"lister" poems
upon the Abington Station's
long shearing board
the feats of one shearer
cannot be ignored
a run of two hundred sheep
he can easily shear
his style with the cutting comb
is without peer
contractors in the district
know of his pace
he removes fleeces
with an elegant grace
the Lister wool press
compacts all the long day
whilst the gun shearer
works tirelessly away
Kelpie dogs tongue
keeping his race full
as Layto shears the fine clips
of merino wool
none are as effective
with comb in hand
in the regional area
of the New England
Layto shears the sheep
cleanly and effortlessly
whether the fleeces
be thick or slightly oily
his shearing abilities
are know of near and far
on the shearing shed board
he's always bettered par
when he hangs up
the cutting comb to retire
fellow shearers will of him
greatly admire
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 6:18 AM UTC
No.
To them, i should always be the quiet, sweet classmate.
I shouldn't be found out, my identity as a poet with loud and brutally honest words.
To them, i should always be the obedient, happy daughter.
I shouldn't be found out, my soul weeping at their fights.
To them, i should be a normal, boring college student.
I shouldn't be found out, my great aspirations and my dean's lister's grades.
To me, i should be whoever i want to be.
But i can't find myself and figure it out.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 8:15 PM UTC
Når lygterne er tændt. Når skovstien ligner en scene fra en gyserfilm. Når skummet på bølgerne er selvlysende. Når myggene er usynlige. Når tyvene lister. Når rovdyrene jager. Når ofrene sover. Når ilden knitrer. Når strengende stemmer. Når stemmerne kimer. Når fuglene vågner. Når musene flyver. Når englene synger. Når mælken skummer. Når bladene pusler. Når grenene banker på vinduerne. Når resten af verden sover.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 9:55 AM UTC
Vinduet står på klem, så jeg kan høre biler der kører på vejen et par etager nede. De larmer og er ligeglade, så de holder mig vågen. Med øjne som er åbne og pupiller der er udspilede, kigger jeg rundt og føler mig rastløs og som raster af hende der grinte på gaden tidligere. Jeg finder mig selv i vindueskammen et minut senere med bilerne som selskab. Byen griner af mig. Håner mig for at være træt, og dens larmende latter holder mig vågen, ligesom den hjemløse på hjørnet af Nordhavn st., der råber ad dem der venter på togene.
Byen gider ikke holde kæft, så jeg tager min frakke på og lister ned ad trapperne, så jeg ikke vækker mine underboer, som byen forhåbentlig ikke håner her i nat. På gaden smiler folk som om vi kender hinanden, og kigger på mig med bløde blikke. Blomster kysser bænke og kærestepar kysser hinanden. Byen er en god ven af mange og en dyb forelskelse af nogle. Her i nat, med latter og bløde blikke, så er byen og jeg de allerbedste venner, trods dens humørsvingninger og melankolske humor.
En time senere er byen tavs. Den hjemløse mand er fuld og sovende på en bænk, bilerne strækker sig nu på motorveje og folk ligger med bare tæer i deres senge. Jeg kaster frakken i sofaen og ligger mig med dynen over mine skuldrer.
Byen kysser mig stille godnat til stilheden fra de tomme gader,
og jeg sover indtil den kærligt kysser mig godmorgen til følelsen af sollys på mine øjenlåg og lyden af mennesker der taler på fortove.
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 5:44 PM UTC
Eli tended toward mothering his louche
friends, not that he was any better. He
had a bank account that never tapped out
& his pals were so low rent no one ever
saw any money; worthless rubles & rupees
or priceless dollars & Euros. He had a
name that was as good as a meme. Eli
Simple. The leading blue-chip painter of
his 'generation', a somewhat elastic
designation.
Eli had no 'generation'. Ivan & Igor
had busted out of the confines of mere
State censorship by publishing nothing
or producing the cheapest squalor. They'd
made a fortune. [ZOZO] One way or
another either Ivan or Igor are related
to Eli, whose fortune was made on the
auction house circuit; priced as invaluable,
Eli Simple's work stood beside such esoteric
notaries as David Hockney, Francis Bacon,
& Jean Michel Basquiet; He could get any
price he asked for anything whatsoever, his
imprimatur guaranteeing a fortune. Gold-
diggers were not Eli's type. He liked women
who had nothing & could care less. That was
their charm. A female body was enough
of a chore. He'd been raised Mennonite &
always hungered for more. He'd made it to
the top on Wall Street, Fifth Avenue & Holly
wood
w/out breaking stride & w/ only minor setbacks
that seemed enormous at the time. Accused of
murdering an A-lister's father dampened his
popularity but not his budget. He was huge in
Europe & Asia; a bankable Blockbuster. In
America no one cared about Art w/ the Royal
Capital 'A'. He had never had an American
retrospective, never even been offered one.
That got Eli's goat just than & furious, he
attacked the girl. Then he called his dealer.
