"kerr" 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
Mirror Mirror
On the wall
Who is the fairest of them all?
It’s certainly not me
You tell me that much
But can you at least tell me
Who the world wants me to look like?
Is it Miranda Kerr, with her flawless skin
Or Megan Fox, with the perfect figure?
Mirror Mirror
On the wall
Please tell me
Who is the fairest of them all?
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 6:11 AM UTC
If I had to create my object of love.
The way God created us.
I guess I have to imagine her.
She would have the sexuality of Marilyn Monroe.
The face of Halle Berry just for starter.
If I had to create my own creation.
She would have the charm of Kelly Ripa.
And the voice of Angela Bassette.
Plus, the grace of Deborah Kerr.
And the heart of many good women.
If I was to create my own creation.
But those are fantasy dreams of mine.
Any good hearted quality woman would suit me fine.
It's not that the prettiest women are the best.
Because many average women loves the best.
But if I was to make my own creation.
I guess she would be just like my mom.
Full of love.
Full of warmth.
Mixed with a whole lot of compassion for others.
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 8:45 AM UTC
She cooked the final meals at the gaol,
Collected the hangman’s clothes,
For he inherited everything
Of the hanged man, heaven knows.
She gave the widows the twist of rope
That he’d used to hang their men,
It all came down to the widow Crope
And whether she liked you, then.
She’d interview the widow-to-be
With a questionnairre or two,
About her man, was he handy, and
What did he like to do?
Then later, in the condemned man’s cell
She’d say that she’d cut him free,
‘You’ll never see your woman again,
So all you have left is me.’
Her husband had died on the gallows, so
She’d known of that final *****
A widow Kerr had done it for her
Before she was widow Crope.
Then down beneath that terrible drop
She would wait for him to appear,
Hang on his feet, as well as not
While he kicked at the air in fear.
Then once that the corpse was pale and still
She’d take it down to the morgue,
Lay it out on a slab, and then
She’d borrow the gaoler’s sword.
And while they were pouring the candlewax
For a later hanging in chain,
She’d slice a couple of fingers off
For the rings that were hers to claim.
But then she might, in an act of spite
Cut off a dead man’s hand,
Dip it well in the candlewax
And walk it late through the land.
She’d light the end of the fingertips
And carry it like a torch,
Making her way where the widow lay
And spike it, out on her porch.
And wives would say as their husbands lay,
‘Don’t mess with the widow Crope,
If ever the hangman comes, that day
She may be your final hope.’
And those awaiting a capital case
Would sit with their husbands there,
And tell them that it would be okay
In that final act of despair.
She’d never worn anything else but black,
She called them her widows weeds,
But never, she said, felt safe from attack
For her husband’s evil deeds,
She finally married the hangman, Jed,
And handed the job to her,
An hour since she’d hung on his legs
And made her the widow Claire.
David Lewis Paget
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 9:51 AM UTC
the Australian Labor Party
is in mourning to-day
the great left wing union
in the sky
called Gough away
he was a leviathan
of Australian politics
in the seventies
many social issues
he championed
on the parliament's floor
with Rex Connors and Dr Jim Cairns
his biggest bone of contention
was Sir John Kerr
he sunk Gough's money supply
with Malcolm Frazer
looking on from the side
to-day there is a dark pall
cast over the Labor Party
as it says farewell
to Gough
men and women
of
Australia
will
never
see
his
likes
again
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 6:31 PM UTC
We’re in many different places.
For some
It’s a basement
Or a motel room.
For others
It’s a kitchen table
with all the lights off
just the single bulb ahead.
We spend our nights
Smoking and typing
sharpening our senses
with drink or smoke
and typing for hours
night after night.
Klick klick klick ding shhhhhhhht
the typewriter sings it's tune.
For me it always comes back to the porch.
Everywhere I move
I always end up on the porch.
Never without the
Kerr “Self-Sealing” wide mouth Mason jar.
Full of ice cold water
constantly refilled throughout the night.
Always dripping with condensation
even at night.
It’s ****** burnin’ up outside.
Ya gotta suffer for it
though
That’s what makes the difference.
Right now
someone is alone in a room
pacing back and forth
burning themselves with a cigarette
staring at a page.
They’re the only ones that
will ever see it.
Either the drink or the drug
will take them first.
Or they just slip into and get lost in
the madness.
Then they become as
indecipherable
as the academic intellectuals.
Hell,
It could happen to me too.
We’ll see what happens.
Keeping it going
Every night
standing on the porch
pouring it out
sending off a weekly
5 poems
getting it out there
like so many do.
We’re in many different places.
