Come queen of months in company
Wi all thy merry minstrelsy
The restless cuckoo absent long
And twittering swallows chimney song
And hedge row crickets notes that run
From every bank that fronts the sun
And swathy bees about the grass
That stops wi every bloom they pass
And every minute every hour
Keep teazing weeds that wear a flower
And toil and childhoods humming joys
For there is music in the noise
The village childern mad for sport
In school times leisure ever short
That crick and catch the bouncing ball
And run along the church yard wall
Capt wi rude figured slabs whose claims
In times bad memory hath no names
Oft racing round the nookey church
Or calling ecchos in the porch
And jilting oer the weather ****
Viewing wi jealous eyes the clock
Oft leaping grave stones leaning hights
Uncheckt wi mellancholy sights
The green grass swelld in many a heap
Where kin and friends and parents sleep
Unthinking in their jovial cry
That time shall come when they shall lye
As lowly and as still as they
While other boys above them play
Heedless as they do now to know
The unconcious dust that lies below
The shepherd goes wi happy stride
Wi moms long shadow by his side
Down the dryd lanes neath blooming may
That once was over shoes in clay
While martins twitter neath his eves
Which he at early morning leaves
The driving boy beside his team
Will oer the may month beauty dream
And **** his hat and turn his eye
On flower and tree and deepning skye
And oft bursts loud in fits of song
And whistles as he reels along
Cracking his whip in starts of joy
A happy ***** driving boy
The youth who leaves his corner stool
Betimes for neighbouring village school
While as a mark to urge him right
The church spires all the way in sight
Wi cheerings from his parents given
Starts neath the joyous smiles of heaven
And sawns wi many an idle stand
Wi bookbag swinging in his hand
And gazes as he passes bye
On every thing that meets his eye
Young lambs seem tempting him to play
Dancing and bleating in his way
Wi trembling tails and pointed ears
They follow him and loose their fears
He smiles upon their sunny faces
And feign woud join their happy races
The birds that sing on bush and tree
Seem chirping for his company
And all in fancys idle whim
Seem keeping holiday but him
He lolls upon each resting stile
To see the fields so sweetly smile
To see the wheat grow green and long
And list the weeders toiling song
Or short note of the changing thrush
Above him in the white thorn bush
That oer the leaning stile bends low
Loaded wi mockery of snow
Mozzld wi many a lushing thread
Of crab tree blossoms delicate red
He often bends wi many a wish
Oer the brig rail to view the fish
Go sturting by in sunny gleams
And chucks in the eye dazzld streams
Crumbs from his pocket oft to watch
The swarming struttle come to catch
Them where they to the bottom sile
Sighing in fancys joy the while
Hes cautiond not to stand so nigh
By rosey milkmaid tripping bye
Where he admires wi fond delight
And longs to be there mute till night
He often ventures thro the day
At truant now and then to play
Rambling about the field and plain
Seeking larks nests in the grain
And picking flowers and boughs of may
To hurd awhile and throw away
Lurking neath bushes from the sight
Of tell tale eyes till schools noon night
Listing each hour for church clocks hum
To know the hour to wander home
That parents may not think him long
Nor dream of his rude doing wrong
Dreading thro the night wi dreaming pain
To meet his masters wand again
Each hedge is loaded thick wi green
And where the hedger late hath been
Tender shoots begin to grow
From the mossy stumps below
While sheep and cow that teaze the grain
will nip them to the root again
They lay their bill and mittens bye
And on to other labours hie
While wood men still on spring intrudes
And thins the shadow solitudes
Wi sharpend axes felling down
The oak trees budding into brown
Where as they crash upon the ground
A crowd of labourers gather round
And mix among the shadows dark
To rip the crackling staining bark
From off the tree and lay when done
The rolls in lares to meet the sun
Depriving yearly where they come
The green wood pecker of its home
That early in the spring began
Far from the sight of troubling man
And bord their round holes in each tree
In fancys sweet security
Till startld wi the woodmans noise
It wakes from all its dreaming joys
The blue bells too that thickly bloom
Where man was never feared to come
And smell smocks that from view retires
**** rustling leaves and bowing briars
And stooping lilys of the valley
That comes wi shades and dews to dally
White beady drops on slender threads
Wi broad hood leaves above their heads
Like white robd maids in summer hours
Neath umberellas shunning showers
These neath the barkmens crushing treads
Oft perish in their blooming beds
Thus stript of boughs and bark in white
Their trunks shine in the mellow light
Beneath the green surviving trees
That wave above them in the breeze
And waking whispers slowly bends
As if they mournd their fallen friends
Each morning now the weeders meet
To cut the thistle from the wheat
And ruin in the sunny hours
Full many wild weeds of their flowers
Corn poppys that in crimson dwell
Calld ‘head achs’ from their sickly smell
And carlock yellow as the sun
That oer the may fields thickly run
And ‘iron ****’ content to share
The meanest spot that spring can spare
Een roads where danger hourly comes
