"olde" poems
Rolling a Pall Mall in the courtyard,
of Ye Olde Swiss Cottage Tavern,
in the last of November's sun:
Lovely sunlight,
You are,
Filling me warmly with joy.
Thinking of our desires,
from summer and autumn months,
up to this bright November morning,
we have happily danced,
e'en in the shadows.
Above me two brick turrets,
as I dreamily smoke,
nonchalantly state: 'Underground'.
High-raised logos winking at our play,
struck through with horizontal blue,
in a circle of enamel white.
'Old Fool,' the towers hiss,
directed at my mortal sensibilities,
'winter has come!'
But nothing buries us
as our sun still comfortingly kindles
a friendly star
which when all is dark,
glows inside,
guiding the shipwreck of my sunken years
- the debts and all those unpaid thrills!
Dreaming and Loving,
as children out,
lost in an abundant *****
each holding off for as long as we dare,
lovers unmasked,
naked before suffocating paternity,
and cold winter's bite!
where to we hardly know,
to avoid its cruel embrace.
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 4:16 AM UTC
Doctor Ponsonby’s Patented Empowering Electrical Rosary
*This ilke Monk leet olde thynges pace,
And heeld after the newe world the space.*
Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales
How out of date are simple wooden beads
An upgrade is what the Rosary needs!
Something to give your meditations spice
Connected to your electronic device
Beamed back and forth to The Cloud, you see
With mega-mega gigs of memory
Doctor Ponsonby’s Patented Empowering
Electrical Rosary is just the thing!
The Ave Maria is so out of date
It’s Ave ME now, ‘cause we’re all so great!
Make your prayers less about God, more about you
Signal yourself through sacred Tooth of Blue
A camera hidden in the crucifix
Enables you to take your selfie-flicks
The Pater beads count each joggery mile
Or kilometres if those are your style
The Ave beads are recycled with care
To save the forests, the rivers, and air
Designed in Germany, made in China
High-definition beads; there’s nothing finer
Buy the first (as advertised on tv)
And we’ll send you a second all for free
Remember: for weddings, funerals, and daily devotions
Let RAM and ROM go through all the motions
Doctor Ponsonby’s Patented Empowering
Electrical Rosary – O make it sing!
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 7:24 AM UTC
*spread it on thick
on my bread and biscuit
lots of peanut butter
twice as thick
as grandma’s
makeup cake on her face*
peanut butter
more than tar on the road
peanut butter
with my naan and my rice
lay it on the noodles
and peanut butter with tofu
don’t forget a dollop
with the curry too
good pasta and pizzas
become better
soaked in peanut butter
Ye Olde English Sandwich
flames like a dragon
fixed with half a bottle
of the New World Inca paste
*spread it on thick
on my bread and biscuit
lots of peanut butter
twice as thick
as grandma’s
makeup cake on her face*
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 5:10 AM UTC
This is america.
It's a one of a kind.
You can buy **** at the store.
You can bide your time.
Voting red or blue.
Is a favorite pastime.
Doesn't really matter which side you choose.
Like it doesn't matter if a poem will rhyme.
Hell you could write freestyle poetry about nothing
and that's accepted.
Cuz this is america and you're free to be an idiot. Inspected. Suspected.
Slot machines and credit cards
Stop lights and go-go bars
Social security and national debt
Red white and blue baby
We're the best!
Patriots of olde
and punks of New.
World Order abound
The olde ways are through!
By and by
Time after time
Woe are to those
With woman and child.
Times is tuff says the country station
but be the 5th caller
to win this Ozark vacation.
Skoal and Miller High Life 40s.
Marlboro Reds, rap music and shorties.
Sorry shawties but midgets are better.
What's more profound
than talkin bout the weather?
I forgot the original point
that I wanted to share with ya
but **** it, you know what I mean?
This is america.
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 10:38 PM UTC
Although the experience of trauma is a certain force with which to be reckoned, one can frame its power within the realms of a problem or a possibility.
Consider the bond of brickwork in Massachusetts, as it resembles structures of olde, where the witch trials were an extension of ******* Catholicism.
Please acknowledge that there is lead in the windows of rickety black-and-white buildings of Tudor establishment, which must remain if its integrity is to be preserved.
It truly is a long way to the top of Australasian rebellion.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 11:52 PM UTC
ripe fruit unconfined to the width of fruit
frightfully absent-minded of it's metaphor
burgeoning with sweet to burst-
...’The slowest devastation of a perfect sphere.
Bloated in the sun
at the peak of yes
a trifle to a god; and everything He meant.
the raw sub conscience of Love Itself.
Forest olde and valley wide
heeps of time upon time in a bramble of lush
vast with green enough to burst
...the joyous vegetation of a perfect world.
