"piped" poems
It's cold in Duhallow this morning and the fields that were green yesterday
Lay chilled to the frost that the night brought a cover of silvery gray
And the little dunnock on bare hedgerow too cold and too hungry to sing
On **** branch he perch sad and silent the hardship that January can bring.
The robins and sparrows by back door like beggars they wait to be fed
In hope that when breakfast is eaten the housewife might throw out some bread
With no thought for song or for nesting their battle is to stay alive
How many will live to see April the Winter so hard to survive?
The first heavy snows of the Winter have fallen on the higher ground
On Clara, Shrone and Caherbarnagh the hills are so white all around
The blackbird and thrush on the bare branch their feathers fluffed against the chill
And hare has come down to the lowland there's nothing to eat on the hill.
But I can remember the bright days when sun shone on the leafy tree
And robins and thrushes and finches piped in the woods of Knocknagree
And to her nest on barn rafters the sparrow brought feathers and hay
And out on the dandelion meadow the pipit sang all through the day.
Young calves and young lambs in green pastures were full of the frolics of Spring
And joy too had come to the river the song of the dipper did ring
And moorhen was out with her babies and she chirped loud if human was near
Her first lesson to them survival to teach them the meaning of fear.
It's cold in Duhallow this morning the thrush silent on the bare tree
And gray on the fields and the hedgerows and gray over all Knocknagree
But I can remember the bright days when nesting birds piped all the day
And hedgerows and woodlands and meadows smelt sweet with the blossoms of May.
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 6:42 PM UTC
I Am Waiting
I am waiting for my case to come up
and I am waiting
for a rebirth of wonder
and I am waiting for someone
to really discover America
and wail
and I am waiting
for the discovery
of a new symbolic western frontier
and I am waiting
for the American Eagle
to really spread its wings
and straighten up and fly right
and I am waiting
for the Age of Anxiety
to drop dead
and I am waiting
for the war to be fought
which will make the world safe
for anarchy
and I am waiting
for the final withering away
of all governments
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for the Second Coming
and I am waiting
for a religious revival
to sweep thru the state of Arizona
and I am waiting
for the Grapes of Wrath to be stored
and I am waiting
for them to prove
that God is really American
and I am waiting
to see God on television
piped onto church altars
if only they can find
the right channel
to tune in on
and I am waiting
for the Last Supper to be served again
with a strange new appetizer
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for my number to be called
and I am waiting
for the Salvation Army to take over
and I am waiting
for the meek to be blessed
and inherit the earth
without taxes
and I am waiting
for forests and animals
to reclaim the earth as theirs
and I am waiting
for a way to be devised
to destroy all nationalisms
without killing anybody
and I am waiting
for linnets and planets to fall like rain
and I am waiting for lovers and weepers
to lie down together again
in a new rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for the Great Divide to be crossed
and I am anxiously waiting
for the secret of eternal life to be discovered
by an obscure general practitioner
and I am waiting
for the storms of life
to be over
and I am waiting
to set sail for happiness
and I am waiting
for a reconstructed Mayflower
to reach America
with its picture story and tv rights
sold in advance to the natives
and I am waiting
for the lost music to sound again
in the Lost Continent
in a new rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for the day
that maketh all things clear
and I am awaiting retribution
for what America did
to Tom Sawyer
and I am waiting
for Alice in Wonderland
to retransmit to me
her total dream of innocence
and I am waiting
for Childe Roland to come
to the final darkest tower
and I am waiting
for Aphrodite
to grow live arms
at a final disarmament conference
in a new rebirth of wonder
I am waiting
to get some intimations
of immortality
by recollecting my early childhood
and I am waiting
for the green mornings to come again
youth’s dumb green fields come back again
and I am waiting
for some strains of unpremeditated art
to shake my typewriter
and I am waiting to write
the great indelible poem
and I am waiting
