"lumbered" poems
*This is one of the racier "Memories" poems by the great Barry Hodges, my alter ego.
It might well make you come involuntarily in your ******
How happy was I once with the wind in my hair
Wandering o'er the dales with joyousness unmeasur'd,
In the sweet long passed innocent days of platonic love
When stolen gropes and kiss were to be treasured.
But all good and true things come to a sad close
And my poor first love lies in her grave so sorrowfully
Having been crushed to death by a runaway steamroller
Before I managed to go all the way quite thoroughly.
What a waste of delightful teenage flesh was that
Yet perhaps I had a narrow escape from the derangement
Which might have been mine had our trysting
Led to a semi-permanent matrimonial arrangement.
For I recall one afternoon in the old ABC cinema
In the delighful Yorkshire spa town of Harrogate,
Sitting next to my gorgeous love in the back row,
Exploring her not so very private parts on a hot date.
How I cursed the management's niggardly folly
In not showing a film with hot romantic blood
But saving pathetic pennies by putting on
Daffy ******** Duck and Elmer ******* Fudd.
But yet I perserved with my digital explorations
Unaware that the throbs my fingers felt were no dream
But darling Elsie laughing like a proverbial drain
At Daffy's hilarious anatine adventures on-screen.
'Twas then I began to wonder about the viscous liquid
I had hitherto imagined was Elsie's lovejuice flowing
*(dear, dear reader, cease your perusal of my tale forthwith
if you are of a nervous disposition or prone to food up-throwing)*.
It was only a careful examination of my sopping knuckles
In the dimly lit gents after old Daffy's film was done and dusted
Which revealed that my dearly beloved had leaked
Big time out of both ends, leaving my fingers well encrusted.
O to think that, but for Daffy, I might have been lumbered
With a different kind of bird for whom double incontinence
Was a way of life (thus, the fatal steamroller she encountered
The very next day was a blessing from kindly Providence).
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 5:07 PM UTC
What do you see, people, what do you see?
What are you thinking, when you look at me?
Do you see a grouchy old man, reading my book?
Lonely on the doorstep, drinking my beer.
Is that what you're thinking, is that what you see?
Then open your eyes; you're not looking at me.
I'll tell you who I am as I sit here so still!
At 20 I have wings for feet and fly like a bird
At 30 my dreams of love,
Bound to each other with ties that should last.
At 50 I contemplate the future alone.
At 60 I think of the years, the loves I have known,
A life that passed me by.
What do you see when
I struggle on my zimmer frame
To buy my Bulmers ?
So you see a body broken,
A man of poor character.
Well let me tell you this,
Inside this lumbered body, lives a young mans heart,
And now and again my battered heart swells.
I remember the pleasure and the pain,
I think of the years all too few – gone too fast,
And accept the stark fact that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people, open and see,
Not a sad old man, LOOK CLOSER, SEE ME
A man of memories and dreams,
A Life story to tell.
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 2:41 PM UTC
History is written by winners
Their story's the one that is told
The loser's are like dust in a zephyr
Blown away by the wind and the cold
A battle is waged on a hillside
The armies are dressed in chain mail
One side is left battered and dying
So...which side will write down the tale?
A submarine sinks in the channel
It's just off the Dover coast shore
No one survives but the story
of sailors we'll here from no more
Villages destroyed by a virus
It spreads through the town really quick
You know that the story gets written
By the survivors who didn't get sick
Pompeii was wiped out, that's a given
A volcano did wipe out the town
The people were burned to a cinder
So who writes, when there's no one around?
In the movies the cowboys and Injuns
All fight for control of the fort
Do the Indians spread tales of their losses
Do they write it all down just for sport?
As years changed the stories came forward
Of the armies and people who died
They were defending their loved ones and country
It's too bad they were on the wrong side.
