"plonk" poems
A winds whistle from your eye’s view’s
An open mind or something new.
Open hearted, open toe shoed,
A place to go to greet the blue.
The shifting sands surround your sandals.
The sun shimmers, unsure, awaiting.
The sea wanders all hues of blue.
So you step, and sense a ripple.
You stop.
You step and sense a ripple,
But this time know that sand is fickle
And time is ticking quicker quick,
The sand beneath you growing slick
And tilting till you lose your height
And tumble down
the sandy
bank.
Plonk
You see some toes,
feet, some ankles,
knees,
hips,
torso.
A sand crusted face, a gentle smile
A strong hand.
You stand together, arm in arm.
There’s a sense of calm .
Now you know,
However quick the sands may shift
Whatever distance you may drift.
Your hearts forever intertwine,
When you face the sands of time.
Feb 11, 2022
Feb 11, 2022 at 8:34 AM UTC
So you know that strange feeling you get, the one where it feels like you're different from them.
You're a green tulip in a field of yellows, but they all see in black and white.
You decide to go with it, because Different is bad. Same is good.
Same, they say, is what gets you somewhere.
Same, I think, isn't fun at all.
It's gray, dull, a ticking clock in an empty room. Time wastes away, and nothing is done.
Same stands over you with a bat, and 'plonk' when Different tries to talk to you. Same wears the same suit and tie every day, never changing.
Different likes colors and scarves and sandals and beanies and fur coats and tattoos.
Same likes to talk about the weather, while Different doesn't talk; she was interrupted too much.
Different likes to sit down and think, and think, and dream. She sits longing for more Different's, the ones with fur coats and tattoos. Same chases them down with his bat and 'plonk' they become like Same, with suits and bats.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 11:23 PM UTC
I had an Indian Fakir come
To stay, from Uttar Pradesh,
I was doing a friend a favour,
I don’t, as a rule, have guests,
I couldn’t make out a single word
He said, and so my friend
Provided a written commentary
To guide me, in the end.
It seems he was naming my furniture
It’s something that they do,
In places that are incongruous
Like the depths of Kalamazoo,
And he wanted to give them English names
So he asked my friend’s advice,
In case I couldn’t pronounce them,
Well, at least the thought was nice.
My armchair became Albert
And my settee Gunga Din,
I suppose he thought it would be okay
As it was from Kipling.
The tallboy was called Gerald
And the wardrobe, simply Joe,
The polished table Cheryl
And the kitchen one was Flo.
I’m glad that he wrote them down because
I can’t remember names,
Just that the bed was Susan
And the kitchen sink was James,
Some of them were portentous like
Ignatius, for the desk,
While each of the kitchen chairs was given
A name that ends with -este.
Celeste, Impreste, Doneste and Geste
And then of course, Ingeste,
I couldn’t remember which was which,
My friend was not impressed.
We bade farewell to the Fakir
And the Wardrobe flapped its doors,
And rumbled out a ‘Goodbye my friend’
From between its mighty jaws.
Then voices rose in a chorus from
Each part of my tidy home,
The names had given them each a voice,
It was rowdier than Rome,
The voices were accusatory
Trying to lay some guilt,
And Susan said of the Wardrobe, Joe,
‘He’s looking up my quilt!’
‘How could I help it,’ Joe replied,
‘I’m at the foot of the bed,
You’re flashing me with your silken sheets,
It’s doing in my head!’
While Albert grumbled in voice so deep,
‘Do I have to be a chair?
Each time you plonk on my tender seat
I’m gasping out for air!’
Then the kitchen chairs were out of place
And James was choked with suds,
The carpet, name of Emily
Was sick of traipsing mud.
It seemed that the polished table top
Was scratched, and she was mad,
The desk disliked my keyboard so
To each, I answered ‘Sad!’
‘You’re going to have to get along
I won’t put up with this,
Until that Fakir came along
This house was perfect bliss.’
I did away with their English names,
Replaced them with Chinese,
But they couldn’t speak a word of it
So I brought them to their knees!
