"modelled" poems
Muse the Bobbie, Learned and Scrolling Mentor
For screening this Curtain to show our Task
Basic Words you exhume; Trust, a favour
Later allow us with some Sticks to bask
It takes much swallow to go back to School
And strip us bare with Her Majesty's Words
This how you Speak - With a Rod and a Fool
But then, who cares? Forgans are for the Birds
Now all it takes to supple your behalf
Modelled by the Mad Agent done and pleased
We empty our Fillers; and bid Avast!
Upon Graduation your Skills we take heed.
Thank you so much again, Mentor availed
Success is Reward; Laziness is Failed.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 12:53 AM UTC
I
Opusculum paedagogum.
The pears are not viols,
Nudes or bottles.
They resemble nothing else.
II
They are yellow forms
Composed of curves
Bulging toward the base.
They are touched red.
III
Having curved outlines.
They are round
Tapering toward the top.
IV
In the way they are modelled
There are bits of blue.
A hard dry leaf hangs
From the stem.
V
The yellow glistens.
It glistens with various yellows,
Citrons, oranges and greens
Flowering over the skin.
The shadows of the pears
Are blobs on the green cloth.
The pears are not seen
As the observer wills.
5.6k
Bequeath this Honour from the Eighties' Tribe
To he who Modelled their Choice of Youth then
Synchronise! The Word our Age imbibe
Of Cool Moves, Puppies and Groovy-Pop Scent
This Innocence, Sir, which you Emulate
Through Mischief that Last Good Deed you remind
How we, though Clowned, this Party appreciate
Left printed for Cats to oogle behind
Then that Watch you wore alarmed you to Grow
And signalled your Hour to stand and be brave
Hail, Parker Soldier! Valiant Flag bestow,
Took arms with Locals and fought for our Stay.
And when you Return, those Preppie-Girls cheer
The Nerd and the Suave, Cross-Wrists with you here.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 2:32 AM UTC
The play is written to be staged in a pub or a large cave like yurt in Cardiff. Its action and dialogue provides characterisation, with sound and lighting being used to establish context. The setting a darkened pub corner that is modelled on The Bunch of Grapes in Pontypridd. There are only 6 characters, five speak in haiku-ed verse with the exception of the Drunk who acts as my 'Greek Chorus'.
- Hand-in-hand she enters to **** her thumb in a corner
- Chocolate ice cream soda demanded from Daddy
- Joking banter ceased slowly as the regulars all begin to quaff their brown pints
“Balll uut eass swept -
Chimrrrrr, Chiirriica,
war is never won”
- Church quiet, the village pub listened lips clamped tears swelling
“ ***** cut swapped with eyes -
Chimerica, Chimerica,
war is never won”
- The cornered hero of two Afghanistan tours is seen regressing into childhood**
The set darkens slowly then after 30 seconds a spotlit conversation in lines and stanzas begins.
Haiku and tanka that inspired the coming play include:
*********** -
thoughts sought, taught and wrought,
testosterones
Fighting aggressive games,
Afghanistan camouflage
Globalism and War -
cloned greedy conspiracy,
that third tower
Titled selfish-self-grandiose,
deliver warring terror
Springs cut Irises -
dripping vital red not purple,
far from my window*
.
Apr 28, 2010
Apr 28, 2010 at 11:11 AM UTC
The rattle is shaken and life becomes unfixed
Torrential rains cascades downwards on ancient bricks
These stunning moments have been rediscovered
In wonder all is flustered in awe as the state of silence honks
Love creeps out of tune in time, the unsureness of cold feet
The voice fades, the toned whispers continually erased
Stormed and soaked, stilled and stalked by a heart that stole my dream
Drenched in uncertainty, non-favouring multitudes won't let me be
These flutters flattens and deflated, I stroll and I will not run
The floating fun fares vanishes, the morning bird furnishes
The time capsule evaporated, unstripped and frozen
Ohh, how I wished to plant and harvest inspiration
Wake up with a renewed breath of air, the flowing river
Of the days when the gloom masked, I hated what life had become
How could humanity be so self centred and selfish?
I looked for silence and the banging never ceased
The masses rushed, never to let me be, they snatched my freedom
I inhaled the hope of the freeness and longed for the racing momentums
How so?