for the last long careless rapture
and I am perpetually waiting
for the fleeing lovers on the Grecian Urn
to catch each other up at last
and embrace
and I am awaiting
perpetually and forever
a renaissance of wonder
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
We climbed from bedrock
to Idyllwild the home
of Pines to Palms
and Suicide Rocks
but not for us
only for those
poor tired souls
for whom the world's gone
flat
refusing
the night threw
itself boldly into the fray
of winds which blew
from storm to calm
so this morning we awoke
to a placid knap
slipping on snowy piste
to turn cold snaps
hot
spiced Nepali tea
sipped from ice
nipped cups
I see promise
picks up
from backward leaps
time forward flips
breaking free range igneous
into pan
piped sizzling
congenial song
that carries on the tree line
like spring
water sprung from
creeks to go scurrying off
with wet socks
until pulled up
by old school granite skies
hanging pools out to dry
in sopping blue rinsed sun
ahead any bald rocks
or hairline fractures
are long since dialled in
as baseless fears
knowing this mobile age
can merrily slip like air
through numb fingers
while baseline hands declare
“hold me close to gather”
edelweiss echoes gone
rappelling through time
the route we've chosen's
to be tied to each other's
peaks in the way of sun
and moon
come what may
be it creases in our skin
or crevasses
we'll win the battle to slim line
any overhanging ridges
so I take care to tighten
my girth hitch to top notch
and hold firmly
to both your conviction
and reach
that setting
out to move mountains
we call home
achieves more than
staying home
and calling mountains
so bright
you have me forget
all things too trite
banal office hype
shopworn old hat
mowing lawn weekends
too dishy to be clichéd
you polish off the stereotype
slam the Dior on out of shape
and dull as ditchwater tripe
keeping a victorious secret
or two in the slip knot
too tranquil shade
taking allure to new heights
we'll never drop
down from
tonight
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 11:03 AM UTC
My Mum has five kids
and first one was Paul.
Oh look it's a boy so
we'll give him a ball.
The second was Ste,
a year younger than me.
Then there was Wayne
and oh what a pain!
Now the fourth was a girl
and so her hair we'll curl.
The fifth, it was Gary
and the last one she'll carry.
So four will wear blue,
it's just what you do.
Did nobody check if
this **** is true?
I'll prove this is wrong
when I show you my thong.
You see, I prefer lace
and blush on my face.
But seriously though,
these rules are so dumb.
How the ****
will I tell my Mum.
For twenty five years
I hid it away.
Where do I start
and what do I say?
I showed her my nails,
I'd painted them red,
My Sister piped up
"Are you off yer head"
So the best thing to do
is just show her it's you.
With a smile on my face,
she'll see that it's true.
Poetry by Kaydee. ❤
Dec 18, 2017
Dec 18, 2017 at 4:49 PM UTC
I sought for my happiness over the world,
Oh, eager and far was my quest;
I sought it on mountain and desert and sea,
I asked it of east and of west.
I sought it in beautiful cities of men,
On shores that were sunny and blue,
And laughter and lyric and pleasure were mine
In palaces wondrous to view;
Oh, the world gave me much to my plea and my prayer
But never I found aught of happiness there!
Then I took my way back to a valley of old
And a little brown house by a rill,
Where the winds piped all day in the sentinel firs
That guarded the crest of the hill;
I went by the path that my childhood had known
Through the bracken and up by the glen,
And I paused at the gate of the garden to drink
The scent of sweet-briar again;
The homelight shone out through the dusk as of yore
And happiness waited for me at the door!
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Piping down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,
And he laughing said to me:
‘Pipe a song about a Lamb!’
So I piped with merry cheer.
‘Piper, pipe that song again;’
So I piped: he wept to hear.
‘Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe;
Sing thy songs of happy cheer!’
So I sung the same again,
While he wept with joy to hear.
‘Piper, sit thee down and write
In a book that all may read.’
So he vanish’d from my sight;
And I pluck’d a hollow reed,
And I made a rural pen,
And I stain’d the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear.
2.7k
Piping down the valleys wild
Piping songs of pleasant glee
On a cloud I saw a child.
And he laughing said to me.
Pipe a song about a Lamb:
So I piped with merry chear,
Piper, pipe that song again—
So I piped, he wept to hear.
