"plodded" poems
Yes, mechanical leaf mover,
create the shrillest sounds known to man.
See if it doesn't just slowly make the world a ******** place
by taking away the joy of crunchy leafs,
which gradually become moist, squishy leafs,
then, after a long period, emerging from a snow covering
thaw and lie there, fully exposed, recumbent,
depriving the dormant seed of grass its sunlight, preventing grass,
freeing up water for infrastructure needs more urgent and rational
than supporting the most boring of decorative plants encompassing our lives.
I guess what I'm saying is that, not only are your sounds annoying,
they're just another of the short-sighted endeavors our present society insists on.
You are the "circumcision-for-hygiene-purposes" of our urban planning.
**** you, leaf blower. **** you and the excruciating environmental ignorance you represent.
I SAID **** YOU, LEAF BLOWER, YET YOU PERSIST!
You need to let that leafy-foreskin grow,
covering the shaft of ground.
Rid it of the pleasure-impeding growth of grass!
Let the earth cry out for the sensation of tiny points of pressure
moving delicately along its surface.
Let the ground erupt with wild flowers, or at the very least,
the trampled exuberance of plodded soil
and the desperate levels of human debris that would collect upon it.
Or are you trying to hide our wastefulness from us by removing something
which is nothing, a nothing, invisible barrier?
You've already succeeded in giving my apartment complex the ambience
of an industrial production complex
which I suppose it always was.
Maybe your attempt at concealment
has been a revelation.
Or maybe I just can't think straight,
because there's been a ******* leaf blower
circling below my window all morning
and now a heavy, riding lawn mower is coming to cut the grass
that hasn't grown since September
but has been watered every day
even though it froze last night
and it's almost November.
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 12:45 PM UTC
These feet have been around
Plodded in puddles
Clogged and clicked the ground
To you they're safe
To me you're sound
To run round to you
Oh crave I could now
Golden hair
Cartwheel flair
Peppermint breath
Fly in fresh air
Not once whistled
Not even splintered despair
Since good girl
Oh she's been there
Since Queen girl
Oh she's proved rare
Cornish Piskie,
Frisk me
Arrest me
Glisten glitter
Blind my gaze
Can't resist to see
Split open apparel
Dizzy me as does Jimi
Screeching and peaking in a purple haze
Precious stone
Clustered diamond
Element formed in golden flame
Gotta shade my eyes to save
Sight to see, pupils in prime
Condition to view you ripe and shine
Voluptuous mahogany, statue in mind
Polished marble, Amazon ripe
Almond smoke, velvet scent
Dusk swept sun, satin night
Will always be, your favourite gent
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 4:28 PM UTC
Indecisive and sounding as interesting as a brick
wall, I sauntered along the brick path colliding
with my brick silent mood, causing me to falter
kicking the covers, dislodging the brick,
hour on hour in the brick dark night, eyes
feeling brick heavy, tossed, turned,
the bathroom, bricked in on four sides,
plodded in the dead of night to the beat of
heavy laden feet, tic toc as the brick swings
soil, solid bricked ground, shuttered down
solitude, walking away....a heart,. brick heavy,
awash, water swirling, brick pockets....sinking
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 3:50 PM UTC
The last time I saw you, you were standing there at the gate, watching me walk away
I was trying to look cool, like nostalgia in motion
That’s a difficult thing to pull off when you’re constantly looking back
You were smiling and waving, like it was all gonna be alright
I secretly hated you for that
Everything in my being screamed at me to turn around, to run back to you
I wanted to take your hand in mine and pull you out of there like Wayne did to Cassandra…
Only I didn’t
I did my duty
I turned around one last time at the end of the longest hallway in the world and stole one last look
Blinking back the burning sensation in my eyeballs and the tightness in my throat
And then I plodded on
Just like I was supposed to
I had a stabbing pain in my gut like things would never be the same again
Like the WE we were was dying and going away forever
At the time I dismissed that sharp unbearable thought as sentimental weakness
The sloshy musings of an admittedly overdramatic youth
Never would’ve guessed my gut knew so much more than my thirsty brain
With its linear logic and high powered deductive reasoning
I told myself we’d be together again soon
I told myself to focus on the task at hand, and you’d be the reward waiting for me at the end of it all
The bright white light at the end of my long dark tunnel
I told myself you’d be the sunshine on the other side of the mountain
Knowing somewhere deep down it wasn’t true
Knowing somewhere deep down, that the WE we were
Now existed only in my fondest memories
Only in the dark moments I would occasionally indulge on the cool side of my pillow
I turned around
And walked out of your life
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 12:50 PM UTC
It was just one of those days
when the haze of summer had just started to lull the suburbs
into a sticky heat
of grills and lawn mowers
of air conditioning
(everyone pretended not to use it; windows! barked the mothers, windows!)