Garrulous in the sun
at the peak of yes
a testament to god at His first attempt.
the sheerest genius of Love
Thyself.
Sep 20, 2011
Sep 20, 2011 at 5:40 PM UTC
Among trees i rest
and wander through
scriptures of olde
pouring over ancient
words of grace and peace
of love and compassion
where can this be found
outside my leather bound
at a green picnic bench
i read and marvel at
the words of Peter and Paul
two thousand years removed
in my semi-secluded sanctuary
just off the bike path
among trees i rest
and wander through
the works of Ezra Pound
language beautifully poetic
but nothing is found
to my liking except
of course
a line or two scattered
with no anchor
that is how my
mind rolls you see
gathering bits of inspiration
followed by digestion
which gives birth
to a renewing of my
mind and soul
refreshing as i ride
my bicycle down
the path of enlightenment
aided by the words of
poets, prophets, and priests
culminating in fervent
meditation
among trees i rest
and wander
Aug 9, 2012
Aug 9, 2012 at 3:22 PM UTC
Genau, enow, enough
after the confusion,
we all could make a sound, okeh,
yeah
and we still
knew a shaken head or hand or fist
had meaning beyond words and noise
my words, their noise, barbarians all, but my
loved ones, still,
my nana Even , none could say a meaningful word
Ah, papa Eber, eber he be waving sayin'
Shhhhlome. wow. a word, I was
re connected re tied re ligamented re tendoned
re nerved re *****
re bled
re breathed
inspire me, expire me, think me immaterial, no mattah
nomattatall we stick together, gone bealright
begrudge me not a bit o'livit ity, a st-utter here'n'there
words, in wars, we always win. We are war's
raison d'etre, as they say, its
rational grounds for existence, its
excuse for being.
words are the instigators, provocateurs
no wordless insult results in war,
words are needed,
otherwise
fugitabowdit, how long? Seven times? 490 times?
no,
once, each time, no more.
enoughs the evil enoughs enow.
the weapons of our warfare, how can I say,
watch
we see salient leapers trampling the vintage, seeping
from the heel wound in the beguiler's head.
That's results.
Angels sing and dance, they never tremble in the night,
the hope we never lost,
we just forgot, they remember as if it were the same,
yes, today, forever
they whisper,
go on,
there's more to living than meets the eye.
enough has always had a plural, ask Sam Johnson.
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 6:07 PM UTC
will the French
please stop stealing words
from Pretty Olde English?
we can’t but fix a secret meeting
and choose a rendezvous
and we discover the French have already
stolen every secret including the word rendezvous!
Oh, the French, when will
they stop this pilfering of English vocabulary?
I buy some trinkets and stuff for my beau
and they tell me my beau has been taken by the French –
and to add insult to injury
(those thieves!)
they’ve stolen all the stuff too!
Oh, there’s no stopping the French.
I can’t even sit to dine and say
“Bon appetit!”
and they steal my words,
and they run off with the dessert…
and would you believe it?
those cunning French,
they even steal the restaurant and its décor!
Oh, the evil French, will they never stop this? -
stealing from fecund English, so simple and innocent…
You see, even the Great Poet John Keats
he starts his poem in English
La Belle Dame sans Merci
and no sooner had he written the title,
the French stole the very words! -
and so ****** off was our Romantic John Keats,
he wrote the poem itself
in what he hoped could never be Frenched!
Ah, the French…would you please stealing
words from our Fair Damsel English….
And the Chindians too!
Chindians?
you know,
the Chinese and the Indians together!
(Yes, it’s a new word,
shows how inventive English is.)
Well, the Chinese have done it with
a smile and a kowtow! –
there you go, while you bow or cringe,
the Chinese steal the kowtow;
and before our very own eyes
today even in our modern world
the Chinese steal words like Dao, Zen, taofu,
chi, and feng shui;
and the Indians, not to be beaten,
and perhaps with a vengeance
to deal a fatal blow to the Raj,
they steal words like: nirvana, pundits, yoga,
juggernaut, pepper and curry
And of course
there are many more tribes and nations
in this merry global **** of Gloriana English
and there’s just nothing Britannia can do about it!
