"livery" poems
labels have been placed
on my personage
but the one label
I'll not wear
is that of a stalker
the person who placed
the stalker sticker
on me
can take that label
and place it
on other livery
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 9:14 PM UTC
© 2009 (Jim Sularz)
Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, by wagon, train or foot.
Days not all that long ago, in tall ships made of wood.
“A gold rush struck in’49, all quite by accident.
A burning fever that cut men to bone, in a sea of dingy tents.
Day and night, they toiled and tolled, many headed home without a cent.
But some packed out bags of glistening gold, and made a stop at "Buzzard’s Breath."
"The town’s mud logged street, deep with horse manure, bubbled like a shallow grave.
With a Sheriff’s office, a livery stable, and a church for souls to save.
And a fancy house, on a grassy knoll – sign read, “Madam Lil la ****
With soft, curvaceous ladies who mined for hearts – and gold of a different sort.
Didn’t take long before easy gold, was extremely hard to find.
And burly miners, tough as steel, moved in to hard rock mine.
With bloodied knuckles, dented hats, they blasted at a furious pace.
To find the gold, called the Mother Lode, yellow blood coursing through their veins!
The mine they worked was called “Long Shot”, the men thought that name a curse.
But the miners hankered for the handle, "Buzzard’s Breath”, and the mine’s name was reversed.
As luck would say, they held a royal flush, when they hit that horse-wide vein.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found, this side of the Pearly Gates.
Eyes wide as saucers, they were all in awe, everyone was filthy rich.
The miners should have all retired and should have cashed in all their chips.
But a man’s hard to figure, when his blood is yellow, and he’s stricken with a gold fever.
“Eureka! Boys, *** the dynamite and a whole lot more mining timbers!”
They mined that vein to the bowels of the Earth, and the heat increased by day.
"Buzzard’s Breath" became the hottest place, to Hell – the shortest way.
And then one day, the men never came back. – Hell must have jumped that claim.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found – that’s where the Devil mines today!”
Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, died a slow and quiet death.
Along with days of tall wooden ships, and the ghosts of Buzzard’s Breath.
Jul 8, 2012
Jul 8, 2012 at 5:46 PM UTC
BAND concert public square Nebraska city. Flowing and circling dresses, summer-white dresses. Faces, flesh tints flung like sprays of cherry blossoms. And gigglers, God knows, gigglers, rivaling the pony whinnies of the Livery Stable Blues.
Cowboy rags and ****** rags. And boys driving sorrel horses hurl a cornfield laughter at the girls in dresses, summer-white dresses. Amid the cornet staccato and the tuba oompa, gigglers, God knows, gigglers daffy with life's razzle dazzle.
Slow good-night melodies and Home Sweet Home. And the snare drummer bookkeeper in a hardware store nods hello to the daughter of a railroad conductor-a giggler, God knows, a giggler-and the summer-white dresses filter fanwise out of the public square.
The crushed strawberries of ice cream soda places, the night wind in cottonwoods and willows, the lattice shadows of doorsteps and porches, these know more of the story.
3.9k
When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field,
Thy youth’s proud livery so gazed on now,
Will be a tattered **** of small worth held.
Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy ***** days,
To say within thine own deep sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deserved thy beauty’s use,
If thou couldst answer, “This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,”
Proving his beauty by succession thine.
This were to be new made when thou art old,
And see thy blood warm when thou feel’st it cold.
2.7k
His old mare cantered into to town
The covered wagon followed
A boy's first trip to town alone
He took it in, and swallowed
Penny candy dreams last night
And sarsparilla floats
The ladies' parasol fineries
The men in pinstriped coats
Perhaps a whiskey, what the hell
Today he was a man!
But first the livery stable for Brownie
For oats and a water can.
The .30-30 saddle gun would come with him, of course.
He also grabbed the belted Colt from the pommel of his horse.
The warped board sidewalks led past stores
His worn boots clopped along
He strapped on the .36 Navy Colt revolver
And fastened down the thong
He clopped down to the first saloon
Laid his rifle on the bar
A sporting girl sat next to him
With the unlikely name of "Star"
"A milk for the lady.
Myself as well,
Barkeep, if you please!"
A cowhand howled out raucous laughter,
Flipping up Ms. Star's dress, to well above her knees
"That little pup, he wants some milk
So Star, give him yer ****
I'll bend him over, spank his ***
And then give YOU a treat!"
The young man's vision doubled, trebled,
The shame clear on his face
As tears welled up in big blue eyes
A witness in every soul in the place
"Aw, the little ***** is bawling! WAH!"