and the sweat stuck to the brows
of the life guards
napping in the sun
above an empty pool
the Dawson pool.
No one ever swam there
and the lifeguards knew it
those teenagers, sunning themselves lazily on hot days like this
(and the mothers! They complained about the tans. Cancer! the said.
In a way they were right,
but really.)
The waters were clear but the fences were rusted
the diving boards were falling
throwing themselves off the deep end
Katydids
lawnmowers
those lazy days
and the mothers! the constant nagging of soccer moms
lulled around the pool
on the day
Cassandra
took her
last
swim
Her face was like shoe leather
tanned by no fewer than 98 summers spent on porch swings
plodded slowly,
like her feet were considering
every
last
step
this woman presented her 5 dollars to the girl at the gate
(some surprised lifeguard, because, you see, no one ever swam in Dawson pool)
and pushed inside.
Cassandra never left her porch.
and the mothers! how they scolded their children for teasing her
(even though they had done the same thing at that age.
That's how old Cassandra was).
Decades of the suburbs
and push mowers
and world wars
stayed like photograph around her face.
The lifeguards stared.
Cassandra kicked off her flip flops and shrugged off her mumu.
In a pink bathing suit she sank into the water.
The age melted off of her as she danced through the water
graceful
strong
the strokes were slow and deliberate
and the lifeguards watched as she pulled herself from one end of the pool to another and back.
She made 16 rings
remembering her childhood
23 more
for her marriage
and then 60
60 rings!
before she stopped.
60 years old, the year her husband died.
The year she had stopped talking
aside from the hushed prayers in church
but she was talking to him; that didn't count.
60 rings.
And Cassandra just disappeared.
No one found the body
no one found anything
aside from flip flops and a mumu.
The lifeguards were nearly scandalized
for letting Cassandra drown
but soon she went from a news story to a ghost
and the mothers! sniped at their children
for whispering
"Did you here about old Ms. Cassandra?
They say she found God."
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 7:03 PM UTC
On a twisting, winding, rutted track
That weaved from under the pines,
A figure came in a burlap sack
Where the crossroad intertwines,
I could only see the bleeding feet
As they peeped from under the sack,
And the hood hid every feature that
Would deem it a Jill or Jack.
There was purpose in that stolid walk,
And determination fixed,
I thought to offer a helping hand
But my feelings there were mixed,
There were leaves and twigs on the figure’s back
And a slime that looked like mud,
I thought that it might have been attacked
When I saw that the slime was blood.
Nothing could stop its slow advance
As it plodded into the street,
I reached on out but it just walked by
So I thought I’d be discreet,
The day was settling into dusk
As it reached the village square,
And just as the ancient gas lamps lit
It gave a cry of despair.
The cry was that of a woman lost,
Was more of a hell-fire screech,
It echoed up to the steepletop
And I thought of Caroline Beech,
The girl who’d gone to the woods one day
For a picnic of pies and mince,
The basket lay for a week and a day,
She hasn’t been heard of since.
The figure stopped and its arm flew out
To point at the Baker’s door,
I saw his face at the window lace
As pale as a painted *****
The sweat stood out on his beady brow
As he hurried from room to room,
Locking each door and window now,
And shivering there in the gloom.
A crowd was gathering in the square
Surrounding the baker’s house,
‘You’d better come out and show yourself!’
But he was quiet as a mouse.
