"jacqueline" poems
Sometimes, when you listen to their enounciation.
You realize, just how beautiful they speak in their British accent.
Every word expressively spoken.
That you're mermorized by each vocal.
Maggie Smith, the lady of class.
Cary Grant, the man of taste.
Oh, that British voice.
That you might chose , if had you that choice.
Or seek ways to adapt them to yours.
Michael Redgrave/Michael Rennie/Vanessa Regraves
All of them had that lovable voice.
Then you notice the beautiful Julie Andrew.
Words spoke so you see the greatness of the phase.
Which we notice too in Richard Attenborough.
Who reminds many of Richard Burton?
Yes, the British accent.
You just got to love it
Similar to loving Honor Blackman when she speaks.
A great difference from Jacqueline Bissett.
Except written about them with great respect.
Who can't admire the British Accent?
Yes, there's the French.
And I'm not kicking it.
Then , there's Spanish.
Which has more trying to learn it.
But this is about the English and the various style of vocals.
Colin Barker and Prince Williams the Royals speaks so wonderful.
Just like, the man called Michael Caine.
I just have to mention Deborah Kerr.
That also goes for Joan Collin.
It's something about their style of speaking.
Maybe because you understand every spoken word.
Which is level toward the great Timothy Dalton.
And Samantha Eggar and **** Jagger.
Plus, the late David Niven.
And honorable mention to Julie Christie.
Jane Asher, Hugh Grant and several more.
Have you wishing to make their voices be yours.
Yes, the British Accent just so lovable.
And the greatest things about it.
You don't have to be famous to be adored.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 10:23 AM UTC
Starting from the newest, these are my first fifty followers on Hello Poetry.
1. Hailey L May 5
2. Elizabeth Squires May 4
3. Tim Knight May 3
4. Morgan Hanchulak May 3
5. Vi Snicket May 2
6. Jessica Applegate Apr 30
7. Himanshu Koshe Apr 30
8. Mike Winegar Apr 29
9. Joey Lapiana Apr 29
10. Christopher Munro Apr 29
11. Raffi Kaftajian Apr 26
12. Shari Forman Apr 25
13. Jessica Who Apr 24
14. RedWritingHood Apr 22
15. Adreishka Moonlight Apr 21
16. Rocky G Apr 19
17. Sarina Apr 18
18. John Moffatt Apr 17
19. Izisfat Apr 9
20. Leila Apr 8
21. Marian Apr 5
22. Star Toucher64 Mar 30
23. Michelle Mar 26
24. Kristo Frost Mar 25
25. Ra Mar 20
26. Jacqueline Melissa Woolums Mar 15
27. ennyo Mar 11
28. Ellen Menzies Mar 9
29. Jodi Casavant Mar 8
30. Jillyan Adams Feb 20
31. Hailey Scomet Feb 2
32. Pete Taken Alive Jan 17
33. Md HUDA Jan 6
34. Joshua Ohmer Jan 1
35. Quinn Puwang Dec 30, 2012
36. Rissa Ann Dec 10, 2012
37. Hilda Dec 9, 2012
38. Rena Julleitta Dec 7, 2012
39. Emily Rose Williams Dec 7, 2012
40. Abdosh A Dec 5, 2012
41. Naveena Vijayan Dec 4, 2012
42. Kristian Alexander George Dec 1, 2012
43. Oliver Delgaram-Nejad Dec 1, 2012
44. Chessnie Lea Nov 27, 2012
45. Ugochukwu-Charles Onyewuchi Nov 25, 2012
46. Timothy Nov 24, 2012
47. Who Am I Nov 24, 2012
48. Matthew P Hill Nov 23, 2012
49. Tomas Nov 21, 2012
I gained inspirations for my poems from all my followers, those who I follow and especially my lovely little one who brought me here to Hello Poetry first, to a safe haven of like-minded people with a poetic niche each.
Thank you all.
First of all I thank you Eliot York for creating this wonderful poetry blog.
