"kingston" poems
sticks and stones may break your bones,
but they will also start fires…
the importance of fire safety isn’t taken lightly,
so please take the time to act politely.
now no offense but from one girl to another,
you’re not Adele, Sean Kingston, or the Jonas Brothers.
do not set fire to the rain that pours,
call 9-1-1 before you burn up on the dance floor.
when the heat settles in and you’re feeling dry,
to your candles and cigarettes please say goodbye.
(since those items are illegal anyways,
you’ll be fined if they are caught ablaze).
this isn’t the Upper Room where fire fell on everyone’s head
keep the Holy Spirit’s fire set in your soul instead.
ignore this advice and your world will crash,
as before your eyes Miller Hall turns to ash.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 10:45 PM UTC
Memories of past magnificence
A pall now hangs over her
Echoes of screams in the west
Decomposed disillusion
Inhumanity
Insecurity
Split personality
Search warrants for the haves
Kicked in doors for the have nots
Mr. Officer……Mi innocent
The muzzle of your gun has me reticent
From slavery our ancestors did run
In the streets the blood of my countrymen run
When will di trouble dun
She has been battered and scarred
Her name feathered and tarred
While the gleam in her eyes is diminished
She is by no means finished
Still the heartbeat of a nation
Vibrant, trendsetting, schizophrenic
Sometimes there is panic in this state of chronic
Some more equity is required in my city
The financial capital
What about human capital?
Some deemed worthless
Existing in communities of sacrificial lambs.
Others are sacred cows…..Wolves in sheepskin
Who pollute the air with noxious verbiage
White collar facades hide evil intent.
She will rise again.
If we have the will and the way
My city……KINGSTON!!!!!
Jul 11, 2010
Jul 11, 2010 at 2:34 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
Born in Beverley, to Holme on spalding Moor
Leven and Knaresborough opened up the door
Ripon was the first time to leave my home so true
Parents to New Zealand Boo hoo Boo hoo Boo hoo
Auckland to Tauranga and finally home to stay
Southport and York not quite montego bay
on to the edge of the world at kingston upon Hull
before the move to Bridlington to live a life so full
and then the move that made all moves Liverpool it was
I love the life of the mersey it really is the boss
I'm so made up to feel the love and life of the Mersey beat
Tuebrook Toxteth and wavertree are places I've moved my feet
I am really privilaged to see the windows of the world
from Singapore and Scotland and Australia's fields of gold
I've been to Canada, America and Luxemburg as well
The windows of the world in a small nut shell
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 7:51 PM UTC
I believe that we could do it
If we really wanted to
I could really fall in love with you,
If I let myself.
And I bus home
On a rainy day
through the blurry embers of autumn
smeared on the Greyhound window
Remembering how she and I
Walked back after that movie
Our breath crystallizing in the wind
But barely breathing
Full of reverence
and sweet sisterhood
the cinnamon bun midnight
and soft whispers
of the life we used to have together.
Bury your sins beneath the heather
and hibernate in hypotensive hallucination
a final hallelujah
of appreciation
for the gifts that were ******
so prematurely in our arms
Straight from the oven
they burned our unprepared infantile hands
as we stood, indifferent to distant lands
and consumed by our own reality.
Well, we're grateful now.
Grateful in a way that destroys us a little
We both know we both know too much
to ever be completely okay
And who would ever want it any other way?
We smile through hard earned tears
and kiss the make-up off our years
And breathe the air of the country that gave us life
And we don't shy away from the things that make us hurt
And we thank the things that help us heal
And we know that home is never farther than a bus can carry us.
So I think we could do it,
If we really wanted to
I could really fall in love with you,
If I let myself
(Lord knows I need an adventure)
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 11:04 PM UTC
If he were alive today,
I would send birthday wishes his way.
For he fills my heart with happiness,
As his words sing out with spectacular displays.
From beyond the stars, beyond the moons,
Beyond the galaxies and the milky ways.