Is not wi out its purple blooms
And leaves wi points like thistles round
Thickset that have no strength to wound
That shrink to childhoods eager hold
Like hair—and with its eye of gold
And scarlet starry points of flowers
Pimpernel dreading nights and showers
Oft calld ‘the shepherds weather glass’
That sleep till suns have dyd the grass
Then wakes and spreads its creeping bloom
Till clouds or threatning shadows come
Then close it shuts to sleep again
Which weeders see and talk of rain
And boys that mark them shut so soon
will call them ‘John go bed at noon
And fumitory too a name
That superstition holds to fame
Whose red and purple mottled flowers
Are cropt by maids in weeding hours
To boil in water milk and way1
For washes on an holiday
To make their beauty fair and sleak
And scour the tan from summers cheek
And simple small forget me not
Eyd wi a pinshead yellow spot
I’th’ middle of its tender blue
That gains from poets notice due
These flowers the toil by crowds destroys
And robs them of their lowly joys
That met the may wi hopes as sweet
As those her suns in gardens meet
And oft the dame will feel inclind
As childhoods memory comes to mind
To turn her hook away and spare
The blooms it lovd to gather there
My wild field catalogue of flowers
Grows in my ryhmes as thick as showers
Tedious and long as they may be
To some, they never weary me
The wood and mead and field of grain
I coud hunt oer and oer again
And talk to every blossom wild
Fond as a parent to a child
And cull them in my childish joy
By swarms and swarms and never cloy
When their lank shades oer morning pearls
Shrink from their lengths to little girls
And like the clock hand pointing one
Is turnd and tells the morning gone
They leave their toils for dinners hour
Beneath some hedges bramble bower
And season sweet their savory meals
Wi joke and tale and merry peals
Of ancient tunes from happy tongues
While linnets join their fitful songs
Perchd oer their heads in frolic play
Among the tufts of motling may
The young girls whisper things of love
And from the old dames hearing move
Oft making ‘love knotts’ in the shade
Of blue green oat or wheaten blade
And trying simple charms and spells
That rural superstition tells
They pull the little blossom threads
From out the knapweeds button heads
And put the husk wi many a smile
In their white bosoms for awhile
Who if they guess aright the swain
That loves sweet fancys trys to gain
Tis said that ere its lain an hour
Twill blossom wi a second flower
And from her white ******* hankerchief
Bloom as they ne’er had lost a leaf
When signs appear that token wet
As they are neath the bushes met
The girls are glad wi hopes of play
And harping of the holiday
A hugh blue bird will often swim
Along the wheat when skys grow dim
Wi clouds—slow as the gales of spring
In motion wi dark shadowd wing
Beneath the coming storm it sails
And lonly chirps the wheat hid quails
That came to live wi spring again
And start when summer browns the grain
They start the young girls joys afloat
Wi ‘wet my foot’ its yearly note
So fancy doth the sound explain
And proves it oft a sign of rain
About the moor ‘**** sheep and cow
The boy or old man wanders now
Hunting all day wi hopful pace
Each thick sown rushy thistly place
For plover eggs while oer them flye
The fearful birds wi teazing cry
Trying to lead their steps astray
And coying him another way
And be the weather chill or warm
Wi brown hats truckd beneath his arm
Holding each prize their search has won
They plod bare headed to the sun
Now dames oft bustle from their wheels
Wi childern scampering at their heels
To watch the bees that hang and swive
In clumps about each thronging hive
And flit and thicken in the light
While the old dame enjoys the sight
And raps the while their warming pans
A spell that superstition plans
To coax them in the garden bounds
As if they lovd the tinkling sounds
And oft one hears the dinning noise
Which dames believe each swarm decoys
Around each village day by day
Mingling in the warmth of may
Sweet scented herbs her skill contrives
To rub the bramble platted hives
Fennels thread leaves and crimpld balm
To scent the new house of the swarm
The thresher dull as winter days
And lost to all that spring displays
Still mid his barn dust forcd to stand
Swings his frail round wi weary hand
While oer his head shades thickly creep
And hides the blinking owl asleep
And bats in cobweb corners bred
Sharing till night their murky bed
The sunshine trickles on the floor
Thro every crevice of the door
And makes his barn where shadows dwell
As irksome as a prisoners cell
And as he seeks his daily meal
As schoolboys from their tasks will steal
ile often stands in fond delay
To see the daisy in his way
And wild weeds flowering on the wall
That will his childish sports recall
Of all the joys that came wi spring
The twirling top the marble ring
The gingling halfpence hussld up
At pitch and toss the eager stoop
To pick up heads, the smuggeld plays
Neath hovels upon sabbath days
When parson he is safe from view
And clerk sings amen in his pew
The sitting down when school was oer
Upon the threshold by his door
Picking from mallows sport to please
Each crumpld seed he calld a cheese
And hunting from the stackyard sod
The stinking hen banes belted pod
By youths vain fancys sweetly fed
Christning them his loaves of bread
He sees while rocking down the street
Wi weary hands and crimpling feet
