"lloyd" poems
My country is an old book with a crumbly, dusty cover;
original and valuable
Like a book, you don't judge it by its cover.
What's inside it is what defines it.
Gently open it;
Read each word with heart,
Uncover its uniqueness
till it brings delight.
Find the book enjoying,
You'll never wish for it to end.
You'll read it one more time,
You'll show loftiness to it.
Oh, fellowmen, we're proud of our country
Even if we're not;
Our mouths say we are, but our hearts deny.
Oh beloved country,
We discerned ourselves
through judging you
because of our own fault.
© Frank Lloyd Manalang, 2014
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 5:10 AM UTC
Sundays on the ranch are somethin',
Just after morning chores are done,
I head up to the house on a dead run,
I've called the herd and put the buckets out,
Fed the chickens, called the horse, "Old Son,"
Heard the rooster yammering at the rising sun;
Old dog is baying loud to add some fun....
Meanwhile, at the house,
The wife has rattled up the kids and lined em out,
When I come in, they clear the bathroom out,
So I can get a shave and morning shower,
And off we'll head to church in half an hour.
Or so we think....
It's then the neighbor calls to say our milk cow's swinging by,
Bell clanking off-step time to her butter-churning udder,
"She's headed north toward town!" he chortles mirth,
"Maybe she wants to hear old Pastor Perth!" I mutter.
All jokes aside, I hang the phone and grab my cap,
We pile in the truck to try and get her back....
We have a chance if we can turn her 'round above the hill....
Why is it Sundays sweet Dolly becomes such a pill?
A simple rule of nature I wish I could avoid,
Is if a plan is put in place, as sure as Lloyd,
Our Guernsey chooses then to go out on a spree,
And Pastor Perth in town prays extra hard for me.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 9:38 AM UTC
It’s not that big a surprise
How much I adore Amsterdam
Like immigrants long ago
So welcomed here just as I am
In the historic Lloyd Hotel
To witness a wedding so swell
I’m glad I’m here in Amsterdam
Canals and bikes aplenty
Whizzing past on every street
The Keukenhof gardens amazed
VanGogh’s Museum made me weep
I’m glad I’m here in Amsterdam
We walked for miles & took the train
Our flight home I made not a peep
It must have been that Space Cake
We ate it and went right to sleep
A fond farewell to Amsterdam
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 5:49 PM UTC
My name is Zaynah,
I my best friend is Dayna.
I love volleyball,
and love to go to a fancy ball.
I love school,
cause I am way too cool.
I love One Direction, Justin Bieber, Cher Lloyd, 5 Seconds of Summer, & Austin Mahone from Texas,
& I want to drive a
Lexus.
That is all about me,
oh and I love to watch T.V.
~Zaynah
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 11:37 PM UTC
A Jersey girl came along
and I started to think about angles of yaw
needed to take flight,
how the force of a kick skirts
the delicate line between winning and losing.
I’ve seen it all before, but not like this. Besides, seeing
has nothing to do with believing.
Corneas can't capture the vibrations of molecules or excitations
of electrons. Champions defy biology,
overcome gravity and I believe what goes up
does not always come down.
I want to know the point where focus takes control
of epinephrine, who’s cascade is initiated by the roar of a crowd,
but negatively regulated by doubt,
when to take a long shot or build up slowly.
I want to live the difference between accuracy and precision,
taste the dirt, become painted with bruises and scorch my heart.
A flag is heaviest when you carry it,
lightest when it’s raised,
worn as a cape and allowed to wave in the wind.
Countries aren't build, they're created created
denying muscles oxygen but allowing them to taste gold.
It's ability to conduct electricity astounds me.
It’s not about alchemy
but transforming sweat into tears,
fixing nitrogen, reducing triglycerides.
Not all reactions need light, some create it.
It’s only over when there’s not enough energy for activation.
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 8:35 PM UTC
You say I am the backbone of the family.
Not because I am the youngest,
But because I never showed my emotions.
But I think it's time to let go.
Because when she died,
I was the only one who didn't cry.
But i cried on the inside.
And, when they buried her 6 feet under,
My heart skipped 6 beats and I was choking.
Yes, it's time for me to let go of my emotions.
Because you say I am the backbone.
But, I am not strong enough to support 3 sisters,
1 brother, 2 aunts, 1 uncle, and 3 cousins with this,
Skinny backbone.