As time lumbered on to the future
The winners were not just the ones
Who told what had happened that day
They were not just the ones with the guns
Bystanders came and told what they saw
This would change how stories were told
There was now a new player with stories to tell
And the winners did not look so bold
Things now were written that no one did know
Of the other sides battle attempts
They were not heroes or winners but, losers no more
For these writings now made them exempt
They spoke of their battles, their loyalty, grit
To stand strong and fight for their lives
Even though it was futile, they still thought they would win
Thinking only of children and wives
Now history is written as quick as it comes
Television has surely changed that
You can watch things at home on your big screen tv
And you can feel like you're where things are at.
Deception is gone and the truth now is told
In seconds, not years like before
You see things as they happen, and the final result
May shake your soul to your core.
So....now History is written by winners
and by losers as well just the same
And no matter, whatever the story
You now know all players by name.
Regardless of whatever the story
Be it ****** or sports, games or war
We can now see just how each one has ended
And their honor, and that's what life is for...
May 3, 2012
May 3, 2012 at 5:04 PM UTC
( Sonnet )
I once caught you naked by the sea,
No one noticed, such noble shyness,
Invited to worlds, aloof as sun breeze,
Of purple sands, heathered highness.
In novae of your eyes was shipwreck,
Forlorn beacon chiding the weary lost
Of new worlds lumbered on the decks,
Seabirds caroled up wing, heavens' loft.
Skin, fleshy of netted eel, salt and foam,
Was hide for a brigand, lubbers sessions,
Sheered by sheen, blinding sky of gloam,
Stars runged on their draped processions.
My seal, now fate, cloak within jubilance;
Coral sea wave, slips under moon dance.
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 2:21 PM UTC
Stitching
From a grand church in France to a rustic barn in Sweden the focal point and fascination is the door that
Has a key protruding in the lock but it has with time lost the screws that held it snug against the door
And the door frame there is no flat lumbered board now it is just a very deep splintered lines the color
Of auburn brown with a low gleaming in the setting sun I put my hands out and touch this rustic place in
Time an explosion of thoughts blast the mind a life lived well with purpose that endures with use the
Seasoned is expressed a stitching that is the fabric of life forms over muscle and sinew this outer
Garment does not belie the inner soul but in experience and in action it promotes and assures value
It passes through the vestiges of time the gray mist speaks with whispered mystery bur anchored at
Your center is the intractable character that sets the tone of your life a solid structure presents a forcible
Argument yes the elements have taken their toll but by doing so they have removed the green untried
Wood now the occasional creaking occurs but not of breaking but the stalwart rises in common skies
Privilege gleams the stranger or intimate friend is in the presence of the assured there is no pretense
This truth as sound as time and wisdom crowns walls and bedrock foundation you have come upon
The investment that God has provided and runs deep without constraints you can stand and muse
Here and as an invisible oracle your questions will be answered they will float on silent wind and mark
You as different you will be refreshed a redeeming will surge through you timeless affirmation will
Speak you will know it is sound it is steps that are sure when so much is cheap and just for show you
Will grow strong and tall your shadow will be the challenge to those who waste themselves on base
And worthless misgivings of life you will possess the power to be a place of refuge a fortress where
The powerless and helpless are provided comfort and instruction no longer will evil and its devices
Enslave the helpless there will be that irrefutable place of giving that will conquer a world bent on
Destruction.
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 12:41 AM UTC
He hurriedly glanced at his wristwatch again,
The shadow of the cross from the steeple
Landing in the middle of the watch.
A sigh echoed through the church courtyard,
And a few rats scurried out of their hide-aways.
They should be here by now.
The moon hung in the sky,
Trying and failing to shed light on what was below.
The harsh noise of a truck on gravel reached his ears,
And he breathed a sigh of relief.
The newcomer parked the truck and lumbered out,
Holding several filthy beer bottles in his large, grimy hands.
“Here you go.”
His voice was gruff, calloused even, as if it was being
Grated like cheese.
Money from the priest’s hands went into the driver’s hands,
And when the priest looked into his eyes,
They spoke legends of ******
The truck drove away, and
Pretty soon the courtyard was silent again,
Except for the hoot of an owl,
The contented sigh of the priest, and the
Pop of a beer bottle being opened.
