"maurice" poems
"Farewell to barn and stack and tree,
Farewell to Severn shore.
Terence, look your last at me,
For I come home no more.
"The sun burns on the half-mown hill,
By now the blood is dried;
And Maurice amongst the hay lies still
And my knife is in his side.
"My mother thinks us long away;
'Tis time the field were mown.
She had two sons at rising day,
To-night she'll be alone.
"And here's a ****** hand to shake,
And oh, man, here's good-bye;
We'll sweat no more on scythe and rake,
My ****** hands and I.
"I wish you strength to bring you pride,
And a love to keep you clean,
And I wish you luck, come Lammastide,
At racing on the green.
"Long for me the rick will wait,
And long will wait the fold,
And long will stand the empty plate,
And dinner will be cold."
3k
Hypnotizing Swirl
The last time I saw you, my mind was an intensified and frigid blast from the polarized north.
I held onto your body and our breath emitted a spiritual corona which enveloped us in love.
We dwelled within a single abode intertwining our illuminated vessels.
Within this shrine resides the sacred enamorment that placed me in a trance…
-A hypnotizing swirl.-
Spirited away, in this moment, I moon the time away awaiting the evolution, the bloom, the metamorphosis, the efflorescence of your quintessence.
Like a delicate orchid of the brightest evergreen stem.
An exuberant and illustrious flower, a symbol of our love, it has intertwined our beings with the seeds of rejuvenation sown into our souls.
Today when I see you, like a broken record in my mind, I am detached.
I am a juggernaut, a sentinel who guards sanity within the confines of an indomitable fortress.
My dream has been nurtured in a pink dreamer’s chest; my treasure is a myriad of aromatic petals sealed away.
Upon this parcel, the benediction of amor has been bestowed.
Moonbeams and iridescent butterflies dwindle upon its rosy and stout exterior.
The Universe’s tears glimmer upon the castle walls housing my fantasy, my tenuous and ethereal hope bound to break at any moment.
-An epiphany can change things you know.-
“How do I know that my beseeching cries shall reach the Transcendental in the Realm of the Tenuous and Divine?”
-Only faith and virtue can allow me to reach the pinnacle of my desires-
To a Shattered and Reassembled Dream.
By, Sanders Maurice Foulke III
Apr 7, 2012
Apr 7, 2012 at 9:03 PM UTC
My green fingered great uncle Maurice
ran away with a stripper called Doris
she takes off her clothes
wherever she goes
and she's got ***** hair like a forest.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 7:11 AM UTC
You had two pet rabbits, one named Mickey the other Maurice,
who lived on lettuce bits and behind thin metal bars.
A caged environment set up on the study's wood floors,
with books and a red couch to keep company
and your mom, because she would finish her graphs and stats
on the mahogany desk living in the corner of the room
and she liked the rabbits purr and delicate noses
and would hold them and pet them
when she put down her pen and moleskin and accounts
because, although caged and bought at Pet World
in the strip mall across from Adult World
on the other side of Interstate 67, these rodents gave her comfort,
reminding her of Maine and Jonathan
who abstained from going and killing for sport
with his brothers when they went, in pickups
with buckshot and murdered deer and rabbits,
because she still missed Jon and bought these fluffy
white creatures for 47.99, a good deal,
and they came with a little rock house
that they could sleep and burrow under
like Jon and herself, snuggled in Maine,
away from Palo Alto. So every time I come over,
to have *** and eat dinner and listen
to what you learned to play on piano,
I stop by the study to see Maurice
and Mickey and feel the presence of Jonathan
and the sticky suburban sadness of your mother,
while keeping a secret promise close to my heart,
that I'll never become an accountant.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 6:54 PM UTC
There are times when I go quiet
Don't know what to say
Don't know what to do
At such times I am reminded of the quote
By Maurice Switzerland
"It is better to remain silent
At the risk of being thought a fool,
Than to talk and remove all doubt of it."
Jul 22, 2016
Jul 22, 2016 at 3:08 PM UTC
His Small Dark Man; our minds lovingly serenaded,
through the warmth - the faint buzz from the downy
salubrity of a brain to which no bird ever flew on one wing!
An’ so clarity, somewhat vague, paid for by a sorehead,
Leaves us a solid truth; that men are forever at war with women,
Forever being defeated and accepting this defeat as Victory,
Minute wheels spin endlessly yet happiness is static,
Measured out to the minutest drop – never increased,
Never depleted – Unchangeable in all lives; Men or Cabbages!
Simple visions of a life less extraordinary with faith in the ability,
To bid farewell – a gesture that had in it a fine dignity,
And yet a terrible finality; I must speak to Maurice more.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 11:25 AM UTC
in loving memory of Maurice Sendak ...