His words continue to resonate
His flute carries them this way.
His legacy around for hundreds of years,
His message, one so clear.
Combining and encouraging all nature to be,
All loving and sincere.
© Robert Kingston 30.9.15
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 11:37 AM UTC
Received a post today,
Requesting me to share,
Promoting death, not harmony,
My heart it just stood still and stared.
It said for me to support,
A gun law in the states,
I retaliated with a question,
Are not enough good men already in crates?
I wrote a simple message,
Reasoning with its point,
Said that I preferred a paper and words
As a guns mean, leaves the world
In constant anarchy and disjoint
I questioned the second amendment
I based my view on peace
For surly once a trigger is pulled
Then all facets of war are released
I hear the hollow screams of,
Guns are for our protection.
I hear those words loud and clear,
But still I continue to question.
For without the guns as threats
Then people can be encouraged to talk.
Articulate words can then be spoken
From which bright futures can sought.
© Robert Kingston 21.3.15
Oct 10, 2015
Oct 10, 2015 at 1:28 PM UTC
From Amiens upon the Somme
Across the land into the Salient
Our brave men toed the ebbing line
Through wire and mines
Through mud and blood
Through many men and horses shred
Under sun and moon
Through wet and flake
Little rest they won as they fought
The testing yards and inching miles
The scent of death clear in their heads
Their nostrils burning from hell resent
Cauterised wounds some munition singed a deathly end for some
Their eyes by night a blazing fired earth of blues Oranges yellows Reds
Their ears ringing whistles and drums
A sense of booming dread as all around the melee continued
Death by death, Man by man, Son by son
Precious sons many in numbers they did succumb
To the battle cry of walk not run
Blood curdling in their gas filled lungs
Fungi in their rotting boots
Sweat and tears in itchy suits
Muscles aching tendons taught
Nerves for some as they were next
To mount and face the hidden land
Where fate would deal its dreaded blow
On to meet the dreadful wall of death
Choice was none, no turning back
They stood as force though force would guide, those of fear and wisdom's stand,
Over, or rest where shot by those by order for descent
© Robert Kingston 17.10.14
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 6:02 AM UTC
The boy behind the counter laughs nervously
And he knows
Early morning rain
Oil rising to the surface of the asphalt
A crash from the kitchen
And someone yelling for the police
Robbery, robbery!
Everyone is looking at me
My face is flushed and my neck is hot
I forgot my supplies in the trunk of my car
Burlap sack, rough and faded
My shoes are sticking to the floor
It’s so hot in here
Beads of sweat roll down my arms
I might be sick on the linoleum
I want to go home.
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 12:48 AM UTC
both my grandfather and father
were army conscripts
without the benefit of a choice,
it was conscription...
Marshall Law was introduced,
hungary didn't feel like a satellite any more,
nor did Czechoslovakia in the 60s...
the poles were eager to keep the empire
intact like the Vietnamese, ironically
without as much violence,
just empty supermarket shelves...
i wasn't given such a benefit,
i had to learn a "woman's" trade,
being enlisted in the army would
have assuredly given me a
chance progression into a suitable life,
even a lifestyle! i'd be earning enough
to distract myself with theatre and opera!
alas! i'm not that well instructed
to enjoy a comfortable revenue and
the comfort of sadistic ballerinas
(what i mean is an education in taking orders
and not daydream, kept order, a clean
pair of shoes, a suit that's not creased)...
i know, modern pop and the 8 minute long
prog rock piece... let's test our attention
spans and care for distractions of
digression off the rhythm...
it's not necessarily rap worded,
nothing about the ghetto,
it's not exactly jam-rock Kingston town
aphrodisiac... i call it a shared salute,
a black panther with a shaved head.. well,
somewhere along the line we need a feeling
of being in it together.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 5:58 AM UTC
--Kingston Rag--
It's 8 a.m. again,
And my mind reels
In memorium
As I reel up the sidewalk,
Down the street
To the emporium
To eat a ****** bagel
That costs far too much
For the taste of cadmium
That comes like a punch
As I bite into cream cheese.
