"lowry" poems
"Stoner's Poem"
I see your snapstories,
I see your ask profile.
I see how you comment and reply and flaunt your English skills.
Trust me, I love your rebuttals,
More than Biryani and the Lebanese pornstar.
I see your Facebook posts,
I see your WordPress,
And I see, how you craft your poems flamboyantly,
And then, and then,
Pilfer my breath,
And rob my me.
Sometimes, just sometimes,
Your deportment bewilders me,
More than Lowry-Bronsted's theory.
I see how you dance in the rain,
Like "All, sin, tan, cos", do in my brain.
I see how you frequent every segment of my cardiac muscle,
And then desert it, like it's one of the many dilapidated constructions.
My reminiscences about your thingness,
Escalate me to a higher spiritual level,
More than **** does.
Oh, that smile,
Oh, that look,
Oh, the mystique in you.
And again, I am writing of Love.
And the pen doesn't seem to stop soon,
For I have taken a greater risk,
Than asking my friend about cathodes and anodes and electrolysis, while I took my last chemistry exam,
When the invigilator was around.
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 3:55 AM UTC
If this were a haiku, I'd have
seventeen syllables to explain
why I'm running
out of syllables
to tell you why
the doorknob,
and not between my fingers,
is where your hand shouldn't be.
Message Delivered
If that sounds confusing,
it's because it isn't,
and you're only confused because I
proofread the text messages
and you forget words,
but it's like you forgot "you"
after "I" and "love,"
and you just never thought to put it back.
Message Delivered
I checked the date
and you missed
Monday morning in Lowry
and the morning before that in Farmer Boy,
and we've got a whole calendar
of affections that you're missing
because you opened up
to a month too far back
and now you're in love
with moments that forgot you
Message Delivered
I’m holding out for cycles of goodbye kisses
and I only got them
when you woke up,
and i’m not sure you ever did again
because you’re living
in sweet dreams
that are quietly bitter
and your ideas don’t love you
like you’ve convinced yourself you do.
Message Delivered
If I could go back
i'd give you space,
i’d break my own heart
not listening to the sound
of your breath
as you fall asleep next to me
but you're finding shelter
in broken affection
afraid to be alone
forgetting
who you are in
familiarity,
in Her
Message Delivered
I’ll fall asleep tonight,
and wake up tomorrow,
the same way I did yesterday,
thinking of something that wasn’t,
or maybe really was
and praying I could fall back into that dream
but sleep isn’t quite that easy,
and blissful ignorance
is granted only to the few
Message Delivered
Oct 27, 2017
Oct 27, 2017 at 8:25 AM UTC
The twenty-one gun salute
that pierced your soul at the funeral
of your grandfather,
Col. Robert Corbin Lowry,
was a fitting tribute
to a man who loved you dearly;
a soldier who fought bravely,
led his men with compassion,
humbly carried the scars of service,
and endured each Fourth of July
as too-noisy a reminder of the shots
that pierced his soul in Vietnam.
As you live your life,
honor him
by continuing to be
the granddaughter
in whom he was so proud.
You have always done that well.
©2002 Michael S Davis
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 1:04 AM 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
You tell me another story.
But I gathered some facts.
Lame excuses' it's a lowry,
I'm so fed up of your acts.
Getting the tinnitus because I'm lovelorn,
So tired of locking yours with my horn,
Are you dead tired of fighting too?
Did you not know this already too?
Gaining what out of the fight you are,
Only we can be the best possible friends.
Come descend back home,
A helpless heart awaits you,
Another ceasefire beckons,
Come let's bury the hatchet.
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 6:22 AM UTC
So tired of begging
And pleading
For your precious time
Just a simple conversation
Would ease
My worried mind
But here I sit
Alone
Once more
And even though
You are near
Our souls could not
Be farther apart
Words seem insincere
I know it may be difficult
Or impossible
To understand
But if you felt
The pain in my heart
You would know
Without a doubt
Control is not
What I seek
I only need your hand.
- Brandi R Lowry
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 10:03 PM UTC
up theer atop
Pendlebury hill
Lowry still,
matchstick thin
a flat cap
cheeky grin,
he paints the rain
grainy,
although
not always on a Sunday.
I Watch him by the mill race,
a mill shed face
that catches old like new
for me,
L.S Lowry
ought to be
hanging in the Tate,
oh wait,
he is.
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 3:11 AM UTC
lowry painted pictures in his salford town
with his matchstick people. he would jot them down
chimneys from the factories smoking all around
he put them in his pictures set as a backgroud
he just loved to paint on canvas everyday
lowry he was different with his special way
his pictures they remain and now there here to stay
this painter man from salford with his matchstick way
Apr 7, 2010
Apr 7, 2010 at 8:16 AM UTC
Lowry leanshanks came to town
riding a horse that was purple not brown.
He'd heard the sheriffs job was going
so into the ring his hat was throwing.
He might be strange and a little slim,
but who can run away from him?
His arms are thirteen metres wide,
no time to get away and hide!
