"perusal" poems
*This is one of the racier "Memories" poems by the great Barry Hodges, my alter ego.
It might well make you come involuntarily in your ******
How happy was I once with the wind in my hair
Wandering o'er the dales with joyousness unmeasur'd,
In the sweet long passed innocent days of platonic love
When stolen gropes and kiss were to be treasured.
But all good and true things come to a sad close
And my poor first love lies in her grave so sorrowfully
Having been crushed to death by a runaway steamroller
Before I managed to go all the way quite thoroughly.
What a waste of delightful teenage flesh was that
Yet perhaps I had a narrow escape from the derangement
Which might have been mine had our trysting
Led to a semi-permanent matrimonial arrangement.
For I recall one afternoon in the old ABC cinema
In the delighful Yorkshire spa town of Harrogate,
Sitting next to my gorgeous love in the back row,
Exploring her not so very private parts on a hot date.
How I cursed the management's niggardly folly
In not showing a film with hot romantic blood
But saving pathetic pennies by putting on
Daffy ******** Duck and Elmer ******* Fudd.
But yet I perserved with my digital explorations
Unaware that the throbs my fingers felt were no dream
But darling Elsie laughing like a proverbial drain
At Daffy's hilarious anatine adventures on-screen.
'Twas then I began to wonder about the viscous liquid
I had hitherto imagined was Elsie's lovejuice flowing
*(dear, dear reader, cease your perusal of my tale forthwith
if you are of a nervous disposition or prone to food up-throwing)*.
It was only a careful examination of my sopping knuckles
In the dimly lit gents after old Daffy's film was done and dusted
Which revealed that my dearly beloved had leaked
Big time out of both ends, leaving my fingers well encrusted.
O to think that, but for Daffy, I might have been lumbered
With a different kind of bird for whom double incontinence
Was a way of life (thus, the fatal steamroller she encountered
The very next day was a blessing from kindly Providence).
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 5:07 PM UTC
Relaxing peacefully on her lap
Her fingers ran through his hair,
And,speaking soft, soothing words
Waves of calm caressed him there.
Delilah used her feminine wiles,
Honeyed words dripped from her lips,
A sense of serenity enveloped his soul
From her tender fingertips.
The secret of his amazing strength
Was reluctantly revealed to her ears
Leading to open the floodgates
Of times of sorrow and tears.
On her lap he continued to rest,
Unawares of her subtle scheming;
Carefully his luxuriant locks were cut
With scissors sharp and gleaming.
Little could Samson have known
The intentions of her black heart,
Her cunning and overpowering charm
Hit him as with a poisoned dart.
Samson’s strength suddenly left him,
As weak as a kitten he became,
Delilah had truly duped him,
Although it seemed to her a game.
As hard as granite was her heart,
No true feelings of love were there
Else, why would she hurt him
With no chance of any repair?
His life had a very sad ending,
Of this most people have heard,
It’s recorded for our perusal
Within the pages of God’s Word.
The lesson to be learned
From this ghastly episode
Is that disloyalty is as acid
That the heart can corrode.
Like a wilting yellow lily
Under the sun’s searing heat,
Samson’s strength melted
Into a pool of utter defeat.
Remember this we should
And be careful how we act
Lest our deceptive hearts
This drama we re-enact…
Jan 19, 2012
Jan 19, 2012 at 1:45 AM UTC
1243
Safe Despair it is that raves—
Agony is frugal.
Puts itself severe away
For its own perusal.
