"mell" poems
Go to sleep, my love.
This ambulance is not for us.
Although, I suppose it could be,
following dark impulses.
Its sirens screaming of hell,
tearing pell-mell in a night
not tinged by blood –
no crime committed for want or violence,
only help arrived too late
to save us. It would go silent then,
as we have been silenced,
locked in a terrible tableau.
You, still, curled around my heart,
me having found for us oblivion.
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 7:13 AM UTC
There was once, a girl called Srividya
who ended conversations with a "see yea"
and sometimes with, "Don't wanna be yea"
but had a gentle heart like Mamma mia!
She took it in her head to write
which gave her friends a fright
But, vidya in her heart, was tight
to somehow pour her mind and write
Words from her heart, upon the paper, fell
they came in a tumble; they came pell-mell
when they fell in place, her story, they did tell
and those read said in their hearts, Aawll eezz well!!!
A persistent Vidya never gave up hope
and found some more, when she ran out of rope
She took inspiration from the divine Pope
and in her works, introduced a little operaish soap
Day after day, dawn after dawn
Little srividya wrote like a fawn
She said to herself, lighting the midnight candle on
'Course you can write; you just need to COME ON!
For her words, she used the iambic pentameter
But her cruel friends said, "eyyy, podhum paa peter!"
Her consistent efforts bore fruit; her blog was published
seeing her beautiful works see the light of day, she felt accomplished
Oh you might wonder, what does this tale tell
what is the idea, I'm trying to sell
without much ado, let me just say
A little encouragement goes a long way!
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 5:42 AM UTC
I hardly breathe under a hodgepodge
of starched and creased clothes
my heart beats pell-mell
every time clocks take a halt
dragging one second behind
when batteries are low
(could this be a deviation towards red light?)
with straighter and longer fingers
I bow down worshiping
in front of the rising sun
the nunnery pelargonium
the red silk bookmark
forgotten inside the Book of Job
(rose hips will bloom upon my grave)
the empty space on my front
from where a star fell down
still burns with pride
I’m guilty like the deer youth
putting its muzzle damp with love
in the palm of his future hunter
(maybe time doesn’t roll on like a river)
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 2:50 PM UTC
"Ah, did you once see Shelley plain?" -- Browning.
"Shelley? Oh, yes, I saw him often then,"
The old man said. A dry smile creased his face
With many wrinkles. "That's a great poem, now!
That one of Browning's! Shelley? Shelley plain?
The time that I remember best is this --
A thin mire crept along the rutted ways,
And all the trees were harried by cold rain
That drove a moment fiercely and then ceased,
Falling so slow it hung like a grey mist
Over the school. The walks were like blurred glass.
The buildings reeked with vapor, black and harsh
Against the deepening darkness of the sky;
And each lamp was a hazy yellow moon,
Filling the space about with golden motes,
And making all things larger than they were.
One yellow halo hung above a door,
That gave on a black passage. Round about
Struggled a howling crowd of boys, pell-mell,
Pushing and jostling like a stormy sea,
With shouting faces, turned a pasty white
By the strange light, for foam. They all had clods,
Or slimy ***** of mud. A few gripped stones.
And there, his back against the battered door,
His pile of books scattered about his feet,
Stood Shelley while two others held him fast,
And the clods beat upon him. 'Shelley! Shelley!'
The high shouts rang through all the corridors,
'Shelley! Mad Shelley! Come along and help!'
And all the crowd dug madly at the earth,
Scratching and clawing at the streaming mud,
And fouled each other and themselves. And still
Shelley stood up. His eyes were like a flame
Set in some white, still room; for all his face
Was white, a whiteness like no human color,
But white and dreadful as consuming fire.
His hands shook now and then, like slender cords
Which bear too heavy weights. He did not speak.
So I saw Shelley plain."
"And you?" I said.
"I? I threw straighter than the most of them,
And had firm clods. I hit him -- well, at least
Thrice in the face. He made good sport that night."