That over time the weather collapsed to coldness, the darkness marbled
A nag of the songbirds, as I escaped in the ****** ozone layer
A disconnect of the mind, body and soul; when I saw my spirit sail
A snail sailing on its own course and journey slowly but steady
Reflections and visions of the timeline of growth and fertility
A heart of one, the soul of all, the mind of many, a tongue in sums
The chandelier hanged on a ceiling, high, holding the flickering bulbs
A condense of energy, the modelled nature of a prognostic intervention
A laughter and synergy rests in the symphony of the unsung melodies
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 6:24 PM UTC
Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush
That overhung a molehill large and round,
I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush
Sing hymns to sunrise, and I drank the sound
With joy; and often, an intruding guest,
I watched her secret toil from day to day—
How true she warped the moss to form a nest,
And modelled it within with wood and clay;
And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with dew,
There lay her shining eggs, as bright as flowers,
Ink-spotted over shells of greeny blue;
And there I witnessed, in the sunny hours,
A brood of nature’s minstrels chirp and fly,
Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky.
2.4k
PYTHAGORAS planned it. Why did the people stare?
His numbers, though they moved or seemed to move
In marble or in bronze, lacked character.
But boys and girls, pale from the imagined love
Of solitary beds, knew what they were,
That passion could bring character enough,
And pressed at midnight in some public place
Live lips upon a plummet-measured face.
No! Greater than Pythagoras, for the men
That with a mallet or a chisel" modelled these
Calculations that look but casual flesh, put down
All Asiatic vague immensities,
And not the banks of oars that swam upon
The many-headed foam at Salamis.
Europe put off that foam when Phidias
Gave women dreams and dreams their looking-glass.
One image crossed the many-headed, sat
Under the tropic shade, grew round and slow,
No Hamlet thin from eating flies, a fat
Dreamer of the Middle Ages. Empty eyeballs knew
That knowledge increases unreality, that
Mirror on mirror mirrored is all the show.
When gong and conch declare the hour to bless
Grimalkin crawls to Buddha's emptiness.
When Pearse summoned Cuchulain to his side.
What stalked through the post Office? What intellect,
What calculation, number, measurement, replied?
We Irish, born into that ancient sect
But thrown upon this filthy modern tide
And by its formless spawning fury wrecked,
Climb to our proper dark, that we may trace
The lineaments of a plummet-measured face.
April 9,
2.3k
Those are Bullfinch’s eggs
Jane said
pointing at
the 5 eggs
in a nest
hidden in a hedge
and as she pointed
you imagined
that some god
modelled all female fingers
on that before you
how the nail was set
so perfectly
on the finger’s tip
the colour pinkish white
the skin almost blending in
we mustn’t disturb
she added
or the mother bird
will fly away
and not return
oh right
you said
gazing at the eggs
once her finger
had been removed
from the hedge
you studied
the pale blue eggs
speckled there
and sensed her presence
near your cheek
the lavender
that she wore
the way her hair dark
coming to her shoulders
was tied back
from her face
some collect them
Jane said
and pierce the top
and bottom
and blow through the contents
and have them on display
do they?
you said
seeing the sad expression
she wore
why is that?
you asked
she stood back
from the hedgerow
and looking at you
with her dark eyes
said
because they must have
they have to collect
what is there
for all to see
they must just have
for themselves alone
the May sun
was shining warm
and she took your hand
in hers and walked
you on along the lane
the small stream running
by the lane’s edge
her grey skirt
and white blouse
and white socks
giving her a plain look
but her eyes lit up
and she smiled again
and you wanted
at that moment
as she held your hand
for that hour
to be there forever
not to be lost
thinking you knew then
the depth of love
and not its loss
of that
and feeling sense
and not the cost.
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 3:17 AM UTC
God fashioned us with love and care,
HIS masterpiece.
HE chose a special bone that protects man's life,
The ribcage that protects the heart and lungs,
Man's heart, the centre of His being,
Man's lungs that hold the breadth of his life.
From the rib, HE lovingly and patiently shaped and modelled us.
Created us perfectly and beautifully,
Gave us the characteristics of the rib,
Strong, yet delicate and fragile.
