"matrons" poems
Sitting on my bed
Gazing out at the view
Laptop in lap
I wonder
Being of mixed race
The truth of my origins
The blood coursing through my veins
Goffle they would say
But iv always believed a man's skin colour doesn't define who he is
Kwabulawayo
A place where he is being killed
Home of the Ndebele
My hometown
Built on the ruins of a Royal town
uMzilikazi ,Leander Starr Jameson ,Lobengula ,Cecil john rhodes
Men of courage
Black and white
Fought struggles
Years before my birth
Mater Dei Hospital
My journeys beginning
My grandfathers end.
Joy and pain
My hearts memories
From Primary
Whitestone
Green fields
Where i spent my childhood
Life's little joys
Clay-yaki
In the rain
Barefoot.
Speargrass
How it stung
Running through the grass
Taller than i was
Forts
Built with shoelaces
Marbles
Fights in the sand
Afternoons spent picking mullberyys
The girls dormitory
Offbounds.
Matrons
Got me the cain
Thursday Nights
Prefects Priveleges
Sports
Cross country
The houses of Tuli, Shangani, Shashe
lifelong friends made
A place frozen in memory
Home of the best years of my life
Tears streaming down
Every Sunday evening
The way back
A boarders sentiment
Lasting 5min till reunited with friends
Tuck shared
Eskimo Hut
The Green Mamba Or Pink Panther
The food hall
Quiet
Till dessert came
Mr Haworth
Everyday
"The queen would be disgusted if she saw u eating"
The tide of his time
Wandering around my childhood
I bumped unintentionally into
Maturity
Starless nights
First kisses
A little bit older i was
Aug 21, 2010
Aug 21, 2010 at 8:34 AM UTC
Moving amidst my Ramona chapter books,
I make out your movement, M, the moody turns
Of your mounts and valleys, the moniker of
Family names, you marked me like a maternal
Emblem of the generation’s matriarch,
You mingled amid reminiscences of former matrons
Maria Helena from the Midwest,
Who crossed the mountains in a wagon,
Madeleine, a migrant from Marseilles,
Who baked warm loaves in San Francisco,
And her own daughter, my Mimi,
Who muttered merde while she drank martinis.
In my own time, you materialized in
Marjorie, my nana, and Maria, my mom,
The women in which I knew you growing up,
Then Molly, who made dreams out of
Magic and Movies and Marie Antoinette,
You embellished my most favorite things.
In my monogram, you aimed my impulses
in your masts’ diametric directions
Towards competence, towards imagination.
In your middle ‘s mysterious compartment I make snug
With magazines and novels and mugs of hot milk.
You nuzzled me in moments of melancholy, then motivated me
To meander among your fundamental family,
The sumptuous L of melt and mélange,
The meticulous N of man or monk or money.
Even W, which matches your mien in mirror
It warped wicked witch while you
Milled maidens and damsels, so I imagined
The mutilation of those two majuscules formed
My image of womanhood. M, Molly Smithson materialized
From a meek mademoiselle into the mistress of mischief.
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 10:09 AM UTC
How many paltry foolish painted things,
That now in coaches trouble every street,
Shall be forgotten, whom no poet sings,
Ere they be well wrapped in their winding-sheet!
Where I to thee eternity shall give,
When nothing else remaineth of these days,
And queens hereafter shall be glad to live
Upon the alms of thy superfluous praise.
Virgins and matrons, reading these my rhymes,
Shall be so much delighted with thy story
That they shall grieve they lived not in these times,
To have seen thee, their sex's only glory:
So shalt thou fly above the ****** throng,
Still to survive in my immortal song.