Our cage is painted royal blue.
A computer checks the locks.
The Judge left his decision on
Our mirror drawn in chalk.
God narrates cruel calendars.
Thieves rip out the last page.
The crowd drowns in His smile,
As the Liar takes the stage.
A boy who built a ladder asks,
"What is outside over there?"
The men say, "just a parking lot."
A girl sings, "Its a dare."
Her movie light licks cave walls,
Monsters dancing drum drip seed
For forever forest's Night Kitchen,
As Mother bakes in the key.
We are wild like tears running,
Free like wind against her thigh,
Loved like rain drops on the burn,
Like lovers stretch for sky.
2012
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 2:07 PM UTC
My Pal Joey
A fine young Italian boy, lived in the Big Apple City,
he really made me laugh, now he's gone, it is such a pity,
brother to seven gorgeous ladies, always needing his help,
got hit by a corporate big shot, he left town, not even a yelp
Maurice the Space Cowboy, this was his imaginary pal,
he really loved all the women, fell in love with every gal,
good lookin and ever so friendly, never a time when he felt alone,
hard working and extremely kind, never an irreverant tone,
his friends have all moved on, most of them married away,
still single and searching for only he knows, every night and day,
moved west to California, trying to enhance his career,
but his agent was of little use, she was never exactly clear
so sad to see you go my friend, I'll miss you more than you know,
your line of “how are you doin”, always stole the show,
I hope one day you will return, and even though you don't know me,
yes good luck to you, whatever you do, you'll always be, My Pal Joey
Gomer LePoet...
Mar 12, 2010
Mar 12, 2010 at 3:51 AM UTC
She was the heartbeat of desire,
while I was a dry upper crust of a writer.
She was the Flamingo, fluid with grace.
I was just a stiff member with a bank teller’s face.
I lay with the lady as a matter of course
We woke up the next morning with all innocence lost.
I married Viv then and in London remained
where J. Alfred Prufrock cemented my fame.
It was between the two wars, when poets still mattered
Though the world of our birth was bruised beaten and tattered.
Viv had many needs that I couldn’t fulfill
Her one infidelity rankles me still.
The silence between us grew as loud as the Bourse.
Though our pairing proved barren, we never divorced.
My footsteps were haunted by this girl with my name.
I resolved we should part. My friends thought her insane.
Maurice, her brother, signed to have her committed.
I saw her just once, a perfunctory visit.
She was young when she died, just turned Fifty Eight.
My fate would be different, I had longer to wait.
Of the man that I might have been, little remained
She made me a poet, my dry soul she claimed
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC
The Thew Of Phantasmagoria
<for Sanders Maurice Foulke III>
The Thew Of Phantasmagoria
the muscles of the brain, design bridges, author poems, obviously
the strongest force upon the Earth, whence & where the powerful
coiling of our mortal coexistence energies be stored & unleashed
muscles summon previous unknowns, establishing neural connectivity
between colliding galaxies, undiscovered planetary rings, using kinetics
to create a vocabulary for the express purpose of astounding creation
the modest only dare inquire of themselves in wondrous silence
how came this thematic landscape, new language, to escape my
optics, my ken, my viewfinder, purview, essential essence sensories?
the deniers claim magic lanterns, optical illusions, love, par example,
they ascertain, a chemical imbalance stimulates the sensorineural,
mocking those who believe the comet’s tail visible wags its orbital path
this poem abstruse, yet full of truths, a working man’s lunch pail
full of fine china chicanery, fooling those who observe only exteriors,
but we who live on bounded islands recognize safe passages available
when the thew of the phantasmagorical is debunked, acknowledging
that for something to be truly true, it must be agreed upon by two,
thus creating a language clarifying even if it’s punctuated by shadows
621pm 23-2-2020
IP lmn
Feb 23, 2020
Feb 23, 2020 at 6:29 PM UTC
***Monday, November 11th, 2019
The pain in loss can be a deleterious scourge, undoing all the threads of light embedded in the heart. Who am I to contend with the ethereal tides of the cosmos? A juvenescent soul enrapt mine entity for but a moment, yet, soon thereafter, he was gone. Vanquished by the Winds of Undoing, he may never re-alight upon my soulscape; however, I must go on. Let dreams illumine the fulgent irides you are starry-eyed to see.
I must trust that all things are working out for their highest good. In me are all the answers that I seek; we are our own nexus to transcendence. Will I ever see him again? I am without certainty, but I shall arise triumphantly. Tears may yearn to cascade my countenance, but I will waxeth impregnable apropos of the deluge of sadness.