Garrisoned no Soul can be
In the Front of Trouble—
Love is one, not aggregate—
Nor is Dying double—
3.2k
~for Bex~
in the flesh, not really, but I was...
ordered five bone china coffee mugs for you,
from the Artists Gallery, all scenes of nature,
painted by Canada’s Group of 7,
to go with the Lawren Harris mug,
'Lakes and Mountains'
from which I am currently sipping
for when I thought of you up north in Ontario,
I thought of my mom,
who was Toronto born and bred,
and the caramel oranges of fall
that have not yet arrived
in northern Manhattan,
but have already peaked in Ontario,
in late September
I smile,
while voyaging on the curving line of thought perusal,
at all the things that have already peaked,
someplace else,
and that have may yet, be late, arriving in my life
and I dream of:
all the poets who
I will never meet,
the living and the dead,
all the poems,
I will never finish, perhaps, n'ere to start,
never chance to speak, or chance to peak
all of you, sipping, from those real mugs of porcelain,
that are soon to arrive, via an imaginary railroad,
running on creosote stained ties of caramel orange,
built by a namesake, that I can no longer imagine,
but whom I knew
so well in my youth
my mug is sadness filled by
those stillborn verses that will never chance to peak,
but am comforted by the knowing,
as long as there is freedom to write,
that there is hope for one more poem
to be imagined, sourced from deep within,
drawn from the cool well water
of happy wishing
Oct 30, 2016
Oct 30, 2016 at 1:15 PM UTC
*Thought about the way my kids
Will judge the world I’ve left behind,
Wondered how perception’s eye
Will shade the tones of what they find.
Worried that the work undone
Shall disappoint the judgements made
And sway perception’s jaded brush
To paint the memories in shade.
It matters that regard is there
To render recollection’s sound,
To pluck the gems of warm regard
From detritus of earthly round.
To look upon my megre works
As worthwhile in the scheme of things,
To nurture somewhere in the soul
The song which satisfaction sings.*
Marshalg
Pondering in the dead of night beneath a hallowed frozen moon.
Foxglove, Taranaki.
7th October 2012
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 1:26 AM UTC
That watershed moment
when the eye goggles comes off,
is akin to winning the Burleigh Horse Trials
with the much coveted Trophy.
Meeting a Rambler as an equal
on an arduous fog clouded valley
along the Devil's Punchbowl,
or a French Phrase Book
that's almost perusal by nature,
under the Arc de Triomphe
How I long to be accomplished
as one of the few, rather than a
casual follower of Velleity .
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 5:10 PM UTC
There once was a TV network
That made me want to exult
But now I am sad and despondent
And it’s mostly Steven Moffat’s fault
I enthusiastically started Doctor Who
Who’s chronology is twisted and bizarre
It seemed like such fun to travel through time and space with a man
Who used a blue box as his car
But soon the companions’ aspirations
To travel to planets and stars
Were crushed by the Void, lost love, and gargoyles
And the Doctor is lonely and scarred.
Not yet wise, I began watching Sherlock
His deduction left me amazed and bamboozled
He and John drank some tea, and solved crimes with glee
Although each case took quite some perusal.
They lived happily with their cool flat decorum
Mrs. Hudson made biscuits below
Then along came the menacing, mean Moriarty
There was nothing that he didn’t know.
Because of the fallacy that Sherlock’s a fake
He’s dead and John’s in the doldrums
The only thing done to commemorate him
Are John’s “I do believe in Sherlock Holmes”
Hoping for a show that was boisterous and happy
Instead of the peaceful, yet sad
I turned to the medieval Merlin
who was quite a cheery lad
He worked for the king’s son, Arthur
who eclectically chose his knights
There were sirs Lancelot, Gwaine, and Leon
The bravest people in sight.
Merlin used his job as camouflage,
His secret he did not divulge
for if they all knew he was a powerful wizard
In his execution King Uther would indulge.
Since Merlin’s destiny was to keep the prince safe
He faced many scary things
He would cower in fear, but when Arthur was near
He felt brave enough to sing
Merlin’s feelings for Arthur were obvious
But does Arthur feel the same way?
When Arthur deigns to exchange dialogue with him
It instantly brightens his day.
But Lancelot died doing Merlin’s job
And Arthur is in love with Gwen
Morgana, a wizard who was once Merlin’s friend
Is evil and wants Camelot dead.
So the Doctor is lonely and growing old
Sherlock left John all alone
And Merlin feels guilty and outcast
They’ve lost all the good they’ve ever known.
And I am left crying and angry.