4k
Purifying bath Katmandu Nepal
Yes come to these purifying waters join these ladies it will not perform the greater spiritual cleansing
But it provides a picture of glory with her lying on her back she is just slightly submerged in this grey
Clear water her face is beaming her shoulders are bare her hair flows around her neck on one side one
Arm is freely laid over her chest the other extends upward as a friend holds her by the wrist we all know
The bliss that water enriches us with her brown skin is truly purified and her personnel glory again
Beams with such peace soon the elements will converge to change her thoughts and feelings but they
Will not touch the conciseness that was altered in the river Baghmati during Reshi Panchmi a purifying
And Atonement day for women they bare extra burdens in foreign lands how great to see them
Experience such joy countless burdens are washed away at least momentarily water the friend and
Blessed comfort to matrons it provides one of the most picture perfect sights of a soul in repose you lie
Without care a dear friend holds you by the wrist they bottled water if only they could capture this
Special reality and provide it on demand there is nothing stopping anyone from acting this out it would
Change your day your whole perspective it would truly reenergize body and soul I thought I would just
Share a place in time a rite that provides concepts that ever so briefly will take you out of time fill you
With rapture make you devoid of care allow you to play in the courts of the extravagantly rich with out
Price or responsibility they say nothing is free it doesn’t get any more free or freeing than this I guess it
Cost nature the clouds way up in the Himalayas release the moist weight it falls as abundant rain the
River swells and flows gravity pulls it down to the lower valley and when you enter you luxuriate in
Water’s gift tell the tale Katmandu alone is renown but it has even greater layers of reward than the
normal expectations hope you enjoyed a refreshing
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 6:41 PM UTC
Purifying bath Katmandu Nepal
Yes come to these purifying waters join these ladies it will not perform the greater spiritual cleansing
But it provides a picture of glory with her lying on her back she is just slightly submerged in this grey
Clear water her face is beaming her shoulders are bare her hair flows around her neck on one side one
Arm is freely laid over her chest the other extends upward as a friend holds her by the wrist we all know
The bliss that water enriches us with her brown skin is truly purified and her personnel glory again
Beams with such peace soon the elements will converge to change her thoughts and feelings but they
Will not touch the conciseness that was altered in the river Baghmati during Reshi Panchmi a purifying
And Atonement day for women they bare extra burdens in foreign lands how great to see them
Experience such joy countless burdens are washed away at least momentarily water the friend and
Blessed comfort to matrons it provides one of the most picture perfect sights of a soul in repose you lie
Without care a dear friend holds you by the wrist they bottled water if only they could capture this
Special reality and provide it on demand there is nothing stopping anyone from acting this out it would
Change your day your whole perspective it would truly reenergize body and soul I thought I would just
Share a place in time a rite that provides concepts that ever so briefly will take you out of time fill you
With rapture make you devoid of care allow you to play in the courts of the extravagantly rich with out
Price or responsibility they say nothing is free it doesn’t get any more free or freeing than this I guess it
Cost nature the clouds way up in the Himalayas release the moist weight it falls as abundant rain the
River swells and flows gravity pulls it down to the lower valley and when you enter you luxuriate in
Water’s gift tell the tale Katmandu alone is renown but it has even greater layers of reward than the
normal expectations hope you enjoyed a refreshing
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 6:41 PM UTC
Dear BECHER, you tell me to mix with mankind;
I cannot deny such a precept is wise;
But retirement accords with the tone of my mind:
I will not descend to a world I despise.
Did the Senate or Camp my exertions require,
Ambition might prompt me, at once, to go forth;
When Infancy’s years of probation expire,
Perchance, I may strive to distinguish my birth.
The fire, in the cavern of Etna, conceal’d,
Still mantles unseen in its secret recess;
At length, in a volume terrific, reveal’d,
No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress.
Oh! thus, the desire, in my ***** for fame
Bids me live, but to hope for Posterity’s praise.
Could I soar with the Phoenix on pinions of flame,
With him I would wish to expire in the blaze.
For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death,
What censure, what danger, what woe would I brave!
Their lives did not end, when they yielded their breath,
Their glory illumines the gloom of their grave.
Yet why should I mingle in Fashion’s full herd?
Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her rules?
Why bend to the proud, or applaud the absurd?
Why search for delight, in the friendship of fools?
I have tasted the sweets, and the bitters, of love,
In friendship I early was taught to believe;
My passion the matrons of prudence reprove,
I have found that a friend may profess, yet deceive.
To me what is wealth?—it may pass in an hour,
If Tyrants prevail, or if Fortune should frown:
To me what is title?—the phantom of power;
To me what is fashion?—I seek but renown.