And peace returned to Grissom Place
Just as I thought it would,
I made it plain to Wardrobe Joe
‘You’re just a lump of wood.’
While Susan smooths her quilt right down
And tucks her sheets right in,
And James just blubs, he’s full of suds
As I nap on Gunga Din!
David Lewis Paget
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 7:40 PM UTC
Fine wine, your line of perfection, profile absorbed
Within the printed page, taking you away
I want to say “Stop and listen”, the minutes ticking away
To nothingness, we won’t replace, they are lost
Fine wine, spilled onto the page, blood red; it disgorges
Its ruby glow, seeping into page after page
You leap to save the page, now wet and unreadable
Looking annoyed in the process, what a pity
Fine wine, these minutes are ones to remember with irritation
Cursing the red stain instead of the intrusion as welcome to
The monotony of the dirge, Groundhog Day of stale breath
A profound chapter not worth reading; close the book on it all!!
Fine wine, legacy of a long held sameness, dawdling the
Hedgerows, cutting the quality of what could be into what isn’t
And so on and so forth, dragging feet and knuckles; skin
Peeling its life away scuffed and failing, our souls drowned
Fine wine, secretly savage, blood red, vibrant and exotic
Or bored, buried in the sand dunes, beige and baron, your bottle of plonk
Oasis a mirage, a delirium to reality, a pretence to soften the blow
Life or existence with a hint of amaretto warmth to keep afloat
Jul 28, 2012
Jul 28, 2012 at 6:21 PM UTC
I've got fingers, ten little fingers-
Five there on each hand-
And these fingers, ten little fingers,
Are my marching band.
They can plonk pianos
They can play a slide trombone
(They can play some nasty tricks
If left all on their own!)
They can twang a banjo
Pluck a guitar, play a flute
They can thrum a big bass drum
(Or wave a rude salute!)
I've got fingers, ten little fingers-
Plus I've got ten toes-
(Five of them can kick you
While my fingers pick my nose!)
Jan 23, 2011
Jan 23, 2011 at 8:38 AM UTC
Hunkered down we pass the plonk
We can see Madame and pay
We shake her hand and thank her
San fairy ann she'll say
Sergeant copped a blighty
He'll be on his way
He's thanking god almighty
San fairy ann I say
It's hard enough to smile through this
When folks get blown up every day
But all the while the whizz-bangs miss
San fairy ann we say
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 2:51 PM UTC
Ingrid stares
at the sea
the wild waves
the seagulls
we've come down
on the coach
from London
organised
by the church
of gospel
worshippers
what are those?
she asks me
they're seagulls
do they bite?
I don't know
want ice cream?
her brown eyes
gaze at me
no money
she tells me
I’ve got some
I tell her
is there lunch?
she asks me
I think so
there's money
from the church
for us kids
from poor homes
I tell her
her brown hair
is pinned back
by steel grips
she smiles wide
her rather
mild buckteeth
beam at me
fish and chips?
she asks me
I guess so
can I be
your girl friend
for the day?
want ice cream?
O yes please
she utters
I go get
2 ice creams
from a van
parked near by
what you want?
the guy asks
2 ice creams
with choc flakes
I watch him
fill 2 cones
with ice cream
then plonk in
2 choc flakes
I walk back
to Ingrid
here you are
I tell her
she takes one
and we walk
on the beach
in the sand
8 year olds
hand in hand.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 3:43 PM UTC
All we are,
delightfully lost.
Is that all it is?
Heading feet-first into sunsets.
Whirlwinds.
We crash, grab,
forget to blink,
rely on breath alone.
Here words tumble in a torrent,
recycle in your mouth
and back out again.
Clichés cannot die.
On a loop,
a worn-down yo-yo.
I roll them out for you
on a goldenrod carpet,
you skip across them
as though they are red-hot coals.
What set you off
like a sparkler in the night?
The sea brings us love,
vice versa.
Waves like mounds of sugar
embrace your torso
in a way I can only dream of.