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 6:29 PM UTC
nyt år, ny ligegyldighed
store og små problemer; alle komplicerede, alle trivielle
et rod af pro et contra lister, mentalt og fysisk, om det ene og det andet
én fod i opgivelse, den anden i stædighed
stolthed og ære og sårbarhed
at stå ved sig selv men være åben for samtale; for kompromis på samme tid
ulykkelighedens øvre grænse
almen smerte
uldent forræderi
er der virkelig et glad liv et sted?
pengemani og nedarvet selviskhed
umulige vilkår
kamp eller flugt?
hastig velovervejet
et frit valg?
at starte i nul
pligt og lyst og splittelse
dunkel hovedpine i yderkanten af hovedet, i yderkanten af eksistensen
sammenstød, velmenende fornærmelse
optrevlende mønster-elev (mønstret elev)
starten på et år,
forandring?
Jan 5, 2016
Jan 5, 2016 at 10:33 AM UTC
To the moral of the story, I can be your trickster
You can be my missy, I can be your mister,
Let me be the twister, be the wind all around me,
surrounding, raging a storm and astounding,
A maelstrom of air compounding, breeze by breeze,
leaves on trees, you can dance on me,
and we, can see, our future so clearly, vividly,
creating a 'you and me' into 'we'.
thus, simply, living contently.
Feb 21, 2012
Feb 21, 2012 at 10:11 PM UTC
nogle gange glemmer mit hjerte at slå
når tiden pludselig står meget stille
jeg ligner mest af alt et spøgelse
der lister rundt på glasskår af knuste ***** flasker
mens livet langsomt bliver suget ud af min tomme blege krop
men der findes også dage som suser forbi hvor
mit hjerte pumper dobbelt så meget blod ud som det burde
til mine blå vener er ved at sprænges
og jeg kan mærke at det banker helt oppe i halsen
mit hjerte banker for dig
og når du forlader mig
så er der ikke længere noget at banke for
det vil aldrig være besværet nok at arbejde så hårdt
blot for at holde mig i live
så hver gang du forlader mig dør jeg en lille smule
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 7:38 PM UTC
She was the brave one.
She was the strong one.
She was never the one to break down.
She was never the one to have a problem.
She never had the choice.
She grew up in a world,
Where that wasn't acceptable.
A world where nobody would lister to her.
Where nobody cared what she truly thought.
She kept her mouth shut.
She kept her thoughts to herself.
She was pretty.
She was popular.
She was outgoing.
She was everything society wanted her to be.
And being herself just wasn't what they were looking for.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 10:47 PM UTC
Eli walking up the hill
one last time; path rutted w/ tracks
from hauling the ******
things down;
he'd done it before & again
the blonde A-Lister waiting
for his return,
in the driveway;
the buggy trotting from the
carriage house behind the main house,
Eli, Jr.
much like his dad,
broad-shouldered
& a little dumb;
but Eli Sr.
has that way of
coming cackling back to life;
in his career he'd done it twice:
he was a movie star now &
just
wanted to keep getting back
under her; Eli thought
he now knew how
westerns were born; did he?
Junior picking up the pace;
beats it
to the highway before the old
man does that weird out of the
dark thing he does; *******
the actress who was supposed
to be his new Muse; Eli didn't
have an old muse; Eli Simple
built barn walls out of paint
that stood on their own; Eli
lighting a cigarette, comes out
of the dark, his face aglow
w/ the burning cigarette tip;
"Was that ur kid?" she asked.
"No," he says, "It was a clone;
I got six more in the barn. wanna
see 'em?"
"Sure."
"Come on. I'll show ya," he said
& he did;
so much time passed that the
bow-tied moon was in a permanent
tuxedo;
seen from the gaping stars;
silver-hands discovering;
signing [eyes] out ;
- transmitting: a cache of folded images
reproduced en masse on crude pulp
paper in vivid colors for the period;
image after
image of various forms
of individual female figures
in exposed positions,
appearing to be lounging
happily w/in
a luxurious paradise belying the urban setting;
"We presume these to be the plans
for the sex-oriented
female robots so spoken of
in the ancient records; i.e., Pandora,
Helen, et al."
"Don't forget Wonder Woman."
"Oh, yes, the Queen of All Women."
The scientists debate before returning to Orion;
should production begin on the ancient forms?
Some guy in a big mansion was giving a party in her honor;
but she & Eli never showed, never left the barn
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 12:11 AM UTC
The ethics of duplicity,
the killing on trial
One law for the criminal,
one law for the child
The electric chair savage,
womb ****** refined
Academia, the father and mother
of crime
To lie when convenient,
truth’s babies to cry
An Einstein, a Lister, a Shakespeare,
denied
Through dark inhumanity,
their spirits to roam
Living deep in our consciousness
—our souls theirs to own
(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)
Apr 12, 2019
Apr 12, 2019 at 10:29 AM UTC
z
Alt er så fint i stil heden her lige nu
hvor du ligger til venstre for mig og
dynen er så varm og brisen fra den
skarpe luft uden for lister igennem
vinduet og triller ned ad mit højre ben, så det fun
gerer som luftrør for resten af min glade krop. Det
er virkelig fint at ligge her og det er virkelig rart
at du ligger der. Med dit hoved gravet ind mellem
min skulder og hals og det kilder næsten når du ån
der ud. Jeg kan høre dit åndedrat tydeligt og det ly
der roligt. Bekvemt. Beroligende. Jeg ved ikke hvor
længe vi kan ligge fint her i stilheden. Du vågner
nok om lidt og går ud for at tisse og så er det ikke
det samme som lige nu, ellers ringer det sikkert på
døren, ellers begynder jeg sikkert at blive sulten ind
en for en times tid. Det er bare ærgerligt når det er
så fint at ligge lige her og det er så rart at du ligger
lige der.