The men of the village burst right in
And they ****** him down on his knees,
She put one ****** foot on his head
And he squealed, ‘God help me… Please!’
‘I only wanted some love,’ he said,
‘But you just pushed me away,
I’d never have hurt a hair of your head
If you’d loved me once that day.’
And that was enough for the surly crowd
Who called on Oliver Beech,
To bring a rope from the stableyard
For a lesson they had to teach.
Her father fastened the rope around
The cringing baker’s neck,
Just as the daughter’s burlap sack
Collapsed to a heap on the deck.
There was nothing inside the hood or sack
As it lay there on the street,
Only the footmark stains of blood
From the murdered woman’s feet.
They dragged him down to the wood of pines
And he showed them where she lay,
Under a pile of autumn leaves
He’d covered her with that day,
They left him hanging above the spot
As they bore her gently home,
Now there is no baker in Warley Copse
So the villagers bake their own.
David Lewis Paget
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 4:15 AM UTC
The most curious thing in my acre of lawn
This morning, the day when long winter departs
The brown croquet ball of the rash Queen of Hearts
A bristly thorn bush of quills tinted fawn
I watched as he plodded so wobbly on
He snuffled and snorted with hesitant gait
His little nose twitching and smelling the air
He spotted not apples, but he did not despair
The cat had left food which he noisily ate
I watched and I realised how I could relate
The long snooze impending, he had to prepare
Half his life wasted no time for a mate
And prickly spikes would make love hard to share
How sad life would be if each hug ripped a tear
Pain is much worse when you hurt those you lean on.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 11:05 AM UTC
I thought I saw your face
Among the three thousand kids
At school today.
My heart nearly exploded out of my chest
And onto the floor,
And a wave of nausea overtook me.
But even so, I plodded through the crowd,
Hoping to find you
And say something, anything...
But you weren't there.
Pathetic.
My face went pale, my lips were cracked and bleeding,
And when I looked up with teary eyes,
There was no one in the hallway but me.
Loser.
I collapsed into a shaking heap on the floor...
My history teacher shrieked and ran into the hall to try to help me,
But it was too late.
I'd already hit rock bottom -- there was nowhere left to go.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 3:51 PM UTC
The Curtain of Time
Suspended between earth and heaven this thick dark smokiness has the beginning of time at one end and the other for now is in flux
A song of this same name says he gave me beauty for ashes let’s take a look at the ashes from earths side everything is disintegrating
All material matter is in a metamorphic state of decay new today gone tomorrow even people wear out always in the mind a true crux
Forever their beginning is rehearsed and their end never has an ending discussion we fret about what is missed by each side the loss
Look at what they missed in this year alone independence day the remembering the celebration the retelling of former glory
Peer through the curtain in front men of giant stature the founders are speaking of their exploits our loved ones give rapt attention
The father of our country gives a simple discourse of those crowning achievements there isn’t a dry eye after the telling story
This side books old and worn tell us what happened there it is breathed vouched by those it happened to the thrill reverberates
Earths snail pace lost just insignificant fractions compared to the speed of light travel beyond the curtain by thought you are there
The smoky curtain side families constrict the currents ever wider race and fills ancestral logs overwhelmed you set among your own
People that it would be hard to trace and show relation come up and give you hugs their peaceful nature leaves you a joyful air
Playing among angels and no worries will do that to you make you carefree seasoned by trailing what ifs then they turn to what is
The smoky side is brighter when facts are figured the sum of man is not told and then ended by the sod and marble stone
You touch the world with limited understanding you go to the place rich discoveries fold out of one another continuously
Amazement the norm you once plodded now you are the measureless wind free held only to heavens keel the stars out shone
In the kinetic flow all you need to know is enter designs that glory alone defines these unending lines eternal the curtain no more
Jan 1, 2012
Jan 1, 2012 at 8:39 PM UTC
Everyone would call her a hero
Carrying yet another soon to be orphaned child to safety
Leading group after group destined for destruction
Down the railway track of hope
Fighting not only the threat of death
But nature’s cold frigid grasp
Her own safety in the balance every time
She returned over and over again
Man, woman or child equally saved
The risks were great the reward greater
In a time and age of war
With no regards to race, color or creed
Cruelty unbound
She plodded on
Exhaustion filling the mind with thoughts of giving up
Yet her drive and spirit refused to cave in
Each trip meant more would live
How could she stop now
One day when all was said and done
Would they remember her or her deeds
It didn’t matter because this was about them
She knew the way
And would light the path
To a life which would grow and flourish
Her reward the look of relief on their faces
When they realized they had made it to the end of the line
Freedom was waiting
Andreas Simic©
Jun 11, 2022
Jun 11, 2022 at 9:57 PM UTC
I was 18 and surrendered to a Van Gogh sunset,
The Aegean Sea a calm mirror,
Plato’s sun, rose-red and dying,
A shift from wind to breeze,
Each night negotiates a calm.