How much?
Three fifteen?
I only got a dime,
Can you throw
This one to me?
It's not a crime,
I won't tell your boss.
I get tossed right out,
So I guess I'll walk
To the bench
By the bus stop
And hope it stops
To let me on.
If not I'll pawn
The watch my pops
Gave to me (it's gold),
The only thing
He bestowed
Upon his spawn
Besides pools
Of *****
On cool granite
Slabs that served
As a deck
For the wreck
Of a shack
I grew up in,
Plus drunken sins
I had to cover up
For him,
Because that schlup
Could never win.
'Drink up, drink up,
There's no more gin,
But there's mouthwash
In the cabinet,'
But he wasn't havin it,
So I got hit
And sent outside
To sleep on the bench
On which
I now reside
Waiting for this
******* bus
To give me a ride
Back to the Bucket.
**** it.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 12:46 AM UTC
Changing stations. Trying to look for something that makes sense.
Nothing makes sense anymore. The voices.
Coldplay.
Next.
Sean Kingston.
Next.
No, no song can describe what I’m feeling now.
Sep 6, 2011
Sep 6, 2011 at 6:29 AM UTC
You’re way too
Beautiful Girl
That’s why it’ll never
Work
You’ll have me suicidal
Recitals
Singing Kingston
Love lasts
Until the last
I Love You
When it comes
I swear
I’ll run
To the cliff
And Jump
Because you told me
To
I love you
Hard
Harder
Than diamonds
You’re a rock
And our end
Is a hard place
I’m stuck in between
A 'tween like obsession
I confess
I never learn
Love lessons
I’m forever failing
Falling hardest
For those
That are lawless
The rules of attraction
You don’t abide by
Biding my time
Biting my nails
Hoping for your
Answer
Waiting
In anticipation
Longer
Than the Detox
It’ll never come
You’re on a vacation
From me
MyRehabilitation
Is like
An alcoholic
Overcoming his disease
In a bar
How many shots will it take before I’m claimed clinically insane
I’ve made the same
Mistake a million times
But
You’re one in a million
And I’m searching
For the feelings
You aren’t willing to give
Hopefully I’ll be picked
Playing love’s lottery
With one ticket
There’s still a chance
The odds
Are against me
Oddly, I believe
I’m odd enough
To beat them
Oct 30, 2010
Oct 30, 2010 at 4:22 PM UTC
They knew nothing of the politics of flight, merely watched the birds that soared in the sky.
They knew nothing of the world around them and how it would ignite, when sitting watching sparks rise up like fire flies in the halve each night.
They knew nothing of what spooked their parent’s sight, not understanding the fear that glowed bright in their eyes.
They knew nothing of why their calm mother from polite and encouraging, became anxious holding them tight.
They knew nothing of why father stood watching from the window each night, simply thinking he was watching dreams drift by in the moon light.
They know nothing of why they are walking for days, pushed shoved and spat upon by a world given to not caring.
They know nothing of the politicians that sit on their hands, whilst they grow blown bellies and sleep in no go zones.
Perhaps they will know in time, should the death bell not ring for them this day!
(c) Robert Kingston 20.9.15
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 1:56 PM UTC
****** lines paint pictures on the road side of their hell.
From the first day they bleed as the key is turned for the final time.
Not dressed for the journey, each step harder than the one before.
Each sunset sees the reaper, his call, the devils smarting roar.
Every new day like no other they will have experienced,
Each new dawn the mist of many spirits aloft,
those remaining, feeling that no one cares.
Aspirations gone,
Dignity lost
Food,water and shelter scarce,
The queue lengthens
The questions get louder
The queue lengthens the questions
Get LOUDER and LOUDER and LOUDER.
Fences erected,
Borders closed,
Armies lined ready to stall the flow,
Humanity lost !