Who am I? I am the emblematization, the insignia of love. Christ truly abides within each one of us. If I am to truly attain my Apex Monumental, I must undergo tremendous sufferings; therefore, ne’er fathom that suffering is thine undoing, ―tis your making.
Press onward valiant warrior, love shall open every doorway. One day, thine Ultima Thule shall manifest itself before your eyes; moreover, the patriarch you never had shall be found in the Arbiter of Fates above. Never give up young one, for you are aeonically loved. Wisdom, Love, Justice, Power and all the virtues vested in this cosmos shall teem within thine vessel.
Sanctity is perhaps a notion, a theistic & ratiocinatively deific dogma. I fathom it an inordinately exclusive fallacy that maketh one feel holier than his brethren. Was any man or woman foreordained above any other? And if so, were they given not a privilege, but a duty? An anointing means one is set apart for a higher purpose, not a lionizing gasconade.
“He who dares to teach must never cease to learn.” It is true that the erudite has immense gift, but they likewise carry profundity of mandated travail. In each one of us, lie the answers we seek; therefore, we must introspect & retrospect in order to circumspect. We must search and seek, in order to find. Let the one who knocketh, have it revealed unto them, have it opened.
∞(Se’ Lah)∞
Excelsior Forevermore,
Sanders Maurice Foulke III**
Nov 11, 2019
Nov 11, 2019 at 6:43 PM UTC
it's four in the mornin' and the city's sleepin 'cept for me and my kind,
... and them.
i turn the corner and i can see him at the curb in the middle of the block, hiding among the cigarette butts and beers cans, the broken glass and used condoms, the ubiquitous philadelphia detritus.
he thinks I don't see him as he lays in wait, but i got this sixth sense.
i don my swagger, leading each step with my alternate shoulder, arms swingin' behind my back as i strut towards the patrol car from the thirty ninth police precinct.
unseen, the carefully packaged spoonful drops to the sidewalk behind me and instantly pretends to be street rubble,
and i'm dutifully surprised when 'the man' exits his vehicle, shoves me against a wall and begins to ***** me like he knows me.
after awhile he gets bored and tells me to go home. I turn the corner at the end of the block.
"hello, po lease? **** gettin' real, y'know what I mean? Maurice be wasted and he not too happy wid his ol lady. and he be packin'! better hurry! yeh, 4228 fairmount."
heard sirens, peeped around the corner and the trash had a new demeanor.
I happily retrieved my spoonful.
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 2:01 PM UTC
xÀ Maurice de Foucault.
Le soleil fut avant les yeux,
La terre fut avant les roses,
Le chaos avant toutes choses.
Ah ! que les éléments sont vieux
Sous leurs jeunes métamorphoses !
Toute jeunesse vient des morts :
C'est dans une funèbre pâte
Que, toujours, sans lenteur ni hâte,
Une main pétrit les beaux corps
Tandis qu'une autre main les gâte ;
Et le fond demeure pareil :
Que l'univers s'agite ou dorme,
Rien n'altère sa masse énorme ;
Ce qui périt, fleur ou soleil,
N'en est que la changeante forme.
Mais la forme, c'est le printemps :
Seule mouvante et seule belle,
Il n'est de nouveauté qu'en elle ;
C'est par les formes de vingt ans
Que rit la matière éternelle !
Ô vous, qui tenez enlacés
Les amoureux aux amoureuses,
Bras lisses, lèvres savoureuses,
Formes divines qui passez,
Désirables et douloureuses !
Vous ne laissez qu'un souvenir,
Un songe, une impalpable trace !
Si fortement qu'il vous embrasse,
L'Amour ne peut vous retenir :
Vous émigrez de race en race.
Époux des âmes, corps chéris,
Vous vous poussez, pareils aux fleuves ;
Vos grâces ne sont qu'un jour neuves,
Et les âmes sur vos débris
Gémissent, immortelles veuves.
Mais pourquoi vous donner ces pleurs ?
Les tombes, les saisons chagrines,
Entassent en vain des ruines
Sans briser le moule des fleurs,
Des fruits et des jeunes poitrines.
Pourquoi vous faire des adieux ?
Le même sang change d'artères,
Les filles ont les yeux des mères,
Et les fils le front des aïeux.
Non, vous n'êtes pas éphémères !
Vos modèles sont quelque part,
Ô formes que le temps dévore !
Plus pures vous brillez encore
Au paradis profond de l'art,
Où Platon pense et vous adore !