HE chose well,
Not the bone from man's feet,
To be under him
Not the bone from the head,
To be above him,
But, from the bone beside him,
To be held close by his side,
And like the ribcage to protect and support him.
You are HIS perfect form,
HIS beloved Angel.
You are what Adam and man experience of HIM,
HIS holiness, strength,purity and love.
Man is HIS image,
You are HIS emotions,
Together man and woman are totality of HIM.
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 3:46 AM UTC
eighteen fifty industry,
men, women, children scarred,
ovens spewing sparks of death,
soulful welshmen charred.
greed of evolution,
marches on and treads,
upon the hungry townfolk,
that seldom see their beds.
ironmasters morals,
swilling in the smoke,
furnace fire bellows,
valley people choke.
ancestors bore hardship,
in days of horse and cart,
and modelled us to what we are....
welsh, proud, with homely hearts.
Feb 1, 2010
Feb 1, 2010 at 12:57 PM UTC
There was none of your itsy-bitsy, teenie-weenie bikinis at a fashion show of vintage swimwear in aid of the Cleveland Pools.
The costumes on show on the catwalk at Green Park Station were a much more modest affair, with a lot less flesh on view, and with some very interesting costumes which seemed to amuse the younger audience.
The Vintage Swimwear fashion show celebrated the last 200 years of bathing suits – the pools celebrate their 200th birthday next year.
Costumes from the last two centuries were modelled down the catwalk, with some interesting reactions from the audience, many of them design or fashion students from Bath Spa University.
It was a great turnout according to Sally Helvey from the Cleveland Pools Trust.
"We had a great night, and it really was great fun," she said.
There was a bar and barbecue hosted by Green Park Brasserie, and ice cream from a vintage Humphry van.
The audience also enjoyed a photography booth, and picture and video slideshows.
The Cleveland Pools is the only surviving Georgian Lido in the country, with a beautiful outdoor pool nestling in the back woods by the River Avon near the Bathwick estate.
But it is very derelict and will need millions spent on it before it can be re-opened again to the public. Last summer the trust received the welcome news the amenity is to be granted more than £4 million from the Heritage Lottery Fund, so plans are in place to have the pools restored and open for use again possibly as early as 2017.
A lot more funding needs to be raised to try and match the funds given by the HLF, and the fashion show, organised by Bath Spa student Jenny Brown, was just one of many events being organised over the summer.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 10:33 PM UTC
Sewn-up into not caring
Modelled dispassionate
Roused into fantasy;
This one time would be
different
Oh naive optimism
His sight grows absent from reality when
he sees her
Leaving me unconsidered
he trades grins with her
With no forewarning
he trails off to her
Consinging to oblivon my presence when
he's with her
Nothing assuredly matters when
he's conversing with her
I'll bid farewell
to those so called feelings
Friends can fracture your
Sole heart
If you keep confiding
You will bruise nonstop
So let me advice you this one time
Become cold as ice
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 11:08 AM UTC
Thumbing the pulse of the overkill
The backbeat to our times
Stunning the false with freewill
On the backseat of a lie
Standing alone with patience
Trying not to die
Modelled by the gracious
Overwhelmed and shy
Leased out to the highest bidder for stories based on truth, told by the newest stranger from the loneliest book, eased myself close to get a better view inside a room with no door or no windows too.
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 8:49 AM UTC
I do not want an old man God sat in a throne,
Judging from afar with sceptre and gold
riding on a cloud, sombre and haloed,
stern faced, woolly warm beard stroking,
Michelangelo-esque nighty clad, run of the mill deity.
I do not want a Sunday morning liturgy reference God,
inhabiting musty buildings, documented within dusty books, out dated, out rated, out of duty once a week
(twice if you include the mid-week bible study),
appeasing a sick relative, reluctant, habit God.
I do not want a jolly nodding head back shelf of the car job, kitsch icon, only when it suits me, pocket amenity,
fashion accessory, hobby gimmick God; a God modelled
from routine and agenda and TV evangelism, a convenience style digestible man made allusion.