Mar 12, 2019
Mar 12, 2019 at 10:36 PM UTC
It wasn't not a cry
that he heard all night
It wasn't a man
loosing all sight
A tiny soul
Fining it's howl
Crushing all up
the numbered lines
For all
It lumbered
To brake the hallelujah
And who knew in million days
The men would say
What they conveyed
As all he could
To cough art
Sneeze painting
And cry upon music
For the illness
Became the endless
Hallelujah
The broken hallelujah
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 2:19 AM UTC
the most dangerous person I know was a beautiful girl,
with a singing voice like white chalk:
when you came into contact with that voice, even momentarily
you found your fingertips lightly dusted
and the taste of chalk in your lungs
She settled on you.
This girl left pieces of herself everywhere--
anchors.
to things she knew should be
important to her, but instead she couldn't find the commitment
enough to make them important.
she could only find
fragments of a conversation
about anything
that affirmed her
self-importance
or made her feel
important.
even if only for a second.
she disregarded the pain that lumbered just beneath those
glimmering retinas,
only to step closer and see the light
was just a reflection of whatever stood before her.
so she anchored herself to humans.
she chose to connect with people
based on the "mutual" stars in
their eyes.
and how they felt important.
she anchored herself to
the expectations held aloof in
the eyes of her unattached lover.
Eyes that swam with the imaginary meetings and hopefulness
to obtain girls not her.
and so she swam.
at first, she treaded water like it the thing to do in the eyes of your
"lover"
then, the ropes she tied to herself
to make anchors began to drag her down.
the people she anchored herself to reached out as far as the cold depths would allow
but she refused to tread the last few feet and take hold
of a shoreline filled with
finite praise for not drowning herself.
The most dangerous girl I knew
made drowning the important thing.
and now she waits, sunken and waterlogged
with the weight of eyes that are not hers.
The eyes of her lover, who sparkle artificially
as the light is just a reflection of whatever stands in front of him.
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 3:18 AM UTC
There is a trail in Pennsylvania that is barely tamed
That winds on down the mountainside and fractures into veins.
It lashes through the trees and wood, like man-made ligh-ten-ning
And offers streams of water tasting pleasantly of spring.
This way is framed with micro-caves and fissures in the stone
Where sweetest water rivulets feed moss that's overgrown
Haphazard wooden walkways dot the snake-like trodden path
Their clumsy steps all akimbo; they bridge the wild gaps.
And even further down the trail, dodging brown tree roots
That point like gnarled fingertips and target untied boots
Below, like uncut diamonds lodged into the mountainside
Gushing waterfalls sing aloud, in ranges far and wide.
Their surging torrents babble in a distinguished harmonies
The wordless wind responds by rustling through the countless trees.
There, at last around the bend, before the lumbered river
A bench there sits within the shade where coolness draws a shiver
The wood is at the mercy of the lichen and the rain
That rush to bring that broken boards back to the earth again.
And there, amidst the other foolish carvings in the wood
Scrawled with hopeful youthful hands that did the best they could
The chips and angles buried in reveal what once was true
This is the final place where I will always love you , too.
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 12:52 PM UTC
Within the mists of the dammed each
droplet that forms burns upon mortal
coils. Searing upon the corruption that
hides beneath silken deceptions.
Shadows wonder on the waters of tears,
echoes of what was but now a mere image
of what lumbered beneath. With each silhouette
that drowned beneath its weight of sorrow.
In the mists an echo of their anguish forms
then just as it was it fades from memory like
so many before it. And then another seed
wonders in the mist and its true form blossoms.
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 5:41 PM UTC
A massive sea beast came to die.
It lumbered up and lopped down
on the docks of a grey castled city.
It’s arc heaved as it breathed
the damp sea vapors.
A final groan echoed from
the core of its heaped flesh.
One bulbous eye peered dead
deep into the wet night sky.
The gulls found it first.
Then the fishermen,
while making morning rounds.
Then the young,
then the curious,
even the lords came
to mend the unsevered.
The beast lay still.