707
In this grassy ground he lay
His body rests without dismay
To see that he now holds no sorrow
Will give me hope yet for tomorrow
Beneath this ground lay he in peace
Beneath here lay O'l Grey Maurice
Jul 26, 2012
Jul 26, 2012 at 1:19 AM UTC
The infatigable undefeatable Maurice Brown
Played the tuba down on
First street. Freelanced.
I saw him once spanking that ***
On Mardi gras
Long ago.
I sent him a shot of Bourbon
And a jack back then
So admiring of his
Oomph oomph bellow
His large belly fit that brass
So well.
He was backbone of the street
Musicians marching proud
Through those streets lined
With drunks pickpockets
Ho's pimps and beggars three.
All he cared about was that driving deep sound
The shot brought him
In the needle after
Performing.
I saw him last time ten years ago
Asleep in the gutter down on brown street.
Alone his tuba
Gone.
Mar 10, 2018
Mar 10, 2018 at 10:23 PM UTC
I Miss my Northern Exposure Tee Shirt
We could drive into town for a beer at The Brick
Listening to the radio as Chris-in-the-Morning
Reads a chapter from Doctor Zhivago
Connecting Yuri with Uncle Roy Bauer
We could drive into town for gas at Ruth-Anne’s
Marilyn and Ed will talk about movies; Maggie and Joel
Will argue some more on the sidewalk outside
While Maurice preens before his reflection in the glass
And then to The Brick: Shelley behind the bar
Holling and Dave-the-Cook wrestling the grease trap -
I think I left my Northern Exposure tee shirt
In the laundromat in Cicely, Alaska
We could drive into town and look for it
Feb 19, 2019
Feb 19, 2019 at 3:45 PM UTC
Hey there, Maurice
This man could take the **** outta pistola
Tall as Yosemite
and twice as wild
Then here's Greer,
Man's... a little queer.
Drinks carrot juice with carbonated soda
Says its good for joints and inertia.
Don't quite know what that means,
But here--You don't gotta know a thing.
We smack the back of railroad tracks
Zoom down the 8 to the 102
And great! Who can we appreciate?
Pretty ladies and dancing lights
red eyes our fill of delight
These guys walk with a gun to their stride
claim to humane:
use hollow-point.
Infused with botanicals
Drinking gin
Beefeater talking heads
Drowning sins
You laugh at them now?
Bunch of rowdy gamblers
Playing dice with life
Spinning their chambers
Faster than you probably could.
there they are!
On Downey street
The place where the hackers and potheads meet
They deal in prose and green cloth!
words and promises and fear of light,
Man, these guys are outta my mind!
And I hither to and fro their
Business stand and hated flair
Told me the world would set me free
That perhaps we'd all get there eventually
But in that mean time
Hollow-points hang their claim
Grasp for cloth and modem dollar
Shackled by a diamond collar
Dreaming of fancy little rocks
A yacht of metal, a house of blocks
I dream of simple things
Of green and flowers and Poppy seeds
Wherein I find that happy guy
and revel in warm alibi
Maurice and Greer
Me and her
She and I,
We'll be there
And there is here,
There I despair
And watch awake with placid eyes
The drain choked with misplaced hair
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 6:52 PM UTC
There’s many legends told of those who tended to the nets
Whose talents brought grown men to tears, made bookies hedge their bets.
One man’s special gift was to make the goal lamp glow
Therein begins the woeful tale of Red Light Racicot.
The story starts at Granby in Quebec’s junior ranks,
Where pimply youths have slapshots which seem fired from tanks,
And flashy cat-quick goaltenders will often steal the show;
Alas, no such heroics came from Red Light Racicot.
The ease he was beat stick-side left his goalie coaches dumb.
Granby supporters prayed as one that they would trade the ***
They called him “Ancient Mariner” (stopping one in three or so),
Surely Les Habitants would not sign Red Light Racicot.
But indeed, Les Canadiens dragooned him in the draft,
Fully convincing one and all that Serge Savard was daft.
Children throughout the province prayed *Dear merciful God, No!
Don’t let our Forum bear the taint of Red Light Racicot.*
But then came a stretch where Patrick Roy’s work had been poor,
And Hayward and Vinny Riendeau had each been shown the door.
And Montreal fans heard the saddest words they’d ever know:
…Starting in goal this evening is Red Light Racicot.
He flailed at wobbly wristers and wound up on his ****
And gave up much more five-hole than any village ****
Even cross-check befogged Savard knew it was time to go
And mercifully, he released poor Red Light Racicot
In Heaven there’s a glowing rink where gods of hockey skate:
Maurice Richard, Howie Lorenz, all of the truly great.
In one net, Georges Vezina makes saves with stick and toe
But someday they’ll all float soft goals past Red Light Racicot.