Camera exhausted
under the weight of today,
puddles of polaroids,
enough to smother the floor.
I smell snapdragons,
candy fizzing
on both of our tongues.
Soaked.
Fade to black.
Your language
is blossom
slinking into my ears.
Wet sand
slips in a mustard waterfall
through our fingers
and I trip over my T’s and P’s.
I’ll keep your smile
locked in my pocket
for black-cloud days.
A triplet of cartwheels,
sticky palms
and panting as if
you’ve run a marathon.
Give it a go…
I try and collapse,
a soppy sprawled mess
gawping at the sky,
before blue eyes
smash into mine
and I fall again.
Dripping.
In-between seconds.
Flaccid strands of hair,
frizzled spaghetti
clings to your neck.
The blonde grenade
I keep writing,
cannot control
but adore to see explode,
catch the thirteen
or more little fragments
of you,
keep them ‘til next time.
When you leave
I can follow your footprints,
mementos back home,
tread where you stood
and exuded light.
We sit cross-legged,
water dribbling over our toes.
I memorise your heartbeat,
you plonk your head
on my shoulder.
Minutes wash away.
Stop the clock.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 11:34 AM UTC
the night in turmoil
a bumble jumble fumble
of croaks, hoo hoo, purrs, stridulous chirping
then a sudden cringe, ******
shush shush
hush, gurgling creek,
hush, whiffled leaves
clippety-cloppety
clippety-cloppety
clok clok clok
a schwing, zing, zip
and a plunk
and a plonk
in a whoosh
and then a scrunche scrunche
and
clok clok clok
clippety-cloppety
clippety-cloppety
silence burbles
tick tock tick tock
shh, shh,
listen:
a sluggy chugalug
and a fuzz of tiny tunes:
a yelp, a eep
stilness
a purr a buzz
putt putt putt
slowly back in motion
the burbles, whiffs, croaks,
the stridulous bumble jumble
of a crickety night
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 7:56 PM UTC
Your love seems to every morning
Clouding by darkest wind
I'm driest as slime
Oh you , Oh soul
Take my tear
And pick up my candle
Poor in my happiness
Days and me !
Without you in lethargy
Plonk there , and here !
Will you come?
Take him from here
A Heart didn't roaring
No longer revenging
Take him ,oh Ishtar
If he belong to antar
Afflicted to your love
You ,Oh blondy
I'll sailing without get boring
Poseidon wishing me leaving
I'll foraying hearts doesn't get bored
& Villages and grain
Singing a love without illness
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 6:52 PM UTC
Forced into action
False starts of recognition
Badly ascribed motives
And motivational speakers dying by the boat load
Trying to make a quick buck
From the wisdom of the cosmos
As if it wasn't freely available to anyone who will listen
Blistering lips and burnt fingers
**** bliss and listerine
Coughing up your anatomy
In a cacophany of coffee drops and cheap plonk
Like the company of even cheaper politicians
Civil servants serving their civil selves
While Santa's elves run the workshop
For pig slops and platitudes
It's so easy to short change people with no change
But big hearts and some semblance of social conscience
Who want to see their fellow man succeed
While greed drives more powerful men to darker ends
The soul corrupted green and crispy
Neatly pressed and folded in a money clip
While the trip of a lifetime waits in a little black bag
But who's keeping score
How can you when the game is so confusing
Quietly excusing themselves from the sidelines are the ones making the money on the whole **** thing
It's rigged, you should know this
Quit while you're ahead
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 8:47 AM UTC
So. You lit up our world
like the trajectory of a blazing comet
and landed in the middle of our lives,
plonk. Just like that.
We’re talking here of a little supernova,
and a whole, dazzling, new dimension.
Yes, you were smiling, crying,
shamelessly dependent and incandescent,
lighting up the world with love,
while saying, in effect,
don’t worry, I’m the future now,
what isn’t written yet is here with me.
Well, you didn’t actually say those words,
because you’re only ten months old,
but that’s the essence, really,
of your arrival in the terrestrial
and your trajectory from the stars.