The cowhand bellowed out
And all false mirth left his expression
And he gave the boy a clout
The boy just sat and sobbed and watched
As Ms. Star joined in the joke
But cowhand was already 3 bottles in,
In a flash, her nose was broke
Cowhand reached across the boy
To grab that sweet, sleeved rifle
The boy grabbed cowhand's wrist just then
And twisted it just a trifle
A yelp and howl from cowhand's mouth,
"YOU BROKE MY ****** WRIST!
NOW you're ****** you little sprat"
He took a swing, and missed.
Red faced, clumsy, humiliated
He drew leather on the boy
Dead to rights, he had the kid,
He realized, with grim joy
An explosion, a thump, on warped pine floor
Blue smoke curling in the air
Utter, vapid, vacuum silence
Patrons cemented to their chair
The tears were gone from those blue eyes
Blue steel as his gaze fixed
A hole had grown in cowhand's head
The size was .36
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 1:18 AM UTC
As boys we sat atop a bridge
And saw the trains rush by
Steam flying out of funnel stacks
We watched them pass with a sigh.
The Royal Scot was a favourite
The Flying Scotsman too
But the biggest thrill we ever got
Was when The Mallard raced right through.
Such a beauty she was in livery
All blue and shining and bright
And to children like us in the fifties
She was such an amazing sight.
She was the four four six eight
And she ran on four six two
You couldn’t see her funnel stacks
For speed they were hidden from view.
They’d built her up in Doncaster
Through a wind tunnel she had passed
And when she flew along the tracks
You caught a glimpse and gasped.
Steam trains of course don’t run now
Except on heritage lines
But smelly and ***** as they may have been
They were a glorious sight in their times.
©JRW2014
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 11:42 AM UTC
None of the rays of sunshine
would deign this waxy skin,
just sand burned to ashes,
regurgitation from the slobbery hysteria
of the filthy sea.
None of these days of summertime
would violate my inner ancestral frost.
Red dragon of stone, this soul of mine
beneath the labyrinthine ghost,
of the wicked fate.
The stoic age wears the same livery,
in the smoke of my hyperuranium
no scream comes over this far
where the solid patience
is the only certainty
that dwells inside my self.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 5:41 PM UTC
I am but a rose of beginning green,
imprisoned to darkness all day,
within a monumental fiend,
who covers up the radiance that I want to give away
Occasionally a small opening would be sewn
into the darkness' fiery grasp
and your pure radiance could be shown
concealed in a kindhearted mask
Share your light with me
and for you I will light the way
wrapped in an unfamiliar livery
prepared for our intimacy till the end of our days
We will cross waters on a homebound stretch
and become fuel for our endurance,
so beautifully etched
I'll take my chances, following the sun
the garden we grow
means that together, we are one
Share your light with me,
and forever I will stay.
my petals can become your livery
we need each other, I daresay.
Jan 31, 2017
Jan 31, 2017 at 8:51 PM UTC
ELSIE FLIMMERWON, you got a job now with a jazz outfit in vaudeville.
The houses go wild when you finish the act shimmying a fast shimmy to The Livery Stable Blues.
It is long ago, Elsie Flimmerwon, I saw your mother over a washtub in a grape arbor when your father came with the locomotor ataxia shuffle.
It is long ago, Elsie, and now they spell your name with an electric sign.
Then you were a little thing in checked gingham and your mother wiped your nose and said: You little fool, keep off the streets.
Now you are a big girl at last and streetfuls of people read your name and a line of people shaped like a letter S stand at the box office hoping to see you shimmy.
1.6k
my darling
i will visit you in your boudoir
tumescent Satan, I
you, a goddess, your body-- the temple it was built for
our hermetic union,
two bodies entwined on the hearth,
the argent moon looking on, clutching her vestal livery
heathens, heathens!
how can something so exquisite be a turpitude?
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 12:31 PM UTC
At midnight, out on the cobblestones
There’s the sound of rolling wheels,
And a shadow cast on a window pane
From the road outside, it steals,
A wagon, black in its livery,
And pulled by a single horse,
As black as the heart of the man that steers,
Whipped up from the watercourse.
From down in a tiny inlet, deep
Enough for a man of war,
A French corvette is lying, waiting,
Just metres away from shore,
It carried a cargo of brandy, wine,
And cases full of tea,
Smuggled into the tiny cove
Its goods all duty free.
Now it’s waiting upon the tide
To turn the ship around,
Its cargo gone in the wagon now,
Headed for higher ground,
And then the galloping hoofbeats echo
Over the cobblestones,
The crack of a couple of pistols and
The air is filled with groans.
The horse breaks free of its halter and
The wagon rolls back down,
It’s shadow passing my window pane
A second time around,
It rolls back into the harbour while
I hear the boom of guns,
Firing from the French Corvette
As it hoists its sail, and runs.
Once a year on the fifth of June
And late into the night,
Whenever the moon is lying low
And casting down its light,
I see the shadows and hear the sounds
From that deadly time of yore,
As the ghostly French Corvette departs
And sails from the ghostly shore.