How could the writers do this to me?
But still, they’re the best shows I’ve ever watched
And I’ll always love the BBC.
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 11:36 PM UTC
I can savor
The taste of fear
Riding upon the wind
As turbulently
As your troubled mind
Seeks desperately
To understand the mortality of this moment
The life and death mechanics of reality
The realization
That we are to die
As evident of the staccato pant
Of your futile labour
Frivolous at best
Arouses a sense
Of ******* justice
Hard truths
Brought to bear witness of
Your infidelities
Your betrayal
Lies
Aborning of arsenic
Sputters froth
From your womb
Searing traces of bitterness
Cascades a corrupted truth
Transformed into an ugliness
That has become us
Two hearts that once beat as one
Cast fervently
Into a cold war
Unrelenting hatred
Reciprocated
Ricochet
Unmitigated threats
Wounds
That cannot be reprieved
How did we get here?
Do you even care-
To ponder the thought?
How
I once loved thee
A dream shattered
By the realization of now
But
The now I can live with
The thought of losing you I cannot
**** this relationship
Endure
I must
For the taste of you
Is the sake of me
My sustenance
I close my eyes
In perusal of happier times
When life was bearable
Abruptly
I'm jolted out of my reverie
By hilt of your scorn
Protruding from my chest
Animately
I touch
As if to confirm its legitimacy
A reason for its being
Overwhelmed by solemn peace
I collapse in passive supplication
And as she turns and walk away
Contemptuous
Of the final utterance
To flee my lips
I forgive you
I ponder
If she ever
Loved me at all
Aug 3, 2016
Aug 3, 2016 at 12:20 PM UTC
Black Space
(eyes without a face)
Poverty lingers
like an ill gotten taste
giving up her secrets to no man;
teaching lessons in life
at every turn.
Poverty taught me to be frugal
how to beg, borrow or steal
live on £1 a day to eat once a day
the truthful instinctual perusal
the unreal zeal
blocking the thoughts of hunger
the puerile senses;
the basics on how to feel.
In the near dark I found you
sheltering from the storm
under the bridge just like I was
wrapped in mottled harsh cloth
sitting on cardboard for warmth.
You spoke many languages
had a degree in anthropology
and a penchant for gambling
and alcohol;
we shared a bowl
of disregarded noodles
in the rain.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 12:16 AM UTC
Fret Not!
Thou canst but read them all!
Hordes beset the pages now here-in
Contorting mental faculties to new and different bent
Perusal of Poetry in monumental quantities
is known to suddenly suffuse the brain with lusher thoughts, ideas
Behold! A new man doth arise
as a Phoenix from the ashes of despair
Continue on, my friend, to try to drink of all the knowledge here
While Eliot wafts his magic wand creating wonders in the air
But, ya can't read 'em all.............alas
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 9:34 PM UTC
How can my Muse want subject to invent
While thou dost breathe, that pour’st into my verse
Thine own sweet argument, too excellent
For every ****** paper to rehearse?
O, give thyself the thanks, if aught in me
Worthy perusal stand against thy sight,
For who’s so dumb that cannot write to thee,
When thou thyself dost give invention light?
Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth
Than those old nine which rhymers invocate;
And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth
Eternal numbers to outlive long date.
If my slight Muse do please these curious days,
The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.
1.2k
Words of the masses are gathered in galleries,
Verbage is gathered in cloistering mass.
Masses are gathering to cloister their verbage
Where verbage is cloistered for masses to stash.
Nursing the words from a mind full of passion,
Coaxing the phrases to render them bold.
Weilding the pen with theatrical flourish
Hoping to God inspiration takes hold.
Legions of letters lie waiting in folders
Waiting for praise to hold up it's hand,
Begging acclaim from occasional perusal
To seeking the fame of a publishers' brand.
Passion and pain are an artists' portfolio
Ego and talent are held presupposed,
Preposterousness is taken for granted
But nil recognition gets right up the nose.
