thou will falsifiers,
Killers and liars,
Were all wrapped tight to the same metropolis line!!!
Okaying thyself?
Canst we OK what's wrong and not fine?
Schzoid scribble ******* in,
Undeniable on planet green earth!!!
Underhanded,
Diploma drop ins,
Morphine moratorium so Grey thy sounds are!!!!
Yet thy smiles so beautifully wide!!!!!
Seek as thou finds,
Find all though you mayeth hide!!!
The scorch is over to be bear!!
Where is the opulent Queen who I seek?
Yet hasn't found me yet...
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 9:33 AM UTC
She knew not what she did that day.
The day she let bunny out to play.
His hutch lay vacant, her bunny was gone.
Tear trickled down her rosy cheek, missing her bunny.
She left for the party at the end of the week.
Put on her gear which was somewhat perverse.
Short skirt and sharp black patent heels.
Through the graveyard on this bright moonlit night,
Carefree and happy, would be meeting her chappy.
Her heel got caught in the muddy clay.
Fell to her knees.
From a cavity in the ground, appeared menacing bunny.
In his best huntsman’s jacket, he was out to find prey
In a bit of a panic, she realised she was trapped.
Caught in chains.
She petted him every day.
Tonight was bunny’s time to play.
She was his bunny girl.
© Livvi
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 3:53 PM UTC
in such in was springtime (hollyhock and thistle) girls and boys went nudely up their downs, into crystal waters of crisply straying health (when all noontide swung wide its gabled darkness hutch) and boysandgirls (in holly) went winter in its touch.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 7:56 AM UTC
What’s this?
A relic from my childhood.
Long forgotten.
Memories spring forth from nowhere.
My imagination is brought forth front and center
And history is repeated
For me alone.
I watch the movie
Every emotion (such joy, such fury, such sadness)
I feel again with renewed vigor.
Cringing in childish embarrassment and smiling the way children do.
Every motive (children are really such fickle creatures; innocence isn’t something learned)
Is held dear again in my heart, overriding my ethic, my values.
My senses are overwhelmed with old, dusty film reels and stale popcorn.
I grip the armrests of my seat; I cannot take my eyes off.
I laugh at every cereal-box quality joke and cry over every scraped knee.
I even feel the relief and comfort the cartoon-character Band-aid brings.
Sandboxes and freshly cut grass.
Bright, warm sunlight and the rabbit hutch.
Vacations with Mom and Dad together.
The movie ends but lives on as I walk out of the theatre.
Like a tattoo on my shadow, it walks with me home.
All of this in a blink of an eye.
I remember.
Jan 15, 2010
Jan 15, 2010 at 9:32 PM UTC
Autumn bid goodbye,
To new winter's approach.
At a wink of Jack's eye;
Leaves littered tucked,
In cozy blankets snow.
All the rabbits in their hutch,
Chipmunks lodged in logs' hole,
By stag's stern, lest tiny fawns stumble
Catch, on mother doe-
Nary a cardinal ruffled &
Bears rest in slumber;
Till wane of mistletoe
Dec 23, 2023
Dec 23, 2023 at 10:22 PM UTC
Tales of the Texas Rangers:
The Legend of Tom Brady’s Shirt
Texas is rich with tales of old
Heroes, villains, San Saba’s gold
Once Aztecs ruled our shores and bays
And Tejas roamed the forest ways
Here in this sunburnt arid land
Comanches bold made their last stand
Karankawas, Apaches too -
All sorts of tales, and mostly true
Nueva Espana, then Mexico
Rebellion and the Alamo
But the strangest tale, we now assert
Is the mystery of Tom Brady’s shirt
Missing it is, after the game
Who is the thief? Who is to blame?
Dan Patrick, the lieutenant-guv
He swore by all the stars above
And most of all by that one Star
That’s flown in every saloon and bar
He’d catch that creep, and make him hurt
Whoever pinched Tom Brady’s shirt
So in this time of ******* danger
He called upon each Texas Ranger
His voice was low, but cold as steel:
“Y’all brang that mangy cur to heel;
Load your weapons, and saddle up!”
Each Ranger answered with a “Yup.”
All Rangers, now, be on alert:
Somebody rustled Tom Brady’s shirt
Every Texan expects your best
(Tom Brady is our honored guest)
He can’t go home in just his jeans
So find his jersey, by any means
Remember - not a blouse or skirt;
You’re looking for the poor man’s shirt
That’s why you Rangers are paid so much -
Search every ****** and hovel and hutch
Somewhere under the Texas skies
An outlaw hides, and probably cries
He shamed his state and he shamed his mama
And the only end to all this drama
Will come upon him like wind and dust
And a voice will command (with great disgust)
“Stand and deliver, you ugly varmint!
