"loy" poems
a familiar tune
breaking through the morning news
Oh yes,
it’s loy krathong
humming along to the tune
ah, I should remember
to put a thanksgiving basket
onto the river
for the goddess of water
as the candles flow
may the light
in your heart
continues to glow
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 10:32 PM UTC
Twas a very clever ruse he did devise
To appear in two separate outfits
But he didn't count on my astute eye's wits
I'd fast detected his not so smart guise
On a weekly basis he plays his trick
Bobbing up as Jim then as Mister Loy
One has caught well onto his crafty ploy
He's thinking that I'm of a mind quite thick
How one so delights in his duality
Ever doth it bring a smile to thine face
These facades so different in kind
He is of a binary personality
I'm so well acquainted with his grand trace
Of his wee artifice one is not blind
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 5:28 PM UTC
I look down at my arm, there's a scared wrist but no fresh cuts. I look down at my thighs and there were no burns recently snuck. I came along way and I seen a loy of better days.
The sun is out for its first time and as I place my hands on my cheeks theyre finally dry. But I still miss it... I still miss it..
Who could ever save me from he world I seem to always go back to? Who could ever be my rehab for the addiction my demons make me do? Could it be you? Could it be you that makes all my gray skies blue? And could it be you to blind all my old scars so they can never see the new?
But with the fantasies I been visiting, I dont understand why I still miss it. And with the fantasies I been visiting I dont understand why Im scared to live life happy like this. Is it because my skies never stay blue before? Is it because my scars never stay old for a day or more? Whatever it is its got me... because I still miss it. I still miss it..
Darling goodbye id hate for you to see me this way. Darling goodbye you musnt see me bleeding today. Im sorry that I still miss it.. darling im sorry that I will always miss it.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 1:48 PM UTC
Whenever the rain comes falling,
It rearranges our town,
Whatever before was dry and up
Is suddenly wet and down,
They say it’s the fault of Widow Krupp
Who saved her tears in a tub,
And splashes them out with a scream and shout
As rain fills the gutters up.
And the streets lie under the waterways
For the river will burst its banks,
Flooding the gardens, and pathways,
There’s nobody else to thank.
We lose all sense of the North and South
As the East and West drift by,
And watch as the town goes spinning round
By gazing up at the sky.
People go drifting out in boats
To look for the supermart,
But all they find are the floating goats
That litter the flooded park,
The wooden houses meander by
As they leave their place in the street,
And neighbours wake in a different place
To the one where they fell asleep.
No wonder they call it ‘Waterdown’
It could have been ‘Waterup’,
For Waterdown is a drifting town
Thanks to the Widow Krupp,
The townsfolk threaten to duck the witch
As soon as they find the pond,
That lies bewitched by a flooded ditch
Out there, the back of beyond.
The pub has been anchored down with ropes
To stop it drifting away,
They towed it down from the heart of town
To give them somewhere to play,
While Madame Loy is the local toy
Who hangs her shingle outside,
‘Come in and play, if you’re bored today,
Entrée, and come for a ride.’
They finally got to the Widow Krupp
And drowned the witch in her tears,
Ducked her well in her wooden tub
Now it hasn’t rained for years.
The ground is dry and they wonder why
The river is just a stream,
And for those few who are newly new,
The past was a fitful dream.
David Lewis Paget
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 1:27 AM UTC
A dirt devil dips into
the valley, crashes and breaks itself
on red canyon walls
Mina Loy spins her words dizzy,
round and round
but they only get lost in the ground
while today I scrape by
How many may I say,
to your ten, Sir?
Your pockets are empty but
you are rich in noise.
Words fall heavy out of man's lips
My own words carried away
by a wind
still spinning against that heavy rock
that even Nancy could not crush
nor Gertrude
you cannot put them in a box
but you tried
the square rock chittering at Woolf
as she crossed the lawn of Oxford.
She found a way into their library
after all
we only have handfuls of
all the thousands of words
buried under rubble
the rocks
the canyons
the words
of men.
but gradually
they escape
as only the wind can.
Jun 11, 2017
Jun 11, 2017 at 12:39 AM UTC
I'm too young to lament the loss of cinema where the jokes were so fast you had to grasp at them frantically and laugh for only half a second because half a second longer and you'd miss the next one
I'm too young to be in love with Myrna Loy or William Powell who charmed beautifully from the silver screen because they both died before I was born
I'm too young to miss the nice aspects of a time I never lived in, a time I've only seen in movies and old magazines, a time where everything seemed brighter or darker and everything was just starting, I'm too young and I hate it
Because I wish I weren't
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 2:59 AM UTC