"lorry" poems
Sunday sermons are spilling on the inner city streets
through the green heaps and brown bags
through the downtown whisperers
and sage solitude souls
Army bands prepare for march
(their trench members filling packs with canister and cane)
the high command and tricked militia head pinned
quick on the look for splinter, lorry and skuttle
Traffic patterns change at the COP connect
camouflage bearers break formal stride
battle men slip between colorful floats
unsuspecting slumlords (vein pricked and weary)
grin in their second suite dying rooms
Twitching men and rubbernecks
sit discreetly on the corner wall
JJ and the chief revere a 21 gun salute
holy rollers raise cheer (in a moment of silence)
chess men hold steady
with ivory cues
Flames belt from the distant foundry
streets come alive with crackle and dust
members of the attic group glance down from their perch
an elderly man in a straight jacket (happy in the now)
sits solemnly with a cold reflective stare
It’s not far from the steely mud holes
from the flying fragments and sharp broken dreams
from the arsenal digs and madmen (who quietly turned the *****
the ivy trellis
and flowing white gown
are a nocturne fit
for this elevated rolling highland
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 8:33 PM UTC
The bin lorry had been.
I picked up a fragment
of our neighbours lives,
litter they must have scrapped.
We do not know them.
They're always moving on.
Urban Bedouin,
with a thousand and one
domestic tales untold.
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 11:28 AM UTC
There was a truck, a chorrie
Some people would call it a lorry
It backfired one day
And was heard to say,
‘Jislaaik, I’m blerry sorry.’
Apr 8, 2012
Apr 8, 2012 at 10:12 AM UTC
Brigid was born on a flax mill farm,
Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan,
At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road,
The last child of the Sheridans.
The sluice still runs near the water wheel,
With thistles thriving on rusted steel.
Little's known of Nellie's early years;
Da died before she knew grieving tears,
They'd turn her eyes in later years.
She's eleven posing with her class,
This photo shows an Irish lass.
Her look is distant,
Her face is blurred,
But recognizable
In an instant.
She was schooled six years
To last a life,
Some math, the Irish,
To read and write.
Her Mammy grew ill,
She lost a leg,
And bit by bit,
By age sixteen,
Nellie buried her first dead.
Too young to be alone,
Sisters and brother had left the home.
The cloistered convent took her in,
She taught urchins and orphans
About God and Grace and sin.
There were no vows for Nellie then.
At nineteen she met a Creamery man,
Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan;
He delivered dairy from his lorry,
Married Nellie,
Relieved their worry.
War flared, men were few,
There was work in Coventry.
Ireland's thistles were left to bloom.
Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy,
Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin followed,
When war floundered to its end,
They shipped back to Monaghan,
And brought the mill to life again.
The thistles and weeds
That surrounded the mill,
Were scythed and scattered
By Daddy's zeal.
He built himself
A generator,
Providing power
To lights and wheel.
Sean was born,
Gerald soon followed;
Then Michael died.
A nine year old,
His Daddy's angel.
Is this what turns
A father strange?
Francie arrived,
Then Eucheria,
But ten months later
Bold death took her.
Grief knows no borders
For brothers and sisters.
We left for Canada.
Mammy brought six kids along,
Leaving her dead behind,
Buried with Ireland.
Daddy was waiting for family,
Six months before Mammy got free
From death's inhumanity.
Her tears and griefs weren't yet over,
She birthed another son and daughter;
Jimmy and Marlene left us too,
Death is sure,
Death is cruel.
Grandchildren came, she was Granny,
Bridget, Nellie, but still our Mammy.
She lived this life eduring pain
That mothers bear,
Mothers sustain.
And yet, in times of personal strain,
I'll sometimes whisper her one name,
Mammy.
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 5:09 PM UTC
Even from behind the glass,
you can smell the chemical
that keeps the moths away.
A vast mound of matted sheep’s wool
you would say, except (they assure you)
it is original, all two tons of it,
the human hair that was left
unused at the end.
The rest went for socks
to keep workers’ feet warm.
All grey now, sixty years on, it has aged
as those that owned it never did.