Arthritis can't help because I am still afraid to break down.
"You have always been the backbone, no matter what."
But,
I am tired of being Miss Motivation.
You are breaking me down form my,
Coccyx to my,
Sacral to my,
Lumber to my,
Thorracic and,
You're giving me Cervical Cancer.
And instead of being a backbone,
I feel more like a ligament.
Connecting your tears to her tears and,
Her tears to his tears and,
And that tears me apart.
You're swelling up my heart from all your pain and,
Right now it's about the size of a catchers mit.
I don't want to be the backbone.
I am not strong enough to suppport the whole family.
Why can't you see that you're exhausting me?
Kiaren, Kirsten, Kaye, Lloyd, Aunt Atheda,Aunt Regina,
Uncle Tony,Chris,Oliver, Aaron...
I am tired of being your backbone.
I am not that strong.
May 24, 2010
May 24, 2010 at 2:05 PM UTC
I don't even know what to write, or say.
And for a person who has written so many poems,
on this site,
it is kind of unbelievable.
My first poetry anthology, "Wanderlust" - Sia Jane Lloyd
is now available via Amazon.
This place (Hello Poetry) has given me something I could never return or give words to.
Such acceptance, courage, love, belief, determination, inspiration...
Thank you for making me realise my dreams.
I couldn't have done it without you.
I love you all so so so much xoxo
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Wanderlust-she-travels-her-mind/dp/1492952346/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid;=1392582925&sr;=8-1&keywords;=sia+jane+lloyd
xoxoxoxoxoxo
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 3:39 PM UTC
Oh! Mr. Best, you're very bad
And all the world shall know it;
Your base behaviour shall be sung
By me, a tunefull Poet. —
You used to go to Harrowgate
Each summer as it came,
And why I pray should you refuse
To go this year the same? —
The way's as plain, the road's as smooth,
The Posting not increased;
You're scarcely stouter than you were,
Not younger Sir at least. —
If e'er the waters were of use
Why now their use forego?
You may not live another year,
All's mortal here below.—
It is your duty Mr Best
To give your health repair.
Vain else your Richard's pills will be,
And vain your Consort's care.
But yet a nobler Duty calls
You now towards the North.
Arise ennobled—as Escort
Of Martha Lloyd stand forth.
She wants your aid—she honours you
With a distinguished call.
Stand forth to be the friend of her
Who is the friend of all.—
Take her, and wonder at your luck,
In having such a Trust.
Her converse sensible and sweet
Will banish heat and dust.—
So short she'll make the journey seem
You'll bid the Chaise stand still.
T'will be like driving at full speed
From Newb'ry to Speen hill.—
Convey her safe to Morton's wife
And I'll forget the past,
And write some verses in your praise
As finely and as fast.
But if you still refuse to go
I'll never let your rest,
Buy haunt you with reproachful song
Oh! wicked Mr. Best! —
3.7k
We sit cross-legged in the story corner
Breathing faint ammonia smells.
Table chants and hymns echo through corridor acoustics,
All creatures great and small.
We are wedged in a tangle of podgy thighs,
Grazed knees, scabs and warts.
And Anthony is sitting alone again
Where he can do no harm.
Yet he said he would bring it, and bring it he has.
Its tiny white head is nosing over
The hem of his pocket,
Whiskers a-twitch and
Eyes like tiny blood blisters ripe for popping.
A shudder of shivering whispers and
Nervous heads are half turned:
Yes, Anthony is smiling his special smile.
Mrs Lloyd has found the page,
My lids are squeezed tight
As I urge my mind to follow her away
From here, away from now.
For playtime will be ****** once again.
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 3:20 AM UTC
HelloPoetry Blessed us all , no matter where we live.
I am truly Blessed by each and everyone alike here.
There are so many here on this here site that I am thankful for.
Sally Bayan, Mike Hauser, Iamdaisie, Olivia Kent, Wendy Ronshausen,Brandon Nagley, Earl Jane, Rachel Sia Jane Lloyd, Lydia Monet,Neil Aranda, Mark Cleavenger, Ann Marie Johnson, Melanie Wilson-Herring, Mike Essig, **** Paz Its Gonna Make Sense.
PrttyBrd, Vicki Bashor, Kripi Mehra, Willyam Pax, Poetess Bhumi, Kelly Rose.