May 25, 2018
May 25, 2018 at 10:01 AM UTC
Waiting can be a madman clawing his own skin.
It can be drying paint, dying libido, or crying dogs
at the window watching a car roll off.
Sometimes waiting is just a phone that never buzzes.
I’m still waiting.
Hunks of meat swinging and forced screaming,
I remember, would always do the trick.
Now it sends a hollow feeling rushing to nowhere.
Now I feel like I’m watching a reality show.
SOME SCENES ARE CREATED FOR YOUR ENJOYMENT.
This programme contains product placement.
The pair of air Nikes she keeps on while bent over.
The Maurice Lacroix watch he wears while spanking her.
It is a nice watch; they are nice trainers.
She is beautiful; he is handsome.
But, I’m still waiting.
The predictable ****** comes and goes.
The conclusion’s always the same.
It never used to bother me, the farce of it all.
It used to do the trick.
But, I’m still waiting.
Jan 31, 2017
Jan 31, 2017 at 4:24 PM UTC
the first time she smiled (at me)
i fell in love..wild..!?
i moved in (with her)
the cool dark ´50´s furniture..
we had six or seven cats (same litter)..
toby,irwin,walter,buster,sue,cindy,lester..
we hid from the gardener..!
watched operation triumpho (on tv)
dusty autumn gave way to winter.
and listened to maurice (on the radio)...
on sunday the choir practised below..
what did the future do..
well it played too some how..
everything being old and new..
the ambulance lounged outside..
along the coast was the cabo des gato..
we went there and rather foolishly
camped in a dry river bed..(flash flood)..
but here to tell the tale..the fire and
peaceful starry nights..(and love)...
and today seventeen years and no
on but still here this very moment..(rose bud)..
still here but another part of town
all water that..all rock..air would..
Aug 8, 2017
Aug 8, 2017 at 5:02 AM UTC
that there be no memorandum and that's, with ~one word:
enough said -
enough to say
Maurice Jarre; and the kept heart;
autumnal bearers of
the Griffin mould of brown and
quarter orange -
so i too might remember...
that beckon of the south....
at last in rhapsody
to the one remembered as having the attention span....
and the Shakespearean puncture -
well...
had we been so loved up with learning
as Ancient Arabs were with Aristotle....
10th century revision acquired demand -
i too would make a joke concerning
the black gold of the Saudis...
being spent on joking around the totality
of human affairs... and when the Koran was necessary
the Saudis simply quoted their newly established
Kabul of unorthodox idea -
parallel to Mecca -
minding the failure of:
fill 'em up, meaning they'll be fulfilled;
who gives a **** if the Arabs read Aristotle pristine
in the 10th century, they're hardly the ones to
speak a "saving the planet" speech these days...
they could have read Aristotle perfectly in the 10th
century... but when it comes to readers' digest:
they're basically not clued in...
given it's the 21st century...
i'm blaming all that spending potential...
all that spending potential
on Arab sycophancy, elaborated;
cos', after all, it's just cheese: mozzarella elongation
and a tribute to the moustache.
Oct 12, 2016
Oct 12, 2016 at 9:26 PM UTC
When the skylarks would warble hover and sing
at about a hundred feet, high on the wing, and we…
on a heat clicking Sunday between Salt End and the sea,
well we knew - just from the ozone, on the breeze
that we’d be off …a shimmering heat haze convoy of old crocks,
Bud, Margaret, Brian and me to Tunstall,
a diminishing, mystical land of sun, sand, sea - and tumbling rocks.
But it wasn’t just us…it was a cavalcade - motors galore.
Uncles, Aunties, Cousins, Grans, Grandads and more
in Austins, Morris’s, Vauxhalls and Fords,
And a big old Rover wi’them wide running boards,
a motor bike’n’sidecar with Maurice, Denise & our Val
to wring the best from the day a’la Plage de Tunstall’…
The beach crackled in the heat…
if you walked too slow it’d burn your feet.
and our Dads, our ‘civil engineers’, built a brick oven and in a
giggling gaggle… Mums cooked a real Sunday dinner.
Kids’d run back & forth to the sea and back
buckets & spades, hacking big holes and shots in goal,
cricket with fallen rocks for a wicket and,
after pudding, burying drunken dads in the sand.
Heavy, wet woolen cozzies, sand in groins,
...changing in turn, under a soaking wet, gritty towel.
“Don’t dry me with that, Ow! Buddy hell - watch my sunburn.”
Then, all back in the cars, for our return
into the sunset and driving away.
Chaffing sore shoulders.
Chuffing good day! - yeah…Parfait!!
Apr 17, 2020
Apr 17, 2020 at 12:07 PM UTC