Drop thy pipe thy happy pipe
Sing thy songs of happy chear,
So I sung the same again
While he wept with joy to hear
Piper sit thee down and write
In a book that all may read—
So he vanished from my sight
And I pluck’d a hollow reed.
And I made a rural pen,
And I stained the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs,
Every child may joy to hear.
2.2k
Moon,
a sole star woven,
immortalized as beauty,
grace,
tender,
by poets of all tongues.
for centuries, fondness for moon piped their pen to perfection
moon was a part of earth,
a part of ourselves,
it got drifted in space far too long ago,
though it journeyed throughout the galaxy, it found its way home.
Back to itself,
Back to earth,
Likewise i always find myself to you,
Under different galaxies,
Under different stars,
No matter how many faces worn,
Babel changed,
Bodies torn,
fates exchanged,
i befriend you,
My heart strings attached to you in face of conflict,
Be it tattered,
We'll begin under a new star.
Sep 15, 2025
Sep 15, 2025 at 12:37 PM UTC
Memories:
the back and forth trajectories
the internal out-of-sync in-sync directories
of treasured moments, of pleasantries
and the reviled relived accessories of treachery.
My memory is pitted with chasms like Swiss Cheese
the phantom dreams of being hit by a car in a winters bite
the realities of unconsciousness and brain spasms
the fathoms baffles in batches and waves of breaches
disfigured features like a frosted window caked in creatures
burrowed and riddled like a parasite in the spite of night.
By the time id got to hospital id forgotten my own name
fortunately I had a gas bill in my pocket which hadn't freed itself
while being violently hurled over the red car bonnet
and it became the one and only evidence that I even existed
even though the A & E nurse insisted and persisted on asking questions:
my address, date of birth, blood type, emergency contact -
like Id have it tattooed on my body like a scene from Memento
amid the voices in crescendo and brain-damage thumping techno.
That was a few years ago, or was it, I couldn't be sure now
but some days I forget what I did in the morning
so I just have to live for the moment somehow
the memories like Swiss Cheese constantly morphing
to the piped tune of the cerebral banshee
buzzing in my left ear like a perpetual honey bee
makes me wonder though;
I am lactose and diary free - the dominant dietary preponderant
some modernistic conglomerate causing ultimate lethargy.
Does this mean if recollections are like Swiss Cheese
I am intolerant to memories?
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 12:31 PM UTC
“Where am I?”
Have I been transferred to hospital during the night?
I raise my head. Before me is a seemingly endless row of cubicles, each containing a bed upon which some person lies. Each person wearing a helmet and wired and piped into the back wall.
To my right is the side-wall to my own cubicle. To my left an identical wall. Some male doctor is sitting next to me, to my right, and to my left there is a female nurse.
Doctor: “Welcome back Paul.”
Me: “Where am I?”
Doctor: “Reality Paul.”
Me: “Reality???”
Memories of “The Matrix” and comical “Red Dwarf” flash across my mind. MMM. Yes, I’ve still got a mind.
Nurse: “Relax Paul, everything will be all right.
Doctor: “Paul, you just died from old age, very old age, in your sleep. Best way to go.”
Me: “Really???”
Doctor: “That’s right. You really bought it didn’t you. I’m sorry, but that was not Reality! This is. And you have not really died at all. In fact, Paul you are very much alive.
Earth, The UK, London…they are all fabrications. All fiction. And all that history and science those experts told you, it was all wrong. Only this is real!”
He gestures at everything around us as he speaks. But now he reaches for a dial on a console next to my bed.
Doctor: “When we put you into ‘Earthworld’ Paul, all your memories of reality were temporarily erased. But now it’s time to debrief. Now it’s time for you to Remember The Truth…”
And he turns the dial…
Paul Butters
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 4:15 AM UTC
me and cuz are gettin stove-piped
by three ripe, early-eyed airborne minds
me and cuz are flappin just right.
sharp turn on that slippy turnpike.
I spy twisted steel, cuz musta lied-
bottle kneck, open backpack, plastic bag.
guess cuz was 'fraid of a gun fight,
wid a seatbelt stained red on both sides.
me and cuz got us stove-piped.