They went naked to the shower room,
clutching the soap
they would never use,
and then to the ovens.
A lorry’s engine drowned the screams,
and the Governor’s wife tended her flowers,
making a garden “like paradise.”
Jan 28, 2018
Jan 28, 2018 at 11:22 AM UTC
Bridget was born on a flax mill farm,
Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan,
At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road,
The last child of the Sheridans.
The sluice still runs near the water wheel,
With thistles thriving on rusted steel.
What's known of Nellie's early years?
Da died before her grieving tears,
But burn her eyes in later years.
She's eleven posing with her class,
This photo shows an Irish lass.
Her visage blurred,
Her eyes look distant,
Yet recognizable
In an instant.
She attended school for six short years,
The three R's, some Irish,
And a Doctorate in tears.
Her Mammy grew ill,
She lost a leg,
And bit by bit,
By age sixteen,
Nellie buried her first dead.
Too young to be alone,
Sisters and brother had left the home.
The cloistered convent took her in,
She taught urchins and orphans
About God, Grace and sin.
There were no vows for Nellie then.
At nineteen she met a Creamery man,
Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan;
He delivered dairy from his lorry,
Married Nellie
To relieve their worry.
War flared up, and men were few,
So the work in Coventry
Left Ireland's thistles to bloom.
Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy,
Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin were carried.
When war floundered to its end,
They shipped back to Monaghan,
To work the flax mill again.
The thistles and weeds
That surrounded the mill,
Were scythed and scattered
By Daddy's zeal.
He built himself a generator.
And powered the lights and the wheel.
Sean was born,
Gerald soon followed;
Then Michael died.
A nine year old,
His Father's angel.
(Is this what turns
A father strange?)
Francie arrived,
Then Eucheria,
But ten months later
Bold death took her.
Grief knows no family borders
For brothers and sisters, sons and daughters.
We left for Canada.
Mammy brought six kids along,
Leaving her dead behind,
Buried with Ireland in familiar songs.
Daddy was waiting for family,
Six months before Mammy got free
From death's inhumanity.
Her tears and griefs weren't yet over,
She birthed another son and daughter;
Jimmy and Marlene left us too,
Death is sure,
Death is cruel.
Grandchildren came, she was Granny,
Bridget, Nellie, but still our Mammy.
She lived this life eduring pain
That mothers bear,
Mothers sustain.
And yet, in times of personal strain,
I'll sometimes whisper her one name,
Mammy.
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 2:49 PM UTC
His wife, George, was present with flowers.
Anne and Michael,his children, were there.
A headstone had been carved at the Quarry,
now all waited on Yeats to appear.
Soft and damp was that day in the graveyard
with the scent of turned earth in the air.
Beyond rose the bulk of Ben Bulben,
As the Lorry, with the poet, drew near.
Ten years he had slept in his coffin,
while the great nation states played at war.
Now Sean MacBride, the son of his rival,
brought him home, where he'd not been before.
At his birth, Yeats was a British subject.
By his death, a Dominion was here.
Now they laid him to rest in the free state;
the newly minted Republic of Eire.
A bhean chéile, George, a bhí i láthair le bláthanna.
Anne agus Michael, a pháistí, bhí ann.
Bhí A cloch chinn snoite ar an Cairéal,
gach fhan anois ar Yeats le feiceáil.
Bhí bog agus tais an lá sin sa reilig
leis an boladh de domhain iompú san aer.
Beyond ardaigh an chuid is mó de Ben Bulben,
Mar an Leoraí, leis an bhfile, tharraing aice.
Deich mbliana bhí chodail sé ina cónra,
agus an stáit náisiúin mór a bhí ag an chogaidh.
Anois Seán MacBride, mac a rival,
thabhairt dó sa bhaile, i gcás nach mhaith a bhí sé riamh.
Ag a rugadh é, go raibh Yeats ábhar na Breataine.
De réir a bhás, bhí Dominion anseo.
Anois atá leagtha siad dó a gcuid eile sa stát saor in aisce;
an bualadh nua-Phoblacht na Eire.