Oh, what’s the world coming to
when our Plain Jane English is molested like this;
and so I do my part
the Dark Knight coming to her rescue -
perhaps this earnest appeal in verse
will touch the hearts of the beasts and dragons
and they’ll keep their claws away
from our Fair Helpless Dame English
Sep 21, 2010
Sep 21, 2010 at 11:06 PM UTC
it's almost nine
and for a moment
I was at Ye Olde
Curiosity Shop down
by the bay, buying
grape pop rocks,
and you kept
asking for kisses
just to feel the spark
but your eyes said so
much more.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
I am a gingerbread
sweet tangy ******* head
addicted to making
marmalade sunsets
playing funeral organs
cooking grass
on my BBQ
I stir with
olde english
marinade with you
on a bed of roses
on our hill
growing wild sassy
cooking stews
of parsnips wild onions
marmalade you and
the morning dew.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 1:20 AM UTC
*in the villages
in days of yore
young men proved
their vigor
by lifting gigantic rocks*
but in 2012 -
the remarkable year of
the French Village of Bugarach
(where many sagacious youths gathered) -
away in Tunisia,
the young man
downs eggs
egg-citedly
in a dare
and he’s up to his esophagus in 28 eggs raw
when something in him cracks
(O poor wasted youth of 20)
and just 2 before winning his bet
he dies;
it’s Armageddon for him in 2012,
though he also gains an epiphany:
*28 raw eggs can ****
caveat
of course
O Ye Olde Sensitive Souls
this is not a yoke -
I mean, this is not a joke
For verily, 28 eggs can ****
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 3:52 AM UTC
A ballad I wrote for my roommate's badass cactus plant.
Come hither, foreign passersby
And listen to this song!
A cactus plant of noble deed
Would vanquish that is wrong!
Of faerie’s tear was he borne from
So sweetly did it seep!
Absorbed into a common thread
A hero, did it reap!
Hell hath no fury like his arms
That launch sharp needles far!
A thousand ****** upon the skin
Of discord, he shall scar!
Once knighted true by queen d’fleur
He rides on gallant gold!
Through tides and cliffs doth feathered steed
Make haste 'cross lands of olde!
Such titles prized did Needles seize
For slaying spiders tall!
On bended knee shall he assist
Upon your beck and call!
To summon Needles just takes faith
So whisper to the sky!
The sacred psalm of cactus high.
Let evil fare to die!
-Juan Carlos Gomez
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 2:09 AM UTC
with YouTube
enough? Olde English 800
an Intel dual core processor
a blunt a *****
8 Gb of ram begins
a memory
160 dollars in a SSD
I get an STD
but heard through two tiny speakers
a paid woman's words
and memories of yesterday.
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 11:24 PM UTC
Dream of life,
A shell of a man,
Walk the world,
A zombie.
Frightened as a cyclopes,
With two eyes,
Making a statement,
For all mankind.
God's little creatures,
Drinking the forest,
Through their feet,
And olde cartoons.
The sands of time,
From the hourglass,
Drain through the,
Hands of the chieftain.
Demons in the fog,
Their smiles luminating,
And made of corpses.
With no where to run,
And no where to hide,
Many people can't explain,
The knife in their hand.
Drained from their lifeless,
And made to dance,
With no sense of,
Remorse towards it.
Nobody tells you how,
Nobody tells you why,
In the wind,
Fish swim in magma,
And frogs have sequence.
They laugh at the chaos,
Hope for the return,
Of their master,
The drained man.
With no emotion,
After a date with,
His drained life.
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 10:46 PM UTC
We headed south that night
Right down the highway towards our new life
Sunny Olde California here we come
Everyone wants to be in Cali
Me, I don't understand why
The sun's too hot
It's so crowded
Too many famous people
What's so great about California?
Why does everyone want so badly to move to Cali?
But now I understand why we left
Why we left our comfortably modern house in Vancouver
Vancouver had everything we needed
All the love and support we needed
Everything we needed was there in our small little town
But now we are moving to Sacramento
One thousand four hundred and thirty seven kilometers
Fourteen hours of driving
I finally understood why she did it all
She was taking us away from him
So he wouldn't hurt us anymore
When the court date came
We all had to testify
I wasn't sure what I was testifying against
But somehow I answered and answered til I broke down
After my endless crying
They gave up on me
I wasn't fit to testify she'd say
But I understand why
I was too young to understand but now I do
He came in all sunshine and lollipops
We all thought he was going to stay
Stay forever and never leave
He left in handcuffs and bruises
We never saw him again
Until my mother dragged us all down to the jailhouse
He was leaving...for good
The apologize really didn't matter to me
See I didn't understand, but now I do
I understand why everyone wants to be in Cali
You become like an ant
You are invisible
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 2:18 PM UTC
a political party that supports
the legalization of Mary Jane
is bound to be the first one
to sprint down the winner's lane
the constituents shall be busy
potting many a dope seed
so they've got a sufficient supply
of ye olde happy ****
to-day bongs and reefers
will be lit in much jubilation
as the smokers get high
on Mary Jane's elevation
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC
The horse and cart slowly meander along the village path, while smoke arises from the depths of the forest.
Rotten teeth, debauchery and jugs of beer abound whilst the curvy buttocks of the wanton ***** are groped in medieval lust.