(-: And how can I ever thank you enough for introducing me to this wonderful website, just like Krishna guides Arjun in grand Mahabharata epic. You are my Krishna and I am your Arjun. :-)
(-: You share the place with Eliot York and the family of Timothy sir for inspiring my poems & helping me define my poetic style. As you are a kid for me, your heart is a crystal to me from where I can see the world more clearly in a different way. :-)
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 7:02 AM UTC
A Tale of Two Cities, Marie Antoinette, Les Misérables,
Populaire and Jacqueline Boyer—
Van Gogh and Monet and all things the Louvre—
Louise Labé and Louis Aragon,
Camus, Voltaire, Baudelaire…
I’ve been breathing in pieces of France,
Eating baguettes,
Dreaming of their kisses,
Committing the curl of their words to memory,
To maybe find out just why they say the French love better.
Maybe if I’ve established the impartiality to the Eiffel tower and the familiarity of romantic cheek-and-cheek-kiss greets,
I will grin under the Parisian Moon, whispering with some curls of my own:
Je suis heureux.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 11:05 PM UTC
“The autopsy will confirm no trauma to the body
no foul play”
Face down in the river
whose name means forked tongue
A crow investigates
where water frowned in flotsam
face down—muddied
hair, mustachio
jeans and striped tee
whose--
“name has not been released pending...”
...His loves
tattooed on upper arm
“Coroner awaiting the next of....”
He'll wait a while
for “Mom and Budweiser” to finally check in
He may have...
“He may have been... ...a resident of
The Cozy Care Home”
where he paid for the care
questioned the cozy whose agent demurs—
“The turnover here is just so rapid... steady current of guests
No one ever noticed....”
“...this is Jacqueline Henry with WBSH News”
“The autopsy will confirm...”
First of the month
to town on a mission
Just a short hop
from stone to stone
from day to day
from rock to a hard place
Looking for a short cut
to Tasty Cakes, bologna
Wise Chips and a 40
cross the gurgling,
glinting light and liquid laughter
...This river has a forked tongue...
...a resident
...a resident
who paid to get missed
who one week before
on the easy way of an April day...
Knocked down, gasping
knocked down
and yanked through his forty-eight years pulled through panic
by lean muscle of current
wishing for something...
for someone
to hang on to!
The autopsy will confirm
This river lies
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 12:13 PM UTC
Why would you ask me if I'm okay
Don't I look like I'm okay
And stop calling me Jacqueline
I’m not Jacqueline anymore
No, I was never Jacqueline,
But I didn’t realize that when I was younger
And who do I ask about my gender
Don’t tell me God
I have spent so long praying
There are depressions in the floorboards from where my knees collided with faith
But I don’t think I have faith anymore
God doesn’t answer my prayers anymore
Why doesn’t god answer my prayers?
I know for a fact God answers my friends’ prayers
why doesn’t He answer mine
I think it’s because He doesn’t love his queer children
I think God needs to go to a PFLAG meeting
Or at least one needs to be held in a church so He can hear the words of acceptance echoing throughout his house
Mom told me they didn’t know if I was a boy or a girl until I was born
But I still don’t know
Let’s do an ultrasound on the part of my brain that decided not to feel like a girl
I must have decided
But I don’t remember doing it
I told my friend I didn’t feel like a girl,
She laughed and said, “I know, you feel like a woman.”
I told my friend I didn’t feel like a girl, and she said, “Not so loud, I don’t want my parents to hear.”
And she was right, because at some point “gender” became a dirtier word than ***
Because even though her parents won’t admit it, they wouldn’t kick her out if she was having *** as long as it wasn’t with someone of the same ***
And I’m in a same *** relationship with God
Because in religion class they told me He was genderless
But we still call God “He”
People still call me she
But I’ve never told them different
They said we’re all created in God’s image,
But I think I’m not
Because God doesn’t make mistakes.
No, I’m not okay
And stop calling me Jacqueline.