Gnashing of teeth and fingernail chewing
Coincide with a confidence fall
But the ultimate down in a work hard done
Is to have your peers ignoring it all.
A kernal grows from fleeting feelings
Inspiration holds the thought,
A thing of grandeur pens to greatness
Breathlessly... a script is wrought.
Dancing fingers grace the keyboard
Lilting music fills the air,
A wordsmith's touch of rich creation
Links the literate portrait's flair.
There tis done.. A thing of beauty
Silently I sit and stare,
Wordlessly, I thank the Heavens
Art is wrought and art is there.
Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
1 August 2010
Aug 1, 2010
Aug 1, 2010 at 1:38 AM UTC
I am forever lost among the boys riding bikes
under an orange sunset
On the concretes next to the spires
and the old shingled rolling roofs
to this sparsely populated plaza,
mid-afternoon of Winter
in another hour it'll be dark and rainy
we can taste it in the air
but now I am alone in abandon
singular light casts a singular shadow
because they are no longer with me
I think it's meant to be this way when we grow old~
At least that's how it's always been
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 3:43 AM UTC
669
No Romance sold unto
Could so enthrall a Man
As the perusal of
His Individual One—
’Tis Fiction’s—When ’tis small enough
To Credit—’Tisn’t true!
1.1k
A pulsating longevity awaits in the longing hours.
Tick.
Tick.
A sulphurous coverlet crawls up to my neck.
Tick.
Tick.
It’s dark at the windows; it claws at my throat.
Tick.
Tick.
Someone, come save me – I can’t breathe; I can’t cope.
The layers peel back, constellations on show –
I sit with this pain while it grabs its dark coat
On closer perusal, a face lingers close
Broken, ugly, no joy does it show
It takes my limp hand in a gentle caress – calloused, hardened, its gaze set on my chest
“Dear girl”, it does say, as the tears linger close, “your being in this world hasn’t quite found its home”
I grasp at this hand I don’t quite understand – it coaxes me forward in a promising demand.
“Make friends with this darkness – feel how it chokes. It has a message to share underneath its black cloak”
Trepid, shaken, I follow its lead
The cracks shatter open and all is revealed.
Oct 14, 2022
Oct 14, 2022 at 5:19 PM UTC
dear god, you humble me into quietude
she says it’s sunny and 75
nearing 3’o’clock, cooling,
let’s go for our usual constitutional,
for a lovely afternoon walk to Shell Beach
*can’t can’t can’t walking now in
a bottomless pit, every handhold,
poems, newly commissioned, newborn,
broken off the wall, revealing a gleaming,
light of iron pyrite, really good fool’s gold,
cause only fools write good poetry, or even try*
but tonight I’m gonna feed you bucatini bolognese
babe, you gotta walk, make some room for all the words
that will come tumbling free falling while I’m sleeping next,
you’re up prowling looking for rhymes, lines, unheard of before,
you’ll need energy to bite, write, and make loving poetry and then,
then, sleep late, my laddie-baddie, new ones on my nightstand,
for my perusal, my usual unusual man who gifts me them to
in quantities of ‘more galore,’ that I accept, adore...adore
so afterwards, I must say my morning prayer, as an atheist forgiven,
the one I commissioned, and you composed, for me:
Dear God: you humble me into quietude, with gratitude...
Jun 19, 2020
Jun 19, 2020 at 3:37 PM UTC
Would you like a piece of my mind?
It's got fragments of tellings and snippets of songs,
It's got barbarous fixes of music.
All of those crave some clever perusal.
Would you like a piece of my mind?
Would you like a piece of my soul?
There are passion and tenderness - desperate, begging -
To be healed and to finally flee
Into rivers and lakes and wild seas...
Would you like a piece of my soul?
Would you like a piece of my pain?
It would feel like a cognac injection,
It could be quite a picturesque trip:
Your emotions would tighten their grip
And let go when there's no more objections.
Would you like a piece of my pain?
Would you like to try on some of me?..
Though - it's doubtful you'd like how it feels.