Hidden in a politicians pack.
The questions get louder.
There's no way back!
(c) Robert Kingston 19.9.15
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 1:59 PM UTC
To the victims during the Boston Marathon, April 15, 2013,
Children of Boston
Children of Euston
Children of Kingston
Boys of Mesa
Boys of Tuy Hoa
Boys of Kalba
Teenagers of Kyoto
Teenagers of Toronto
Teenagers of Lesotho
Wives of Berlin
Wives of Kremlin
Wives of Yulin
Humans of the world
Let us spare one word
Let us pray,
From Larissa
To South Kensington
From Tokay
To Grafton
Humans of the world
Let us spare one word
For the children of Boston.
April 15, 2013
Montpellier, France
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 9:19 AM UTC
The ghosts of the dead give no shade
In this cemetery of stumps.
Elsewhere, the seeds left behind
Sprouted, and the forest lived again.
Not so on Kingston plain,
Where the life of the very soil failed,
Now a field of Bracken fern and lichen.
But, here and there,
An Aspen lifts it's quaking leaves.
In the shade, the lichens yield,
And grass grows again.
"Perhaps in another hundred years",
The ghosts whisper.
Jul 22, 2021
Jul 22, 2021 at 10:03 PM UTC
have you ever grappled with despair
not in imagery, symbolism or portrayal.
I mean, have you ever felt the elevator drop
the watery weakness that extenuates breath
a depth of fatigue that makes lying on the floor a burden
an aching pounding in your chest,
the broken-glass dryness in your throat
the gritty ache in your eyes
that makes you want to close them forever?
Struggle no more, leaden limbs,
free the weary weight.
Eyes that struggle, release the light.
The body begs to no more fight.
In a blur of sluggish thought,
I whisper sleep's sweet name.
The will has dropped.
The yearning stopped.
I’ll rest on that distant shore.
.
.
Songs for this:
Nessun Dorma by Sarah Brightman
Caruso (Live at "Pavarotti International" Charity Gala Concert, Modena 1992) by Luciano Pavarotti, Aldo Sisilli
Pie Jesu by Andrew Lloyd Webber, Sarah Brightman & Paul Miles-Kingston
0730.0722
Jul 22, 2024
Jul 22, 2024 at 7:01 AM UTC
Quiet light in your old T-shirt
It isn't often that mornings make me this tender,
But here I am.
Constant contradiction of charisma and brine
Hooked on summer nights,
Humidity softens and sweat grounds us in the moment
Dark leaves and drunken hymns- I need the memories to remind myself that there were simple days.
Days when all that mattered was who had the lighter and who would start the first song off
I am braver now
(But that isn't saying much)
I still cower at the gentlest touch
Messes of men beneath my skin oil spills and construction sites all the walls I build to keep myself in
They weren't meant to keep you out,
Just to ensure that I didn't give it all before I was ready
But I don't think I am
Or will ever be for anyone
And are you thinking of me now? Wide eyed child running through the tangled woods
Tender open and naked
Innocence embodied in the humble request that I stay the night
We don't talk about that part of me anymore
We don't talk about those days anymore
We talk about tours and albums and lyrics and time
And it's good
Until it isn't fine
So here I lie in my grandmother's bed wondering where the hell it all went
Innocence
The simplicity of summer
The honesty of my skin
And if it all falls away
I'll figure out how to let quiet light back in.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 10:41 AM UTC
all was dark and eerie
as the ghouls came out to play
pumpkin stew and play foam
all bagged and ready to spray
it was All Hallows' night,
when glee was heard,
as hands were filled with sweet delight.
the tiny glowing faces, the pleasures this night ignites.
the clock ticked round until the bats were seen, the children now in bed.
the lightning started shrieking,
then thunder shook fear into the little mites heads.
screams are heard quivering
as grave stones creaked and cracked.
mummies hands now rising up grappling with what's living,
grasping in the black.
creeping up slowly, the stench of yesterday
straggling bits of material, holding you at bay.
jaw bones drooling, dribbling with froth
ear splitting cries for help, all sanity is lost.
the steady patter of footsteps
heading to your door
the tiny little nightmares
the kids have got for you in store.