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
a city with a past
that echoes unrelentingly
through its present
a city of whispering shadows
& tortured souls
of sharp edges
& crystallised tears
© Jacqueline Le Sueur 2016 All Rights Reserved
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 11:10 AM UTC
Joe and Rose’s Children
Joseph’s plane was shot down near England during WWII
John was assassinated in 1963 of November Twenty-Two
Rose Marie Mary had a lobotomy because she was acting aggressively
Kathleen, wed Wm J Robt Cavendish and she later died unexpectedly
Eunice married a great man, Lieutenant Robert S. Shriver
Patricia wed actor Peter Lawford, their marriage wasn't forever
Robert wed Ethel Skakel, he was another that was assassinated
Jacqueline Bovier felt sure that the Kennedy’s might be hated
Married to Stephen Edward Smith
Jean was wed to him until his death
Edward (Ted) late one night drove off a bridge at Chappaquiddick
Reporting the next day about Mary Jo Kopechne was quite horrific
Ted was married twice, first to Virginia Joan Bennett 1958–1982
And then next until his death Victoria Anne "Vicki" Reggie too
Copyright 2013
All Rights Reserved
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 4:06 PM UTC
It's spring, I think.
There's a girl.
Blue dress and eyes.
Gold hair and a toy
Soldier that smiles
From her golden fist.
She is playing by
A wide lake. The
Wind through her
Metal braid is the
Soft mother's hand that
Dances flowers smooth.
See the grass sway.
See the wooden man
Blow elegantly away.
See her leap after him.
Hear her splash
Through the water’s skin.
Above the air
In the corse of a spectator-ship,
A wooden man is upside-down
To watch her drown.
He hums with the thrum
Of the blood in his ears,
"Blue over blue over blue."
May 10, 2010
May 10, 2010 at 1:46 PM UTC
On the surface of the moon, high in the sky and far out of sight.
Lives a creature, in a crater, half in shade, half in light.
The creature has a snarky grin.
And that is where this story begins.
People find it hard to describe the creature they see.
“he’s tall” some say, others “he only comes up to my knee”.
Some say he has two legs; some say he has four.
Some say he has six legs; some say he has more.
Some say he has two eyes, a nose, two ears and a mouth.
Some say he is charming; others say his charms are leaving him, heading south.
But one thing that is known for sure.
Is the creature that lives on the moon is a frightful old boor.
He has no words, no small talk, chitter chatter.
He doesn’t pass the time with a friendly natter.
He slinks and slithers.
He glides and shivers.
A snake, I hear you cry but “no!”
This creature is not a snake, he's neither fast nor slow.
He lives on his own and seeks no crowds.
He shouts at you “turn the music down”, if it gets too loud.
Some say he's a dinosaur, one hundred years old.
Some say he's a young un with a heart of gold.
The creature that lives on the moon, is happy being one of a kind.
He's happy being himself and has no desire to be refined.
The creature that lives on the moon, is happy in his own skin.
Makes no difference to the creature, if he has no known kith or kin.
The creature that lives on the moon, makes no judgement of what you wear.
Makes no judgement of how you choose to style your hair.
That is why the creature that lives on the moon is welcome to attend his neighbour’s parties.
That is why they welcome him with arms open wide, wholeheartedly.
The creature that lives on the moon is pleasant to them all, but he has no desire to be the star of the ball.
By preference, the creature sits alone in his chair, he does not speak, he does not stare.
He just enjoys the moment, living without a care.
He has no shackles; he is not bound.
The creature is content living life in his crater, he has no wish to be found.
The view he has before him of the planet below is a glorious sight.
A sight that waxes and wanes with the season, sometimes he is in the shade, sometimes eclipsed by the light.
A sight he adores and is grateful for.
A sight he is happy to be considered a “frightful old boor”.
When you see the moon in the sky at night.
Look for the creature, who lives in a crater, sometimes in shade and sometimes in light.
Give him a wave and say a prayer thankful he continues watching over the planet below from sunset to sunrise; from the time your head hits the pillow until the time you open your eyes.
Sweet dreams.
©Jacqueline Mead 2020
May 30, 2020
May 30, 2020 at 11:28 AM UTC
She starred in "Doctor Who" and "Blood Money".
She died thirty years ago today at the age of 63.
When she starred in those Doctor Who episodes, she starred with William Hartnell and Tom Baker.
She lost her battle with cancer thirty years ago today and she went to Heaven and met her maker.
She also starred in "Tales Of The Unexpected", "The Comedy Man" and "No Hiding Place".
People were sad thirty years ago because she was no longer a member of the human race.