Young childern at the self same games
And hears the self same simple names
Still floating on each happy tongue
Touchd wi the simple scene so strong
Tears almost start and many a sigh
Regrets the happiness gone bye
And in sweet natures holiday
His heart is sad while all is gay
How lovly now are lanes and balks
For toils and lovers sunday walks
The daisey and the buttercup
For which the laughing childern stoop
A hundred times throughout the day
In their rude ramping summer play
So thickly now the pasture crowds
In gold and silver sheeted clouds
As if the drops in april showers
Had woo’d the sun and swoond to flowers
The brook resumes its summer dresses
Purling neath grass and water cresses
And mint and flag leaf swording high
Their blooms to the unheeding eye
And taper bowbent hanging rushes
And horse tail childerns bottle brushes
And summer tracks about its brink
Is fresh again where cattle drink
And on its sunny bank the swain
Stretches his idle length again
Soon as the sun forgets the day
The moon looks down on the lovly may
And the little star his friend and guide
Travelling together side by side
And the seven stars and charleses wain
Hangs smiling oer green woods agen
The heaven rekindles all alive
Wi light the may bees round the hive
Swarm not so thick in mornings eye
As stars do in the evening skye
All all are nestling in their joys
The flowers and birds and pasture boys
The firetail, long a stranger, comes
To his last summer haunts and homes
To hollow tree and crevisd wall
And in the grass the rails odd call
That featherd spirit stops the swain
To listen to his note again
And school boy still in vain retraces
The secrets of his hiding places
In the black thorns crowded copse
Thro its varied turns and stops
The nightingale its ditty weaves
Hid in a multitude of leaves
The boy stops short to hear the strain
And ’sweet jug jug’ he mocks again
The yellow hammer builds its nest
By banks where sun beams earliest rest
That drys the dews from off the grass
Shading it from all that pass
Save the rude boy wi ferret gaze
That hunts thro evry secret maze
He finds its pencild eggs agen
All streakd wi lines as if a pen
By natures freakish hand was took
To scrawl them over like a book
And from these many mozzling marks
The school boy names them ‘writing larks’
*** barrels twit on bush and tree
Scarse bigger then a bumble bee
And in a white thorns leafy rest
It builds its curious pudding-nest
Wi hole beside as if a mouse
Had built the little barrel house
Toiling full many a lining feather
And bits of grey tree moss together
Amid the noisey rooky park
Beneath the firdales branches dark
The little golden crested wren
Hangs up his glowing nest agen
And sticks it to the furry leaves
As martins theirs beneath the eaves
The old hens leave the roost betimes
And oer the garden pailing climbs
To scrat the gardens fresh turnd soil
And if unwatchd his crops to spoil
Oft cackling from the prison yard
To peck about the houseclose sward
Catching at butterflys and things
Ere they have time to try their wings
The cattle feels the breath of may
And kick and toss their heads in play
The *** beneath his bags of sand
Oft jerks the string from leaders hand
And on the road will eager stoop
To pick the sprouting thistle up
Oft answering on his weary way
Some distant neighbours sobbing bray
Dining the ears of driving boy
As if he felt a fit of joy
Wi in its pinfold circle left
Of all its company bereft
Starvd stock no longer noising round
Lone in the nooks of foddering ground
Each skeleton of lingering stack
By winters tempests beaten black
Nodds upon props or bolt upright
Stands swarthy in the summer light
And oer the green grass seems to lower
Like stump of old time wasted tower
All that in winter lookd for hay
Spread from their batterd haunts away
To pick the grass or lye at lare
Beneath the mild hedge shadows there
Sweet month that gives a welcome call
To toil and nature and to all
Yet one day mid thy many joys
Is dead to all its sport and noise
Old may day where’s thy glorys gone
All fled and left thee every one
Thou comst to thy old haunts and homes
Unnoticd as a stranger comes
No flowers are pluckt to hail the now
Nor cotter seeks a single bough
The maids no more on thy sweet morn
Awake their thresholds to adorn
Wi dewey flowers—May locks new come
And princifeathers cluttering bloom
And blue bells from the woodland moss
And cowslip cucking ***** to toss
Above the garlands swinging hight
Hang in the soft eves sober light
These maid and child did yearly pull
By many a folded apron full
But all is past the merry song
Of maidens hurrying along
To crown at eve the earliest cow
Is gone and dead and silent now
The laugh raisd at the mocking thorn
Tyd to the cows tail last that morn
The kerchief at arms length displayd
Held up by pairs of swain and maid
While others bolted underneath
Bawling loud wi panting breath
‘Duck under water’ as they ran
Alls ended as they ne’er began
While the new thing that took thy place
Wears faded smiles upon its face
And where enclosure has its birth
It spreads a mildew oer her mirth
The herd no longer one by one
Goes plodding on her morning way
And garlands lost and sports nigh gone
Leaves her like thee a common day
Yet summer smiles upon thee still
Wi natures sweet unalterd will
And at thy births unworshipd hours
Fills her green lap wi swarms of flowers
To crown thee still as thou hast been
Of spring and summer months the queen