Elizabeth Burnettge, Toni Pugh, Paul Champman, David Lewis Paget.
Ryn, Sean Scibbles, Aurelia, Kim Johanna Baker,Yasaman Johari.
Lady RF,Crazy Diamond Kristy, Weeping Willow, Alyssa Underwood.
MydstopiA,adhi das, South by southwest, Petal, soulsurvivor.
reformdancerecover,Ashly Kocher, Mack, Travler, Randolph Wilson.
Plus many more whom are very special indeed whom did not make this poem love you all in Christ.
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 2:03 PM UTC
Charlie Chaplin, set the pace
Buster Keaton, old stone face
Groucho and the brothers Marx
Margaret Dumont for some sparks
Harold Lloyd, The Brothers Ritz
Did I mention Zazu Pitts?
Stan and Ollie, Keystone Cops
Chases that just wouldn't stop
The Stooges, Larry, Curly, Moe
and then theres Shemp and Curly Joe
Bing and Bob, and Dean and Jerry
Two could sing, while two made merry
Bud and Lou and who's on first?
Harry Langdon and Charlie Chase
I think who is on first base
Mabel Normand and Mack Swain
Always tied before the train
Pie fights, slapstick in black and white
This was when we laughed all night
Mack Sennet, Roach, and Our Gang
Spanky and Alfalfa sang
Words were twisted, spun and turned
People splashed and others burned
Remember back to days of yore
To when they had you on the floor
Rembember Baby Rose Marie
She started at the age of three
Many more could make the list
For many I know that I missed
Make 'em laugh and take a pie
Get sprayed with seltzer in the eye
Go and watch their films again
So comedy will always reign
Thank you to the funny folk
Who taught us how to take a joke....
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 11:03 PM UTC
We are Manchester. The City, The place, we’re hospitable people with a smile on our face. You can beat us, mistreat us, and blow us to hell. We have had it all before and we don’t dwell. We’re the northern powerhouse of the northwestern elite, Where the Geordie's, The Scousers, The Yorkshire’s retreat. The premier League, The Roses Cricket, The Heineken Cup Is a one way ticket. United and City two football teams with stadiums full, bursting at the seams.
We are Mancunians Of this fair City, The People, The Love, The old nitty gritty The worker, The Shirker, The Homeless, The immigrants, each one of these they are all itinerants. The Steel, The Cotton, long since forgotten the old smokey chimneys blew out smoke that was rotten. The Massacre at Peterloo. Local politicians just don’t have a clue. With all the sights this city has on show here’s something that people don’t really know. Manchester is where New Zealand Born Ernest Rutherford split the Atom.
We Are Manchester, The City, the Place, where Sir Humphrey Chetham has his musical grace a school of music with musical taste. And where a man with a paintbrush painted streets on boxes. I don’t think Lowry ever painted foxes. And A comedian from Collyhurst who was absolutely awesome, a real funny guy by the name of Les Dawson, and where a man from Chorlton on Medlock became Prime Minister back in the day. David Lloyd-George had a hell of a lot to say.
We Are Manchester and it's the place for me. And a proud Mancunian I’m glad to be. I’ll sit in a cafe watching people pass by. They are all in a hurry and I wonder why. I see a business man in a three piece suit, and the homeless guy that is counting his loot. There's the girl on the street giving out free papers she is smoking those ciggies that give off those vapours. It's pouring with rain and she’s getting wet she’s worried about money to pay off her debt.
We Are Manchester and this is our City don’t waste your time we don’t want no pity. We are Manchester we are steeped in tradition we leave other cities standing. There’s no competition. Where A man from Moss Side a Vicar not a Dean called Rev George Garrett invented the submarine. And where the great Anthony Wilson was a journalist & impresario and a man named John Nichols invented the great drink called Vimto. and so When he wrote “This Is the Place” I’m sure he did so with a smile on his face. We Are Manchester and I’ll state our case because we are Manchester and we are ace.