It's always sad when such a talented person dies.
All of her fans mourned because of her demise.
Feb 18, 2023
Feb 18, 2023 at 11:21 AM UTC
What is family?
I know that it is any one related to you,
you know,
second cousin twice removed and all that.
I love all my family dearly,
my aunts and uncles,
brother and sister,
cousins,
grandparents,
great aunts,
great uncles etc.
But I also have another family,
My best friends who are like brothers and sister to me,
Emme Shoup,
Frances Calvin,
Sophia Hale,
Jacqueline Peaglow ,
Taylor Corkil,
Maile,
Dakota Thrall,
Jazmin Villasenor,
Crimson Morgan,
Marshall McIvor,
And many others,
I want to thank you for always being there,
When I needed you most,
You have helped me through the hard times,
And laughed with me through the funny ones,
You have never given up on me.
I would like to say one thing to you all,
Even if you give up on your selves,
I will never,
EVER
give up on you
You are the siblings I never had,
My sisters from other misters,
My brothers from other mothers
And,
I love you.
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 8:00 PM UTC
Jacqueline,
your bottomless black eyes draw me in,
as I draw these lines with black pen,
which form emotionally immaculate translations,
that describe th way those bottomless black eyes draw me in,
Jacqueline,
I’m unraveling as I’m travelin’,
into the infinite of your obsidian eyes,
and I’m writing frantically to try and describe,
everything you are that makes me feel alive,
I,
a legendary writer,
who’s legend has just begun,
attempting to describe,
the indescribable I know it’s difficult but it can be done,
I am spun,
out in the your orbit or rather the orbit of your bottomless black eyes,
and that’s okay,
because we are far from the prying public’s eye,
and of course the course of the public can be an ugly subject,
because there is no passably pretty way to dress up hideous lies,
but we find refuge in these words which find refuge in those eyes,
here we have our own world one not subject to the public and their lies,
we’re in private and I’m dying and at the same time feeling thoroughly alive,
dancing the tantric dance of the divine the white hot light and those black cold eyes,
those black eyes,
draw me in,
Jacqueline,
it is only to such a beautiful muse such as you that I write,
lines upon lines,
I describe everything you are that makes me feel alive as one,
and at the same time this poem pushes ahead to completion,
all of our pre-existing inhibitions begin to become undone,
like bra straps and boot straps,
take your shoes of at the door,
let it all go we are each other’s inspiration,
when we are together we want for nothing more,
we are alone here,
we are together here,
we are allowed to be us here,
here fear is not a four letter word,
we are whatever we want to be now,
we have found ourselves lost,
me in your bottomless black eyes,
and you in all of these hopefully worthy words,
I’ve heard,
that there’s no time like the present,
so let us be here now without resentment,
if you’ll be my moon I’ll be your crescent,
we are all blessings both learning and lessons,
let your hair down,
open your eyes up,
I am inspired again,
Jacqueline Jacqueline,
in,
to,
those bottomless black eyes I begin to spin,
drifting off to never land,
never wanting to come back to their reality again,
so please if I may ask as a friend,
one last kiss before forever begins,
one last look at unfiltered inspiration,
I’m a chosen one that chose you as my muse for some reason,
unbeknownst to none everyone understands the attraction of a beautiful woman,
so please before I go and forever begins be a friend and grant me one last moment,
open your eyes again,
allow me to get lost in your pupils,
I’m your pupil I’m your student I’m your lesson,
so one last time before forever begins,
please open your eyes so I can get lost and find inspiration again,
as we begin to drift off into never land and forever begins to begin…
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 12:56 AM UTC
Darling, the end has come
I must depart into the sunset
Leaving you forever
In search of heaven or hell
Where ever God deems a soul like me worthy of living
Understand that I did the best I could
I fought this war for years
There is nothing left for me to give
So when you stumble upon a hanging boy
Try to understand, it is a blessing to me
An escape from the torments of the world
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 2:16 AM UTC
Dear Jacqueline,
I never knew a dream could come to life.
I never knew doing wrong could feel so wright.
Lonely nights as I wish we could be going home tonight.
Twin mattress, twin flame who could put out this light.
6 rounds down my world revolves around you.