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 2:10 AM UTC
i used to care so so much
for this world,
but then a cat on a street taught me
to do otherwise,
there i was, by the lorry bins
on an estate, and there he was,
autistic as he was,
i stopped, he gestured his five whiskers,
i asked afoot at the crucifix: 'may i pass?'
he gestured with a blank stare that
i was granted...
so i passed... i didn't want the poor
****** to feel displaced...
or as in vision: a giant Venus over-flowering
of genitalia descending onto Plato's academy
into picture like a roof - asking - will the argumentation
seize to continue?! a floral goddess could
not enlightened these stone hearts,
so descent of a goddesses' genitalia comparable
to a flower could not weaken and make root
of weeds and later flowers into these hearts,
and i know so... oh i know so...
i know the strength of this brotherhood -
it's akin to a tear hearing the islamic call to prayer...
and the competing disavowal of an engagement with
women, simply for their despotism in the realm
of the household, which only women of blue Indians of
the former Raj know how to avoid, via sway unto
Bengali en-route to the Himalayas.
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 8:05 PM UTC
Shut away the promising key the queen united is the ruler to be,
overdose runs through her veins,
over and over the dosing pains,
give her substance to numb back to ease,
as the flowers willow she takes pictures of trees,
she's under the sun and kicking back to reign,
she met a girl who hated the world,
she used her body to sell her soul,
down on her knees she wept on the floor,
screaming "god hates me"
she wanted more,
tracks in her arms,
yeah, she's down on the floor.
You could say she's quite the catch,
luminous lies she's stirred up her batch,
yeah, she's confused promiscuous and self abused,
inevitable places she used and used.
When nights get cold she's back at again,
the queen of addiction when will it end?
She cleans up her frown and tries to pretend,
spat out the blood and began to grin.
She took her hand and kissed the scars,
broke the needle as they drove in fast cars.
They shouted and screeched "This world is ours!"
She's stays a awhile,
just a bit of time,
her hand in hers,
fingers intwined,
breaking addiction with this inseparable bind,
opening new eyes leading away from blind,
weary and shooken it comes back,
a train through her veins,
track after track.
Wondering where her lover is out on the streets,
the terror in her heart as it beats and beats,
stranger after stranger this girl meets!
As her star-crossed lover is on the floor,
she's out with a man making money for more.
shakin' and shook,
at the end of the track,
the train has left the station she's not coming back.
Lorry lover pouring out those places,
the stop of a car as her heartbeat traces,
man after man,
meeting new faces.
bends down ties up her tattered torn laces,
the queen of addiction in her presence it graces,
6 feet under her lover places.
A tear on her black slim dress,
the queen of addiction put to rest.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 11:43 PM UTC
We came upon slowing traffic.
Inside the bus
Standing passengers were thrown
and grips tightened
as we edged forward across
the unfinished road.
We passed the sun-glassed
occupants of cars and busses
and the rolled-up sleeves
of lorry drivers who's
tanned arms hung out
of every window, and
who's fingers tapped
an unheard tune.
I stooped to stare at the
dancing distance of
the baked tarmacked
highway.
Our eyes stung and wet
The metalled road blazed.
Our approaching gaze silent.
Gripped passports Identity papers
rosary- beads
-Letters of transit -
not needed;
The border did what most
borders do-
and shrugged us through.
Laughter becomes all languages.
Later that afternoon,
I sipped from the glass I held.
Jez turned to me and asked,
"Is this what it's like to be drunk?"
I smiled as I slid my wine towards her...
...
words and foto T Carroll..
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 10:27 PM UTC
1. Understand Weather.
(Strangers on a bench,
Looking up.)
“Cirrus, I think.
Cirrocumulus?”
“Stratus surely.
Or altocumulus.”
(You must also hate the cold
And the sun,
And always wish the current season
Was a different one.)
2. Never Be Honest About Stuff That Hurts.
Pain so bad
Can’t even **** –
“How are you, Arthur?”
“Brilliant, thanks!”
3. Have An Opinion On These People
Katie Price (Feminist? Witch?)