Mar 30, 2018
Mar 30, 2018 at 9:45 PM UTC
She was a friend of Amber Clark
You know, you've met her before
She's the girl who listens secretly
To Bach behind the door
The Closet Classic ******
Who wears shirts of the Ramones
But listens to Rachmaninov
whenever she's alone
Jennifer McSweeney
known by all upon the street
She had kind words for everyone
She liked everyone she'd meet
She ate meals at Giannis
Knew the Pawnbroker, Old Cy
She listened to the bluesman
Whenever she came by
Like all the folks upon the street
Jennifer was dark
Not gothic, but you could say grey
She was set to make her mark
She was going to be famous
Her face upon the Silver Screen
She was going to be a movie star
Like The Truck Stop Beauty Queen
Jennifer loved movies
Not the ones that can be found
At the local dvd store
She liked the movies without sound
Her little quirk was that she
Liked the movies from the start
They told tales in black and white
These were strong in Jenni's heart
Buster Keaton, Harold Lloyd
Fatty Arbuckle, and more
Zasu Pitts, Charlie Chase
They struck her to her core
L and H, The Keystone Kops
She loved to see them grapplin'
But none of these compared to her
deep love for Charlie Chaplin
The Cineplex would show a film
They would host a special week
When silent movies were the shows
When nobody did speak
Jennifer would take the time
To watch each film they showed
She was so happy when the week came round
She positively glowed
The kids she knew, all thought her odd
Because of what she liked
But, when the silent week was here
Jennifer was psyched
One year she went to the next town
To get a small tattoo
It was all done up in black and grey
It was what she had to do
Like other girls who have been inked
It was in the same place
But, it was little, very non descript
Of her favorite actors face
She told few friends about it
And though she never did get violent
If you laughed at her tattoo
Like Chaplin, she'd be silent
She kept it to herself most times
Her little bit of ink
As she aged she'd show it more
For the cost of just one drink
She would take them to her bedroom
And by the light of her small lamp
She would show her tattoo proudly
Chaplin....her little ***** stamp
It's the thing that she is known for
She's the girls with Charlie's face
Where others all have Chinese Words
She has Chaplin in this place
She is known for loving movies
In black and white, and though it's camp
She gives a whole new meaning to
Having a ***** stamp.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 12:00 AM UTC
They fought like crackers
for the coveted prize
from the green bud banter
to the Sunday guise
whipped in a frenzy
by the Callaway score
torn asunder
at the elfin door
The hoodwinked watchman
holding council at post
stung by the folly
of the second floor host
a wild card shuffle
from numskulls and fools
high on their trade
and obstinate rules
Trenchant voices
remarkable cures
Billy’s brigade
and gob smacking boors
wreaking havoc
(in a flatulent way!)
staunch and bitter
and riled foul play
Scissor tailed catcher
and one eyed crow
trolls and packers
unfortunate woes
Lloyd’s forgiveness
and scowls at the chart
***** of fury
from a shot gun start
Gadfly’s and gripers
are unorthodox
the nineteenth hole
for **** in a box
tribunals and judges
a cold reverie
another fine year of the M.O.D.
Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 11:15 PM UTC
Took a trip on the Belafonte,
Bound with Cuba to forgotten Sanz.
Dinning on tin canned Del Monte,
A glass of Suntory always in hands.
Lloyd Faversham gifted salacious devices by John Cleese.
Used as props in Mike’s next gin stained showpiece.
The drum-line seemed irksome to J. Jonah.
He’d heard Zach Hill before.
Given limited time, despite the persona.
Interstellar fault found in a **** metaphor.
A swift change to an even more marketable sound.
Sparks didn’t fly when trying to appear profound.
Tiny teen dreams tending to tiny skirts.
Fidgeting with the hem-line.
Their just unintelligible flirts.
Stripping to avoid the breadline.
Dystopian fiction led to dissolution of fact
Can’t seem to see their world isn’t intact.
Atwood to Collins, Collins to a stupid ******* maze.
Alternate choice being a criminal thrill.
Simplistic fantasy whose only benefit is praise.