4 years since I saw you.
I'm sharing, but we know I can't saw you.
2 pieces but mines bigger.
Been yo shooter I'll pull the trigger
Over thinking high off yo essence
Just trying to be yo *****
Just trying to work this plan
So we can get nasty like ***** Dan
Live forever like peter pan.
Planting seeds of love
Waiting for them to expand
Timeless I'll reach you no matter our lifespan
Radiant like your smile when you think of me.
Your soul glows but only God knows
Where we should be
Loyal to love
Fire smoldering
Palms sweat when I think of you
I got a love jones bad
Years went by
Emotions criss crossing like clad
Sad and strung out
I use to drive by the places
We once hung out
Feeling like a junkey I'm strung out
Addicted to the pain you gave
Sweeter than Agave
You save
Me
Lately I've been wilding out
No one knows
Since I don't scream and shout
You tame me
Pointing at everybody when that 40 out
You aim me
Bullets blast
Once that trigger pulled
You can't change the past
Heart broken but don't need a cask
Lightning striking
Electric
Usually in a flash
So you got me sitting thinking
How long this will last
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 7:42 PM UTC
I came to your hometown team
inserted in hallucinatory dreams
inspired sweaty with fused realms
Is it real that you stole Mona Lisa?
At the heart of Louvre in 1911
Is it true that you sneaked her?
was it for a muse or a lover to use?
She would have viewed you sideways
then make love to you at the coffee table
Her beauty enthralled yours in entirely
blending on easel with pencil onto a canvas
Her palate would have swooned your palette
Her very kiss would have paralyzed in ecstasy
abducting your perpendicular in angular zones
Then you framed it on Guillaume Appollinaire
The poet play wright whom face you just forgot
under the oath, in the sweet name of freeing art
from the prisons of extortionate museums fixtures
the same exhibitions holding your name and fame
charging fees for a walk around the rhythm of art
a melody not each an every artist will be granted
You made the goddesses and then reduced them to dust
Fernanda soothed the childhood nightmares to lust
Olga the ballerina whom you couldn't share the assets
Marie-Therese the 17year old who hang herself to death
Dora Maar who fought so hard to get your affection
Francoise who left law school for your immortalisation
Jacqueline your passion who you wooed with a dove
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 6:54 PM UTC
It was a sad day in 1993 when you went to be with your maker.
You starred with William Hartnell and years later, you starred with Tom Baker.
You starred in seventeen episodes of Doctor Who.
The show became a success partly because of you.
Doctor Who was a fascinating show that was scary.
Millions of people were devastated when you died on the 18th of February.
Feb 18, 2018
Feb 18, 2018 at 6:22 PM UTC
The second shot screamed and
restrained the rest of the grins and claps
lapping up milky, concrete streets
Something internal
dictating inhumane reactions out of her, wanting to
sew jagged parts of skull together, later,
hoping the American public might help thread a needle
Her hands weren’t steady like they used to be
Maybe chaos could be wiped and shed cleaner than
Blood bathing white lace gloves, that covered quivering fingers
Stained skull, candied like cherry juice
seeping from George Washington’s cherry tree (people
believed so, even then) chopped down
slowly imprinting fibers of cotton and silk
blends, suddenly transformed into the world’s
dusty blue jeans
Lady Liberty’s iron once tried to rid the wrinkles of
How lightly the President graced roses
white as a reflection of fair weather culumus clouds
Thermals thanked by American weathermen, now watching
Glory tucked away in the past deep into a date to remember
November 22, 1963
“Dallas, we have a problem,” nothing else could be said
Bushes of roses, sprinkled with presidential blood
Cloth, camel cushioned seats lined his head
a motioned grave, she refused and swept
fingertips, vacuuming shards of cheekbone, scraps of
A previous moment still standing as she reached out again
Smothered by sweat seeping bodies
their chance for a moment, a starred moment, “I was there,”
their excitement unwelcomed, unfamiliar through lighter versions of
governmental suits and the mist of adrenaline
Her body tensed, sniffing the air for his scent, wanting to sense
His fear, too
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 12:02 PM UTC
Dear Ex, The First,
I haven't spoken to you since the day I cut you off from me
Occasionally I have wanted to, but to do so would only dredge up darkness.