seldoms rests

rarely is at peace.

my soul hardly ever sleeps.

But...

when it's quiet; I dream.

when it's noisey; I scream!

Dramatic in action.
Crossing up what & when to possibly define why.
Why must I be so captivated in the understanding of this silence?
When did this silence take over the noisey out bursts of how?
Just that my mind races as if it was going against the speed of light.
Taking off into a distance with thoughts clouding my brain.
Yet I feel as if I'm mute.
Can't say much..
Can't say much at all.
Silence on the outside while a hurricane of words flood my inside.
Just only if I cut open.  If I just bleed out then maybe the syllables & metaphors that only I understand will be released for others to grasp .
If only it was that simple.
Yet I stare off in crowded rooms as words start rhyming.
Conversations turn into poetic horizons.
Love, heart break & rumors start to fill every inch I am clothed in.
I want someone to understand the poets curse.
Yet I sit in silence acting as if I'm listening to the words but they go unheard because my beating heart repeats this destruction of words that took hold of my tongue.
Mentally distracted. Frustrated a bit Frustrated.
Oh god do I wish this silence turned into yells of rhythmic freedom so this poetic jail gave me just a tad more leisure..

I get to look at self, through messages you conveyed
A higher meaning that resonates with each song played
So I would like to take this opportunity to give thanks
Before I walk the plank to take another dip in this think tank

Okay.

When I was just a little me I noticed those around living unhappily.
It was something I knew I never wanted to be
But now I sit, blindsided by my misery
Drearily demeaning, cigarette breathing
Heating up the glass til it cracks
With no admittance, cuz that requires taking off the mask.
Haphazardly grappling, maybe it's better to be bashing the image
Livin with a grimace, wondering how long until this timeline is finished.
Dinner was delicious but I'm sick of eating the dead.
Makes you wonder how that haunted biology ***** with your head.
Quit my job, and now I rarely leave the house.  Quiet as a mouse until ego decides to come around.  No verbal notions but words bounce off my skull.  How did I decide to let my light get this dull?  The reservoir is full, but the pollutants keep it from being used.
Much like a body that's been abused and refuses to stand despite having the chance.
A delicate dance between what's real and what's not.  You behavior can directly grow or shrink blood clots.  Lost the plot in a Milwaukee pothole, only realized now I had forgotten.  Healthy seeds were dropped
But I stopped taking care of self and grew some tainted crops.  Just wanna talk to pops, and other like minds that will cry realizing their own props to the stage subconsciously set.  Blessed to have made it to this point, but on the opposite side of the coin we're closer to death.  Cousin of sleep cousin of sleep, haven't found any happiness even inside my dreams.  Inaudible screams, beam into my brain.  The house has been extra noisey lately that or I'm going insane.  I fear not.
Forward into the unknown
We'll find home even if we go it alone.
So long as you remember you're more than your bones.
"Do you feel better now?"
I don't know

God felt pity on what had came of Adam and Eve
So he created Aapo and blessed him with the goddess Ece

Many nights and many days the lovers ruled over the land
But Aapo was weak to temptations and got killed by a siren

So Ece was left on her own, her heart was turning to stone
Because the lovers that came next , all kept on doing her wrong

Damian was too obsessed with getting under her dress
She still remember being deflowered then left with a ****** mess

****** was a little too rough , left her with bruises and scuffs
She use to love to smile but now she just don't smile enough