Dec 8, 2011
Dec 8, 2011 at 12:45 PM UTC
Janice was quite excited
when I saw her
by Bath Terrace
(we'd agreed
to meet there )
Gran said you can come
with us to see Quo Vadis
Janice said
who's Quo vadis?
I asked
o Benny
she said
it's a film
it's about early Christianity
it's got Robert Taylor
and Deborah Kerr in it
sounds good
I said
when is it and where?
not sure but Gran said
she'll ask your mum
and well we'll actually go
Janice said
good
I said
(her gran whom
she lived with
was very protective
and strict)
so what shall
we do today?
I asked
Janice smiled and said
I told Gran we'd not
go too far as she does
worry although she
doesn't worry as much
if I'm with you
what about
East Street Market?
I asked
is it far?
she asked
not far if
we get a bus
I said
she searched the pockets
of her dress
I've only got 6d
she said
is that enough?
sure it is
I said
ok
she said
so we walked
to the bus stop
and got a bus
that went to the market
and sat next
to each other
and I paid the conductor
and when we got there
we went down
the market street
looking at the various stalls
and I showed her
the stall where I'd
bought a fish tank
a few months before
what did you buy
a fish tank for?
she asked
to put a gold fish in
I won at the fairground
on the bomb site
in Meadow Row
I told her
was it any good?
she asked
no it leaked
and the water came out
but my uncle mended it
with putty stuff
and the water
stays in now
I said
and is the fish
happy there?
she asked
no it disappeared
down the sink
in the kitchen
when I was
cleaning it out last week
o no poor gold fish
where'd it go?
Janice asked
my mum said
it went to the River Thames
then out to sea again
I said
o I see
she said smiling
that's was lucky
I smiled
yes I guess it was
we walked around
the stalls then we went
to a small cafe
and bought lemonade
and two cakes
(I had money
left over from
my pocket money)
and we sat and ate them
and a man said to Janice
I like your red beret
she was shy but said
o thank you
but I gave the man
my John Wayne stare
but he walked off
and didn't seem to care.
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 2:53 AM UTC
Kirsteen closed the door
of the toilet
and puked in the bowl,
voices outside the cubicle,
patients to and fro,
hospital cleaners
or domestics wanting to clean,
she knelt over the bowl
fingers down her throat,
someone in the next cubicle said
whit ur ye daein'?
Kirsteen said nothing,
her throat was sore,
her eyes watery,
her tongue acidy,
ur ye nae weel?
the voice said,
O, shut yer gob,
Kirsteen said,
fingers by her mouth,
eyes peering at the divide,
min' yer business,
the voice said nothing more,
a chain went
and a flush
and the door opened
and feet walked away,
Kirsteen sat on her haunches,
held the bowl,
dribble on her fingers
and sick in the bowl rose,
an image of her mother
seemed over her
thin shoulder,
ur ye bein' boak again?
her mother's voice said,
Kirsteen stared
at the facing wall,
the top was white
with a silvery handle,
she gazed at her,
her mother's face
appeared opposite,
thin drawn,
I'll tan yer backside
if ye boak again
her mother said,
smells rose,
Kirsteen puked
in the bowl once more,
a voice came
and banged on the door,
Kirsteen open up,
it's Nurse Kerr,
ur ye makin' yerself
boak again?
nae, aam nae,
Kirsteen said,
a darkness came,
a swallowing up
inside her head.
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 1:45 AM UTC
Kerr Dung.... Kerr Dung
Kerr Dung.... Kerr Dung
No one looked
Only I
It was read in their faces
A wasted trundle of life
Churning
Regurgitating
The madness of life
As the sound of the underground
Washed out their inner screams
Kerr Dung.... Kerr Dung
Kerr Dung.... Kerr Dung
Stale sweat and vacant stares
Bombarded my senses to shake
Outwardly
I smiled
I had a sorrow for these poor souls
These sheep obeying their master's wishes
Kerr Dung.... Kerr Dung
Kerr Dung.... Kerr Dung
My knowing that one day they would fade
Become the unimportant
Get tossed aside like a disused burger wrapper
They didn't get it and I felt kinda strangely odd
Kerr Dung.... Kerr Dung
Kerr Dung.... Kerr Dung
Coughs,whispers and the feint sound of a beat
From the crowded battled against the roar and rhythm
I needed to escape
I needed to breathe
I could feel them
I was being consumed
Turned into a sheep
Kerr Dung.... Kerr Dung
Kerr Dung.... Kerr Dung
With fear in my eyes I grabbed the chain
Screeeech!!!!!
The train shuddered to a stop
Loud gasps could be heard as I forced the door open and ran
My vision blurred as I climbed steps
Jumped barriers
Anything to escape
Anything to be free
Out I ran
Into noise
Into London
I forced a breath
And as I looked around me
I could see a reflection
It was me
I too was a sheep
I too was my master's servant
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 5:35 PM UTC
A THIN SLICE OF HAM IN THE HAND IS BETTER THAN A FAT PIG IN A DREAM.