There were eight of us
Inside the cave,
A cathedral inside a mountain,
Our home, high upside a cliff,
The mountain shepherds unhappy
With our stake,
Until we saved the lamb.
We’d found each other,
An octad to a family formed,
Wandering, drinking, annoying the Swiss,
Our freedom dangerous,
Beyond control,
Our odd desire to just be.
Hell, we were reading Hesse,
One of their own,
Our Swiss welcome spent,
They’d had enough,
And so we left for Athens,
To dance and sing,
And tender the sad patience of the Greeks.
Eighteen hours on the ferry to Eos,
People barfed huge arcs over the railing,
Then sat down to reread the headlines for the hundredth time,
Eos was an island of no cars, sparse electricity,
An abundance of religion
And a constant flow and cask of wine.
Retsina, the barrel sealing resin of the Aleppo pine,
An odd and unmistakable taste,
It left a hangover like a warning shot,
The only cure to drink again.
We spent Easter high on acid,
In the back pews of a church,
A thousand years of candles
White walls black with carbon,
A priest, a chalice, the smoking thurible,
A pendulum of incense and pure thought,
The ancients practiced faith with all their senses.
On cloudy moonless nights,
We walked the miles home,
Sandals slap on a sugar sand,
The beach ours, all of it
So dark we could only hear the sea,
The rhythm of the waves like the downbeat of the earth,
We plodded to its dark measure in a line,
On return, from village, church,
Or a lover’s walk through miles of wild daisies,
Until the rediscovered goat path up to our cave,
A Sisyphean task, a find each time,
Drunk, ****** alive, young, nuclear with hope and desire,
We would change the world,
We would mend kind all the broken parts.
And in our cave,
The sounds of others making love,
Rough grunts and soft sighs, whisper kisses,
I would think and dream,
And ride the silver of those waves
Our lives like skipping stones,
Brief, beautiful, and bound.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 7:11 PM UTC
for some reason, I've been sleeping on my couch
all week- - stolen the over-sheet from my bed
and plodded it over the cold leather so I don't
squeak and freeze in the night. I can't tell if it's
because I'm too tired to make my bed, or if
sleeping in the living room gives me a sense
of not being so alone like being next to those
loosely shut closets full of clothes and nothings
(and the memory of you) in pitch darkness. the
same lethargy has struck me with dishes. beer
bottles and empty yellow tail all sit where they
were abandoned after a night of silent-drunk
-chat-flirt. sometimes I forget to turn my coffee
maker off, and the coffee literally cooks to the
bottom of the *** like some disgusting carcinogen
pancake. ***** clothes lay about like fallen soldiers
on the dismal battlefield of my heart- all unaware
that even if one fights to win, and victory is attained,
the whole countryside has been devastated with
thousands killed who will never return to the
comforting silence of their loved ones reading
books in the living room.
for some reason, I've been sleeping on my couch all week- -
stolen the over-sheet from my bed and plodded it over the
cold leather so I don't squeak and freeze in the night.
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 1:51 PM UTC
"I'm yours now. You can do whatever you want to me."
I didn't even know what to say,
I never did,
I was still shocked you could want anything to do with me
You said you had hopes for us,
But what hope was there?