Mike T Minehan
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 7:53 AM UTC
My friends embarrassing moment.
Some people's minds whirl around all the time to make things fine
It's getting stranger all the time
It's getting stranger all the time
I sat in a suit drinking some soup with a partner of mine
As if I would be commiting a sort of crime
If I wore jeans and a T'shirt with I am trying to be different written on it ;I hope you do not mind ;
I heard the manager call the police and they said" tell him he is walking a very thin line"
Now just leave and we will be sending you in the post the attire you should be wearing if you travel and want to sit and dine"
Patronised enough I looked in the mirror of the restaurant and realised I was naked all the time and the other people did'nt like to say but your ***** is in my eye line
I was a victim of a criminal that had stripped me of my identity I find
I did a few selfies with a bottle of plonk two waiters and some spaghetti some banana custard and a piece of ham then my friend came back from the toilet and we swiftly left as he whilst peeing spilled some over the bowl and was too embarrassed so felt nothing left but to incline to leave.
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 1:15 AM UTC
The Artist and a bottle
Saw him at the supermarket,
had seen him before
when he was a child, he bought two litre bottles
of plonk,
told him to buy a better quality wine,
he didn’t listen to me.
I shared a table with him and
a painter in the park,
they sat there drinking didn’t offer me any.
The artist, disturbed by our silence
got up and began painting a tree,
red trunk, black leaves and something yellow in between,
I thought of the Belgian flag;
winter dark place, windy many canals, but the beer was good.
The artist, now famous, sold his tree moved
away and said deep things to magazines about art.
My childhood friend died; cancer it was said, but it could have
been the cheap wine.
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 5:16 AM UTC
Wallace Stevens
Wazzup?
With the widows and the maidens?
The name
dropping
the distancing vocabulary that
we scurry to look up
look up
train our eyes
train.
If I came into your office, in downtown
Hartford a city
I knew framed - as my father grew up in
Wethersfield always said
be careful –
downtown Hartford is
not a good place to be alone.
So I saunter, prink, and
perambulate
plonk myself
past your receptionist.
A widow?
And she’d holler:
-Mr. Wallace I asked her to stop!
And your desk which you requested almost 15 years ago
already looks out of date in too heavy oak is
caught between us, a horizontal surface filled
with paper.
There will be one sentence.
And one exclamatory remark.
-Wallace, you’re only human - you put your pants on
one leg at a time.
-No!
he says, jumping up from his desk,
-Watch!
He undoes his belt, he drops his trousers
he steps out of them –
He steps out one leg at a time.
BUT
Wallace Stevens, god bless him,
arranges his pants carefully on the floor of the
Hartford Accident
and
Indemnity Company
just so.
And grinning,
hops into both puddled legs
at the same time.
Then bends over and hoists the waistband
the belt dangling
in triumph.
Lesson learned.
Learned, schooled like
St. Ursule with her radishes
Just another lady
Just another confabulist
Just another story.
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 9:32 AM UTC
Home made, completely all home made
I bet you cannot tell.
The label tells it all that I have designed
and looks good enough to sell.
I started tinkering around with ideas
what can I produce from my vine?
I can grow all sorts you know so I
will see what I can make into wine.
I have fruit in all colours and every shape
to the delicate little ruby cherry
to to most sophisticated shiny grape
and every possible home grown berry.
I have trees laden with the rich sweet
bouncy good old English plums
to the good old fashioned stone in the middle
dark red and sometimes purple damsons.
I can get my hands on nectarines, peaches
apricots galore, apricots and sweet peas
Of course Mother Nature is responsible not me
and of course the clever little bumble bees.
Well they all get mashed up
and placed in my home made vat
the aroma spreads for miles
led by next doors nosy cat.
The time you leave it matters a good deal
I like to leave the wine a good length of time
Then you know you have a decent brew
and produce quite a cheeky little wine.
Of course if you want the sparkle
it is not that much work or trouble
Want a fizz to blow the cork sky high
Make you see double with the bubble?