The gulls were scattered by
the fishermen’s discipline.
The young found new spectacle around them.
The curious began to plan.
Some saw the meat.
Some saw their signs.
Others wanted it destroyed,
burnt immediately.
“Let’s be done with it!”
they said.
The lords quoted and pointed,
like they do.
The beast did not move.
A merchant arrived.
He owned the docks.
He had dominion.
“It is mine!”
he declared
“Go home!”
Embarrassed, the lords cowered and mumbled.
The curious shouted and bared their teeth.
The fishermen took sides,
the young stayed quiet,
and the gulls watched
the flames from afar.
A rain came.
The merchant,
the lords,
the curious,
the fishermen,
the young,
and even the gulls
all sprinted for shelter.
But the beast . . .
Rain became storm.
The horizon was hazed
by the mighty torrent.
But the beast . . .
Storm became tempest.
The sea swelled and smashed
against the city’s north wall.
But the beast . . .
Tempest became wrath.
Scythes of lightning set ablaze
the flags atop the tallest towers.
But the beast . . .
And wrath became the toothed face of a new god.
But still the beast . . .
remained where it was.
Nothing was said, nothing was heard
as the rain beat down on the oily carcass,
washing it clean.
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 4:52 PM UTC
I was vacant:
dust wafted off the window-sill, swirling in the afternoon sun
when you came, rapping green fists on my empty door
peering into my cloudy windows, glancing at the address
shrugging
and letting yourself in without a key.
You floated across the creaking floorboards of the foyer,
sweeping my cobwebs into a corner.
Did I forget to leave you the dustpan?
You strode through glass-pained doors into the kitchen,
scrubbing my china with the cold iron-water that poured forth from my pipes.
Did I neglect to provide you with lye?
After you lumbered up the stairs, coughing on mothballs,
I imagine that you shook your head at the tassels
hung on my fraying valence,
for soon enough you hurried your way
back down the stairs
into the kitchen
through the foyer
and out of my door.
I wonder—
Was it the dust?
Was it the dishes?
Did you ever stop to open my curtains?
Did you ever peer out the window, and into the gardens below?
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 4:35 PM UTC
i drove into one of those famous tunnels beneath the Chesapeake
under a freighter that lumbered in its foggy distance,
still off about half a mile
i thought the kids might get a kick out of this experience
but they were busy in the rear view mirror,
snared in silent worlds of mini screen devices i bought to see them smile
there's only static on the radio now, like no more bourbon left in the bottle
and you're so quiet
this is my life - the thrumming dented van within a sterile white tile fortress,
ears on verge of popping
i hear humming tires, the thumps of each heart beat
trapped inside, heterodyned
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 11:35 PM UTC
( Sonnet )
I once caught you naked by the sea,
No one noticed, such noble shyness,
Invited to worlds, aloof as sun breeze,
Of purple sands, heathered highness.
In novae of your eyes was shipwreck,
Forlorn beacon chiding the weary lost
Of new worlds lumbered on the decks,
Seabirds caroled up wing, heavens' loft.
Skin, fleshy of netted eel, salt and foam,
Was hide for a brigand, lubbers sessions,
Sheered by sheen, blinding sky of gloam,
Stars runged on their draped processions.
My seal, now fate, cloak within jubilance;
Coral sea wave, slips under moon dance.
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 3:01 PM UTC
They are numbered,
They are few.
Rarity is their virtue,
Uncommon their traits.
They are lumbered,
They are new.
Clarity is their class,
Platinum their rates.
Governments avoid,
And people loathe them.
They are cumbered,
They are feared.
To prevent them,
Nothing can be done.
By any forces however,
Either collared or aided.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 1:16 PM UTC
In a world of tree bark and sand stone
she was silk.
Where others croaked and barked
her voice caressed. Where they lumbered along
with pounding footsteps
her feet ghosted o’er the ground.
Their age is painted on their skin
in wrinkles, spots, and scars while
she reflected newborn innocence.
They grapple, she embraced.
They bellow, she chimed.