We had no direction, no plans,
We just plodded forward hoping this foundation we built could brave the trials of winter
I've read that soulmates can come together and apart just as easily,
A tragic scenario to be certain,
And if that's the case,
What is a soulmate but a reminder that love is eternal agony?
I do still love you,
Love is,
It's become like breathing,
Autonomic
I can't even remember life before this,
What it was like to be absentminded,
The loveliness of ignorance,
Oh how I would gorge on its sweetbreads
But this is simply life now,
I live in flashbacks and moments,
I love ghosts and candied words,
And I drink the liquor of empty hopes
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 1:32 PM UTC
Once there was Brighton rock, sent with love from Graeme Green.
My early life bore sticks of rock in candy stripes or perfect pink.
My young days were blessed by gift shops and cold cafe winters and buckets of sand.
Paignton, one of several beach fronts that I had encountered.
Another beach I met when I was wee.
Was lovely Weymouth, stocked with historical regency.
Upon the sands was to be found a perfect sculptor played with sand.
A maker of the sphinx,and of cars and crowns.
Stole all the little children's tears and frowns.
Built Neptune complete with his chariot and maybe just another modest castle.
Almost fit to suit a modern day queen.
Mr Punch and Mrs Judy.
The puppeteer's hand shoved up both their bottoms at once.
Poor knackered donkeys plodded.
Their bridles labelled with their names.
All gone now.
Think the animal rights brigade may have stepped in there.
Punch and Judy deemed inappropriate and the sandman left.
Guess they put him to sleep or maybe they're just taxing his sand.
(C) Livvi
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 3:39 PM UTC
We had left early morning for sight of the phallus stone
Dragging our feet through the stones of ice mountains
Our horses plodded on with us some times and without,
Our behinds aching with their bony backs in contact.
Old men sat hunched up in two feet long wooden boxes
On young men's shoulders , latter feet dragging stones
The boxes felt like our old men's journey of no return
To a stone phallus to be bathed in tears in the snow hills
Where they will join a mountain stream and flow as river
To return to plains and land in the seas of their villages.
The mountains were cruel and beautiful to our tired feet
The horses zigzagged their way up with their droppings
Filling the cold air with a warm smell mixed with bodies
Their tails swished unending imaginary flies in behinds
As they were lost to their green dreams of the mountains.
Old men paddled all the way up in their wooden boxes
Crouched as in their mother's stomachs,with eyes shut
From their lips came muttering sounds like buzzing bees
That filled the empty silence of the hills in the morning.
It felt as if it was a return to where they had started out
Where this thing had begun, the sea of their first floating.
May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012 at 4:09 AM UTC
I walked or sauntered or dashed or stumbled, no...
staggered! or swaggered, or was it stepped, no...
I jogged or, bolted, no stomped or slid no...
hopped! or was it skipped no hop skipped and jumped...
or sauntered! no i said that one, it was swaggered! no....
I stampeded or dogged or shlepped no bounced or was it...
I stamped or ed or rolled? no strolled! haha yes Strolled! no...
I stalked that was it or was it followed no no it was sojourned
sojourned! sojourn? no it was galumphed or marched, no charged...
aha sauntered! no! ****** it was ambled or slogged, trounced? or tromped, no rambled, yes I rambled on! no no thats not right, I plodded, trod no tread! no strided, thats not even a word, sloped, no...
govereetted, or persnicketied, or skreed, or preened, no no no none of that is right....
I sauntered! no no, swaggered! no was it promenade? prowl. no patrolled, parolled, no no thats way off...
I trekked, trudged, no fudged, no dogged! like george! he dogged it all the time, no I said that one, slogged or sashayed no trooped, no perambulated, or moseyed? or hoofed it? no it was definitely sauntered, no no it wasn't sauntered it was a dawdle, no lurched, or hawked, no stopped,
no no it was definitely movement, thats it! it was a movement! no no no that can't be right I paced, yes i paced back and forth and thought about life for a awhile....
no no that wasn't it either it was really more of a strut, or a saunter, yes saunter! no swaggered! no no
**** you words....
I wandered or was it roamed, no limped, gimped! no...
minced.... or no yes! minced... wait.... no it was a hike, yes I hiked up a mountain with friend of mine, or was it climbed, no no thats not right...