Deceit is a stranger, as yet, to my soul;
I, still, am unpractised to varnish the truth:
Then, why should I live in a hateful controul?
Why waste, upon folly, the days of my youth?
2.3k
Marching, hopping, running, waddling
down the street, people with working feet
oblivious to the stares of the woman
in a chair.
Why would they see her?
She's not even their height!
They are just people plodding and
plotting, lives rotting slowly away.
But, back to the woman in the chair
Snooping on the crowd
Watching the mothers tug at toddlers reins.
Rowing teens shouting "bruv" a lot!
She's mocking the crowd in her own way
She has become them, just invisible.
She likes it like that, knowing of you
Yet them not knowing of her.
Her awareness is acute, sees the businessman
in his suit. The homeless man in his home
called box, the elderly matrons
moaning about bingo.
The drunk with his bottle clutched as tight
as the baby clutches her bear.
The smokers all congregated at the altar of tar
The shopkeeper eyeing the kids, missing the thief
The security guard, guarding the pretty
Little things, no, not the jewellery the
teenage girls! Oh, his eyes are popping!
His legs are twitching. His fingers itching to touch!
Along with the sights are the sounds,
shouting, laughing, heckling and coughing
Smell,also plays a part in people watching
fast food, sweat, the great unwashed.
All plodding along, flocking like birds
clogging the street, swapping gossip,
unaware as always of the
young woman in a wheelchair.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 5:02 PM UTC
O how I loathe him, hideous man-child
Bounding down the steep stairs of our house
Barging through that shambles of a door,
and leaving it open, the brute
Clattering about the kitchen, cramped and yellow
Rustling sweet wrappers as he raids the cupboards
O fat disfigured son of mine
I pray you leave this house for I love you no more
The odour of a dying rat, the face of stoicism and sadness
Leave, O leave disgusting boy, I love thee no longer
My patience is tried, your mannerisms crude and vile
Leave this domicile at once, for it is no longer a home
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 6:20 PM UTC
Old Italian Ladies walk around in long black dresses
A handkerchief tucked up one sleeve for blowing little noses
They are soft and round, with flappy forearms
And give greasy lipstick kisses as they clutch you to their chests
Old Italian Ladies smell like olive oil and flour
And they give out oozy chocolates with red cherry sauce inside
Their enormous laps are like lumpy old recliners
They sing songs about amore' as they rock you off to sleep
Old Italian Ladies let you go down to the basement
Where the air is cool and shelves are lined with jars of pickled green beans
And wide mouthed bottles bursting with clumpy red tomatoes
They use creaky wooden step stools when they need to reach up high
Old Italian Ladies pierce your ears with just a needle
A bar of soap, a lump of ice
A loop of string to make the earring
And a tiny glass of anisette for the tears after the sting
Old Italian Ladies were the matrons of my childhood
Intoning rosaries, invoking saints
Making garlic studded meatballs
Dispensing love as freely as hard candy from their purses.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 3:22 PM UTC
Dolly Parton: bright as waters
cleft before the Israelites
may your matrons, sons, and daughters,
bluegrass saints and satellites
crown our country, brim our fountains
long as your lyrical honor reaches
from the Appalachian mountains
to that land the Bible preaches.
Hear our thanks for all your singing
all the years of Faith and Glory
lifting up the Lord – then stinging
like a psalm (imprecatory).
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 8:53 PM UTC
If Rex Ryan got the nod
and was cast as Cindy’s prince.
The play would run much longer
than it had before or since.
When the royal decree went out
To the maidens of the land
To display their pedicures
Rex would be close at hand.
He would visit every maiden
and some hottie matrons too.
Caressing Paula’s bunions
And sniffing Jennie’s shoe..
And when he got to Cindy’s shack,
He’d take her feet in hand
And ease the pain she suffered
last night dancing with a ham.
“You have such pretty little feet,
I really hope its you.
Alas, I have no way to check,
as I forgot the shoe.”
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 9:18 AM UTC
Oh! had my Fate been join’d with thine,
As once this pledge appear’d a token,
These follies had not, then, been mine,
For, then, my peace had not been broken.