Add extra yeast or at least that's what I do
oh yes you are left with quite a fantastic beast
spread it on toast and float on the surface
looks disgusting and it will be a frothy yeast.
But whatever the weather whatever the tide
you are sure to have sometime to decant
Whether it will make the neighbours talk
you have produced something significant.
Pour them a drop of the old plonk
bottoms up, see you soon and good old cheers
Its fantastic this home made brewing idea
the best home made brew in years.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 11:10 PM UTC
Have I been here before,
Under the limes?
The brush sweeps sighs
Behind me, wooden footfalls echo
Into the density of crushed
Red velvet seating.
Plinkerty-plank-plonk,
Boney tendrils find a drunk man
Blundering his way home,
Gone midnight, wet and sorry.
The audience having left, amused
But ultimately dissatisfied.
The limes ghost across the blackened stage.
The black piano grins, then laughs,
A breathless wind across the strings at last,
For I have left the building.
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 3:01 AM UTC
ALWAYS THE SAME DREAM
"PING!" goes the microwave.
"PING!" goes the yet-again-Internet.
The Lady of Shallot
deletes Lancelot
from her facebook
friends.
She pokes Tennyson but Tennyson
doesn't like to be poked.
The world and its shadows
stream through her BT provider.
A post informs her that
"Popty Ping!" is Welsh
for microwave.
She clicks Like.
Doesn't remember when she
last interfaced with the real
world
the big bad world
that huffs and puffs
outside the frosted glass.
She posts a new status:
"Agoraphobics are people too!"
What was Tennyson thinking of?
She didn't ask to be created!
A woman made from "words
words...words. . .words!"
"The curse has come upon me!"
She has run out of Lil-Lets.
"Chop shallots & simmer
lightly in butter, then. . ."
the Youtube video
instructs her.
She finishes yet another
bottle of cheap plonk.
It's so hard to be
a fictional character
in a modern world
that's gone digital.
She thinks of Googling herself
but then thinks twice of it.
She falls asleep on the couch.
The cat perches on top of her head.
In her dream she is
forever floating...floating
"On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky"
It's always the same dream.
Apr 29, 2019
Apr 29, 2019 at 3:17 AM UTC
Don't feel well
Abela
turns in bed
eyes closing
too much wine
cheap old plonk
I tell her
don't like wine
did last night
need a bowl
don't have one
use the bog
she rushes
to the bog
and vomits
I sit down
have a smoke
listening
that waitress
who served us
yesterday
fancies me
Abela
shouts to me
I don't care
about her
I feel ill
need to rest
she vomits
once again
you go out
take that tour
she tells me
not going
without you
I can't go
not today
she comes back
with a bowl
I found this
in the bog
got to sleep
so she creeps
into bed
with the bowl
the waitress
did not have
a cute ***
not like my
Abela
when she's well
or unwell.
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 3:21 PM UTC
ALWAYS THE SAME DREAM
"PING!" goes the microwave.
"PING!" goes the yet-again-Internet.
The Lady of Shallot
deletes Lancelot
from her facebook
friends.
She pokes Tennyson but Tennyson
doesn't like to be poked.
The world and its shadows
stream through her BT provider.
A post informs her that
"Popty Ping!" is Welsh
for microwave.
She clicks Like.
Doesn't remember when she
last interfaced with the real
world
the big bad world
that huffs and puffs
outside the frosted glass.
She posts a new status:
"Agoraphobics are people too!"
What was Tennyson thinking of?
She didn't ask to be created!
A woman made from "words
words...words. . .words!"
"The curse has come upon me!"
She has run out of Lil-Lets.
"Chop shallots & simmer
lightly in butter, then. . ."
the Youtube video
instructs her.
She finishes yet another
bottle of cheap plonk.
It's so hard to be
a fictional character
in a modern world
that's gone digital.
She thinks of Googling herself
but then thinks twice of it.
She falls asleep on the couch.
The cat perches on top of her head.