Around her the brown,
the grey,
the worn and weary,
the walking dead
swayed like crumbling monuments
lit only by her glow.
But in a world of tree bark and sand stone,
silk cannot last.
Her voice, so soft and quiet
below their din grows hoarse
as she fights to be heard. She loses
her footing as the ground
shakes with their steps and learns
to keep their time
just so she might stay up
right. In their pain she wallows,
frown lines slowing eroding her as
the sorrow sets in.
She learns to match their strength.
Her laughter is drowned in their cries.
In a world of tree bark and sand stone,
silk gets caught, gets pulled.
Strands are ripped and unraveled,
the pieces are trampled,
covered.
The lingering rags falls to the ground,
forgotten but for the memory that once
their was something beautiful
where they lie.
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 12:30 AM UTC
When the sun slumbered beyond the falling
horizon, a deranged mentor of those it wondered
over below. False expressions were given in tribute
to that which watched with acidic smiles of their
persecution beneath its gaze.
In its fading they were collected in truest outline.
Negatives of perceived imaginings, pigmentation
descended from form like coloured petals
turning to dust. They were the abattoirs of this
now discoloured imaginings.
Sweetened voices of lullabies were replaced by
disorientated shrills, that reverberated within
the halls, they lumbered in there contorted abodes.
Nesting into corners of despair that blossomed on
them with hues of isolation.
Feasting on warm carcasses, weeping with
trepidation at this momentary freedom they felt.
There home of tattered souls that were cleaved
from prey, no peace in death. They hang at
the windows clinging to lost hope.
Time was a nine tailed mistress that whipped them
into the binding once more. For the arising was upon
them, they were lacerated within colour once more.
All that was flaked away and became as it was.
Smiles on there faces paying tribute to that above.
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 9:56 AM UTC
Barreling through town
in the depth of night,
earth’s colossal magnets
hurled jagged fire spears -
flashing and ripping the midnight sky.
Whirling torrents whistled
and lashed against the glass.
A blinding fire bolt
Shattered an old rock maple -
quaking our shelter to its footings.
Cosmic strobe-lit concussions
stuttered and roared across the nightscape
like a feral timpanist gone mad.
The frenzied cacophony
subsided at last -
rumbled off in the distance
as the storm lumbered on
like a barbarian horde
off to sack another village.
July, 2007
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 1:35 PM UTC
Did you know that into the last glass of water that you sipped?
A dinosaur one day, may have bent down and dipped
A scaly tongue to quench his thirst
Or even lumbered in feet first
As he and his primeval pal recreated
In the prehistoric stream of this life-giving liquid
Which revives the lives today of all women and of men
For it’s the very same water now, as it was way back then.
How can it be that you and me,
Drink the same water again, that they did back then?
Well it’s no fluke or chance of creation
Take a look at this cycle for a simple explanation
The sun warms the ocean and this causes evaporation
Vapours condense into clouds, this causes precipitation
That’s rain to you and me as it falls down from the sky,
But precipitation is not the only reason why
Our streams fill and sometimes overflow,
Becoming rivers as they grow,
Liquid life in poetry of motions
Rivers turn to seas, ebb and flow into the oceans.
For the sun doesn’t just affect the seas and the ocean,
It heats the leaves of our trees and this causes transpiration
Because vapour also rises from the trees,
Clouds form and may even freeze,
In these clouds tiny droplets bounce around,
Fun for them but not for us on the ground
For when they hit each other, they stick together
And this has repercussions for our weather
What goes up must come down
And soon rain or hail will fall on every town
With storm and sleet on every street and gutters overflowing.
Rains lash, puddles splash and before long it’s snowing.
The levels rise in all our lakes,
But then thank God, the cloud breaks
The sun warms the ocean this causes evaporation
And he begins his work again to feed a thirsty nation.
We survey the Earth, water end to end
But it’s the same ole water, recycled again and again
Water, water is everywhere but less than 2% is drinkable,
Preserve, conserve and do take care, because pollution really is unthinkable.
