"marquees" poems
There's a Poet who dreams of a Gateway to Heaven
Not some cold austere Gate bolted and closed in your face
As if to say "Clear off! You're not wanted here anymore"
But instead a lovely warm welcoming Gate
A brightly colourful Gate with lots of bunting and ribbons on it
And a big banner over the top announcing
"Welcome Great Poet"
It'd be a bit...a bit like Noddy in Toyland
And there'd be all these pretty young girls with bowls in their hands
Spreading rose petals on the ground for me to walk upon
A beautiful path laid out before me, a carpet of sweet scenting loveliness
And there'd be other boys and girls there too strumming lutes and harps
Like beautiful critics... singing my praises
Inside the Gate it'd be like this wonderful Park
With lovely flowers and shrubs and trees
With marble fountains and statues and quiet flowing streams
With radiant kids and beautiful people and lovely marquees like as if you were attending some wonderful party or banquet,
And then you'd hear a bustle in the hedgerow
But it's only a bunch of publishers vying with one another
Trying to get my signature on a multi million dollar contract
Suddenly ahead of me there'd be this wonderful magnificent throne
It'd be offered to me... offered to me as my true place... my true home
And then a man would come and he'd humbly bow and kneel before me
He'd be offering something to me....
Why! It's the Nobel Prize for Literature
I'd smile and say "Ah shucks guys sure I was only doin' a few rhymes... and a few stories".
Apr 26, 2023
Apr 26, 2023 at 2:55 PM UTC
I am wading out knee deep into the evening's drinks.
I let my eyeballs take a dip as my wallet plays the breaker.
You'd think the woman had tourettes the way she tries to wink.
She flirts no better than the sisters who oft walk god's acre.
Maestro, another!
A black suit hammers ritzy tusks somewhere across the bar.
The waves upon the wires lap across my eardrum's shore.
My lonely, daydream doll is finally called off from afar.
I'm far too low and far too blitzed to enjoy another bore.
Maestro, another!
When I recall how we met, I transubstantiate my veins
with hopes to find a fertile mound to plough to rude degrees.
Too many furrows to recall, but still your name remains.
So, still I hunt for lonely moths who dance beneath marquees.
Maestro, another!
Why does every truth align with all the stars at night
only to scatter just as broken glass when morning breaks?
Every wholesome oath I swear to cherish all my life
melts with every dewdrop my lawn's unkept blades shake.
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 3:05 AM UTC
I'm a tool pondering skyscapes.
Fondling a memory
Left behind
On sunset marquees.
It raced into the horizon like
A toad on the road.
A neon dream waving farewell.
Exploring mindsets:
An act in caressing
Bloodbath tesseracts.
A roundhouse rollercoaster,
Spinning at velocity of perfume
Hitting nasal perforations.
Core memories surface along spine cutlets,
No longer intrinsic
Doubt.
I'm settling for more.
Time is a moment
Too long to endure.
Hindsight is
A parson's lake passage;
A mad monster yet to be tamed;
A grain of salt to a fresh wound made;
Moments of grace from a fake great ape.
Blue morons slide
Into Mormon jovial footsteps.
Derided ice forestry into
King's cloaked ancestry.
A sad fisherman sailing
Ceaselessly out to sea.
And yet here I am
Talking to you,
Eyelight through obelisks
In hotbox barricades.
Hiding behind
A past of newspapers.
Headline reads 'ONLY DEVINE'
'TRADE REIGN WARNS JEWELS'
'PRINCE THREATENS ECONOMY
... AND CROWN.'
Wipe the frown,
Draw the sword.
Don't be ignored anymore.
Aug 22, 2017
Aug 22, 2017 at 5:17 PM UTC
You and Judith
sang in the choir
at the Major’s
daughter’s wedding
and after
you walked along
to the house and gardens
where the reception
was being held
where there were marquees
for food of various kinds
and a huge beer tent
where there was champagne
and beer and wine
and soft drinks and lemonade
and she said
I will never have
a wedding like this
and she glanced around
at the marquees
and the people
in their fine clothes
and large hats
and waitresses walking
with trays of drink
maybe not
you said
taking two glasses
of champagne
from the tray
of a passing waitress
not with the money
my dad gets
from farm work
she added
taking the glass
you offered her
and sipping
and you watched her lips
and how they worked
the crystal glass
and her fingers
holding the stem
as if it were a gold gem
worth more
than her father earned
in a lifetime
but I can always pretend
she said
and placed her arm
under yours
and walked you forward
over the grass
we can always pretend
it’s our wedding day
and these are our guests
and over the way
in the entrance
of one of the marquees
Hill stood with his
schoolgirl girlfriend Shirley
both supping the bubbly
him in his Sunday best
and she in a pink
and white dress
and her blonde hair
and stockings
and white shoes
and you said
would we invite Hill
and his girlfriend
or Tidy and his thick
caterpillar eyebrows?
she looked over at Hill
and pretty Shirley
and said
we have to be generous
when in love
and it’s our wedding day
and she lay her head
on your shoulder
and you watched
the bride and groom
over by the main marquee
kissing and embracing
and the people
around them
were cheering
and as you both
moved on
she said
where shall we go
for our honeymoon?
the south of France
you said
somewhere warm
and glancing at the sky
it carried a promise
of a coming storm.