So all I wish to say will be here, in case you ever find it.
Hi.
I'm sorry it's been years.
I wanted to say you were right.
Right about a lot of things.
You once told me I'd grow up to be sex-crazed and wild.
Well I was, for a while,
But not for the reasons you thought.
Once for love,
Thrice just to not be alone.
You said you never forget your first love.
Well I haven't forgotten.
I've ignored, and I know I don't love you like I did,
But I've never forgotten.
You said I would stop believing in God.
I did for a while,
But not the way you expected.
I believed He existed,
But, for a while,
Did not believe in Mercy or Justice.
I found them again
Turns out they were just lost, not dead.
You said that you and Jacqueline were together
And that she didn't like me talking to you
That's part of why I never spoke to you years later.
I sometimes wonder if you got married.
I sometimes wonder if you still remember me
Or think of me.
Remember that poem I wrote the day I went away?
The House on Morris Street?
I think you misunderstood what it meant.
You were angry and hurt.
I don't think you understood
I burned down the House on Morris Street
Because I couldn't bear to watch it rot away
As you and I both knew it would one day.
I still look you up sometimes
Just to make sure you're still OK.
If you wanted to say something to me
I wouldn't ignore you
But if you didn't
I wouldn't blame you.
Just please be alive
And please be happy
I recall much more happiness you gave me
Despite the sadness in your soul.
Sincerely,
The Little Paladin
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 4:09 AM UTC
The night was dark, in a brooding pall
With thunderheads at its core,
But only the sound of heaving swells
Were heard to break on the shore.
The headland dark where the Lighthouse stood
With not a glimmer of light,
It hadn’t been lit for a hundred years
But a beam would stream that night.
The sea was grumbling in its deeps
Cast heaps of **** on the sand,
Much like a drunken Cornishman
Disgorging his contraband,
The swell, built up as the squalls came in
Made the sea erupt from its depths,
Casting an age old Barquentine
Up high, on an angry crest.
Shook free from its hundred year old bed
Untangled from miles of ****
The Barquentine with its forty dead
Had finally now been freed,
A flag that carried the fleur-de-lis
Hung limply down from the mast,
And tangled up in the rigging was
The body of Captain Jacques.
An aura shone round the Barquentine
In a pale, blue ghostly light,
Caught in a time warp, in-between
They rose as a man that night.
They gathered up on the rotting deck
Each cannon, covered in rust,
And glared at the lighthouse on the hill,
A light that they couldn’t trust.
A wraith of a woman, stood that night
By the keeper, looking down,
The face of a woman, creased in fear
As the Barque had come aground,
She had been the wife of Captain Jacques
Had been left ashore, and fled,
Up to the keeper of the light
Where she shared his meagre bed.
‘I didn’t think he’d be back so soon,’
She’d stood by the light, and cried,
‘If he finds us both alone up here
It’s better that we had died.’
The keeper held her trembling form
As the storm built up that night,
‘I’d never allow him to bring you harm,’
He said, as he struck the light.
The crew looked up at the Lighthouse
And they heard a woman scream,
From up on the headland, deep in fright
As the keeper lit the beam,
And Jacques looked up, and he saw his wife
Lit up by the sudden light,
‘My God,’ he cried, ‘that’s Jacqueline,
There was infamy that night!’
The pair looked down as the men had leapt
To shore, with their swords held high,
They’d waited over a hundred years
But knew that their time was nigh.
He’d struck the light when he saw their ship
Head in to threaten his *****
And watched as the ship had broken up
In Eighteen fifty-four.
There are nights when the light of former wrongs
Returns to visit the shame,
To balance eternal justice for
The centuries, left in pain,
The ghostly sailors dragged them down
To the Barquentine, at last,
And as the sea had reclaimed the ship
They hung them both from the mast.
David Lewis Paget
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 3:17 AM UTC
You are most definitely
no muse to
one of Picasso's
paintings.
You are most definitely not:
Fernande
Eva
Olga
Marie
Dora
Francoise
Genevieve
or
Jacqueline!