Lastly Camillio was her piece of joy but with her heart he would toy
Then one noisey night she found him in bed with a boy

Beautiful Ece you queen, the world has been doing you mean
Your way too precious for us, so she made her own death nice and clean

I wouldn't call it suicide cause the world killed her first
Its our fault our goddess is gone and now is covered in dirt

Farewell now, peaceful dales, farewell to
Familliar hilltops that I call to
Farwell, familliar wood nearby,
Farwell, the beauty of the sky,
Farewell, glad nature that I cherish;
I am exchanging my dear peace
For noisey, glittering vanities...
Farewell my freedom that must persih!
Whither and wherefore do I strive?
What can I hope for in this life?

the television is a haze of
grey black white
and it's TOO ******* LOUD

oh.

how peculiar,
the tv wasn't plugged in the
whole
****
time

must be the silence screaming
again
must be the hallucinations
again

i long for tranquility

Into the past
Finding a place on a street
       with phone booths
Cell phones yet invented
         and many buildings
                with diversity
Created out of finacial necessity
Not by a forced "WOKE"agenda
We were all free to speak
Just a past memory today
           canceled by the ruthless elite
I walked unjudged and free
Finding the building with the fire escape
             as frontage
Where a dog seeks refuge upon
Only to squat and defecate
             onto the sidewaik below
Marking the address of a friend
              and his wife
Through a unlocked broken door
Up a noisey set of stairs
Through a heavly locked apartment door
I am greeted by my friend and his cats
The cats have thier places
In various locations
             with defications
Their box has not been emtied in weeks
All leaving a bitting odor
In sea of clutter
Known as chaos
In a unkept human presence
Yet we sit
In a confined human space
Speaking on numerous subjects
He has left his govenment job
Benefits and all
To become a writer
But, also a promoter of punk bands
               to pay for this exsistance
In this place and time
To end up about my poetry
As his wife looks on
In a attentive blank stare
Her ******* are huge
Intact
No restrictions
In a ******* T shirt
We are young
Leaving me to wonder
Is it my friend
Or his wife I come to visit?
I concude that I am a ******
Not a poet
In this time and place
He  hands me a pen and paper
Encouraging me to write poetry
I write with puff and beer in hand
As cover for my alternative motive
I write distracted by her
Fulfilling my friends desire
To obtain and pocess
What I write
Never to be seen by me again
But,possibly heard somewhere
In a punk rant

My world is words
My pen my ears

And all I want right now
Is to hear

You
And you alone

All other noisey words can go
Back into their never homes

Alone

Indulge me please

Of the most, many drink a life away in hopes of finding yourself at the bottom of the cup
To living life in a Man's straight manner but the mind is trailing upside down and left out in the dump.

Taking pills and potions to **** empty pains
Alas, I'm left with messy sheets to sleep with on a bed with all my ***** stains.

Lord Almighty, hoping he don't take me out too soon
Crying in the arms of my own self. Feelings felt like a fictional character of the children's cartoon.

Praying to you that you stay, that my heart wouldn't be lost to I in the troubles of a sometimes lost world.
Gripping on the rusty keys of my heart. Often sicken by a constant sin of my regrets to unfold.
Jesus knows of how my sins he bore on the dead ****** tree could hold so much weight
Often if given the chance I would quickly rely on this world's Grace.

But that could never be enough. For this world's desires couldn't hold you for long in the comfort of loving arms,
But rather play with your mind and   body quickly by the strums and noisey drums.

Still tried to disconnect from people and all care
But the places I would end up to be I would find nothing out there.

Now at such a place I found myself to be,
then for an empty man like I had to search in the deeps of himself to find of what would make him free.
To then humble yourself by your wordy lip
Ending up in a fight wrestling with God. Having a bone pop straight out from the hip.

But I had to come to place where I made a switch up from eating too much of the dirt the world would feed.
To dig deep enough in a once cold heart to plant a new seed.

Now such a seed would grow deeper by the roots of a Tree to my Heart
And no man of this world would dare to think they have the sharpest tool to cut such a Tree apart.

So as I water the tree of my heart to the hopes of it growing tall and well,
Watch of the fruits of my labours for the many stories of my own children to tell.

This to the Tree of my Heart...

When the police don't answer
My calls maybe they don't deserve my tax dollars at all
I shouldn't have a problem
going to sleep
Why report noisey neighbors
If NYC cops gonna ignore me
I'm paying rent to a Landlord
That doesn't give a crap about
my complaints
As long as I pay the rent
They don't have to care about my
well being
To be honest I pray that our Governor orders this building
to get shut down
I pray that a government authority
will investigate this building
That allows this building to
make noise not caring how loud