1.7k
My heart scans
for a familiar face
through throngs
of strangers
as they scatter
pell mell
around me
eager shoppers
casing brightly lit
sale stuffed store fronts
while seduced
by the siren song of fresh coffee
coupled with
sticky sweet cinnamon buns
suddenly
the bitter fact
swallows me
whole again
you no longer reside
anywhere
outside
of my dreams
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 12:29 PM UTC
Was that the landmark? What,—the foolish well
Whose wave, low down, I did not stoop to drink,
But sat and flung the pebbles from its brink
In sport to send its imaged skies pell-mell,
(And mine own image, had I noted well!)
Was that my point of turning?—I had thought
The stations of my course should rise unsought,
As altar-stone or ensigned citadel.
But lo! the path is missed, I must go back,
And thirst to drink when next I reach the spring
Which once I stained, which since may have grown black.
Yet though no light be left nor bird now sing
As here I turn, I’ll thank God, hastening,
That the same goal is still on the same track.
1.3k
I hope you notice the expression in my song
Unlike that chiff-chaff over there
I try my best to be mellifluous when I sing
Not like him, not like him
Winter's gone and here we are hee hee
Hee hee
What shall we do now
Come on dear, I think you know
What we should be doing now
I'll sing it, I'll sing it!
You're a brave bird and so beautiful
Just right for me, now do a twirl
Do a twirl !
And I'm the only blackbird in the world
You need
I'll sing it, I'll sing it!
You made it through the arduous
Ar-du-ous winter
Just like me, just like me
Brave bird!
I'll sing it, I'll sing it!
My wife's a lovely brown
She's hiding in the hedge
I love to sing do you?
We built a nest we did, we did!
So don't forget to look the other way
If you should venture over here
It would be such a waste of time
To have to do it all again
This place belongs to me!
My wife is here
We're trying for a family
She laid some lovely eggs
Blue they are, she sits on them to keep them warm
But it's a secret, it's a secret
I'll sing it, I'll sing it!
I hope you notice I try to vary my song
Mix up and blend the notes so as not to bore
And if it sounds like I'm trying to tell you something
Ex-plain something
That's because I truly am
I try to sound interesting
When I sing
Not like him
Mell-if-lu-os-ity is my favourite word
I made it up
I'll sing it, I'll sing it!
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC
Cling to your rhyme through high water and hell
The theme is set up in the opening line
That's what it takes to write a villanelle
Let your intentions ring out like a bell
Just fit the structure and all else is fine
Cling to your rhyme through high water and hell
Three lines a verse, make sure you use them well
So sense and structure gently intertwine
That's what it takes to write a villanelle
Impatience at this point can start to tell
But do make sure you stick to your design
Cling to your rhyme through high water and hell
Don't let the rhythm rush you on pell-mell
Just let your words emerge in measured time
That's what it takes to write a villanelle
And make sure that the message you refine
Simple is good, excess the biggest crime
Cling to your rhyme through high water and hell
That's what it takes to write a villanelle
Oct 21, 2009
Oct 21, 2009 at 12:14 PM UTC
did you see him,
the stranger,
coming
crotch rocketing
down your tree lined street?
did you see the child
his sandy hair splayed
by his own journey
flying through the dusk
pedaling his bike pell-mell to eternity,
or the end of the block
where his father stood akimbo,
talking soccer, while mother
washed the windows of her SUV
did you recognize the whine
of accelerating RPMs bouncing
off the safe houses,
the cleansed castles
where time’s dust was chased away
by growing mutual funds
and manicured hands
before it had time gather
as dust ultimately must
did you see him
coming
to spoil your story
with a mangled pile
of flesh and Tommy Hilfiger
so far from the desert bombs
your labors paid to build
did you hear the sound
of your own breath when
you ran to see
or did the screams
of all the mothers
of all the stars
awaken you from a dream
did you sleep that night
without the sight of white death
in the fields of suburbia
far from where blood
was written to be spilled
by darker skin under blackened skies
forever invisible to your eyes?
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 1:45 PM UTC
Peter was able to see some of the ant-like Macy's Thanksgiving parade by leaning suicidally over the 50th floor balcony. I go into fight-or-flight panic if I get anywhere near the railing. The parade passes in front of the building with floats passing 40 minutes before they’re on TV.