Kate Moss (Goddess? *****
Stephen Fry (Snob? Wilde?)
Frankie Boyle (Offensive? Mild?)
4. Never Talk About Money.
“So.” An American asks. “How much do ya make?”
“I…I…Oh My God look at that dog over there that has a face like a pancake!”
5. Learn How To Apply The Class System To Cigarettes.
Pipe – Monty Withnail
Silk Cut – Comfortably Middle.
Lucky Strikes – Probably not British.
B&H; – Shops at Lidl.
6. Secretly (Or Openly) Enjoy The Royal Family
“So, did you hear what they called the baby?”
My boyfriend shrugs and says -
“I don’t give one tiny ****
“They named him George. Isn’t that twee?”
“Aw ******* hell, I had a tenner on Louis!”
7. Hey Jude.
If all else fails,
At the end of the night,
Sing na-na-na
And it’ll be alright.
8. Never Complain About Your Meal
“Hm. These mussels look a bit suspect.”
“How’s your meal, Sir?”
“Perfect!”
9. Always Hate The French, (Even If Your Own Mother Is French)
Numberplate 'F'
On an articulated lorry.
“Stuck up…onion…bastards.”
(I’m sorry mum, I’m so sorry!)
10. ‘Jerusalem’
Mime a sword in your hand,
Bang your chest with devotion,
Wave the sword about,
Sing with emotion.
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 10:35 AM UTC
There is never new and there is nothing see old
The sky Of Tunisia, easily I can fold and unfold
In a notch of eye sight like magnificent light
Yes, Sometimes a day and many times in night
leaves are waved and stars a glowing in dark
They has given me absolute and divenly spark
Everything looks delighted as an eternal ray
Tunisia, my faith is stronger then previous day
What a dream, a poet can see you almost free
Can see the Monastir, a capital of world poetry
I do feel pleasure in a beach at wonder sunset
You are my Mediterranean sea is really great
Smell of silence are spreaded from the south
Sahara ! travellers way, dessert of thirsty mouth
No water, Dust is whiffed that freedom of ridge
Tunisia ! A soft sister of Egyptian Sandy breeze
Douz, a town at Sahara's edge for camel ride
Which is kept Romans gallery, nothing to hide
Serene cloud on top witnessed of Arab Spring
Men of Tunis proved by revolution none is king
Oh my sister ! I salute you for full of orbed glory
An amazing love of solitary, a successful lorry
At the time of grim sand storm whirled a while
In obscure can move with poem mile after mile
Mar 21, 2020
Mar 21, 2020 at 6:03 PM UTC
i speak not to itch the ear
i sound like the birds with so many beautiful colors.
see this picture, tell me a story
my brains move faster than the speed of the tyre of a tro-tro lorry.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 4:56 AM UTC
Palms sweating on the steering wheel
I try to chat
Hold on tightly
I look ahead
Red lorry, yellow lorry
My breath catches in my throat as we approach the bridge
Parallel lines pass me by
Don't look
I know how high up I am
If I wanted, I could drive off this bridge...
With one...
Lines
Flick...
Lines
Of my wrist.
My stomach rises and drops too fast
I feel like I'm falling
Releasing dread and panic
Adrenaline and tears
She gets angry but tries to calm me down
Down from the bridge
Get down
Fall off
Fall off the Earth
*Be ****** out*
No gravity
Oh God, no gravity
I try to breathe
I breathe
I breathe
Hold on tightly
We're off the bridge
I try to chat
Palms sweating on the steering wheel
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 5:16 PM UTC
About an hour later she slipped
Yuri Andropov into the conversation:
“I have to drop off a blouse at the dry cleaners.”
Suddenly it was May Day &
I’m back in Red Square,
Dwarfed beneath larger than life
Lenin, Engels & Marx mug shots.
Inter-continental ballistic lorry loads
Roll past the reviewing stand, while
Geezer Reds in Ushanka fur hats,
****** on Stoli, reeking of borscht,
Chain-smoke cheap Soviet Belomors.