Sep 11, 2011
Sep 11, 2011 at 8:02 PM UTC
Those silver ***** were my favourite
Placed sequentially on piped scrolls
Round the circumference, sparkling;
With Robin and Snowman greetings.
Tied, two inch wide, red satin ribbon
Around decorated cake on silver base
Marzipan and apricot coating under a
Stage of shimmer hardened royal ice.
Love Mary xxxx
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 7:38 AM UTC
A bear sat upon a mountaintop,
And there he contemplated life.
A thousand nights he thought,
A thousand days he slept,
Until he had a thought
For each star in the sky.
Himself he considered a star too,
As old and wise and special.
One evening a young squirrel
Bounded up the mountain.
With a leap and a chatter,
She said to the bear:
"When I was born you sat here;
Now you still do.
What have you done in between?"
"I have thought," the bear replied,
"Until I have a thought and a story
For every star in the sky.
I have lived a thousand moments
From here on this mountain."
"I have lived a thousand moments too,"
Piped the squirrel.
"Nonsense," the bear snorted.
"I was here a thousand moments
Before your coming."
"But how many did you live?"
The squirrel jumped to and fro
With formless jubilation.
"Quiet, squirrel!"
Thundered the now-annoyed bear.
She froze, then peeped,
Ever-so-quietly,
"You were here,
a thousand moments before me.
Is this moment one-thousand-and-one?"
The bear chuckled now. "Yes
Dear squirrel, now I have lived
A thousand moments and one more."
"That's where you're wrong."
"DID YOU COME HERE
JUST TO PROVE ME WRONG?"
Again thundered the bear.
He rose and swung his terrible paws
Through the clear air.
"No no no!" screamed the squirrel,
Now frantic.
"I have lived a thousand moments
and you have lived a thousand moments!
I came to see what yours were,
Because they're so much longer."
"NO, you are wrong."
The bear came down on all fours
And put his face in front of hers,
Teeth staring like soulless pearls.
"A moment does not change.
I have lived more, not longer
Moments than you."
"Ah," muttered the squirrel,
Creeping backward before
His awesome teeth;
Then she fled outright.
When safely out of sight,
The squirrel stopped, composed herself.
"Ah," she repeated disdainfully.
"I went to you seeking answers,
But you have proven to me:"
Age does not bring wisdom.
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 12:44 PM UTC
I stood by the unvintageable sea
Till the wet waves drenched face and hair with spray;
The long red fires of the dying day
Burned in the west; the wind piped drearily;
And to the land the clamorous gulls did flee:
‘Alas!’ I cried, ‘my life is full of pain,
And who can garner fruit or golden grain
From these waste fields which travail ceaselessly!’
My nets gaped wide with many a break and flaw,
Nathless I threw them as my final cast
Into the sea, and waited for the end.
When lo! a sudden glory! and I saw
From the black waters of my tortured past
The argent splendour of white limbs ascend!
1.4k
He stole his eyes from a milk-glass moon,
From drops of peridot scattered at sea,
Hidden beneath a moon-shadowed ruin.
His father not caring where or with whom,
Or from what rare ocean his being might be-
He stole his eyes from a milk-glass moon.
He learnt his letters from a dark winged loon
Who flew where the mountains caress the trees,
Hidden beneath a moon-shadowed ruin.
His speech was a garble of false and truth,
Whistling like a hollow piped reed,
He stole his eyes from a milk-glass moon.
His eyes a contagion of waters blue
And brackish trunks of underwater trees
Hidden beneath a moon-shadowed ruin.
His normal voice wove a threadless tune,
Brought close the mermaids, hungry to feed;
He stole his eyes from a milk-glass moon,
Hidden beneath a moon-shadowed ruin.
Mar 27, 2010
Mar 27, 2010 at 4:38 PM UTC
Today I met...
A man with sea blue eyes shining from fiery hair
I said "you should be a pirate"
Then Effie piped "Let's turn this bus into a ship"
He mined for gold in Australia
Working 12 hour days and nights
Visiting home he found bad repute
In Coromandal's strong anti-mining activism.