I don’t want a controlling egomaniac parent God, bent on
setting us unattainable goals and tasks then throwing
a tantrum when the model train set breaks; or a God
who is distant, self-righteous, passive and out of touch,
an elusive, reclusive, exclusive God,
I want an ‘I Am who I Am’ God, whose boundaries are so
immense that to trace them would destroy you. A God
who is completely indefinable, that every brushstroke
put to canvas, every conceivable melody whistled, that
every imaginable word uttered, would barely compare.
I want a God who to stand before would burn my eyes out, make my heart explode; that I would be totally devastated. Yet, a God who is approachable and approaches, a God who is in the here and now, surrounding, dumbfounding, astounding, a God with promise and hope you can taste.
A God who breaks all the boundaries and exceeds every
human expectation and limitation, a God who hears and feels every longing, every desire and creates opportunity,
empowering the heart that cries out, stilling the soul when it aches, a God of promise and hope and deliverance.
I want a God unlike any parent, friend, lover, sovereign, reckless in compassion and filthy with goodness, available and ever there. So dangerously loving, so excessively wise and firm, yet tender, knowing, emotive, compassionate, A God who takes my grief. A God asking to be found and worth being sought.
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 8:28 AM UTC
Knees aching climbing the hill,
gras patches, soft landings
among sandstone islands,
dreaming cold clime exploring.
Shoe gripping rocks
of concreted fossils,
weighing on times remains
- triassic scales.
My multiplexed cells,
morphed versions of those
modelled in the strata.
Not master of all I see.
Not master of me.
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 2:09 PM UTC
*don't do it, it's modelled like speed-dating, i've been to one of those horrid Loserville events and it wasn't pretty - please don't get ****** into this vortex where you reveal everything about yourself, what music you like, what films... you're just showing me everything i'm not supposed to know before i even meet you, it creates a complete and utter lack of conversation... all the fun stuff to talk about comes flying out of the window... all the good stuff, all the DVDs and CDs and books in a suitcase... and all that's left in the house is your ***** laundry... and on dates all you end up talking about (crucially) are your ****** problems!*
it just got me thinking about prostate cancer
and how they shove a thumb up your ***
to see if your prostate glad still has a hard-on;
the western illusion of "not enough time",
not enough time to speak about music, films and books?
i guess the new thing is psychology and how
many diagnoses you can think of,
a symptom of a: not taking interest in philosophy beyond
quotations, maxim, toothpicks instead of pine trees.
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 8:51 PM UTC
relationship
precious, trust
intimate, daily, modelled
Mother and Daughter, first to sacrifice
life, flesh, protects
eternal, hope
love
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 12:36 AM UTC
Paper friend.
You flew away on the breeze.
Once that scribe, wrote loving words.
Deep into flaking bark.
Bark stripped off in preparation.
For serious pulping.
For silent he became.
Once was awesome.
When on the grass, we laid and held.
Where, so tenderly curled in luxury.
Needing nothing, no other than the other one.
Beneath primeval oak.
As a pair of skylarks, we played in the park.
Spirits of trees, dissected and pulped.
Re-modelled, created as love letters.
Perhaps, maybe a book.
Or maybe made a plane of paper, just so you could fly away.
By ladylivvi1
© 2014 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 4:05 PM UTC
They're counting scarecrows in moonlight
across the arid fields.
Men smoke cigarettes found in jackets
they've not worn in twenty-two years.
They're talking about Old Wisdom Street
and of getting into clubs.
Women are researching old lovers
they've not spoken to in years.
They're praying for the friends now gone
across time's limited field.
Children dress up as the Israelites
they've modelled in early years.
They're raising glasses to toast the present
and the fable of the past.
I have begun to listen to the lessons
they've not taught me for several years.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 10:24 PM UTC
She looked on with sorrow
With her deep brown eyes
Appearing so emotional
While acting contented
Her face showed imperious expressions
But she controlled her movements
As she modelled past me.
My scent had poisoned many souls
She contained it hurtfully
I stabbed her thoughts daily
As she frooze my eyes
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 2:53 AM UTC
a man of my esteem can digest direct violence than witty violence known as ridicule / the sorrow grows bigger when the sorrow’s denied (pearl jam).
so be it... unless i be irish and my use of english be celtic,
then i trully am raw potato with raw cabbage
with lettuce and raw tomato speaking through my ****
so be it... i’ll concentrate all the world’s republicanism
on the democracy of england and see england and those it
deems kin to export democracy elsewhere -
reduce old age to dementia rather than wisdom - to be forfeit;
what can i learn from you old man?
fucky fucky sucky sucky retirement is grand?
it took an old man to define the failures of democracy...
it will take a youth to define the failures of republicanism...
one by one... that thing on the cross digesting its kidneys
is in no way the in-between.