I slandered, no.... pandered! no... I meandered, haha actually no i think it was a peruse, or no a beat! no.... I cut a rug! or actually i think it was more of a stumble no....
ah yes it was walked, I walked about sixty blocks today
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 6:17 PM UTC
The boy, age seven
Stayed behind the others -
Remained outside in waist deep snow
While his newly assigned family
plodded and stomped onto the back porch of the great house,
shaking snow and cracked ice from their matted sweaters,
Shedding their scarves, wet gloves and socks .
Loud excited voices growing muffled and faint
until they disappeared completely into the warmth and comfort of interior rooms.
It was the boy's first winter in western New York
and he had never known such monumental silence
or seen the world disappear so completely
in snowstorm and dusk.
His cheeks burned red;
His toes and fingers grew fat and numb –
How long would it take, he wondered, for fresh snow and wind
to obliterate his footsteps completely,
leaving no evidence of the path
that had brought him there;
Until it looked as if he had just been dropped into someone's yard;
as if he had just appeared from nowhere.
Before he began to move again –
before he headed inside with the others
he smiled.
In the space between his thoughts
there was a moment of silence deeper than anything he had ever felt before.
Nov 22, 2017
Nov 22, 2017 at 6:24 PM UTC
It seems that I awoke one day,
To a life I did not recognize.
And plodded forward anyway,
With desperate, frightened eyes.
To view the world afresh; anew,
With shaking hands and fear.
Strangers plenty and friends few,
No familiar hand to wipe a tear.
And teaching myself I trudged on,
Making all too often a mistake,
Until all my belief in me was gone,
And I had made my own heart break.
I had turned away those who were true,
Assumed they had a dark, hidden side.
And as in my past life, I trusted very few,
No one knows me because of my pride.
I could venture out and nomad roam,
And struggle for truth, not to falter,
But know I would still not find a home,
For my faithlessness just will not alter.
Apr 9, 2010
Apr 9, 2010 at 6:54 PM UTC
Into this word i came
at midnight
Darkness rested on my skull
held me by my sleeves
and led to its labyrinthe
Puzzled
I could'nt tell which path
was plodded by the chastes
nor that which led
to the belching hell
The hunters with lamps
to lead me through
and gourd of wine
to quench my taste
were deep asleep
I, the kid who came
at midnight
when the world was lost
in the song of thier snore
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 6:49 PM UTC
God has looked into my heart,
Not at it, but into my heart —
Introspectively,
Microscopically,
Spirtual-scopically...
That lumpy piece of flesh,
holding all my fears, snears, cheers, and revears:
The terror of that lone gunman lurking nearby, forcing a town and the State to ransom for a “new world order.”
The criticisms of others...
Accomplishments in life you held as a goal, not sure if you’d ever bring into the fol’.
And my eternal hope, alarming me when I feel I can’t cope...
Essential to keep me alive,
Essential for me to thrive,
And arrive into my ‘be-ing’.
But it is a bumpy piece of flesh,
Scared with wounds,
Pushed and prodded,
Pumped and plodded
in life, with life
And through life...
“Oh, my heart...”
Sep 27, 2025
Sep 27, 2025 at 3:05 PM UTC
I found you in parks,
camped out in libraries
bus depots
we shared road stories,
**** food, and whatever we had
stuffed in our pants, forbidden
by the man
you came from everywhere
and were going nowhere--except
California
a million dreams after
Steinbeck's hordes plodded west,
desperate to find the fruit
but you were in search
of grapes without the wrath:
there weren't any
you came and went
some succumbing to the needle
others to the bottle, and more to the winds
which whisked you to another park bench,
another all night diner, in another
dead, gray city
I stuck around,
earned, or stole, greenback dollars
built red brick houses, had children and wives
and almost forgot your scent
now, mostly when the lights are out,
I add the years of your evaporating biographies
and realize so few of you remain,
to walk our flat earth
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 8:06 PM UTC
The day was grey when it came my way
With a clatter of wheels and hooves,
Echoing off the cobblestones
And under the red tile roofs,
The rain was glistening in the road
And I was confused at first,
For what I’d thought was a coach and four
Went by as a horse drawn hearse.