(c) Robert Kingston 31.10.15
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 8:13 PM UTC
He tilted his head “Okey doke, it’s almost time to go
– I’ve got a yoga teacher next, down in the Grove.
For you, it’s time to write the silence for a while,
to write the unsaid, to shelve meek and mild.
“Write the inner anger, the notes of distress.
Write what it was that you wished you had said.
Write all the things you’ve been meaning to say.
Write all the feelings you’d wished you’d conveyed.
“Write what it was you had meant to do,
what you intended that so frightened you.
What was it that you’ve let fall in between
your long dead silence and your unsaid scream?
“See if your volume will go above minimum
without it scaring you and leaving you frozen.
Go shape the words and say them out loud
find what it’s like to make fiercer sounds.
“Cos I’ve been so bored, sitting here listening
to nothing but you sat saying your nothing.
Go write your silence and come back around.
And let’s see if you’ve something worth writing about.”
Jun 19, 2022
Jun 19, 2022 at 2:53 PM UTC
Amnesty. the 11th hour, the 11th day, the 11th month, the year 1918
A knock upon a large closed door.
A lady awaiting news on her son.
Seven days pre before was the time he was no more.
Flags and banners waving fiercely,
Horns and whistles, shouts and cheers.
A welcome end to the bloodiest war,
Celebrations for peace, we’d won.
But for this fine lady, of a fine young son,
On this fine day for some.
She had waited, then through post discovered,
her son was lost to war,
Just seven days pre end before.
A man of the field he had been,
Reporting in words all he’d seen,
Gruesome accounts of the highest scale,
Not no tale,
But truth and sincere his word his actions, his doing.
All in order to settle a score and record what happened through four long years in war before.
My pen my gun, my ink my bullets,
I fire onto canvass to create an image,
Of four long years of the gruesome war
and all the gruesome scenes within it.
And upon reflection on your completion,
Please remember our finest sons.
Of which Wilfred Owen was one
and as a wartime poet was penning,
as he was fighting in it.
Robert Kingston 17.10.14
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 1:28 PM UTC
the brittle sound of the room
seeps slowly into my conscious mind
soft low watt bulb echo on closed eyelid
leaves a bitter metallic aftertaste
while an expanding cold puddle
crawls unevenly out onto the hot floor
from the rattling roach infested mini-fridge
stark contrast of filthy green linoleum tile
and what can be described as a breathing moving
once red carpet that seethes with life in the dark end of the room
refugees we huddle in the light
awaiting the shouting and gunfire to die down
long enough to seek semblance of sleep
but naught to be had for love or money
was only days ago we rode into
this place like kings
now we resemble peasants hat in hand
but inside i am smiling
she loves me
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
With tears streaming down my surprisingly gaunt cheeks,
I hide out in a public toilet like it is a cave in somewhere much more exotic than this,
I am not a ****** addict as per accusations but I don't feel so good,
Useless at collecting money for a charity
Just another thing to feel uneasy about,
My brain and happiness are a half-fucked dial-up connection
I bawl my fists up like an infant testing out his hands.
I think about shadow boxing but feel too lethargic to do so.
If Floyd Mayweather is money than I am poverty
A woman who looks like a Beverley, asks me if I am OK.
I lie that I am and thank her.
Deception is a necessary weapon at times.
Perhaps I am too far from home.
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 12:32 PM UTC
Your words are the air that I breathe.
Each sentence, a fresh breeze traveling through my veins.
My love chamber pulsates with your dreams.
Each thump bequeaths a warm scene.
I see your image embedded in my mind,
your beauty clearly beyond sublime.
© Robert Kingston 9.9.15
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 6:24 AM UTC