*each abhores his father, but each returns to his father
for guidance akin to a compass in defining the definition
of what's north from sun, and east from the moon,
so if friendships only provide conversation
as means of exchange, a fox provides more to man
than man unto man...
because it provides the sort of conversation
that prompts thought...
and man without woman converses with thought
rather than the obedience for a continuum
that woman is modelled on...
man's guardian, man's womb without woman
that is thought is what abides to philosophise...
but philosophy is a bad joke in england these days...
hence the convenient safeguard of darwinism
and american politics to simply provide the nodding
for the first oscar of mexican wave build-up of un-originality:
easily philosophise only reading psychiatric
books or logistics of a missing soul with an engaged
logic of 2 + 2, as the english intelligentsia is prone to excuse
when it uses it... why practice psychiatry when
you have not read a single book of philosophy, why, english psychiatry?*
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 10:16 PM UTC
How Serious should be for this Wonder at
That very same Point locked kisses to the Wall
Whilst these Incarnations modelled Months that
Must never Surprise your Mum's Eye to befall
Why bother? If with Pheromones invite
White Hags and Chicken-Hawks apart from Dames
Should you most Expect to be Drawn in-spite
Your Needed Economy must Split these Pains
Fair you'll accept then our own Business be
Then Hammer these Virtues misinterpret
To ******* bleed as Dodgy Stones flee
Even by Distance un-mind to beget.
Just my Point. To which all such Points deranged
Your Judgment approved; And Verdicts arraigned.
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 3:02 AM UTC
I'm taking in the world bit by bit:
The smell of grass after a shower,
The clouds in the sky floating away with my thoughts, my hopes, my fears
The sound of laughter pouring into my ears as I feel Nature's light on me
I'm taking in the world bit by bit:
The trees I want to climb
And the hills I want to roll down
The crickets in the night giving me a background music I want to dance to
I piece my world together bit by bit
With the Sounds of Nature
And the Lyrical Lines of Myles
And I see you:
An amalgam of the things I know
A symphony modelled after my own tiny orchestra
A pot-pourri of the scents I keep hidden away
I invent this world you've given me the keys to:
The smell of your skin after a shower
The clouds in your eyes as you speak about your ‘tough childhood’
The sound of your laughter pouring into my ears
And tickling the fabric of my soul
I invent this world where we exist
This world where we are infinite
This world where there are no eyes on the walls
And no ears on the doors
No dismembered limbs
Pointing
And no disenchanted mouths
Judging
I invent this time-less space
This boundless place
We can watch the sun rise
And write a rule book
We can talk for hours, days, or maybe minutes –
We’ll never run out of
Words or time
We can walk,
Endlessly explore
The abysses of our world
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 5:20 PM UTC
Hot Durban nights.
Naked in the pool.
The Blue Waters.
Ebbing.
Next door, my grandfather tried to hold on to. His wife. Thirsty for oxygen. As I slide off the tilting roof, holding its water as it cast me off.
Into the nearby sea.
You muffled my coughs. The taste of Vicks still won't leave my mouth. But it's one of my fondest memories.
(By the bar where the Rwandan directors smoked dope.
Late night discussions the foolish call art.)
You, me and &*^%.
Your tattoos and little *******
I thought were perfect.
Modelled after martinis we'd never drink.
(My broken phone kept calling Kote.
Kote panicked with this unknown.
Suspicious of coups.)
The hand cloth towel slipped off your body.
The pool water dripping onto the sheets.
(Our saviour in the township on that night we tempted fate, re-enacting rapes, the terrifying 12 left us, and her girlfriend tried to kiss me, alone in the car)
You walked into my hotel room.
Fourth floor.
You took the bible from the draw.
Fourth floor.
You threw it with a flick.
Fourth floor.
Then you ****** my
Fourth floor
And I fell
Fourth floor
asleep.
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 1:33 AM UTC