"Never bolt your door
with a boiled carrot!"
as Uncle would say
with a wink
tongue in cheek.
It didn't make any sense
as our door was always
open
we never knew it
( locked ).
And I liked my carrots
raw and stolen
plucked from my father's
little plot
he perplexed
by little human rabbits.
His mud caked boots
standing amazed
as we hid holding
our breaths(
)amongst the flowering
Kerr's Pinks.
But "poets and pigs
are only appreciated
after
their death."
As they say.
Whoever 'they"
were?
But as I always
say:
"Don't be after breaking
your shin on a stool
that isn't
...there!"
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 2:46 AM UTC
She was proper in speaking.
Very well mannered.
And so lady like.
She were a England woman.
A pure delight.
Her accent was only know.
Because she was in America.
But it drew great attention to her everywhere she went.
She rarely got upset.
It wasn't apart of nature.
She reminded you of Julie Andrew.
And if you're older probably Deborah Kerr.
And through all her personal journey.
You always saw her man.
Who were extremely proud of her?
Because she was his lady love.
Who had other people dreaming?
If there was another similar woman like this.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 10:35 AM UTC
Our Cabral of oiks, hicks, chavs, criminals and Unions of Imbeciles
them professional bullies who gather Momentum with lies
and are conceived in hate as love in hovels do not exist
and pennies do not fall from heaven every mouth is a worry
and the coal mines are closing down and education is one less wage
decides that the Louis the fourteen, with a black face is the enemy
for that sunshine king just shines two ****** much
and his opulence and wealth was food from Scotch Jimmy's mouth
so as one does when soots are even richer than the Chimney-sweep
and live in castle full of earned treasures from the troves of Ivories
the die is cast and we call in the gang for majority rules in Hades
and Chalky and Wally and all chavs and 'Am I bovvereds' unite
that Sun King Soot is human no more, this is revolution as in war
the ******** have taken over and heaven help any traitors.
and I yawned and laughed
and laughed again and again
first world problems of snowflakes
hahaha hahaha hahaha....hahaha
they say your Leader ain't fit to rule
they say you hate the jews but why so
Aneurin Bevan and Kerr Hardy are turning in their graves
this wasn't about thugs, Hooligans and Criminals ruling
This was about the rights of decent hard working people
not thieves and charlatans using our party to get laid and
harass and terrorize decent honest hardworking citizen
Jul 10, 2019
Jul 10, 2019 at 9:06 PM UTC
Last year, when my menstruating was still regular and there was a blood drive at my high school, I couldn't donate because I was anemic. That had happened a couple times before. Heavy flow, not eating enough because of horrible cramps and nausea, I'd lose weight and become an iron lacking zombie with deep circles under his eyes.
Before that, the blood drive, in March when I was at Kerr, I was on my period. That was hell. But, when that stopped, I didn't bleed for a whole year after that. Which of course wasn't good, but I couldn't be bothered to give a **** because it felt so freeing not to have the monthly blood loss and dysphoria hanging over me. I'm never going to have children. At least, not of my own flesh and blood.
My woman's body may be fertile, able to sustain life, but my ****** will remain a barren thing.
And now, I bleed again for the second time this year. My body healed itself of what ever was ailing it, and I am stuck on the couch because it hurts to move and slouching to the side is the only position that will lessen the cramps.
But, the bleeding is slowing and the cramps only come in the morning and at night.
The whole ordeal makes me feel so much older than my almost nineteen years, though.
And it is a terrifying thing to be able to feel myself bleeding, but not being able to stop it.
It comes and goes of its own accord, leaving me sitting in front of the dryer and willing the old machine to go faster because I'm wearing the boxers I slept in last night and I want to shower.
Want to clean myself of the blood, dried and matted in my hair and on my thighs.
I want to listen to loud music while the water turns pink and finally goes back to clear.
I want to clean myself of the shame of not wanting to bear children with my perfectly healthy woman's body.
And instead revel in the freedom I will one day have from this fleshy prison.
Where there will be no more blood, and a scar on my stomach the only sign that I once was able to bring a new life into this world.
And I will not be ashamed.
Jul 10, 2016
Jul 10, 2016 at 3:10 PM UTC
She reaches for a pumpkin smile and glass dancers swim to find treasure evening radiance falls from her hair and secret earrings are found on the street melts into ecstasy *** is redefined all the while breaking rules of tradition like fireworks explode and celebrate love like a satin sky.
© Matthew Goff
Inspired by Laura Kerr
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 10:09 AM UTC