Where to begin to save our water, is plain to see, it all begins with you and me.
Aug 17, 2011
Aug 17, 2011 at 12:02 PM UTC
I sat down after being told,
by the old hungry *****
Not to worry but there was,
a better spot then this one,
Of course,
The pedistals that sit outside,
occupational windows,
That familiar unknown feeling,
O That town they call Dinky,
There sat a confusing aura,
the pious religious freak said aura,
he talked and gave change,
yet the skull girl,
you could tell,
didn't want any of it,
The scene was joined by Tank,
His armada pockets full,
towering and proclaiming,
fits of oratory rage,
them ******** in Washington.
He saw us and scared the poor muertos,
The friends she was waiting for came and fled with them,
I lumbered after her under duress to myself,
breaking Tank's train of thought
I'm sure,
To tell her sincere,
There are normal people here,
To which her friend said after
they'd gained distance,
" You must have a target on your back or something!"
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 9:46 PM UTC
It’s not clear to see-
So, let’s finally go there,
You and me.
Now,
In this present time,
Is this finally happening?
It started as
Something imaginary…
You constantly
Aroused me with
Your intelligence.
Sapiosexual Sublime,
Suggestions and
Stimulating Conversations.
So, hidden in the
Painted Aspen trees
Imprinted on these
Sheets, only present
In Sweetly Torturing Dreams,
When you sneak up quietly,
Behind me,
And let’s just pretend
It’s innocent,
And let’s just barely
Touch,
Our bodies naked
Like lumbered pines,
Your hands warm,
Caressing my thighs,
From behind
Hidden vines
And unspoken
Notions
Needing No Words,
Just motion.
You play with my hair,
Like you said you would,
And in return I
Run my fingers
Through yours,
And just stare assured.
We combine our
Bodies and Minds.
Let’s go there
In real life.
Slow and cognizant,
Connecting underneath
A Blanket drenched
With what started
As “Hello,”
It now reverberates
Out an open window,
Disturbing the neighbors
Below.
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 10:40 PM UTC
Could I be more empty than what I am, I 'm a room
within so many buildings of what are now vacant with
vagrants of contested thoughts.
Please don't think because my rooms are empty that
there is nothing in there even though it doesn't
look desolate it is full of lingering shadows of thought.
We fill the hollow vastness of non relative meanings
with nothing but essences of what we lumbered on?
My thoughts are of empty consequences nothing less.
Can you see in the deserted realms of a once awoken
mind, now it is hollow as each room of thought became
depleted of anything but unoccupied stagnant thought.
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 5:31 PM UTC
I heard you're talking about
Splitting the fortune into two
With the silver revolver in her hand
Gasping her breath she's walking down the aisle
Burning red than fading blue
The odds of your lumbered existence fall flat
If only the armour was repossessed
By a harbinger from your mother womb
Would you realise the game ceases to exist
It's all in your mind in caught in your rigmarole of lies
Overhwhelmed by your streak of luck
You command the move to be played
If only you knew
the result already is checkmate
When the lady sitting across placed a bet
You lost it all to her and satiated yourself to her charm
But she's walking down the aisle now
Burning red than fading blue
Black and red you lost it all
You went home and pretended to be unscathed
But this time there's no way back
It's the lady coming towards you
With the biased musket at her disposal
This is not your gambling den
Here comes apocalypse
It's Russian roulette.
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 9:58 AM UTC
( Sonnet )
I once caught you naked by the sea,
No one noticed, such noble shyness,
Invited to worlds, aloof as sun breeze,
Of purple sands, heathered highness.
In novae of your eyes was shipwreck,
Forlorn beacon chiding the weary lost
Of new worlds lumbered on the decks,
Seabirds caroled up wing, heavens' loft.
Skin, fleshy of netted eel, salt and foam,
Was hide for a brigand, lubbers sessions,
Sheered by sheen, blinding sky of gloam,
Stars runged on their draped processions.
My seal, now fate, cloak within jubilance;
Coral sea wave, slips under moon dance.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 7:54 PM UTC