He complained about the packaging
Of the tourist L&P; ice-cream he'd bought
"It should all be cardboard and wooden spoons"
The miner turned environmentalist?
Did the activists hear him out?
Behind him,
A man with eyes enclosed in triangle parentheses,
A tattoo of reminder.
- Reminder that being locked up is a waste of time, of life.
- Realization that being in that crowd caused trouble. Drugs ain't the thing. And
- Regret. It caused him to care for young minds, to teach what he had learnt.
"I was only in there for drink driving" but for two years?
He left at Paeroa College, "take care",
Not hearing our "thank you for sharing"
At our transfer we serenaded
In happy gratitude and spontaneity
The pirate watched, intrigued.
The drivers; our faithful who had driven us so far
And our newly acquainted about to shuttle us forth;
They watched
'Til ye old faithful lost faith and went on with his duty
A boy stepped off the bus
Listening shyly, hiding.
My bow slipped over out-of-tune strings
Effie's voice rang true, feeling and joy,
Hand strumming, familiar and fond.
A mess of black hair from Colorado
Complained "there's too many guns"
But was a gunsmith "For hunters... I love it"
I held a rifle once,
Scared of its kick and its bite,
A man shouldered it for me,
I pulled the trigger.
Paused. Then relief.
- The clay bird flew on,
Its demise instead the ground
It hit and crumbled.
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 8:09 PM UTC
I chanced upon an old letter
That had clearly sailed legless on seas
Crumpled, damp but inside the envelope
Intelligible writing by sight
But by comprehension I was lost
Disorientated by sea-sick phrases
Somewhere a long way from our
shore a man or woman, very desperate
to find their way on board a ship
going in the right direction
When those who could speak
a second or even third language
were called forward
this person’s mind reached far,
back to french lessons at school,
every country visited and greeting noted
and piped up: I speak very good French!
But French speakers were common
Try harder! shouted a polite man
I can speak Zulu!? silence...
*Pashto is very useful…
Ah! my mother tongue,
I dream in that language
Yes I am still in touch with my mother
with whom I speak, of course,
in Pashto*
Setting sail on the lonely sea
There is nowhere to hide
besides the engine room,
And in there you will be used as fuel
Put to good use
—Well I did think once that I was being summoned to an underwater land but in fact it was a ruse, a trick to rob me of wallet
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 11:50 PM UTC
Road Runner is my all-time favorite- I like the song by Junior Walker too.
He, Road Runner, that is , reminds me of mentally ******** friends of mine who always strut around in a huff.
"It"'s a scream.
Bugs Bunny and Mel Blanc (Mel, one of Jack Benny's sidekicks) voice for him - Bugs was frothy with my kind of sarcasm.
Mickey Mouse I thought of as a kind of a put-on for guys that look like that a little who were always cutting up.
I used to get that song Hey Mickie by Toni Basil read piped in loud in my mind, it seemed when it played on the jukebox at that sports bar I used to hang out at.
Yosemite Sam is like some of the severely mentally ill guys on my geriatric psych ward who are really abrupt, loud, and whose bark is bigger than their bite.
McGruff - I wrote a piece about him - he's not of course from a cartoon - but from my yesteryear, who was under the weather, hence the crime wave.
Just like Smokey the Bear, he was a lovable character.
I like King of the Hill and Family Guy at night for yukks.
On Sat morn back in the day I guess when I had enough time I used to get a bit of a kick out of Fat Albert cartoons and the Jackson Five stuff on lonely, for me, Saturday morning to perk me up for the rest of the day.
Back in the old days, they reminded me of figures I knew like them in real life.
Sylvester the Cat, Felix the Cat, Hekyll and Jekyll, Daffty Duck, and Might Mouse tickled my little boy sense of humor.
In comic Books, I was impressed with the sense of humor of Little LuLu.
In the newspaper, Hagar the Barbarian and Beetle Bailey tickled my funny bone a little.
That's all, Folks.