And glistening out on the cobblestones
There’s a dampness, looks like mud,
That dissipates in an hour or two,
A pool of the smuggler’s blood,
I dare not go to the window, look,
Or even open the door,
In case I’m carried away by them
From two hundred years before.
David Lewis Paget
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 1:51 AM UTC
Thank Goodness Santa was exempted
From Covid Travel Rules,
So he could go and deliver
All those presents and shimmering jewels.
My great nephew and niece all smiles:
Look at their happy faces.
Santa did all those miles
And got to so, so many places.
He even brought me mine
Disguised as mail delivery.
Giving his reindeers time
To rest, for a while,
In their Lapland livery.
Top of the Pops at noon.
It was on so very soon.
Some nice tunes and jingles
Like a box full of Pringles.
Not quite Rock and Roll,
But still a hint of Soul.
Meaningful lyrics
And some atmospherics.
The Queen gave us Hope
With her speech at three.
No time to mope
Here in the land of the Free.
Trust you all enjoyed this festive day some way.
And let us all pray
That things get better
From New Year’s Day.
It’s time to conquer Covid:
About time I hear you shout.
It’s DNA decoded,
Vaccinations all about.
So twenty-twenty-one
Is coming very soon.
When this year is all done,
Let’s fly up to the moon.
Let’s fill the world with Love,
Holding hands again.
Goodbye to twenty-twenty,
Goodbye to all the pain.
Paul Butters
© PB 25\12\2020.
(Last two lines changed at the suggestion of Norman Stevens 27\12)
(Original final two lines were:
“It’s not a matter of whether,
Only a matter of when.” ).
Dec 25, 2020
Dec 25, 2020 at 3:20 PM UTC
good equestrians you know like
young things who giggle all pretty
major embellishments of lipstickglaze and
sourpuss pouts skin smooth as
vanilla in summertime:
nymphs if you only
champ at the bit to have your
hair brushed to be
carrotfed and bootkicked into
stockholm races (sing this song
wear your
habit on your sleeve or
break it fast
come now sister let’s
put on some tea and
watch the jasmine bloom I hear it’s
particularly fragrant this
time of year.
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 5:14 AM UTC
I didn't write this work, it was written by my dear friend Carole Hurley who has been having a problem posting
I sit on the top deck of a red London bus and view the world passing by, so much more interesting than a drive in a car.
Where are they all coming from, the people I see? Where are they going to, what do they do with their lives? These people I view.
That little old couple, side by side holding hands. They look so content as they walk down the Strand.
The young men and women hurrying by, perhaps going to work, maybe going to buy a sandwich to eat in the park.
Tourists in their thousands viewing our London sites. I wonder where do they all go to at night.
I gaze eagerly down as we pass famous stores, their names proudly emblazoned over the doors.
I love the hustle and bustle of our London town, a wonderful mix of the old and the new, I try to absorb all the breathtaking views.
Theres Tower Bridge in her livery of gold and of blue, her ramps held aloft as a ship passes through.
Whitehall where the soldier high on his horse so proud and so still, while tourists take photographs later to view.
Big Ben chimes as the Houses of Parliament we pass. Westminster Abbey so stately and tall, for hundreds of years overlooking it all, the laughter the sadness, the tears and the fears.
I look at new buildings all made out of glass. I look at it free courtesy of my free bus pass.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:59 AM UTC
A rotten thief was at work last night
He stole thirty sheep from Mr Wright
He wasn't aware of the thievery
He had his head on a pillow's livery
There he snored till nine o'clock
After he arose he went to check his flock
He noted that thirty sheep had gone astray
To whit he called the police in an urgent splay
The local constable came in a hurry
To investigate as to why the sheep did scurry
He detected a tyre indent on the muddy track
It bore a pattern akin to a badly stitched sack
His instincts told him who did the stealing
It was the fellow who jumped out of Mrs Ray's ceiling
With the crime solved he bade Mr Wright good day
To pursue the robber who'd got away
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 10:44 PM UTC
as the Indian pitches
are always spin prepared
few batsmen ever
get well spared
the bowler's turn
of the ball does the trick
there is that out sound
in the bat's snick
Aussie selectors must be
aware of a slow delivery
when they name the team
who'll carry the livery
quicks are a dead loss
on the subcontinent
time and again this
has been so consistent
if we want to win
a test series on Indian soil
we can't let our eleven
be sent there to boil
the wicket has constantly
favored wrists and fingers
so we don't require
fast stinging zingers
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 8:47 PM UTC
Abandoned in every manner
I sleep in a shallow pool of blood
Every correction possible made
Clarity never came at such a price—
Between loans, loss and black livery
My mission was clear
From obsession I rose again
But when will I return to ashes?—
Familar visions I found solace in
Sent familiar fear through my veins
Created only from a life of necessary impurity
To create the new dogma I now adopt—
I stand before what I once rejected
With no choice but to embrace it with open arms
And in that I retreat again
So that I too shall return to the dust I once was—
Paradise, 2018
Apr 27, 2018
Apr 27, 2018 at 6:22 AM UTC
hung up ribbons and stained hooked cups
tucked up bedspreads unworn livery of lust
watching as slowly I let you disappear
knowing your strength I resign into fear
mirrors, pills, bike rides to fill-up-days
here without much
a swig on alcohol free beer.