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 6:41 PM UTC
It's now why but when and now and then I get the gist, I am a number on some governmental list, my turn will come, they'll hunt, I'll run, a catch me if you can, the MAN can do his utmost, post an all points bulletin, shoot on sight as well he might, but I'll get it right, I will lay low until the SPG decide to leave well enough alone and go.
Not how but then and not what when might think to do or why it will not get me through the night where a thousand sparking plugs ignite to light the way, I pray to anyone or other god who's got the time to throw this B lister a line and help a soul who's in distress, but god nor anyone could not care less, I get the gist, they've drunk me in and ****** me up against the walls,
I have the ***** or so they tell me to say, **** you and the SPG, I survive on wits and tidbits of information gained from internal sources and they're not named on any list.
Not then and why but when I die or if I do and all the time there is won't bother you like I did and you'll remember me unlike the government and the SPG, I'll have that palace in your heart to rest and wait again before we start another chapter, one more verse and there's nothing worse than waiting is there?
(SPG..Special Patrol Group..Metropolitan police.
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 8:03 PM UTC
Am I entitled to an Oscar
For the act I put on everyday
Is harder work than any A Lister
Will ever endure
I am the comedian
Enticing laughter
While the demon inside
Finds joy in my cries
I am in theatre
Where everyday
I paint on my face
Masking deep sorrow
That crawls over my skin
I am in silent film
Where my actions speak louder
Than my muted words
I am an actress
And everyday
I perform
And life is my stage
Jun 13, 2017
Jun 13, 2017 at 8:05 AM UTC
fascinated with the talk of a stripper
Talk faster, im draining you mister
Feb 26, 2022
Feb 26, 2022 at 12:42 AM UTC
Always the lover,
Never the loved.
Always the healer,
Never the healed.
Always the photographer,
Never the photographed.
Always the helper,
Never the helped.
Always the cheerer,
Never the cheered.
Always the painter,
Never the painting.
Always the poet,
Never the poem.
Always the option,
Never the priority.
Always the lister,
Never the heard.
Always the writer,
Never the muse.
Always the understanding,
Never the understood.
May 10, 2025
May 10, 2025 at 11:43 AM UTC
the unnamed a-lister
tried to find Eli
in St. Petersburg; going
around to blue chip
galleries asking for him
by name; her full-length
fur & too familiar face
making them think she'd
lost all her marbles;
one hair stylist finally
showed her a Vogue Russia w/ Hel
on the cover the dwarf dwarfed yet again,
this time by a gigantic wall of
painting that was big & black;
little Hel ***** in a Fleshtone
evening gown, beige stilettos
& nothing underneath: small
body shining like a distant starry
galaxy: "Это ад, девушка Эли,"
said the girl teasing the star's
naturally frizzy curls; "I don't
speak Russian," said the star,
suddenly regaled w/: "Hell!
Go to Hell! Go to Hell! Hell!"
& dashing from the salon in tears
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 8:00 AM UTC
An Easter banquet.
A Good Friday fast
that ends in gorging.
A slaughtered lamb
with hands and flesh
on the table.
Blood on the napkins
and silence.
Emptiness at the head
of the table,
save for forks scraping
cheap porcelain.
We save the good plates
for good days,
so naturally,
they’ve never been used.
I wonder
how it feels
to have never
held food in my palms.
Give me five thousand
and I will feed them all.
Give me an
all-you-can-eat buffet
and I’ll turn it down.
I am faceless, but
not in this crowd.
A crowd, yes,
but not this one.
I’m the B-lister of the Bible.
Jul 17, 2021
Jul 17, 2021 at 8:51 PM UTC
Old grey split boards now lie
Under flapping tin~
Once new Lister engine .. Now still
Making these days no more din~
Cracked and dry old leather belts
That ran the boggi now hang loose and low~
The smell of wool still slightly lingers
From once polished rails long ago~
Creaking building in daylight warmth
Sadness one feels stepping in~
Deep inside a bushman's heart
Old shed ..sorry sight .. So grim~
But old shed you are not dead yet
But tied as here you stand~
Gone are the days of summer dust and haze
When you were young and ever grand~
And now you keep company old shed
With old yards and gates and races~
No longer are you filled with sheep
And loved with noise and life's embraces~
Once yelling and press thumping
Old lister with rhythm pure~
Flapping belts and tar boys running
But now ..loneliness you endure~
You had your day in your time I say
As then you stood so proud and grand~
And now ... You bring back memories
To a just as old and grey once busy man~
Terrence Michael Sutton
Copyright 2018
Jul 1, 2018
Jul 1, 2018 at 11:11 PM UTC