Finally, hours later, at lunchtime, Michael (Lisa’s dad), announced, in a low, deep and melodic voice, like God might have used to conjure the universe, “come and get it!”
Which started a pell-mell stampede, luckily, no one was hurt.
Would I be unoriginal if I said, “turkey and dressing are the ultimate comfort food?” The aromas, flavors and textures, like the bubbles in our sparkling, apple-cider faux-champagne, invoke minted, holiday memories and emotions.
I have so much to be thankful for. I’m surrounded by friends, I’m doing well (if not perfectly) in school, I’m in a nice relationship - one that makes me confident and America’s in a moment of peace.
Right as we were seated, 13-year-old Leeza’s phone, hidden in her back pants pocket, chirped and her pale, freckled face turned crimson.
“Oh,” Michael said softly, “that’s going to be a problem.”
Leeza held up her phone so everyone could see it shutting down, “Sorry!” she said meekly.
“Thank you.” Her dad responded.
If things aren’t perfect now - when are they? Our holidays may be stripped back and simplified, or we may be separated from those we love, but I hope you’re all well and happy this Thanksgiving and that you don’t run out of gravy.
Because when the gravy’s gone (that may take days) - I’m callin’ it - this thing is OVER.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Nov 24, 2022
Nov 24, 2022 at 2:00 PM UTC
A sparrowhawk swoops down for food
Spring blue skies will lift the mood
When days go rushing by.
Children race to school pell-mell
There are some who miss the bell
When days go rushing by.
Spring blue skies will lift the mood
And garden tasks are now pursued
When days go rushing by.
There are some who miss the bell
Who’ll waste time catching up as well
When days go rushing by.
And garden tasks are now pursued
The growing season is reviewed
When days go rushing by.
For He will hear the church bell ring
As hearty, thankful voices sing
When days go rushing by.
The growing season is reviewed
A sparrowhawk swoops down for food.
When days go rushing by.
©Joe Wilson – Lauds…(the 5th morning)…2016
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 2:17 PM UTC
November is a month
i dread, all the marking...
all the words ..... ideas
clutter up in my head....
all the hopes and ambitions
weigh heavily on my back.
the first day, my birthday
hip hip hooray!!!
then a rushing, pell mell
downward track
of red pens and meetings
going on and on and on
planning, prepping, late night stressing
then, when not at work,
not shirking, just not working
hoping to give the brain a rest
am bombarded...
like i am ******** in cheer
...continual messages of
christmas is near....
coffee and carols,
shopping and angels
harking, harking,
joy to the world, fa al lalala...
Santa queues
truly not an Ebeneezer
but Christmas teasers
in November make me grey
around the gills
fish out of water
lamb to the slaughter
and running on empty,
always empty,
just want one day...
when the world
would stop hassling
and just go away
no end of year parties...
prentending to be hale and hearty
with all sorts of colleagues
and academic smarties
no presentations of budgets..
thinner than last
no we could not fast
this area, to be on line
no it's alright, it will be just fine
while sculling copious amounts
of cheap, cheap, nasty red wine.
no hangover from said feast...
no, you be the one to corner the beast.
no more standing with mothers and others
watching children in a god awful christmas play
and clapping and chatting while little bettsy
recieves an award for knitting a sleeve
and george gets one for adding fourhundred and forty
please, please show me the door.....
not to mention hayfever,
daylight savings and more
but all this seems trivial...
when I consider
the blight of my life...
in the stakes of annuity.
the month of November has a great heart
Movember...a charity of moustache art
has an fanatic in my big, bluff,bloke
for a month he curries and cares for the
caterpillar that grows on his lip...
a fuzzy flecked monstrosity
with the mange and a weird flip.
November a month of avoiding
the succour of contact....
with that thing,
my toes curl now
thinking of it....
tho I try not to react
(after all charity begins at home)
november november
truly you are the ***
last year he bought
the ****** thing a comb
yet in the end
you are but a month
and it seems I survive you
year after year
thank god for take away meals
and long cold beers....