Popular opinion seems to be well over the hill.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 5:52 PM UTC
We're just like Carrie and Mr. Big
You want to be free
We're just like Harry and Sally
We like each other at the wrong times
We're just like Lloyd and Diane
I'll never stop trying
We're just like Allie and Noah
From different walks of life
We're just like Scarlett and Rhett
Independent and Fickle
We're just like Ilsa and Rick
Nothing can separate us forever
We're just like Bridget and Mark
Childhood friends turned accidental lovers
We're just like Hubbell and Katie
I'm just too unique to settle down with
We're just like you and me
Undefined , real, struggling
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
I feed my appetite with your voice. Your fricatives pirouette on my tongue. Each sibilant hangs on my teeth, then slides off and leaves its wax to pile up in my throat. I cough it up and collect it in a jar. It sits on the shelf in my basement and becomes familiar with the musty cloak of yesterday’s wet laundry. On the shelf, there are jars of swollen strawberries and gritty half-skulls of pears, blackberries like bundles of balloons. But in your jar, suspended in their own sugary liquid, are ripened vowels that arabesque when I give the jar a shake. I wipe the damp film off the metal lid with my thumb. Now I’m sitting in bed at 2:00 a.m., scooping your words from their glass house with a sticky index finger, speckled with seeds, semicolons, ellipses. Each dig gets me closer to your older, sweeter language–closer to what I’ve been craving. The last drops cling to the jar’s lip until I tilt it to mine, and I’m full-bellied, staring at an empty jar. In the bathroom, I slide a finger in my mouth until it reaches my throat and the words come up and fill the toilet and overflow onto the floor, puddle around my crooked toes and stain the linoleum.
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 4:44 PM UTC
Of course it was the wedding
Bringing us together
With Fabian and Karen
The best wedding ever!
Historic and surprising
In the old Lloyd Hotel
Pre-wedding preparations
For a boat ride so swell
Such patterns and colors
Bricks and concrete so define
The old Lloyd Hotel with
A more modern Dutch design
Our Indonesian dinner
That whirlwind tour by Tor
Through shopping streets-The Nines-while
Sharing his family lore
I stood in line for VanGogh
2 hours of rainy skies
All worth it for the time there
His story made me cry
Splendid gardens on display
Row upon row I gazed
A cacophony of TULIPS
The Keukenhof amazed!
We walked for miles & learned the trains
The week flashed by so fast
I wish that Rose and I took time
To take a yoga class
I'd like my morning coffee
Once more before we part
Finished off with Dutch detail
A great big creamy heart
Loving those calming canals
I might go on the lam
Escape from America
I think "I Amsterdam"
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 11:52 AM UTC
I would rather be a good man,
Than a scholar, any day.
So **** all of the capitalists,
With their wages of higher pay.
I don't need a massive house,
Or a load of fancy ****
I only want a simple life,
That is non-materialistic.
You need to learn, that man can't buy,
Some friendship or her love.
And memories are all we take,
When we depart for home above.
While you're out blowing money,
I'll just stick to spending time.
Taking journeys and adventures,
Capturing pictures in my mind.
See all I ever want,
Is a life of love and joy.
And to someday raise a daughter,
Who would someday meet a boy.
I could only be so lucky,
In fact, forever I'd be pleased,
If the boy she someday met,
Resembled younger me.
I know I'm not the greatest,
There's no arguing that.
But, I'll remain a gentle soul,
A true and simple fact.
So, call me a lazy slacker,
Perhaps I'll never strike it rich.
But, I'm always kind and caring,
And, I'll never act a *****
You can try to judge me,
And tell me how I'm wrong.
But, this one here is my life,
And I will live it 'til I'm gone.
Remember, even young Lloyd,
Knew that Gabriel rocks.
And he did what he loved,
And he loved to kickbox.
But see, the music and fighting,
Were mere entertainment and sport.
Instead, he pursued love,
From sweet Diane Court.
Now at night I sometimes dream,
To be slightly Dobler-esque.
Learn to strive for what I want,
Then cast aside the rest.
'cause money may try to alter,
The way people act and seem,
But, no currency will ever affect,
The fact that I am me.
Sep 30, 2011
Sep 30, 2011 at 8:21 PM UTC
"Is there anyone for stuffing?
Well done George, send us down your plate,
Auntie, if you've finished with the cranberry sauce
Could you please pass it across to Kate?"
"Brian can I interest you in my brussels?
There's nothing quite like a good sprout,
If anyone wants anything passed,
Don’t wait to be asked, just shout."
"Richard, will you please sit and eat,
And just stop irritating Claire,
No, you better wash your hands first,
You're getting gravy in her hair."
"Ted, you wanted more potatoes,
What, you only want one or two?
But the ones left really aren’t that big,
I'd better pile on a few."
"Sarah, you're not looking after your young man,
The poor boy's been left to starve,
Go and get him some more turkey dear,
Your Father will help you to carve."
“Malcolm, not too much in Grandma’s glass,
You know what she gets like,
Open another red for Father,
I’ll stick to the bubbly-white.”