To thee, these early faults I owe,
To thee, the wise and old reproving:
They know my sins, but do not know
’Twas thine to break the bonds of loving.
For once my soul, like thine, was pure,
And all its rising fires could smother;
But, now, thy vows no more endure,
Bestow’d by thee upon another.
Perhaps, his peace I could destroy,
And spoil the blisses that await him;
Yet let my Rival smile in joy,
For thy dear sake, I cannot hate him.
Ah! since thy angel form is gone,
My heart no more can rest with any;
But what it sought in thee alone,
Attempts, alas! to find in many.
Then, fare thee well, deceitful Maid!
’Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee;
Nor Hope, nor Memory yield their aid,
But Pride may teach me to forget thee.
Yet all this giddy waste of years,
This tiresome round of palling pleasures;
These varied loves, these matrons’ fears,
These thoughtless strains to Passion’s measures—
If thou wert mine, had all been hush’d:—
This cheek, now pale from early riot,
With Passion’s hectic ne’er had flush’d,
But bloom’d in calm domestic quiet.
Yes, once the rural Scene was sweet,
For Nature seem’d to smile before thee;
And once my Breast abhorr’d deceit,—
For then it beat but to adore thee.
But, now, I seek for other joys—
To think, would drive my soul to madness;
In thoughtless throngs, and empty noise,
I conquer half my Bosom’s sadness.
Yet, even in these, a thought will steal,
In spite of every vain endeavour;
And fiends might pity what I feel—
To know that thou art lost for ever.
1.2k
Blue rinse and set
home done.
Meant the colour changed every time,
from shades of pale lilac...
to electric neon light.
Always wave set never permed.
Hair too fine.
She was what they,
termed politely,
in those days:
"a large ***** woman."
Corseted nine to five,
in matrons whites.
Jiggly in a flambouyant orange muu muu by night.
A spinster, devoted to work and extended family,
large of heart and appetite.
A soft place to fall,
when the stonelike,
stoicism of my mother, became to harsh to bear.
I was flummoxed,
when in my teens,
I found a dog eared,
Kama Sutra,
in my blue haired aunts cupboard.
I can honestly say....
I learnt a lot... about a lot ...that day.
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 4:59 AM UTC
The dream is one of life’s great ironies
A word overfilled with the vaguest hopes
A word impalpable, of fantasies
And yet, the tangible within its scope
When nightmares leave us restless and afraid
Mother soothes her child with “it’s just a dream”
But when bold men dreamt of what they then made
Matrons held those thoughts with profound esteem
Each is urged to trace whimsy’s beaconed path
For boys and girls can be all they desire
Heed not reality, nor aftermath
Set reverie, each night, newly afire
I found this same paradox to apply
When I dreamt of you, my deluging love
Saw heaven in the depths of your brown eyes
But sleep’s hellish guile pained my heart thereof
You smiled at me and walked amid soft light
Under a glowing willow tree, we met
For hours, as friends who were once lovers might
We merged with warm embrace our silhouettes
I cried for joy to hold what seemed so real
Lost in you, I forgot of earthly time
And to have foregone breath might bear appeal
For, in that false world, you were truly mine
This sweet conceit is such a cruel scheme
For, when I wake, it’s always just a dream
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 5:39 PM UTC
And what's worse
cursed
with something of a conscience
that despite being disrespected
and
***** will not let me leave.
Vulnerability
pressed
to the face of death with a smile
stretched ear to ear bowed
down
under the weight of fear.
Courageousness breaks
heavy pain. I use it against you.
Prostrate to the matrons
I begged for your courage for me.
Surprise
Surprise
Even when you hurt your loved ones
You focus on yourself
Surprise
Surprise
Even when you hurt someone you love
You protect yourself
You double down
in the name of pride.
Newsflash:
Your children are smart enough
to purposefully see
that they never procreate
if only for the world
to both act Atropos
on this overgrown
carcinogen
to humanity
and slash the path
of another hillbilly bloodline
Jun 1, 2018
Jun 1, 2018 at 3:34 PM UTC
The extensions Old French songs from the Latin
( "lying and played Corruption") and "incredulous"
( "If you do not err, the defense is ") (UK) IPA (key)
/ dɪpờeɪv / ****** - SAP so (This is the third part
of it is just easier; coordinate partners past) (Transitive)
network (only) thing; worse and worse; the rules
of the disease related to the need contest.