(c)kRu, 12.10.-17.11.2006
Jan 30, 2010
Jan 30, 2010 at 1:11 AM UTC
The Bex Birthday Anthology
a very long quick perusal yields this trove,
but I know there are more
both disguised and plain hidden,
she invoked from within & without
getting partial credit
but search engine says there are too many millions of answers
to poems about Rebecca so cut to the chase and do your own
so don’t nobody get any ideas about getting their own
gift wrapped anthology cause I am overwhelmed by how,
how you all inspire me and give names to my muses,
and so I’ll just wish the northern girl that
all her happy poems
come true
who could want for anything more?
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 12:33 PM UTC
It astonishes me to consider
The thousand thousand trials and triumphs
that had to be part of our paths
To ensure we'd walk together
but the consideration is fleeting
As nothing in the past carries much relevance now
Scars have healed or been forgotten
Remembered slights and grudges have been summarily dismissed
Even the glow of nostalgia has been cooled to embers
All has been relinquished to the before times
Warranting only an occasional quick perusal
A momentary revisitation of prior life
Soon to be left in the past
Excepting the recognition that everything aligned
To lead my present tense to you
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 2:55 AM UTC
We're going to get out of here,
one way or another we're gong to make it,
so there's really no reason to feel so much dread,
there's an incredible universe surrounding us,
everything is right here at our fingertips,
at our perusal to enjoy.
There are angels here.
Dark ones & those who seek light.
I know that sounds far-out,
seems rather trippy,
way too bizarre, but
we've just gotta believe
there's some purpose to
all of this craziness,
these broken hearts,
our personal dilemmas,
otherwise we're just
spinning our wheels,
treading deep water,
running in mundane places,
spitting in the sacred-wind.
After witnessing falling stars,
ghosts on the astral plane,
talking with zephyrs in outer space
& getting bitten by a vampire,
I'm convinced
there are celestial beings
watching over each of us.
Without giving away their secrets,
I get the feeling we're in good hands.
I hope so.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 5:18 PM UTC
/*\for you, the she,
a precious jewel that comes in many
colors, including melanc~holy
<>
who dipped her toe unaware the ***
grows ever hotter with every stirring and the
carnal charnel
nature of
a light
perusal,
a quick wick once-over, a scan, nothing
but just a light, slight, of a
finger~to~lips~tasting/*\
where -poem scripts
lie easy buried
neath a bare
minimum of
1 inch of soil
<>
not the meaning you instinctively assumed,
after years of misunderstooding
of the use-all of
perusal
Mademoiselle Usage,
a mis~usage|
the realizable danger of perusal is in its true meaning.
not in a brief but glorious askance,
but the deep dive
into where the deep sea trench creatures be living,
where the nuance and the sea weeds brocades
the casual
visitor's
perusal,
and the urgency of living on the edge,
of ulterior motives apprised and appraised,
are sensing not,
the dangers consequential,
and down~into~the~rabbit whole
inevitably you encounter,
A man!poet mumbling on & on;
there is no such thing as respite,
the tears of the heart sees their swelling,
no pro bono 4 ply tissue is enough to
well **** arresting their continuity of their
welling,
writ not in cryptic notation,
all mine is there for plentiful plain,
not,
for excavation interpretation, exegetical heretical,
up until the
line of palpable,^
flashes the multi~mesmerizing^
yellow and red warning lines hysterical,
here is where
when in my depths,
you swim
or
flee
next question, please?
Oct 10, 2025
Oct 10, 2025 at 11:51 AM UTC
*Two beautiful decades of loving penance
Realize that this anniversary is special
‘Where would you like to go for dinner, darling?’
An innocuous question left mid sentence
Leaving the choice to me, I take out the car
With her seated besides, head for Heartbreak bar
Welcome Bill…says the burly doorman
A raised eyebrow from her, ‘Oh! He is my foreman’
‘Greetings Bill…Scotch soda (Ted the barman), ‘the usual’?
‘You come here often?’ (Heart stopping perusal!!)