"Well if everybody's had enough,
I think I'd better finish the peas,
Richard, don't cough over the table,
Remember your manners, please."
"Ah, make way for Father and the Christmas pud,
I hope he hasn't overdone the brandy,
Saints preserve us . . . Father’s on fire. . !!
Oh, well smothered dear, three cheers for Mandy,
Hip, hip, hooray,
Hip, hip, hooray,
Hip, hip, hooray."
"No, Louise, you can't pull the crackers yet,
We're saving those for tea,
Richard, take that stupid tinsel off your head,
And put it back on the tree.”
“Everyone go in the other room and play games,
Just leave all the dishes to me,
I’ll do the washing and drying up,
While I’m sorting out something for tea.”
“Richard please don’t tease the dog,
Claire don’t pin that tail on the cats,
Lloyd, play nicely, stop fighting with Louise,
You’re ruckling up all of the mats.”
“Hmmmnn … not quite enough sherry in this trifle,
Hick … I think there’s probably more in me,
I’m sure I’ve been working far too hard,
Hick … I’m feeling quite dizzy.”
“They say that Christmas comes but once a year
And aren’t I just glad that’s so,
It’s nice to see all of them for a while,
But it’s even better to see them go …”
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 3:01 PM UTC
The cottage stood at the outer edge
Of the village of Helsomewhere,
It held a slate on the garden gate
That scribbled a ‘Don’t Go There!’
It housed a cat and a resident bat
And something that moved within,
A thing unseen that was quite unclean
With various types of sin.
The folk that entered the garden gate
Had never gone back there twice,
When asked, they shuddered enough to state
‘It’s something that isn’t nice!’
The weeds were thick in the garden, and
Had grown right over the path,
And filled with sand by an old wash-stand
The remains of an iron bath.
Nobody walked the bullock track
That led by the old front door,
To go to town, they’d hurry around
A path that was there before,
The cottage stood like an ancient crone
That blighted the village scene,
A pointing finger, pared to the bone
Reminding them what had been.
At night the Moon rose over the ridge
And it cast an evil glow,
Down through the leaves of the eucalypts
To the cottage, far below,
The windows looked like a pair of eyes
As they stared out through the gloom,
While something was rushing around inside
Like a demon in a tomb.
‘Perhaps we ought to have burnt it,’
Said the senior councilman,
‘It stands alone as our conscience,’ said
The crusty old farmer, Stan,
‘We have to bleed for our own misdeeds,
Including a lack of care,
Each scream was seen as a nightmare dream
When Lloyd was living there.’
When Lloyd was hosting his dinners for
The girls from a nearby town,
Nobody seemed to question them
For Lloyd was always a clown,
But screams would happen at midnight
And would often be heard at dawn,
When Lloyd was digging his garden patch
By the light of the early morn.
And Lloyd would wave to his neighbours as
They hurried along his way,
Give them a cheery greeting, crack a joke
And say ‘Gidday!’
They didn’t suspect that evil lay
Inside in that old tin bath,
The one that is filled with sand, and now
Sits there, outside by the path.
One night the villagers crept on out,
And they took it each by turn,
To set a brand to the cottage, then
Stand back to watch it burn,
But something was rushing about inside
In a black and evil cloak,
While screams had seemed to come in a tide
With the dark and acrid smoke.
The embers were floating far and wide
In the haze of a Harvest Moon,
They set up fires in the eucalypts
That rained in the village gloom,
And every cottage went up in smoke
For the villagers’ part, they share
In the deaths of thirteen innocent girls
In the Hell of Helsomewhere!
David Lewis Paget
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:05 PM UTC
Benedict met Julie
(the druggie
and whatever
else she was)
circa 1967
at the foot
of Nelson's Column
in Trafalgar Square.
She was dressed
in a mini skirt,
tight top, her hair up.
He dressed in his red shirt,
pink slacks, black shoes,
smiled as he approached.
Never guess how many times
I've been chatted up
as a ***** she said,
since I've been
standing here.
Guess you
put them right,
he said.
Do I look
like a *****
she asked.
No, of course not,
he said, taking in
her mini skirt,
the tight top,
the pressing out ****
She sighed.
Anyway you're here,
where now? She asked.
The gallery? He said,
indicating the National
Portrait Gallery behind.
I need a drink, she said.