Let us engage in stories of superstition around the fire tonight, as its sparks break the eerie silence of olde English folklore.
Look at the children, as they stare wondrously with open mouths before bedtime. The tension is tangible.
Long live the King.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 11:25 PM UTC
The roof was moist,
As I lay there in a wet pool,
(A curse on thee, ye olde
Inventor of the New Mexico
Pueblo-style flat roof)
I was talking with angels,
Bouncing ideas off the firmament,
When she stepped through clouds,
Piercing the ebony solstice sky.
Stargazing is a full-time occupation;
The Navajo Nation sure is quiet tonight.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 11:06 PM UTC
these are the days that try mens souls
said oliver twist to L'ouverture
and the big crisis is coming
its time to get running!
the british are coming!
"O' quiet ye olde buffoon!"
what's next? I dont know
said gandalf the gold
whose sincere grin forever faded...
he looks outside the kitchen door
the sand men made sure
the sun wont rise any more
it also rises
nevermore...
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 2:50 AM UTC
Within a room that shows me my breath,
Hairs stand alert on awoken skin,
My reddened eyes from last night's sin
Cause a smile, spreading illusion of death;
And through a double sheet of glass,
The light to my left gifts a pleasant view,
Vibrant colours cascade a wondrous hue,
That no painting in renaissance could surpass,
But does not last, and therefore, brings truth.
Vines hang their arms over weak fences,
Lovingly caressing with sweet tender kisses,
Stretching toward the ground fingers uncouth.
Tall trees reach for the stars throne,
Gallantly they stand in the background,
Alone, triumphant, and with silent sound
Hold their course like soldiers home-grown.
The industrial gloom weeps its ***** tear
And stains the window, ‘t does bear the light
Of broken branches; shining on a humble sight
Which illumes nests that Nature loves dear.
Birds build no foundation, while frosts breath
Engulfs the air, and smoke dances seductively
With heavy swirling mist, swaying her glee,
Hand in hand guides with him cancerous death.
Filthy sheep reside on the muddy fields,
Beneath blankets of the olde English cloud,
Hovering above cemented land over-ploughed;
Those show very well what modern age yields.
No rain, no subtle cry from heaven.
Long gone in retreat the grass of years past;
Sailing away over the horizon the ships mast
Which traverses the wild unknown region.
No flecks of blue glimmer in the sky;
Nor orb of fiery sun can be gazed upon.
Did the morning gift Auroras dim saffron?
Did it conspire and bring dullness to my eye?
Departed too have the scented flowers;
Even fruit hides away from their cradle,
No foliage, no bramble, laurel or myrtle,
All disappeared from ever shady bowers.
Honey is not made today, sulking are the bees,
And their cousins, shy-adventure disperses desire.
Evergreens remain, remain with adamant attire,
While their foes strip away naked their leaves.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 8:16 AM UTC
Chocolate-covered old man
sits behind an oak desk
brittle quill in shaking hand
hovering over a cool pool
of smooth ebony ink
He smiles and licks his lips
at the scrumptious possibility
of himself.
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 8:04 PM UTC
You stand within a wooded glade
The air is still and calm
Your hand rests on a mighty blade
A shield upon your arm
> GO NORTH
You stand beside a castle moat
The water, grim and dark
To cross you'll need to find a boat
Or build yourself an ark
> BUILD ARK
To build an ark would take a year
And lots of willing folk
(We wrote this whilst we drank some beer
That option was a joke)
> FIND BOAT
You really think you'll find a boat?
You're not the brightest spark
You're meant to think, you silly goat
(Or maybe build an ark?)
> GO NORTH
You walk towards the castle keep
And fall into the moat
Lucky for you, it's not too deep
Since armor doesn't float
> GO EAST
You're standing in an ogre camp
Three ogres are asleep
One looks like he's an ogre champ
(Perhaps you'd better creep?)
> **** OGRES
You draw your sword and take a stance
You howl a battle cry
The ogres wake and watch you dance
Then hit you and you die
GAME OVER
(L)oad saved game (N)ew game (Q)uit? >_
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 6:05 AM UTC
round his mouthful of bullet's and bones
he spoke of the woman and a box of gold
and as he opened the deck and began tossing cards
his version of what happened had him with
one foot in the grave and giving both barrels
she called him a hero
but he was just a fugitive of the hangman's necktie
the old sailor died quiet in the night
slipped away laughing in the company of
all the olde saints he loved so much
they will take him on home
so the truth of the tell rest with this man
with this soft eye hardened heart
with a mouthful of bullet's and bones
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 7:11 PM UTC
A leprechaun looking for gold
'neath the shimmering shamrocks of olde
(with the luck of a Gael)
found ten bottles of ale
somewhat green as if covered with mould.
;-))
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 6:45 AM UTC