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 5:32 AM UTC
writing life on the upbeat
no mean feat
when riding pell mell
down to bowels of hell
on a harley fatboy
bought as look at me ploy
with a kooky sidecar
of sarcastic sidebar
talking of friends
my god are
we are all just lemmings
to mediocracy in the end
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 8:02 AM UTC
A trillion little pieces fall
and I am lost amidst them all.
Helter skelter flurries fall
on the pell-mell throngs below them all.
And who is left to be a guide
when Mother Earth and Father God have died
and alone with furies you abide?
Then in your soul, sweep clean the streets
and salt the earth beneath your feet
till your resolve and trials meet.
A trillion little pieces fall
I make a way despite them all.
Helter skelter flurries fall
on the pell-mell throngs below them all.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC
Which is it: you can't get started unless
you're riding some current bigger than your reporting voice
or the best time to write is when you don't have much to say
and without plenty to say about everything you'll get better right
away.
Form is very often a betrayal of reality.
Although we are initially drawn to poems by their passion and
urgency,
we are convinced by the formal means invented
for their impelling motives. Every accidental crack or dent.
Not just mildly disquieted but actively repelled,
running for the River Styx, the doors of Hell pell mell,
there must be a crack, deep and unmendable, in the poet
that the poet must forever try to mend. Or not.
While mortal poets imitate, immortal poets steal.
That's plagiarism. Fortunately the public feels
less strongly about poetry than television,
communism and aging gracefully through meditation.
Now I'm being silly. My silly indefatigable lusting,
silly sadness, silly arguing and silly trusting.
All I do not know about our nation's history, wars
and what showering the people you love with love does.
Ransacking apothegms, algorithms
and selling the loot as memes,
dissemblings. Bearing fardels
with the warrior's skull.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 6:35 AM UTC
We’d moved on in to a clifftop house
When our babe was very young,
I had to ***** a barbed wire fence
To keep our darling at home,
For Ellen was a precocious child
With a beautiful, smiling face,
But for all our efforts to tame her down
It was hard to keep her in place.
She would bounce about, would run on out
The moment we turned our backs,
Many a time I would see her climb
And she’d give us heart attacks.
‘She’s halfway up the chimney, John,
She’s climbed right up to the thatch,’
The wife would cry, and I’d almost die
In bringing our daughter back.
She’d stand awhile by the cottage gate
That led on out to the track,
That wound its way right down to the bay
On a narrow, winding path,
I wired the gate, and I thought it held
Till the day she broke on through,
And made her little way to the bay
Before we even knew.
I found her at the mouth of a cave
That sat just up from the shore,
And breathed a sigh of relief as we
Embraced, like never before,
But she pointed in to the darkened cave
With her tiny little hand,
‘I want to go in the cave with him,
That funny old sailor man!’
‘There isn’t a man in the cave,’ I said,
‘You must have been seeing things.’
‘Oh no! He asked me to follow him
And he showed me lots of rings.
He had a black patch over his eye,
And a ponytail in his hair,
I want to go where the sailor goes,
Will you let me go in there?’
I carried her back up the winding path
Though she clung to me and cried,
‘That cave is simply an eerie place
And it’s cold and damp inside.’
I should have taken more notice then,
I thought it was just a rave,
For days, young Ellen would speak of him,
The man who lived in the cave.
I went to check at the library,
The history of the town,
And read that smugglers used that cave
When nobody was around,
And long before there were buildings there
A smuggler on the run,
Had sheltered there in that dismal cave
With his daughter, Ellen Gunn.
I raced on home to the clifftop house
To find young Ellen gone,
The wife was having hysterics there
And I was overcome.
I ran, pell mell down the clifftop path
It was such a deathly scare,
And searched to the end of that awful cave
And I found her Teddy Bear.
A fisherman on the beach had seen
Young Ellen on the sand,
Then watched as a sailor took her in
To the cave there, hand in hand.
‘I thought that he was her father,’ said
The rustic fisherman,
‘She seemed quite happy to go with him
And he looked a kindly man.’