Are you allowed
with the medication
you're on?
Since when
did you become
my father? She said.
He looked at the people
round about, the pigeon feeders,
the meeting of lovers,
visitors from some
foreign shores,
middle class,
up your *** bores.
Ok, he said, let's go
have that drink,
then take in a gallery
or cinema.
I feel a need
to make a hit,
she said.
They only let you
out of the hospital
because they think
you can be trusted,
he said.
Then they shouldn't
trust me should they,
she said.
But they do.
It's up to you,
but I'm not
sticking around
if you go back
down that alley,
he said. I said
I felt a need,
didn't say
I was going to,
she muttered.
She moved away
from the Column;
he followed, through
the Square, pass
the people and pigeons,
the kids and parents.
He gazed at her ***
as she moved ahead,
the sway of it,
the thighs, sans
stockings, her feet
with sandals,
treading the ground.
She stopped at the edge
of the road; he stood
beside her, took her hand,
felt her warmth.
They found a bar
in Leicester Square.
Ordered drinks, sat down,
lit cigarettes, smoked.
Guess who I met
the other week?
He asked.
Who? she asked.
Charles Lloyd,
he said.
Who's he? she asked.
Jazz sax-player.
Met him outside
Dobell’s' record shop
in Charing Cross Road.
Is he famous? She asked.
Sure he is. I got him
to autograph my copy
of his latest LP,
Benedict said.
What did he say?
She asked.
Sure man he said
and scribbled on
the back cover.
She looked out
of the window;
took a long drag
of her cigarette.
He watched her profile,
the lips holding
the cigarette,
the puffing out
of smoke.
Thinking of her
in the hospital ward,
the white dressing gown,
the skippered feet,
that time they made love
in that small room
off the ward.
Another drink?
She said.
Sure, he said,
and ordered two more.
Some place inside her head
a wild wave of need
swept up the empty shore.
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 3:29 PM UTC
I started reading late and never learnt to put down the book
I guess I burnt out with the strength learning took
I couldn't stop spewing the facts that I learnt in school
But now when I open my mouth I cant help playing the fool
I guess I stopped using words that others could question
I guess I got tired of being the only one awake in lessons
I guess it's not worth it to embrace a humming mind
When being alone is the only solace that I find
Because honestly, we are "in clanging space a moment heard"
And Yeats is the only friend that doesn't think I'm absurd
And my friends take the **** because I read poetry while simultaneously they're reading books that I breathe
"If its not on the curriculum then it doesn't count"
Well I read it all years ago, want to know what its about?
Maybe its dense to think that English Lit numbs your mind but I didn't take the subject and it didn't stunt the meanings that I find
I guess it's my fault for reading Leroux instead of Meyer
But the only fantasy I need has a mask hiding layers
And I guess Lloyd Webber gave it a rebirth but The Phantom of the Opera was my favourite book first
I wish that reading books could make me superior
But I'm in a corner, lips tight, perpetually inferior
I wish I'd learnt the things that they'd learnt in school
Like throwing parties and talking back and breaking the rules
I'm caught between one extreme and the next
One second I'm curled thinking alone the next I'm having ***
Because when I voice my thoughts they're warped and inaccurate
Sometimes I wonder if I'd express them better if I'd stayed celibate
Surely talking shouldn't be so hard
But it's difficult to hold back the words that I want to discard
Discard because my head hurts from the pressure
Of the thoughts that no right mind could measure
I suffer from the pain of never feeling understood but honestly, I would push you away if you could
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 3:41 PM UTC
Don’t be afraid to take a big step, you can’t cross a chasm in two small jumps. David Lloyd George
Chasm
The definition of chasm can come in two forms
1. A deep fissure in the earth, rock, or another surface.
2. A profound difference between people, viewpoints, feelings, etc.
Taking a big step is needed to cross both.
To get over both
and fetch for sanity.
To reach for the furthest branch
To take the leap
To jump and release.
Plummet towards the earth.
Lose all sense of reality
Master containing hope.
Just don’t let go of that rope.
Dangling from the tree of life
Channeling the strength to fight
No other human in sight.
Hindered by the gift of design.
Hindered by the thought of this lie.
Desperate to forge tonight
Hold my body up to the light.
This law we cant defy.
Is this all we’re willing to try?
Jan 25, 2018
Jan 25, 2018 at 7:41 AM UTC