Excessive ends (difference by different), which
generally straight away. (Enterprises) or soccer
or a mistake or ***** *** "Higher bodies,
Nothing changed. Pervy won (not less) compacted
job responsibilities normophilic (Eventually make +)
false measure the past, the past can easily be finished
by the pasties; The angel of the club, the prophet,
It is my filthy ******* perfectly being known, Magic
for political change; You cut declamatory sleep;
In the garden of the withdrawal; From the beginning
to the end strippers in Latin when the matrons
of the land of guns, lights, turned around, and dancing
staying in the machine language of the soul's natural
sea and culture of prostitutes, the powers he wrote
than that of the married woman who gave birth
to the number led to the buried ***** by the cops;
it is the same scent as Einstein's eyes to Peace |
to understand the feeling began to brush your
it is yet moved by means of: a canticle to the Muses,
Maecenas, and on the beach the public corn;
the talk of the nature of the wall, burning with
Life be certain, fell watching the makeup overcome
calling in vain to hide and wait for the kill, teeth living
in the town of the Chinese and the shadows flee away
and many of the stupid are gathered and the dragon
in yellow is driven a broken mistress; the tube was
removed from her six **** & in glory they are almost
the conversion into flame bright, warm clothes loved
learning subject to the original knee and foot like a fur
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 4:29 AM UTC
A rude dawn over the city
Where Pepys once fought with his beautiful wife
After seducing whatever servant-girl chanced
To be around, where kings
First ruled from cold castles full of cockroaches,
Murderous cousins
Lurking through the baleful halls of history
Eyeing the empty throne. The stinking
River long shorn of fish sweeps elegantly before
The crimson petticoats of multiple ******
Promenading along Thames Street,
Winking at under-washed gallants.
Vauxhall gardens a pithy cavalcade of priests and doxies,
Of flower girls, flaxen haired girls selling fruit,
Anxious to reach home before the ****** hour of early
Evening when beaus gather in alley ways establishing
A testosterone gauntlet in the dust-spawned gloom.
The road to Tyburn is littered with lost hopes!
On hanging day bodies swung like debutantes dancing
To jazz tunes-
Aristocrats quartered with precision squealed like common folk,
Bleeding as much. The city watched all this
And didn’t murmur-never complained-
Smiled, as only a city can smile, at gin-drunk matrons, pie eating aldermen
And the ****** activity in street shadows by relieved young women on
VE day 1945.
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 6:04 PM UTC
the swan's head fell in a collapsing tangent.
the swan couldn't keep it held, couldn't bear stick the feathers nobody believed to weigh a tonne of bricks.
the swan cared all too much, couldn't blend reality with the song of bliss the crows hissed of.
the swan mustered to persevere,
blazing nature's matrons music ear to ear
the swan saw leaves fall as autumn made it's seasonal call,
would you ever guess - the swan blamed only itself.
for the earthly demise wields a beautiful disguise.
the swan named fallacy would never see,
for fall's weight fell into every atom in it's tragedy.
the swan felt death in layers of travesty each sacred hour,
the swan revered the crows and deer, the sea's flows and freer galaxies,
condemned to the fragile atonement of mortality's unutterable catastrophe.
Jul 7, 2025
Jul 7, 2025 at 10:09 PM UTC
Dumpy semi-feminine somethings,
ambling rotund wrecks of time –
wraiths of increased girth and grayness;
womanhood unsublime…
Where the dignity in aging ?
Where a minimal decorum?
Could you not yet bear some vestige
presentable in public forum?
All I see are jowly short-hairs:
Dressed to dullness, clipped-face mean.
Form subsumed by frumpy function;
drab routine.
Surely God has taken vengeance
stealing thus your womanhood.
Is this sloth? Or liberation
…misunderstood.
Other cultures guard some glory,
seem to age with more élan:
picture nomads, desert queens
of Mythistan.