I must have searched it a dozen times
And I called, and cursed, and cried,
And prayed to god that I’d find my girl
Hid somewhere deep inside,
When out of the depths, she toddled out
Stood still, turned back to the cave,
And that’s when I glimpsed that sailor man,
Who stood at the back, and waved.
David Lewis Paget
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 2:44 AM UTC
Outside my door
Beneath the hum of the spinning machinery of the night
The mechanized whirl of the star crusted mammoth
She waters her blouse with a stranger's lament
Grievously mourning the separation of what is
and what could never be
Carried away pell mell by the picking magpies
of lowered expectation
And beneath the bluster of the ancient whorl
Cars hiss past my window to remind me I'm alive
Sunken beneath the levels of minimum expectation
At least the hollow men
Stuffed with straws and petty blows
Had a space with which to be empty
Their petrified corpses litter the books
Mammoth mausoleums of man
Does the moon not pale at their description?
But these monuments are cold and skeletal
They do not burn with youthful fury
They do not wipe her tears
They do not whitewash her fears
And neither do I
Locked away in the isolation of my own discontent
The lighter flicks helplessly in hand
The bones of those hollow
will not catch
And on each side of my door
The other half shudders
Broken by the weight
Of lowered expectation
Dec 12, 2010
Dec 12, 2010 at 6:40 PM UTC
So, it was a dark and stormy night and
Father Larry O’Flannigan
Was feeling excited as he
Maneuvered the rainy streets with
Five extra-large cheese pizzas
Elated and happy because
Teenage catechism class
Had gone so swimmingly well
He wanted to reward them
Hence the crusty comestibles
Crossing 10th and Vine
Rain pelting cars and pedestrians
He slipped and tripped
Pandemonium of pizza boxes
Pell-mell into puddles
The chagrined good father
In an unsettled state
Hurt, wet, disheveled,
Exclaims:
“Jesus Christ! God Almighty!"
A pious passerby exclaims
(An older lady dressed for rain)
“Father! Please! Language!”
The sheepish priest sputters:
“Em, cheese and crust got all muddy…?”
Mar 1, 2019
Mar 1, 2019 at 11:48 PM UTC
The ghosts are attacking,they caught me out, slacking and sleeping through the day,if the ghosts had their way,they would shake me up,break me up,sweep me and keep me locked in my head.
I'm thinking that those ghosts have got to be dead, but I find that they're feeding on me, and running amok,pell mell ,chock a block,
In this binding I find a way to escape,don't sleep,stay awake,let the ghosts take the slow train and get out of my brain,flush them all down the drain,
just got to stay awake and alert and no matter how much it hurts me,it's the only way I see and the way to release.
The truce.
A piece of the peace or the rest of the rest I don't get,they won't let me alone,I can't eat,I'm becoming all skin and bone,which would be good, were I modelling the latest creations because skinny is cool in some men's imaginations,but what would they know about the dead and the dead slow,with looks that could **** those who don't fit their bill of what's acceptable to them,
but that's men,what did you expect,and the truth is no truce,no closing the sluice gates,the fates have me trapped between here and the next place,
full of grace,fair of face and a heavy heart, my eyes start to close as the ghosts rise around me,surrounded I'm bound once again.
Pain so they say is just that drumbeat when night meets your day and a slight thing to which you'll grow accustomed,I disagree,pain's just another mad moment running free and it always crashes head first into me,but I get used to it,it's just a constant yammering,stammering that hammers my soul,when the night's a black hole and day is a lifetime away.
When the ghosts have their fill and decide not to **** me but leave me,the funny thing is I miss them,what man am I to miss ghosts that would fly and disrupt me?
Tell me,
a contradiction, a contra addiction, predicting the best but expecting the worst,
I finally sleep.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 9:06 AM UTC
I know a land of salt
and pepper stalks and moss,
whose jagged, hazy coast
a thousand flowers bears —
of Ireland I boast.
Even now my heart is sick
for a home I never had.
If I were there,
what I would do,
I'll tell to you....
I'd show my love the mountain's nooks,
I'd pounce the foeman's daring rooks,
and plunder every dusty book,
and sleep in emerald vales.