Never had to use his gun,
Bullets miss him every one.
His purple horse may neigh and whinny,
but you can't shoot a man who is so skinny!
The jail was soon full of bad men,
like Cactus **** and Dust Bowl Ken.
The town was safe, the people happy,
they all so love the skinny Chappie!
Jan 11, 2011
Jan 11, 2011 at 8:01 AM UTC
in my verse his belt is a canyon cutting river.
kincade wanted something like
a gnat experiment- great color.
sacrifice a motorcycle jacket on a flat rock,
and on a still night it will stay there for hrs.
it finds me on my lunch break, silver but no
smokes. lowry wanted a futuristic camera &
a deep, swampy, shimmering green pageant
queen for his model.
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 10:35 AM UTC
Black stone juts out over greying ice,
A mass of alpine greenery,
Half bare, half masked in white;
The motion of a turner painting,
Colours cast through Lowry's eyes.
Camouflaged upon a riverside
With no sign of Lutheran ambition,
As faith faltered, medieval to Christ,
A small church modestly mirages,
Casting simplicity into Nordic pride.
The excitement of the northern lights
Over the precipice of these continents,
American and Eurasian plates collide.
The Langjökull Glacier screams
Witnessing its own untimely demise.
The remoteness captured in the landscape
Starkly contrasts to us who bear witness to it
And in the mirroring of the landscape
A lonely civil dwelling knows nothing
Of war between nature and humankind.
Feb 17, 2020
Feb 17, 2020 at 7:36 AM UTC
Huevos Cabreaos
followed by an Americano,
taking respite from those morning Lowry figurines with their bon bon shopping priorities.
A Puerto Rican girl has just passed the La Tasca informal interview
and is immediately hugged by her awaiting friends,
life is so fast and we all think like wikipaedia, fragments of momentary knowledge ,
even the menu here has a photographic memory lock,
outside a Big Issue seller makes his first sale
the broadest Lancashire accent,
can soothe somebody's day,
here is the reality of listening too.
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 10:40 AM UTC
Trailers don't give away the entire plot.
I've been watching for years
As an active actor
In various melodramas.
The good guy is clean shaven
Beneath the lather,
Emotes empathy,
And never snickers.
A straight shooter.
The other guy needs a blade
As cutting as sarcasm,
And aims when you turn.
Then there's re-runs
Whose endings never change.
The prophet gets arrested.
Tara burns. Ice bergs floe.
I am under Lowry's volcanoe,
Or leaving Las Vegas.
28 Days is only two hours
Of wine and roses.
The trailers just reveal enough
To give me hope.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 8:12 PM UTC
Tell you my story
Tell you my hurt
Tell you what I’ve faced
Tell you that you can be okay
Tell you even when you think your destine to break
Tell you that you can overcome this
Tell you that life is mean but you have to fight back
Tell you to spill your heart and let people in
Tell you that not everyone is against you
Tell you that you deserve the best
Tell you that you are you
Tell you that you can’t be replaced
Tell you to pick yourself up
Tell you I wish you the best with kindest regards
Based on kindest regards by Witt Lowry
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 11:15 PM UTC
Thinking we're autonomous
until the night creeps up in on us
and the Monsters make a mockery
of me.
I am not the camera,
not the lens
not Isherwood,
just
a man with some pens
and time on his hands
to fashion a rhyme
Lowry
painted me,
a matchstick man
and I saw a triumph
heard bugles call,
didn't know I was Humpty
'til
I fell off the wall.
But
I am fully functioning
firing on six
jumping the red lights
to get in the mix.
it's character acting that
attracts so many and so
many lose themselves
in the characters they create
I can relate to that.
I believe Picasso
let me go
because
he was blue,
another character trait
that fell through.
I always want the other end of the rainbow.
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 1:18 PM UTC
Constables hay wain crossed
the Stour, wooden wheels creaking,
countryside colours clouded,
trees shrouded Flatford Mill.
Lowry's people were going to work,
guarded by furious chimneys,
darkness conductors, limbs aching.
Beneath the plumes short lives streamed,
inhabiting a rent collector's dreams.
Thin models for humanity
suffered Salford's acid rain
from satanic wage slave mills.
Jan 4, 2018
Jan 4, 2018 at 2:07 PM UTC
Buses are emptied unlike
many minds at this time
in the trudge to work
beneath the canopy of
buoyant barrage ballons.
Another factory day ***** in
the dark figures downcast with bad
war news and routine ritual.
But there is comfort to be had
in the chorus of familiar talk.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 5:41 AM UTC
Tempers edge the need
for your anvil head to break.
The way back from work saw
Lowry people scrape the pavement.
Dog-leg drags of shuffle, of make-up slide,
mixing flea-skin sweat with pollen rub
into a tincture of stench.
This is image that I do not want
I have
half a mind to **** but I
cannot be bothered, the other ,a
a monologue of delirious ramblings
some" French kings versus
squadron mottos" thing...
and , in truth, I am not sure what
it's going on about.