I am most definitely
not a painter
but a
poet 'El Poeta'
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 5:19 PM UTC
I'm sitting on the porch taking in the scene's reflection
I freeze time to admonish myself of the moment's perfection
Astonished by the serene vestige of a complete life
Molded by time, patience, virtue, and strife
My daughter Jacqueline holds a flower in hand
And bolts towards me as I pretend to stand
Then catching me exclaims "you won't win this race!"
As I lift her up to me she plants a kiss upon my face
With a wistful innocence she places the rose in my hair
Closes her eyes and whispers *"I love you everywhere."
"No matter where, I love you too, my darling Jacqueline"*
Beyond oceans and streams and everything in between
Then my beautiful bride steps outside
Clutching the next miracle on the way
There's something she wishes to tell me
But her words I can not relay
I am suddenly stricken with a pain in my chest
They look down upon me and shout "you know what is best!"
But the voice I hear is distinctly my own
"It is by your choice that you remain alone"
The finale like an overture orchestrates my malady
I open my eyes and come slowly back to reality
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 9:29 PM UTC
My dad Joe, was a gift from heaven, put on this earth to love only one woman.
To have their children and love them true, each day with my dad was one in which you grew.
He loved and cherished each one of us three, Philip, Jacqueline & Christopher - with Hilda, his love, by his side the family was complete.
Riding a bike, driving a car, hiking up cliffs, hitting a ball, roller skating, skate boarding, travelling far, our Dad was always there to catch us lest we should fall.
Sunday trips to the beach or river, climbing Kit Hill, trips to Morwelham Quay, treks on Dartmoor, ice cream treats, and Callard & Bowser toffee
.
Swimming, body surfing, Phil learning to drive on the beach, French cricket played on the shore, all of these outings gave us fond memories we still adore.
Traveling with Chris and Mum on sunny days, staying in B&B's while they were away, Chris long jumping into the pit with Dad by his side was as good as it could get.
Dad gave us each the tools to live our lives, independently, confident and worldly wise.
He gave to me a love of the three P's - people, politics, and poetry.
To my brothers, he gave a love of all sports but mostly his beloved Cricket along with Rugby and Athletics.
When each of us married he was there by our sides, smiling with pride, accepting our partners into the fold.
To us all he advised don't do as I say or as you are told; seek out what or who makes you happy until you grow old.
As our families expanded and grew he became a Grandad, first Michael came then Simon, Jason, Robert, Sophie, Danny, Sammy, Lola, and Jonah, he encouraged them in all that they did whether sports, drawing, dancing, work choices - 9 Grandchildren kept him busy as you can imagine.
Then later in life as Great Grandchildren were added Tansy, Alfie & Roman, life remained busy.
My Dad was one in a million of that I am sure, I feel his presence every day, when out walking I feel he's not far away.
When I'm playing with the grandchildren I know he's there too, smiling with pride in everything they do.
When the family get together he's never forgotten and all of his grandchildren have their own stories to share; of Grandad and his sense of humour, his love, support, and care.
We miss you, Joe ***
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 20, 2017 at 7:43 AM UTC
I recently read a poem
Advising others to
Not fall in love with a poet
Most of you have probably read that poem
It was poem of the day
Just one week ago
And I have read it
Several times
But it wasn't until yesterday
When I realized
Just how much truth
Was seeped through
Jacqueline Flores' words
It wasn't until yesterday
When I was trying to find
The right way to describe my love
Compare his eyes to the ocean
His hair to sand
How he speaks
And so on
And so forth
And so it's true
Don't date a poet
Cause we watch
And we describe
Either colorfully
Or sparingly
We show the world
Through our own words
And we expose everything
Love, loss, hate, bitterness
EVERYTHING.
And if you can't deal with that
And appreciate that
Then don't date a poet.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 8:09 PM UTC
Come with me
down the ladder of success a few steps
to a snowflake
in the wintertime, not to borrow
from Robert Frost,
to see Miss Merry Christmas
with her white muffler
and her grin like Jacqueline Onassis.
We'll find some competent people
to climb that
slippery, slimy, scratchy, stogie
ladder of success
with sweat, blood, and tears, to
borrow from Winston Churchill
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 2:56 PM UTC