watching the blackbirds, gone
knowing the words, dried
you know you left with my repose
I still have my brilliant green emerald
but who retains these jealous, green prose?
Feb 14, 2012
Feb 14, 2012 at 5:35 PM UTC
They boast of alluring ****
across from the church,
wearing green livery and dapper brown
and no crime to ever be
confessed was committed by
waters sat so still,
for dead children tell no tales
and ducks cannot talk
the atrocities of men.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 1:13 PM UTC
walking the concrete pave
i started to feel a bulging softness in my liver,
just the sheer balloonness of it,
not attached to any bone,
it was too much for me,
i had to walk into the greenbelt darkness
to feel the soft pouches of earth
beneath the feet and banish
all livery sentiments of the silken doughy thought,
and in there i said:
with the abolishment of asylums
psychiatry has become evermore bothersome,
imagine if the churches were closed
and priests freely roamed,
not since henry the eight such travesty,
with it, psycho-synthesis and very
little psychoanalysis:
because who the hell would diagnose a
child of two with some symptoms accumulative
as a.d.h.d.? where's the: climb a tree
break a leg then tango on with crutches?
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 5:58 AM UTC
Cloud Trick
I am writing on a plane:
An airbus A380 cruising
Through the emptied rooms of heaven -
The place seems larger,
Now there's no one living here.
The clouds below are thick
And suddenly I wonder:
Why is it, every time I fly,
I cannot see the land below?
Yet when I look up from the ground
I often see the aeroplanes,
Travelling through an open sky,
Angels encased in corporate livery.
Now, in my seat by the window,
Staring down,
I see little specks of light -
Perturbations in my visual senses -
Errors of the mind -
Highlighted on the canvas of the air -
And on these flickers of illusion I fixate.
What if there is no land below?
Could it be that every flight we take,
Is a computer-generated fantasy?
An elaborate scheme dreamt up
By secret powers,
Who wish us to believe in forces
Beyond all reach of human mastery?
Maybe they catapult us
To this virtual place -
A hologram of God's old house,
Designed to bring the memory near:
The hope that humanity might have
A parent in the atmosphere.
Then,
Upon taking us up
To the promised land
They showcase the sacred vacancy
Of all our dreams of paradise.
Just as I begin to fall
Into the particulars
Of this miraculous conspiracy
I stop, and realise how poor I am -
I always buy the cheapest flight:
Always leaving early in the morning,
Just at the end of the night...
Do clouds form like dew
In the darkness?
As the Earth spins,
Are its hemispheres
Alternately cloaked in veils of white,
Like an eye that opens and closes
In both directions?
What I would give to witness that.
Jul 26, 2017
Jul 26, 2017 at 1:40 PM UTC
I have worn
you as my livery, you
as my prison jumpsuit, as
my cloak of darkness wrapped
around me when light
meant burning and I
preferred to stab myself
into my hiding place.
I have worn
you for so long I have
forgotten what it means
for you to creep
up on me, for you
to ambush me as I bask
in the light, to
be suddenly present
when I did not
expect you.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 5:25 PM UTC
He told what he thought, a funny joke
She got mad with that Uncle Sam bloke
His sense of humor was awry
So she smacked him in the eye
Jesting lies in the art of delivery
To get it right Sam needed smart livery
But smart these days doesn't seem to be the way
In America or any other place on the planet's lay
For Sam's joke to translate well to her funny bone
He should've employed a Marcel Marceau megaphone
But what occurred instead was the sound of thunder
From the bad joke from America to the land down under
Laughs didn't abound in a generous supply
Her tempest did storm with an endless cranky cry
But in the end it all turned out right
Poets through it all and friends in a genial light
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 9:04 AM UTC
she is beauty
a violent pulsing *****
sweetly of sinew or nerves
gasping skeleton writhing
naked olive livery screaming
i like her
garden. with my tongue. a folding
scent of poesy in small poems i cannot write
in 2 hearts scratching painful din of
cringing light. on her ventricles enameled my enormous
healthy blood; she rages quietly; an ocean scalping
the coalesced lips i shatter on her belly
and her clergy of *** i am dumb my naked perfect blade
so put in me
you're
god
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 11:45 AM UTC