Aug 7, 2012
Aug 7, 2012 at 2:05 PM UTC
Pay phone change
48 hour flights
waiting up to hear your voice
monastery bells tolling at dusk
words that are crisp upon the air
war stories told many times over
the blur of life on the other side of the window
my cold hands
kohl rimmed eyes
light through blue stained glass
lazy lovers
nostalgic chord progressions
that dress that you never wore
watery footprints on the pavement
the abandoned shoes on the telephone wire
the marquees we'll never remember
rose-tipped clouds
the way he looked at her, as if it were the first time
silhouetted palm trees
and thoughts
too small to be voiced
May 1, 2011
May 1, 2011 at 7:27 PM UTC
I didn't know
you would be here,
Tilly's mother said,
when she came in
and saw us sitting
on the sofa together.
She stared at Tilly
more than me.
Benny just popped in
to see me as it's
my half day off work
and we've had a chat,
Tilly said.
Her mother stared at me;
have you offered
Benny a drink?
She said.
No not yet,
Tilly said.
Well get him one then;
I don't suppose
he will want to hang
around all day
waiting for a drink.
Tilly got up,
and went to the kitchen.
I was left alone
with her mother,
who sat down
in her armchair
still looking at me.
Is it your
afternoon off too?
She said.
No I work in two shifts;
I go back to work
about 5pm,
I said.
She looked at the clock
on the mantle-shelf
which showed 3.25pm.
She nodded her head,
and looked around the room
as if looking for signs
we may have been
up to something(trusting soul).
It is not any young man
I would have here with Tilly,
you know,
I know your mother
has brought you up
to honour and respect girls,
so I am trusting in your case,
she said,
looking back
at me again.
I was thinking about Tilly
and me up in her room
about half hour previously
lying next to each other
after having had ***
a couple of times.
That is nice to know,
I said,
that you trust me.
She stared stiffly;
her eyes narrowing.
It is important that girls
appreciate their virginity,
she said.
I listened out for Tilly;
that she'd come back soon,
and wouldn't put
her foot in it
as she nearly did
the other time
I came around,
and her mother
interrogated me.
What are your prospects
where you work?
She asked.
Prospects?
I said.
What are the future developments
at your place of employment?
She said.
Upward and *****
I said.
She stared at me.
I *****
and pull down marquees,
I said smiling.
She did not smile back:
and the future?
What are your prospects?
I have no idea,
I said.
She sat forward,
and looked towards
the kitchen:
where has that girl gone?
Visiting India
to buy it?
She said.
I smiled;
she didn't.
After a few minutes,
Tilly entered
with a tray of cups
and saucers for three,
and set it down
on a small coffee table
in the center of the room,
and stood up smiling.
Done it,
she said.
You took your time,
her mother said,
where you been, India?
Tilly stopped smiling,
and sat next to me.
What have you two
been doing this afternoon?
her mother asked.
Talking about our school days,
Tilly said.
Is that all?
Her mother said.
Well we did talk
about other things too,
she said.
I mean other
than talking,
her mother said.
Benny kissed me once,
Tilly lied.
Her mother eyed me:
is that all?
Well maybe twice,
I said.
Her mother selected
a cup and saucer
and sipped from the cup,
and stared at Tilly
and not me.
Virginity is highly prized
in our family,
her mother said,
not until marriage
is it to be relinquished,
her mother said.
I nodded,
and Tilly
went red.
Jun 26, 2016
Jun 26, 2016 at 2:32 AM UTC
I had forgotten
the brilliance
of the country night,
it's firmament crystal bright,
given all those years
blinded by the city lights,
the screen crawling marquees,
the undulating neon,
the flashing photon peep parades,
the incessant gyre of emergency beacons,
the try too hard candle dinners,
better a distant star
that reminds us who we are
than the sun unmoved
in one's back yard.