‘Nah he’s my darts buddy, we play during lunch break’
Caution!!.Instead of my darling wife I sense a coiled snake
A lap dancer softly sliding next to me…'Hi Bill'
My death warrant, ah! the inevitable suicide pill
My funeral’s tomorrow mates,
Sorry gotta go, my coffin awaits*.
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 5:51 AM UTC
These poems are for posterity (because mind-loss runs in the family.)
I dedicate all this poetry to my progeny, but most importantly,
to the one and only Future Me.
That old guy who's worn out and world-weary.
The one who's losing his memories,
and can't keep track of what he thinks.
These are all for you.
I'll record the lowest lows and highest highs.
Presented for the perusal of his (yours, my) rheumy eyes.
I might embellish at times -
I might even lie.
I just want to be able to look back and realize:
It's been an incredible life.
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 8:15 PM UTC
Oh! Enigmatic mother,
Capturing the unsuspecting we,
Trapped in thy surreal embrace,
Wondrous charms possess thee.
Ensnaring senses,
Thy promiscuous beauty,
Yet, the fools flee,
Beholding thy ******
Earthy and bare,
Rustic and rare,
Thy charms lay unparalleled,
Polluted, slight, by repulse,
The ignominious souls,
From doors not crafted by thee,
Leave them ajar and welcome,
The mighty spirits of darkness,
Where evil makes thy heart numb,
And weaves it's sickly web,
Conjuring abominations and spells,
That the good man shall hope,
Never to hear, and terrible sights,
Never to see.
Cold azure skies transition,
To that which befits,
Our prosaic existence,
Shying away from thy brilliance,
Concealed within deep-seated layers,
Of well-practised pretence.
Thy pertilance, remains commendable,
Thou, the mother of all,
Now, perfunctorily cast aside,
Yet, it is thou, who shall mourn our fall.
Oh! Exuberant mother,
Let not the ship, be destined to doom,
Let the fresh buds bask, in eternal bloom,
And if the glorious fire of the sun,
Is ever to cease,
Let it be, for only, a new dawn,
For we, thy blood and thy flesh,
In all our greed and petulance,
Lay down and pay obeisance to thee,
And thee, alone.
Our fate awaits thy perusal,
Oh forgiving mother! Let humanity prevail.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 3:47 AM UTC
In a world so full of muddled dichotomies and clumsy classifications,
Of spectrums and ranges and imprecise definitions,
Of moving targets and sliding scales,
What is a woman?
When your definition’s solid, sorted, and sold
Am I an archetype or anomaly in the sordid taxonomy?
Here are my chromosomes:
Two Xs to mark the swirling twirls of DNA
Properly paired to provide a guide for my curves.
Here is my body:
Ripe and rounded and ready for perusal
By those who find art in a classical form.
******* that are not perfect,
*** that waggles as I walk,
A waist that looks even better when I’m angry
(Hands on hips and arms akimbo).
Here is my ***
Excited by the touches that evolution would predict.
I respond when kissed by stubbled lips,
When stroked by calloused hands,
When rocked beneath a man that biology would call
“The fittest.”
Our coupling is a pledge to survive.
Here is my womb:
A wonder of chemistry and medicine,
It has been occupied for defense against bearing fruit.
I have declared my selfishness to doctors,
To family,
To strangers.
I will not house another life
Because my own heart is sufficient.
I will not nurse another’s hunger
Because my appetites are wild.
I will not be a mother,
And you will not change my mind.
Here is my hysteria:
I cry sometimes when books are sad,
Or when commercials are touching,
Or when I’m angry,
Or hungry.
Or confused.
Or happy.
Or whatever.
Here is my meek and mild nature:
In the hand that covers an ornery smile.
In the hesitation before I swear.
In the blush of a lover surprised.
In the warmth that you must lose, not earn.
Whether I am a winning or a wanting woman
I am finished with apologies.
When all is counted/sorted/labeled
My tastes and brightest talents are as tame as I can bear.
Oct 2, 2016
Oct 2, 2016 at 12:29 PM UTC