I am indoors, windows open, curtains closed
naked from the waist down, feeding the freedom
of sprawl- but this is mistake of gargantuan order
a cosmic, foolish, schoolboy- error of judgement.
The sofa is leather.
My scar tangled manners are reports of my standing
an amateur tanners spewed stew of expletives.
In a half-arsed way it seems
I am to remain
part of the furniture
I search for shorts.. long shorts, short longs, whatever,
my legs and **** seek the solace of cloth.
On the canal a coot needs oiling
what feels like 20 minutes of incessant jar is
tapping with my rationale
Testing my love for all things feathered.
Something needs to give.
I am a Gobi taste of sandal straps and
in dire need of irrigation/ rehydration
I have waited way too long for liquid...
Don't get me wrong, this isn't some test
of deprivation- this is heat swung laziness
that is all it is..nothing more
nothing less..
And so..
We will get it tonight
You cannot pull isobars this far apart to
not have them break..
And that ogrish flat-top is thugging
the harbour side rents..
Ah yes...
"Après moi le deluge"
Seems to make sense, now
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 4:02 AM UTC
Laurence Stephen feeling lowly
Lonely as the sea
Sits watching the matchstick crowds go by
He isn't going to the match
Or the mill
He's in his back room
With imagined ladies and Bellini
Feb 23, 2018
Feb 23, 2018 at 5:59 AM UTC
Felicity is
Sand to the beach
Warmth to the sun
Light to the stars
A stream of my conciousness
I saw her once
In a girls self portrait
So real - surreal
She wore a beige scarf
As I'd never imagined
Her hair was dark
Yet at times she's blonde
Like light through a prism
She dazzles and changes
Form and colour flow freely
Yet my mind can hold her
Tonight she seems near
My thoughts touch her
An abstracted image
That flows through my pen
These are the moments
Parallel to reality
A happier place
An altered condition
Multi dimensional
She's my Lowry's 'Ann'
And tonight I am wrapped
In Felicity's arms
When she leaves me
I know she'll return
And I'll practice the ways
To call out her name.
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC
There's more to it and more to come,
save your daylight
but
burn the sun,
I've run out of matches,
and
Lowry
painting matchstick men is unaware
of my desire
to torch and set the world on fire,
then
when this is then and now was when back then
I'll paint my life as matchstick men.
They've offered me therapy
because they want
a quiet me
but I'm not going to have it
I'm just going to rant a bit more,
I told you there was more.
Easter eggs.
Why we overindulge on these chocolate treats
beats me
and what do eggs have to do with Easter?
the juggling jester smuggles in laughter
as background to his show
and that's what it is,
a show
Easter bunnies and upset tummies and
a long queue for the conveniences.
Killjoys are not always little whining boys
men can be them too
I can whine as well as anyone
except
the whinging 'Pom'
he's in a class of his own.
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 1:01 AM UTC
Stick men on canvas
in the foreground is Jesus
and Lowry is shaking his head.
Winter hit the mountainside with a clenched fist,
snow covered trees bowed and prayed.
The gallery wall held it all
saw it all
bared it all to
its breast.
we had danced to the magic of movement
on the oilskin of paint in the pool.
The love affair imbroglio of my youth.
No truth to be told except the truth of being old and sometimes the truth is a lie,
if I cry as I fall it is because I saw the wonder of it all
if I die it is as
a happy man.
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 2:07 PM UTC
It is an image of a man.
Behind him, a shadow stretched long and thick—
like tar. Like shoulder blades. Like a feeling you could lay in.
The shadow is a well, a pit, a grave.
The shadow is a hole the artist forgot to fill.
The image is a sadness, dark and shoulder-width.
The image is a child at the beach,
a toy plastic shovel in his hand.
The image is his brown cap with the strap and
the gold embossed letters “Lowry Park Zoo,”
the sand from the shovel flying forever
backwards without a glance—
tiny diamonds caught by the wind and small hands,
flowering downward into great mountains.
The image is a child in a hole shoulder-width,
sand in a landslide behind him,
resting for only a moment before cascading back
into the shadow again.
The image is a false progress.
The child is an old man, the beach a graveyard.
Watch the shovel. Watch the sand as diamonds as dirt as time.
Watch the wind. Watch the crooked hands.
Watch it trickle down again, again. The child is an old man.
The sand is a hole. The shadow is a sadness.
Do they lay in it?
The image is a regression.
In off-pitch impressions I wonder the comforts of the grave—
satin in the coffin. The feeling when there is none.
Do they lay in it?
The image is a man.
The image is a shoulder-width sadness.
The image is a boy and an old man laying in the same shadow.
The image is a hole I forgot to fill.
Aug 14, 2019
Aug 14, 2019 at 12:51 PM UTC
We thought we'd tamed the dragons.
But they were simply waiting,
Watching us methodically
Create an environment
More suited to their needs.
Heated, unpredictable, and
Increasingly hostile.
We never tamed the dragons.
We became them.
May 3, 2025
May 3, 2025 at 3:57 PM UTC