We'd clamber up to a secret cave
and there we'd dwell,
away from the pell-mell,
and fast away in purple robes,
pretending we were noble-born
(for Ireland, we ought to be),
we'd in defiance hunger stave.
See now, her cloud legions marching in step
like flares emerging from the wood.
While horses roam her sunlit plains
and flowers shudder in her breeze;
while puddles form in shallow pools,
my watered mind accustoms trees
of bleak and twisted nature,
on the wild icicle river,
coldly biting my knees.
But here afar away,
there's treasure under every
glistening leaf,
'twixt frond and fern,
bristle and bramble,
and bounding stream.
By daylight,
Eire counts every rock;
at starlight,
assesses her stock.
I know a land
whose greenery bursts
in the morning dew,
and gives hopeful cause
to a hundred generations
of stoic sword-brethren
flashing down the coast,
singing their jolly tune,
as the oak decks are mounted
with freedom's guns
emboldening battle new.
Her amber-gilded name spears through
clouded sea and Cambrian cliff:
if every isle were touched as this!
by saintly light from Atlas' air.
She is the jewel of the isles,
the song of countless souls.
As men march down her
summer roads to meet their
tender-hearted lovers at home in
comfort from callous kings, the
breeze will bring news of another
christening or crossing... for then
each girl will spy him coming, and
make haste to alert the town,
and they will all turn out with joy
to welcome home their darling boy;
to herald the ending of famine and war,
and so they will shout for centuries more!
Mar 17, 2019
Mar 17, 2019 at 1:54 PM UTC
A slight brush of your hair,
Your daunting smile.
A wordless conversation,
Within our mind.
I know you're there,
You know my name.
The side hellos,
They make my day.
My mind it works,
At pell-mell speeds.
To find some words,
So we can speak.
But alas this story,
It never ends.
The conversations,
They never begin.
A silent sigh,
I breath it low.
You know my name,
You said hello.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 12:38 PM UTC
ok, things are getting better!!
got my ducks all waddling
in a row.
my tin solidiers standing
to attention in a line.
my cats all in pyjamas and spats...(gotta tell ya that one was a bit tricky).
also put mittens on those
curious kittens.
don't want them dying,
ya know.
the mutt, is busy looking for
nuts.
and i made the elephant
comfortable in this small room.
he is now, chatting with
the paper tiger,
over by the fireplace
my fish swimming happily
in their barrel.
and the bees,tending
busily to arthritic knees
so almost all is well...
but sheeesh!!!
my geese are running around pell-mell
and are likely to give
the mittened kittens
a fainting spell.
all that,
honking and flapping about
mother goose going to hell.
so....... now......
the ducks are wandering
tin soldiers, planning
a gruerilla wafare attack.
the cats now naked
****
how did they,
get out of those spats.
the mutt still looking
nothing, will stop that
fool dog, those nuts are,
looooong gone.
elephant is embarrassed,
the tiger squashed flat.
fish, floating, not swimming.
now food for the cat.
and the bees and their
knees are creating
stinging, verbal retorts.
....as for the geese
and the mittened
kittens....
they have, commandeered
the black forest torte
and are gulping it greedily
down.
so... it is certainly not me,
no siree,
who is in charge of this madhouse mind,
in this mindless town
of mine.
not me,
who wears the king's crown.
you will find me,
the fool......
down by the pool,
....sunbathing...
when all this weird ****
is going down..
**nothing to see here,
move along,
nothing to see....**
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 11:41 PM UTC
and infinity loops
on round again
just to clip me
over the back
of the head
with memories
mostly benign
yet one or two malign
just an esoteric, reminder
that i may hold the reins
however the horse, going pell-mell,
down the side of the hill is
travelling independently.....
Jul 25, 2015
Jul 25, 2015 at 7:52 AM UTC
Rumbling about, back and forth.
You, can never be taught.
Sleeping still, not with this beeping bill.
'Beep beep beep!' your alarm quacks
"Shut your mouth" you thaw from slumber.
Smashing it down, thrashing it to the ground, time to mell under your sheets.
****** hell.."
Oct 22, 2016
Oct 22, 2016 at 9:12 AM UTC