In her dream she is
always floating...floating
"On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky"
It's always the same dream.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 3:11 PM UTC
Miss Pinkie
opens her door
and smiles.
I see you brought
some wine,
good boy;
go through
to the lounge.
She takes
the bottle of plonk from me
and I go through
and sit
on the white sofa.
She's playing
the Delius LP
I bought her.
The lounge smells
of perfume
and a touch of *****
She comes in
with two glasses of wine
and puts them
on the coffee table.
How are you?
Not bad, not good.
Somewhere in between?
Guess so.
She sits down next to me;
her left hand touches my knee;
she's starting early.
I like places in between.
I guess you do.
You know I do.
She smiles;
her dimples explode.
I see you've put on Delius.
Yes, he's good.
Like me.
Hardly, my boy, hardly.
Her hand
moves up my thigh.
I pick up my glass
and sip.
Her hand reaches
my in between
and I almost choke
on the wine.
Are you multi-tasking?
No,
just sipping my wine.
She's nineteen years
my senior;
she's like a poor man's
Marie Antoinette
in looks.
She picks up her glass
and gulps the wine down.
That's how one drinks wine;
do you think the Romans
sipped wine?
I gulp down my wine;
feel light-headed;
put down the glass.
On here
or in my bed?
Don't mind.
Indecision
shows indifference.
I smell her perfume;
it engulfs me.
Her hand resumes
its search of paradise;
her red-nailed fingers
reach home;
my pecker stirs
like a woken snake.
Here is best.
Thought so,
she says.
She removes
her lower garments,
I look away;
too much
of a good thing
kind of philosophy.
Delius plays on,
but I prefer Mahler
alongside
****** activity,
he has more passion,
more sensuality.
She lays back.
I lower
my lower garments.
Her phone rings,
rattles on
the nearby shelf.
She gets up
and waddles
to the phone
and answers.
Hello, how are you?
No, I’m ok.
Can't make it tonight
I’m a bit tied up.
Tomorrow?
Yes, should be fine.
Bye-bye.
I sit there,
watching
her plump backside;
Delius has ended
and so have I.
A sense
of disappointment
and a big
warm sigh.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 2:44 AM UTC
The water trickles slowly out of the faucet.
Plink plonk
Raindrops leaping to their deaths.
And I fear that when the last one falls,
Nothing will remain of me.
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 7:52 PM UTC
ALWAYS THE SAME DREAM
"PING!" goes the microwave.
"PING!" goes the yet-again-Internet.
The Lady of Shallot
deletes Lancelot
from her facebook
friends.
She pokes Tennyson but Tennyson
doesn't like to be poked.
The world and its shadows
stream through her BT provider.
A post informs her that
"Popty Ping!" is Welsh
for microwave.
She clicks Like.
Doesn't remember when she
last interfaced with the real
world
the big bad world
that huffs and puffs
outside the frosted glass.
She posts a new status:
"Agoraphobics are people too!"
What was Tennyson thinking of?
She didn't ask to be created!
A woman made from "words
words...words. . .words!"
"The curse has come upon me!"
She has run out of Lil-Lets.
"Chop shallots & simmer
lightly in butter, then. . ."
the Youtube video
instructs her.
She finishes yet another
bottle of cheap plonk.
It's so hard to be
a fictional character
in a modern world
that's gone digital.
She thinks of Googling herself
but then thinks twice of it.
She falls asleep on the couch.
The cat perches on top of her head.
In her dream she is
forever floating...floating
"On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky"
It's always the same dream.
Apr 28, 2019
Apr 28, 2019 at 9:24 AM UTC
on getting a scent
of the almighty dollar bill
the aroma it gave off
did so perfectly thrill
smelling a bigger ***
would better excite
for the nose is open
to that kind of invite
inhaling currency
switched him on fast
it smacked like
a power packing blast
and he'd follow the blood
hound's perceptive sniff
to where ever there would
be a profitable whiff
for sure and certain
his probing conk
will be out sensing
the huge money plonk
Feb 12, 2018
Feb 12, 2018 at 8:10 PM UTC