I share these thoughts, handing
Mrs. Khrushchev the car keys.
Having cowered herself in terror,
Having ducked & covered many
Burial promises & shoe-pound threats,
She gives me a tired babushka smirk.
We are conjugal Cold Warriors,
Both weary now, creeping up on 70,
Skirmishes & brinksmanship behind us.
Tolerant of each other at last;
Lukewarm détente between us.
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 3:00 PM UTC
The frog glanced down at himself
and compared himself to the toad
But the toad was distracted, who
was desperately trying to cross the road.
"Don't do that in a hurry toadie, old man
You will soon be as flat as a pancake!"
Bang, smash and whollop, true to the word
he had made the fatal mistake.
The frog peeled him off the road
and flung him by the wayside.
The frog thought the situation funny
and couldn't keep a straight face if he tried.
"Charming" thought the ghost of the toad
"He will get a scare alright I'll see to that"
The toad ghost waited for the moment
and took on the form of a rat.
The giant rat alias the toad stood in front of the frog
He wriggled his tongue out in a rude way
The frog thought the rats are strange around here
and moved aside as he had nothing to say.
The frog decided to have some lunch, a nice idea
he laid out the cloth on which to dine
The rat grabbed all the nosh and said
"I think you will find all of this is mine".
"I dont see how you think that it is" said the frog.
"What in Heavens name as it got to do with you"
"Well if you had stood out of the way of traffic
while I was crossing the road, I'd have had a better view."
I would have noticed the large lorry hurtling towards me
I would have still been here to tell the tale
I'd have felt the wind, not been a ghost and my
hole would not be up for sale.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 4:15 AM UTC
True Leader
I want to give you everything
without the expectation of anything in return
because that’s just what I want to do
have to do and obliged to do...
Don't send a lorry of durian to my house
Dont give big ang pows in my accounts
I am just happy I have done good deed
To my people, my country, my nation
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 6:38 AM UTC
Since I last saw you,
You appear to have joined a motorcycle gang
You have signed a record deal
You have ''come out of the closet''
You are living on some sort of commune
You got engaged to a troglodyte/knuckle dragger
You got married to some sort of inflatable doll
You have gained weight
You have traveled the world
You have lost your appeal
You have done too many drugs
You look older, worn out
You haven't changed at all
You disgust me
You became a nudist
You started selling things ''off the back of a lorry''
You died
You started dating a guy twice your age
You got thrown out of your band
You might as well be a stranger.
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 6:36 PM UTC
Arrested development,
life on hold.
Investment deterioration...
High Street trade goes cold.
Can we have our ball back mister?
Progress halted;
ambitions run dry.
Ineptitude personified
So up goes the cry…
Can we turn the clock back?
Lorry parks overrun,
trucking overspills,
paperwork’s not valid mate,
shortage at the tills.
Unemployment running rife... go on...
Can’t we just have another run at life?
Too many negatives
converging all at once.
Should’ve delayed departure
Covid, Brexit… Extend the talks!
Ineptitude • Handbrake turn before the exit?
No! This is like a yellow box so no!
Do not enter unless your exit’s clear!
Can we have our ball back mister?
Can we turn the clock back?
Can we have another run at life?
Too late goes up the cry… you’re disaffected.
Should’ve been better informed
by the people at the sharp end;
the people at the top…
Ever felt dejected... 1- 2 - 3 - 4...
take it from the top! No!
Can we have our ball back mister?
Can we turn the clock back?
Can we have another run at life?
Sorry say the throng…
we didn’t really mean them
to get it THIS bleeding wrong!