The horse went stepping by, high and proud
With a coat like shining mail,
And ostrich plumes adorned its harness
Right down to its plaited tail.
Then in the hearse, a polished coffin
With silver plate inscribed,
The name of him, who encased within
Had clutched at his heart, and died.
I watched the hearse as it rolled away
And thought that it could be me,
When one day off in a future time
I departed my history,
The wheels had creaked like a ticking clock
Or a dripping tap, each turn,
Rolling along to the day we stopped,
Went home in a funeral urn.
The months slipped by with barely a sigh
Till I saw that hearse again,
It passed my way when the day was grey
And the clouds had threatened rain.
I read the name on the silver plate
As the hearse had passed on by,
And held my breath in the face of death
For I certainly knew that guy.
We’d been together at school back when
Though he was younger than me,
He’d been successful in all he’d done
And married Penelope.
The only woman I’d ever loved
But he’d snatched her heart away,
And now she plodded behind the hearse
Looking faded, old and grey.
Her eyes met mine and a bitter smile
Had flickered around her eyes,
I hadn’t seen her for years, and yet
Her look had the look of surprise.
I never saw her again until
She passed me by in the hearse,
Her name engraved on the silver plate,
I thought I was being cursed.
So now I wait by the garden gate
For the clatter of wheels and hooves,
Whenever the day is clouded and grey
And the sound echoes off the roofs.
All I can hear are the wheels of time
That pass like a ticking clock,
And wait for the hearse to halt outside,
Whether I know it, or not.
David Lewis Paget
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 2:19 AM UTC
Waiting for the day to cease,
Where I shall hug you in your nothingness,
Knowing that you're absent of light, nonetheless.
Everyday you die,
I wait in the corner, shattered, broken and paralyzed with grief,
Till you reincarnate into yourself,
And for that love you give.
I touch every part of your body,
But then I haven't even touched a little part of your body.
Fading I am, and going into you,
For the sake of the promise that I made to you,
For acquiring the bliss of your kiss, in turn,
My love, I am walking away into the land of no return!
II
Eyelids move up and I breath,
And I try to rise,
To make love to you, I seek the price,
All around my coffin till the heaven's door,
As I walk, about you, I adore,
To the angels and the souls of dead fish at the shore,
Now plodded a moment,
When with you, I'm totally done,
Under the rays of sun,
Where you vanish more and more,
When the soul of mine recalls,
Recalls of you being a *****
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 4:14 AM UTC
He waited in the alley way
ready for a feast
She walked down the streets alone
not anticipating a beast
He licked his lips, closed his eyes
breathing deeply of his prey
She plodded on, in her ears a song
not caring she never walked this way
He pulled his frame up tight
tightly coiled for the pounce
She continued upon, walking blind
in her step, a little bounce
He waited an eternity in the cold
for just one tasty bite
She hardly ever walked alone
and never ever in the night
He saw her as she broached the alley
recoiling against her dewy scent
She simply kept her eyes down low
not perceiving the imminent threat
He let her pass then stepped beyond
the alley where he would choke
watched her shiver in the dew
then offered her his cloak
She startled at the deep rich voice
that rumbled in her ear
turning to face the mountain man
that crowded her, so near
He murmured his apologies
for frighteninging her this eve
She accepted his 'so very sorry'
putting one arm through the sleeve
He helped her on with his cloak
She scented his dissent
He motioned for them to walk on
She pretended to ignore his intent
He talked to her as he walked
She nodded and she smiled
He grinned at her responses
She giggled all the while
He bought her home, safely
forgetting she was his meal
She bought him back, from the brink
turned around to show her heel
He clasped her hand to his heart
whispered *'There are others, such as I,
while tonight, you arrived home safe,
it's more than likely you'd not survive'*
She took his palm from her heart
pressing her lips dead upon its centre
then licked up to his fingertip
asking *'But, who would remember?
Who would ever remember the girl
found broken in some alley way?
If you're not the one to remember,
please...* Stay'
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 5:15 AM UTC