Chiseled faces, sculpted hard
by time and faith and fate and God
lines unsoftened by abundance
I applaud.
The Godless West lays waste to glory.
Is our ease of life to blame?
Casual geriatric matrons
bring us shame.
Is it North American only?
Is this just genetic traits?
All such mortal non-description
insults the fates.
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 9:32 PM UTC
Dress them fabulous!
Line their eyes black, dramatic;
Teach the young mermaids to walk in cigarettes
with eyes of starved predators (like they are)
unflinching at the flashes as they sashay
To let ***** sons imagine what’s under the bespoke.
Make their tresses wet for greater effects
Let my mermaids walk with pearl-choked necks!
Cut off the ducklings! Matrons like swans
--nymphs that glide on runway as if on ice
Have the witches lust for the sea green dress
Even if it makes them look like fat caterpillars
Make them forget that they’re no longer young
And that these girls are the newest brand of beautiful.
For the sequin-scales, have the crones battle with cheques.
Let my mermaids walk with pearl-choked necks!
Jun 25, 2017
Jun 25, 2017 at 10:03 AM UTC
She’d gone on her own to the party,
But sadly, for she was alone,
Her partner had left her in limbo,
Had not even said he was going.
A month had gone by, with never a word
And nothing to say why he’d gone,
She looked in the mirror for why she was spurned
But life, as it does, carries on.
Nothing had changed in her that she could see,
She still had her beautiful hair,
Her lips were as full as they ever could be,
Her eyes had that hypnotic stare.
Her figure was slim, and as firm as it was
When her partner decided to leave,
If there was a problem, it had to be him,
Which left her no reason to grieve.
The party she went to was stranger than strange,
With Bogans, Goth make-up and Greens,
She guessed that their ages for most of them ranged
From middle-aged matrons to teens.
A pair of Goth sisters were eyeing her off
And flattering her, to deceive,
‘My, there is a beauty, the best of the lot,
I’d fit her, I think, with a squeeze.’
They twittered and tittered between them, the two,
Whose beauty had long gone to seed,
Whatever they’d had, it was plain that it flew
When excess took over from need.
They fed her with drinks and exotic confects
That she hardly liked to refuse,
Her hold on the present was slight, I reflect,
Her sadness was yesterday’s news.
The ugliest sister, whose name was July,
Rolled in like a mist to her brain,
The cunning of eyes and a whispered surprise
Made her think she was going insane.
She felt herself ebbing, and losing control
As July held her hands in her own,
And then somehow gelling with tissues and cells in
Some fatness that she’d never known.
She watched through a mist as the girl she had been
Laughed loudly, and then turned away,
Embracing the sister, that other unclean,
‘We’ll get you one, some other day!’
Her body felt loose, like an oversize suit
And her lips could but slobber and cry,
‘What have they done to my beautiful youth,’
As she turned to a mirror, to cry.
David Lewis Paget
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 11:24 PM UTC
The day is hallowed
A fresco croft of Sunday shire
made Gabriel in stallion- manes,
Decanted into bottled ships
of scalloped Wedgewood
promises.
Trees
slope away in careful rows,
Well- fed matrons
fountain pruned
wear puff-ball cheeks
of flouncing gourd
that curtsey in bewildered
corns of desiccated flora
,
flawed by scorn of August forays
left as unkempt graves
.
Much more than these
stand poplars, ordered
keepers on their plated watch in
ruffled smocks of coppered
lime to tame the knee- worn
names of climate ,buckled
down the yarrowed lanes.
This day retains
its hallowed mien
as I pass through
these borrowed years
Oct 15, 2017
Oct 15, 2017 at 2:45 PM UTC
I never saw the woman who talked the hind legs off a donkey
but I've met a chatterbox or two who lived in Crewe,
not in a box.
Nor have I heard a banshee howl
a tiger growl
but once I saw a matron scowl
before they did away with matrons.
Open to suggestions
and you thought my mind
was closed,
well
it's closed from one 'til three
for a spot of tiffin and some tea.
Life's all about the japery
the capers and the
shapes I see,
colours too.
Feb 24, 2017
Feb 24, 2017 at 4:05 PM UTC