Dec 14, 2020
Dec 14, 2020 at 9:23 AM UTC
A mass pushing into me like a great lorry
The leather jacket, the smell of the dead
The skin so shiny like a glass filled with milk,
White and whole and fattening, filling you up
But not full yet, one final blow to come
And the covering of the legs like netting,
Rips apart, an opening to another world,
Begging me, asking for it, shaking with knowing
Had you not picked the fruit from that tree,
Tasting its seeking, desperate sweetness
Perhaps i would not feel your weight as I did
And you would fall down like an infantile bundle of feathers
The epidermis, the subcutaneous layer, the blood
Moving quickly then slowly then quickly
Are you still there? I shouldn’t care
A button falls from your breast, a trickle down your cheek
The eyes, the eyes! They follow me, the train,
Moves slower as it pulls into the station
And makes one final sound, a signal,
I’d rip their eyes out and let them bounce onto the tracks like marbles
So many stains of blood and war and toil
Lie across the carriages and out onto the moors,
I wouldn’t worry,
I’ll make it clean with disinfectant and run smooth again with oil
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 1:53 PM UTC
you say you paved the way for me,
with a bicycle on the motorway,
and a lorry on a cul de sac,
thats one way for
the light to illuminate the dark streets.
apparently,
but then when pieces didn’t fit together,
like lego blocks as kids,
you left me in my teens,
when I needed you still.
and ever since
still water runs deep,
i drowned without you around.
when simplicity was a gift horse we stared
in the wide open mouth.
you stayed still,
i moved south.
we no longer talk often.
I gave up on you,
after you replaced me so hastily,
when you gave up on me,
and i thought you hated me,
what will be will be.
maybe.
I saved my best trick,
for the encore.
you wanted more from the performance.
it dawned on both of us that,
the camels back broke from
straw stories told over
and over again.
now you look at me strange,
when you look up and see me at something,
you never asked me to.
old bitter blue,
eyes,
wide,
surprised that i made it -
without you
almost frustrated,
i never doubt you too,
i just did it with or without you.
so i won’t shake your ageing hand.
respect speaks for it self.
it’s a two way street.
Not a cul de sac.
Some roads you go down and theres no turning back.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 6:31 AM UTC
clear-eyed springs
unfold her wings
that trumpet
the joyful
sound of
cherry blossom trees
sharing her
branches with
shiny black yellow and
red breasted
lorry birds of spring
oh Lord
i can hear them sing
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 12:48 PM UTC
The learn-ed scientist declared;
" The time has come that I,
by virtue of my own brilliance
will never have to die!"
"I engineered my own Genome
to keep me young and spry."
Indeed, by all appearances
the Doctor's boast seemed true.
His skin was supple like a child's
Though he was eighty two.
His pulse was firm and regular,
His body ripped and lean.
If not for his celebrity
you might think him eighteen.
" I am like the gods themselves-
Immortal is my glory"
The Fates laughed at his insolence
and chose to end his story.
Their Machina Ex Deus
was a drunk who drove a lorry.
Man may match Methuselah
if Science lights his way.
Still irony comes from above
and only Donkeys bray.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 11:26 PM UTC
A deathly silence filled the air,
As I stood amongst a real nightmare,
I didn’t hear a single sound,
And in that moment my heart did pound.
The large vehicle lay on its side,
Like a stricken boat caught in low tide,
It lay there not alone,
But with 13 men trapped and they started to moan.
On hearing those poor unfortunate souls,
Who must of been thrown round like rag dolls,
I ran to seek help but my legs were like lead,
But I ran and ran as I thought men were dead.
With the RMP I arrived back at the scene,
A place i will never forget that I’ve been,
With lights and noise and people all around,
The rescue of men now on the ground.
As I stood in a daze fixed on the lights and noise,
My attention did switch, I changed my poise,
I could hear a voice talking to me,
“It’s ok, sit down, they’re all alive, almost free”.
Those words were what I needed to hear,
For most of that night I was swathed with fear,
As I thought I’d killed those in my lorry,
But we all survived, eternally grateful and I’m forever sorry!
Sep 20, 2017
Sep 20, 2017 at 5:57 PM UTC
I'm sorry
My burden caused you to worry
though I could not apologize before
but now I'm sorry
and I hope smiles can be fore
My thoughts, crashed by a lorry
my intentions were bad
but now I'm sorry
I hope you are not sad
My part of this story
could not be said
but now I'm sorry
and I wish to ask if my wrongs can be paid?
Jul 9, 2010
Jul 9, 2010 at 9:49 AM UTC