Hold up your hands, and drop that garment!”
“Oh, Texas Ranger, tell me true:
How did you find me? I feel so blue!”
And the Ranger will sing softly:
“The shirt of a stranger is upon you…”1
y colorín, colorado y este cuento se ha acabado, y’all
1Apologies to Chuck Norris
Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 9:01 PM UTC
Paramus? I bought a desk in Paramus. Don’t remember what it looked like.
There were ***** men outside the store. Or maybe they were Mexican?
They played a Skiffle beat as I haggled for that couch I was getting.
“When I’m dead and in my grave. No more good times will I crave.
When I die they’ll burry me deep. Way down on old Chelsea Street.”
Title was “Freight Train”.Think that one was by Nancy Whiskey You said Rutherford you’re from or Roebling?Ya, that Lonnie Donegan could sure make a song The song those Mic’s in front of the store I got the hutch at in Oradell was called “Face in the Rain”, went, “When I’m dead and in my grave. No more good times will I crave. When I die they’ll burry me deep. Way down on old Chelsea Street.” Wait what were we saying bout’ Paramus?
I mean Patterson.
Dec 23, 2009
Dec 23, 2009 at 8:17 AM UTC
a fine week was had
the day a married
black candle mass
time dawdle
our loved stalked
angel and demon
the devil called
heel warm-
a fly born
and in squash
and in *****
moaning no..
fiery ****** tongue
take the bride upon
the stair
the groom served by
sundry elf
while maiden scent
his self-
spit of toad for
potent
death watch for
content
goblet of newly
born blood
and saw the
dead born
watney´ s pale in
an eight pint
can
red and gold
before the god
the revellers
kowtow
and the girls
vie for a smile
so ennuyer
etched
across his face
evil always
some distraction
a turbid dracula
bored
vice a hold
the betrothed cam
sweet innocent
like starsky
and hutch
naked and bloodied
to the dark one first
rites
right is right..!
crazy horses kicks
off
donny makes a
come back
o scream the tree
crack
through
the clamor
witchs hover
ashine with mire
o higher the crying
the exultation..!
evil the mad one
ah..!
evil made persona
the couple sworn
at each end
scant hors d'oeurvre
to the masters
seed served
cold the
young old
and old..
wine flows
strange going on
in the coat room..
be loved *****
shared..reverence
and shy glance..
our old ice cream
man
strikes up the band..!
thus man and wife declared
tied and together darkness
with out end..
all cracked raise to health..!
something by sinatra
in the sky yon moon turns
to aversion
the forest weeps
there then the fire
in the eye of
the songbird
there then the
cleansing sweep
of the blackbird
to flight..
Dec 8, 2018
Dec 8, 2018 at 8:14 AM UTC
If you leave me
All the hangers will get tangled in the closet.
It won’t matter; all my clothes will be on the floor.
If you leave me
The cheese in the refrigerator will turn green.
And the milk will soon be far too thick to pour.
If you leave me
The remote will only tune in somber shows.
That will be OK; I’ll have forgotten how to laugh.
If you leave me
Dust bunnies will build a hutch beneath the bed
Where one forgotten slipper hides that I will never move.
If you leave me
The sun will shine on everything that’s not within my view.
I won’t mind; my sunglasses will fool everyone but me.
If you leave me
Hummingbirds won’t visit the back garden any more
They’ll be blind to the red juice in the feeder.
If you leave me
I will build a house of memory and grief
And move myself inside and lock the door
ljm
Mar 29, 2017
Mar 29, 2017 at 1:32 AM UTC
I am one of the best poets on the site
On any subject I can write.
I may lack Neva Flores poetic grace
Or Rue’s literary or linguistic ace
I may lack Denis Barter’s classical touch
I am as useful as telephone hutch
My poetry is as simple as a common man’s speech
It is within every reader’s easy reach
In the literary circle I have considerable space
In my friends’ heart some cordial place
I don’t know much about meter
But I can write a poem on electrical heater
Some poets think My poetry sounds Victorian
I am undoubtedly not a sectarian
Some critics may feel my poetry is out dated
I think it might have been over rated
I am an instinctive and innovative poet
I am at the threshold of becoming great
If you think I am right bless me
If you think I am boasting curse me
Jan 31, 2011
Jan 31, 2011 at 6:14 AM UTC
I am motherless.