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 9:09 AM UTC
Joel is a doorkeeper
for a rusty warehouse
and has a wife
a very angry spouse
and a son
one day his hip was out
two bodies going
on different directions
his blue uniform T shirt
floating in the powdered air
barely walking up and down
he fell
while cleaning the murky water
that flooded the region
of cement factories and grey hills
two weeks without his employers
to even pay for the pain killers
or severance pay and no off time
his face had the expression of a struggling
red snapper
together
we would watch a gossip show
on the TV
while he ate spiced dry beef
boiled eggs and rice
the stories on the TV were mostly about
spouses, children, abandonment and
violence and
girls sleeping with their step dad
a psychologist and the skinny loud mouthed
blond moderator
who acted as the defender of society
completed the act
Joel could not stand up to open the door
a doorkeeper who couldn’t open the door
finally, after two weeks of silent pain
they gave him an assistant
we packed the last China bound container
bellied up with modems
to be refurbished and resold
to a billion internet hungry
Chinese beings
My job was done
two weeks past and I came back
he was not there anymore
but I found him
200 yards away under his shack
a crammed cardboard cluster of homes
he was in bed
lost 40 pounds and was
piped up, draining blood
from the chest
and a bag of ***** attached to the waist
someone was laying next to him
sleeping the afternoon
he smiled at me
missing two front teeth
skinny as a mummy
had three tumours
one trapped between the kidney
and the spine
one more in the stomach and the last one
next to the liver
he was to be taken to the hospital
with a danger of loosing
the kidney and his life
I gave him a kiss on the forehead
and left
It was the same pink sunny day
the same old trick of a life
but something was not right
it never usually is
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC
My quarks my molecules my cells --
they all piped up.
Universe was playing
its simplest tune.
My heart skipped a light fantastic
to the moon.
Moon expressed her left and right,
her face turned to everyone.
I heard her voice
serenade the sun.
Natural me is I ~ I am.
I offer myself
to the sky above.
Bow to earth.
Dance my love.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 9:04 AM UTC
The kettle boiled, switched itself off.
He made tea, topped it with milk.
He had never felt calmer.
Today was the day.
He counted the strides to the station,
One less than usual.
The train was two minutes overdue.
A robin just above him piped and trilled its cascading song.
The train came into view, now it was level with the end of the platform.
This was the time.
Before he could see the driver's eyes.
He hesitated.
The moment passed.
**** robin, **** ****** robin.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 12:48 PM UTC
I enveloped the strange emotions which we ping as I eclipsed
your world and bid a tearless goodbye but I tanked
Yet I tattooed the pig on the green line
engulfed in diamonds
and drained
by your glorious throne
I pitched the ****** nightingales
a simple truce
feeling blackened with scars
burning in an ocean of salted
lies piped in the shame
of your venom
as I caked
I whispered
ocypus
I prayed to a bloodied red sky while purple with fear
I ran to the bed of the river where I tanked
seeing your soul floating about
I drained the rain as I pinned your
ghost to the wall
He raked your existence with a ding
crossed the road to burn
his ashes and they danced about
inheriting a swiped out
throne
the salt in your tongue
rotting with bitter
I warned you about the
snakes in the bed and the wolf
in the closet
biting off the head of the
lamb
I carried on without you over in my dreams and dropped
all manner of myself by the hint of a storm
fragile
peeling off the layers I sigh
dogged by the gloom
and wheat in your rye
I refocus
flaked in scars
and battles
I am boiled in anger
cracked with laughter
I am beset while enjoying me
a white russian
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 2:49 AM UTC
Johnny likes
the back corner seat
in the cafe
it gives a good view
of those entering
and leaving
and a good view
of the baristas
as they work
at the bar
especially
the Clara Bow
lookalike
with her black hair
and cute cut
and dark eyes
and thin
almost
indecipherable smile
and in the background
the piped Baroque music
or sometimes jazz
setting feet to tapping
but this day
the barista is
the short girl
with the Italian twang
who gets
the orders right on cue
and who knows
your requirements
before you say
on a good day
the tattooed barista
has gone
his favourite gaze
to watch her work
and talk and smile
and the glitter
in her eyes
she works
elsewhere
for other men
to watch
and stare.
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 2:27 AM UTC