Feb 12, 2011
Feb 12, 2011 at 11:28 PM UTC
She looked at me through the bottom of a glass
Crystal eyes and wet strawberry lips
I looked at her through the bottom of the bottle
Seashell dimples and wild dandelion hair
A scarlet chest in exchange for a day in her sands
Swing set smiles
Between blistering footsteps
And icy ocean kisses
Undressed and drowning at the bottom of her bed
Feeling like **** feeling ******* high
Serpentine limbs beg me
“Stay”
Our own little mattress comedy
Cast across the plaster in pale light
They’re all so ******* domestic
She kicks the chair from under me
Abrupt masochistic compulsions
Baptized in her holy see
Smoldering marquees and lascivious repartee
Let’s drink every drop of this satanic chablis
Until the bottle’s empty
Until we’re back at the bottom
And you look for me
And I look for you
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 10:10 AM UTC
Don't pray for me, in the back seats of interchangeable cars streaking interchangeable nights from here to the edge of manifest destiny, daydreams of sleeping cities on waking seas, whiskey shots in the crowded western fog, chain smoking deaths of mindfulness, of where it starts and where it ends, of friends pledging reverence to Halle Sellasie in wire framed lenses fogged by the afterthoughts of a failed drug test, by the curves of highways beckoning the sick to leave it all behind forever, while all the freaks in the freak kingdom watch Thompson's wave crash against the pier, waiting for the resurgence, the return of the feeling that shook the streets and forced the living to live, and the streets responded, hushed under the shadow of the marquees: This cannot happen on its own. The fight is not yet over and it never will be. Do not lay your arms to rest until they bury you in the rain. Embrace your human war. Leave your house. Make them hear you
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 1:41 AM UTC
The whir of the engine
In the dark night
Marquees blur as the car drives by
Night lights flash and fade
High on music
Lights and sound
Feeling alone in a crowded room
Bodies all around
Alive and loud but without a sound
Booming beats
Spreading numb
Becoming someone I shouldn't become
Unraveling in revelry
The threads are undone
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 8:52 AM UTC
This is where I work,
I told Tilly.
She followed me
around the place.
It was a Saturday;
the place was almost empty.
I had come to clear up
a few things from the day before.
You make marquees?
She said.
The women do,
I just help,
then go out helping
to put up marquees
all over the place,
I said.
Where abouts
have you been?
All over the place;
did a racing stables
the other week,
some big wedding,
I said.
Not our wedding,
then Benny?
No not ours,
I said.
Shame,
she said.
I her showed
the area
we kept
the canvas and ropes.
Soft here to lie on,
she said,
touching a piles
of canvas sheets.
Guess so,
I said.
Anyone about?
She said.
A few not many,
I said.
Would they look for you
if you were
missing awhile?
Who knows?
I said.
I'd take you home,
but Mum's there today,
and she'd only give
another inquest into
what we may have done
the other week,
Tilly said.
I opened the door
and peered out
the passage way;
all was clear,
no one about,
I said.
She lay down,
and I lay beside her.
We kissed and hugged,
and I touched her thigh,
and she began
to unbutton my jeans.
Benny, Benny,
are you around?
a voice said
from down the passage.
I jumped up,
and she tidied
herself up,
and I got up,
and opened the door.
Yes, you wanted me?
I said along the passage.
The manager stood
in the doorway.
Do you know what
we did with the order book?
I think I saw Joe
put it in the green file,
I said.
Where'd he put it after that?
The manager said.
God knows,
I said,
maybe it's in the workshop.
I'll look there,
he said,
and walked off.
I went back to Tilly
who was now standing
in the room
against the door.
Has he gone?
she said.
Yes he was looking
for the order book.
I best go,
she said.
Ok,
I said,
and showed her
the back way out,
and she kissed me,
and walked off.
See you later,
I said.
She nodded
and I went in.
Almost made it,
but no big sin.
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 1:26 AM UTC
Take me to a miracle
I asked of "no one in particular."
Give me a philharmonic in the sky
And a blazing talking bush.
Let me see a virgin’s ghost
and a lame man dance a jig.
I’d like to catch the show just once
before I flee this vale of fears!
Then no one in particular chided me
called me “vanity’s clown.”
Still, I tried to call him out
in the realm where words are born.
I thought that if I could crack the code of
how a vision breaks the void.
or how a proud and callous tongue
can raise a sanguine humor
or how a toddler breaks the silence
with his first astounding word,
then I'd topple “no one in particular”
from his lofty station!
But alas I failed to own the source
of a solitary thought or word
or what it means to care or conjure
or why I came to seek a miracle.
A hidden voice from nowhere in particular
gently slaked my feeble pride,
“Surrender to each dawn and dusk;
they're all the miracles you need.”
December, 2007
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 11:36 PM UTC
'
*squashed cabbage leaves,
crushed petals, broken stems
strewn along grey slush
wind whisks cobbled street,
gravel crunches under
hooves and booted feet
rain-drooped marquees
whisper freshest gossip;
clock tower tolls on the hour*
__________✒
○●
°
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 4:31 PM UTC
Next week royalty is coming to our Island
just up the road a stones throw to the military cemetery
men and lorry loads of seating and marquees
have trundled past the window these past weeks.
Everyone received an invitation I am told
I must have slung it in the bin
with all the other bin stuff that comes through the letterbox.
The royals will arrive by way of helicopter
everyone else will have to catch the ferry, make of that what you will.
It will be broadcast on BBC television on Tuesday, if I have got it right.
Of course the intrigue will get to me too much for me not to tune in.
Its all to do with the Battle Of Jutland, or more correctly all those that lost their lives there. I wonder what all those young men were thinking when they realised that they were about to die.
May 28, 2016
May 28, 2016 at 7:40 AM UTC