She sits on the hutch in our dining room, in a ceramic urn.
Watching her fall has made me rise
I will be her polar opposite.
Her failure is my success.
I was numb to her death,
Like watching through one-way glass,
My heart feeling no pain, no loss.
Just relief.
I am safe now.
I am a muzzle.
I keep my feelings and frustrations to myself,
Bottled like colored sand and shells.
They rest on the tip of my tongue sometimes,
Rehearsed words to finally say what I mean.
But every time I talk myself down,
And push the words back down,
Fingers thrusting cork underwater.
From time to time I wish to shed a skin of attentiveness,
To take the words for what they are, rather than how they’re said.
I am a dream drawer
With broad strokes of man-made nostalgia I paint
A colonial home,
On a tree lined street,
A square front yard,
A big oak tree,
Green grass and a wraparound porch.
Inside,
There are varnished floors,
Built-in bookcases,
An Ikea kitchen,
And a Pottery Barn living room.
The kids wear Abercrombie,
The school bus stops at our front door,
and I am a mother for my children and for myself.
I am a street photographer.
Windows are my viewfinders,
showing a moment of life inside of a house. Click.
I am fascinated by the insides of a home.
I wish I could stop time and walk inside,
To see what’s behind that glass photograph.
I am a poet.
My dreams and desires,
My feelings and frustrations,
Are not spoken, but written.
I cannot just “turn on” my poetry,
I need something to speak to me,
Like my toes in a backyard pool during twilight,
Or a restless night.
They whisper at me,
Cast me meaningful glances.
I am a miner,
Searching for diamonds in a harmony,
Where I just have to close my eyes,
Smile, and be swallowed by the whale of melody and drums.
I am Jonah,
Wrapped in a musical hurricane,
I am surrounded and forced to forget
Everything but what I’m hearing.
Jun 26, 2010
Jun 26, 2010 at 10:43 PM UTC
A raucous tone of an oldie worm gear
Sound's like a screech that torn ears
Toothed wheel and it revolving spiral, bear
The oodles of blood as the oil of fear.
The products are orderly transmitted diseases
Wrench is limited avast for every pigment of it
And to rely on its asylum, to ceases
are not enough, to cover the dirt or to omit.
Let's stave the stave of reddish fuels!
If life is a wheel and we are its axles,
Our will be done, drawn of our risksha
And let this machine covert chutzpah.
Working of two wheel with sloping square edge,
Is the next wheel with trickery on the ledge.
Our wheel has a will of its spare-part, none Midas touch
But still, this wheel will chase the chaste egg to hutch.
Be the egg of tomorrow, who's snob the chatterbox.
Uproots our machine's cheapskate who's blood are their tax.
Their waste turns to wax from the slave of fox.
It can take away everything outside of our flocks
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 7:21 PM UTC
*You want me to tell you what happened,
don't you?
You want me to bare it all,
every sordid detail.*
..... And so she sat there at the dining room table,
even now 20 plus years later, I still feel sorry for her.
How hard it must have been for her to say,
"I think we have become too familiar with one another,
and I need to find myself".
What the **** did that mean?
She has never said anything like that in the 10 years we'd been married.
What the ****
I didn't know then, but those were euphemisms a friend had told her to say.
She wasn’t really all that good at communicating you see.
She took a bight of souffle and kept blankly staring at the refurbished china hutch,
the one she picked out at the flea market and said we would refinish it together.
We... never did.
I said, with a new found fear in my voice, "So this is it?".
I hadn’t yet felt the sting of actually getting a divorce.
And with a heart stopping seriousness in here eyes she said,
"I think it is."
Blood rushed to my head, like a car running a stop sign in front of me,
I crashed.
On my one shoulder was a devil that wanted to yell and scream and call her names.
On the other was the Angel of Karma, telling me that this is one of those moments in life
that you are either going to be proud of,
or regret.
So quietly I said,
"how can I help you find yourself ?".
All the while frantically thinking.....
Think, think, think of something to say that will keep her from leaving.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 9:12 PM UTC
it's cold
having tested the
boundaries of this
knowledge
my nose retreats
rough brushed felt
the most likely home
hidden behind the buttons of my jacket
and scarf
jam red, spilling
up over the collar
into the morning grey.
I squint up
the road past The
Rooster, down to the
bus hutch, barely containing
the Asian nanny
with pink-hatted Precious
this bus is not for me
nor the next
I glance down at
the slip of paper
crumpled, dwarfed by
my mittens,
I thumb the coffee stain kissing
the blue of the ball point pen scrawl.
42.
was I even sure that
was a route?
the price?
no change chilling
in the pockets against my jeans
a bent fingernail against denim
reveals I've also
lost my pass.
8:58 now
maybe best to just walk.
what was I expecting?
that the meaning of life
would really cover my fare
on the next bus? the
self loathing brought on
only by subzero, interrupted by
the scratch of metal
on the concrete at
my boot tips
golden.
flat.
I have won.
that's more like it.
I'd rather travel by
glass elevator anyway.
If we're splitting hairs..
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 8:52 PM UTC
Distance
is the s p a c e that is holding me back
it went from inches to miles
hindering my hand from caressing your back
If only it was just one hallway
Down four or five doors
I would sneak on over
Just to feel my lips on yours
Distance
is where I kept you
only wanting to be friends
& what I’m regretting now
Is taking so long to allow the rules to bend
Because distance is something I normally invite
For I’ve had my heart broke
& for every kiss I pressed softly against your skin
you understood everything I never spoke
Distance
is where we started
& now you whisper that you’re in this all the way
Something that ill never understand
Is that you’re okay with me only being half way
And just as I was letting my guard down
There were only ten days left of your stay
And on day ten I kissed you goodbye
Slowly backed down your driveway
Distance
is causing me to stare at this calendar
And count down the days
Until the next time I get to see you
Baby you’re so far away
For I would give up sleeping
My favorite thing to do
If it meant I got to see you
For just a minute or two
Distance
crosses my mind all through the day
& as I’m admiring the radiance of the nights sky
You are watching the sunrise ready to start your day
& now the wolves are beginning to howl up at the moon
As if it has their heart’s confined in a hutch
My lip begins to quiver as we both cry
For a tenderness we cannot touch
Distance
may be keeping you far away
But the truth is that I can still feel here
The way your lips brushed softly from my mouth
Across my cheek, and whispered in my ear
& you said “there may be oceans in between”
“Mountains for we cannot climb”
“But one thing is for certain”
“I’ll love you until the end of time”
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 8:46 PM UTC
Past and future, like two films played in dubly salons.
None can watch both at the same time.
At some point we need to choose
which one we shall watch.
There are things in our lives we do not like to face at all
and as we hurry to hide them in a hutch called subconscious
its door open ferocious.
The fact we do not face them doesn't mean they do not exist
and when the door opens everything falls upon us.
Difficult to end something old but even more to start as new.
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 3:29 PM UTC
Sensational curiosities of quarter-sized universes of human love and human flesh.
Gentle insane thoughtless violence cured in time's long sluice of betrayal,
Rancor, then betrayal, and then the frost. Never did I hear the twigget of the synthesizer max its flare.
Every mouth was a warship, the plumes coming up over the top of the spigot, sampler of the Neverspoke. Worships them, in the Hectares through the dross, the incumbent conflagration
Envelops life from venom thru a stra. Into the hutch the creeper shakes, like the
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 6:43 PM UTC
There was a time when rabbits were lions,
when I was a child,
I had a rabbit called Lion.
I left the hutch open and went to bed,
off he flopped into the dark cold night.
I mean, you can't discover much from a hutch
but Lion took one turn too many,
Lion got lost,
he couldn't find his way back,
Lion lost his bearings as jumped through the unknown world.
I can empathise with Lion now,
I think I'm one turn away from not being able to get back.
Anyway, Lion never came home
and now rabbits are just rabbits
- not lions.
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 7:24 PM UTC
There's a cat with a grin.
Wicked as sin.
So it doth vanish into thin air.
Just a big grin dangling there.
In the realms of Alice.
Red queen stirring malice.
Off with her head so the red queen said.
And the dormouse slept in the tea ***
Stewing quietly.
The tea's too hot.
The fella with ****** hats.
Doffs them to the lords and ladies.
Shady character for sure.
He sips from the saucer he chucks.
Off with the queens head.
A lucky shot.
He runs and hides.
Makes a keen escape.
Alice holds him tight under her apron.
White bunny grabs them.
Up through the hole they go.
White rabbit, Mad Hatter and Alice as you know.
Scarpered along the river bank.
Sat on a rug for a minute or two.
Toes in the water.
In the house on the hill.
Daddy waits for his daughter.
She's in the garden.
She strolls back indoors.
Bunny's chucked back in his hutch.
Mad hatter is sat back on the window sill.
The looking glass beckons sweet Alice back in still.
She's had enough fun for one day.
(c)LIVVI
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 8:40 AM UTC