"plymouth" poems
A story, a story!
(Let it go. Let it come.)
I was stamped out like a Plymouth fender
into this world.
First came the crib
with its glacial bars.
Then dolls
and the devotion to their plactic mouths.
Then there was school,
the little straight rows of chairs,
blotting my name over and over,
but undersea all the time,
a stranger whose elbows wouldn't work.
Then there was life
with its cruel houses
and people who seldom touched-
though touch is all-
but I grew,
like a pig in a trenchcoat I grew,
and then there were many strange apparitions,
the nagging rain, the sun turning into poison
and all of that, saws working through my heart,
but I grew, I grew,
and God was there like an island I had not rowed to,
still ignorant of Him, my arms, and my legs worked,
and I grew, I grew,
I wore rubies and bought tomatoes
and now, in my middle age,
about nineteen in the head I'd say,
I am rowing, I am rowing
though the oarlocks stick and are rusty
and the sea blinks and rolls
like a worried eyebal,
but I am rowing, I am rowing,
though the wind pushes me back
and I know that that island will not be perfect,
it will have the flaws of life,
the absurdities of the dinner table,
but there will be a door
and I will open it
and I will get rid of the rat insdie me,
the gnawing pestilential rat.
God will take it with his two hands
and embrace it.
As the African says:
This is my tale which I have told,
if it be sweet, if it be not sweet,
take somewhere else and let some return to me.
This story ends with me still rowing.
7k
The body remembers, though it has been
four years since the summer you shattered your
knee but still limped out across the continent
to Boston to see him you idiot and
this is the fourth summer you've placed between
yourself and the last pin and the last *****
your body remembers, though in the
torturous lengthening of fused and toughened tissues
the bad leg is finally catching up,
and the scar with its ten numb inches of
puckered track has come to fade bone white
against your skin
but it’s still stored somewhere
in your sockets or cells and when you fall off your bike you still cry
Though you’re not really hurt your body remembers
So that when you’re confronted with their engagement photo
(you didn’t even know he was seeing anyone)
the darkened garden at the Plymouth Plantation
begins to bloom up around you before you can stop it
like a seizure or a vision, and you’re there again
trespassing after him through shadowy pines
and night-damp atlantic air
to where the white chairs encircle the altar.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 12:17 AM UTC
Angel of Plymouth, your Winged Heart's inflame
Un-Grate this Laurel which merits your frown
At last you found her; Then enrich your name
So why wear the Shirt if it keeps you down?
Tarry me, please, to your Toried Reason
Which Pure Faith crippled to un-hook your Wings
Fill your Hour's Due; And renew your Season
Then know full well that her Telephone rings
And Live you considered to Sky's Content
Happily blessed by Hellen's Burning Brow
She caused your Curls; Which many Intent
Thus winning her Fortress Time did endow.
Remember this always with all Support
Those Frightened Moments need no more rapport.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 11:44 PM UTC
America, Why I Love Her
Written by John Mitchum
Poet/Actor
You ask me why I love her? Well, give me time, and I'll explain...
Have you seen a Kansas sunset or an Arizona rain?
Have you drifted on a bayou down Louisiana way?
Have you watched the cold fog drifting over San Francisco Bay?
Have you heard a Bobwhite calling in the Carolina pines?
Or heard the bellow of a diesel in the Appalachia mines?
Does the call of Niagara thrill you when you hear her waters roar?
Do you look with awe and wonder at a Massachusetts shore...
Where men who braved a hard new world, first stepped on Plymouth Rock?
And do you think of them when you stroll along a New York City dock ?
Have you seen a snowflake drifting in the Rockies...way up high?
Have you seen the sun come blazing down from a bright Nevada sky?
Do you hail to the Columbia as she rushes to the sea...
Or bow your head at Gettysburg...in our struggle to be free?
Have you seen the mighty Tetons? ...Have you watched an eagle soar?
Have you seen the Mississippi roll along Missouri's shore?
Have you felt a chill at Michigan, when on a winters day,
Her waters rage along the shore in a thunderous display?
Does the word "Aloha"... make you warm?
Do you stare in disbelief When you see the surf come roaring in at Waimea reef?
From Alaska's gold to the Everglades...from the Rio Grande to Maine...
My heart cries out... my pulse runs fast at the might of her domain.
You ask me why I love her?... I've a million reasons why.
My beautiful America... beneath Gods' wide, wide sky.
[topp]
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 6:11 AM UTC
Attitudes can happen.
Every day of the week.
And when winter comes, i can feel more cold temperatures.
When spring comes, i will make it rain.
When summer comes, it's still good enough to go to Plymouth, Massachusetts.
And when fall comes, romance is going to be great.
That's why I love New England because it's my beautiful paradise for me.
And this is what good attitudes mean to me.
Anonymous.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 2:48 PM UTC
I REMEMBER here by the fire,
In the flickering reds and saffrons,
They came in a ramshackle tub,
Pilgrims in tall hats,
Pilgrims of iron jaws,
Drifting by weeks on beaten seas,
And the random chapters say
They were glad and sang to God.
And so
Since the iron-jawed men sat down
And said, "Thanks, O God,"
For life and soup and a little less
Than a hobo handout to-day,
Since gray winds blew gray patterns of sleet on Plymouth Rock,
Since the iron-jawed men sang "Thanks, O God,"
You and I, O Child of the West,
Remember more than ever
November and the hunter's moon,
November and the yellow-spotted hills.
And so
In the name of the iron-jawed men
I will stand up and say yes till the finish is come and gone.
God of all broken hearts, empty hands, sleeping soldiers,
God of all star-flung beaches of night sky,
I and my love-child stand up together to-day and sing: "Thanks, O God."
2.2k
hi
I don't know what 2 say
Im marty and I am a man
I live in plymouth
and I drive a mini van
my fav things are
pizza friends music and my dog tracy
I play games online alone
and I am a paperboy
and my family lives overseas
dating is not my thing
so I am on this site.
and I want to fall in love.
and my fav movies are
**** bill jaws jurasic park and **** bill 2
I don't know what 2 say
maybe you liked my profile
so send me a msg or
cyber-roses or a digital chocolate box
or click the flirt button
I like to talk sometimes
when I get lonesome.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 10:02 PM UTC
Life hasn't been easy, sometimes it gets really tough,
I grew up in Plymouth, a place that's really rough,
My parents both drug addicts, didn't show me love,
And now I always wonder, if I'll ever be enough.
All the kids at school used to sit and make fun of me,
The girl that always had clothes which were *****
Then I glowed up, starting growing *****
Now the same kids wanna slide in my DMs like, "what's new?"
I worked hard just to get where I am,
So please forgive me if I flex on the gram,
Hustle in silence, everyday I grind,
Always made sure that my bills paid on time.
Moved out of home when I was just 17,
Started realising that I could live a dream,
Went from living on the streets,
To paying so all my friends could eat.
I had to grow up fast, so I could see the world,
If I hadn't, sure I'd still be a little girl,
No worries, no stress, no tears in the bed,
Nothing to complain about, no anxieties in my head.
Talking about anxiety, depression and stress,
Let me tell you, I still know how to impress,
Bury the anger, the pain and aggression,
Only thing to shout about is progression.
Enemies of progress, will never see you succeed,
So is that really the type of energy you need,
Started meditating so I could just be free,
Now all these fake ******* tryin' to be me.
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 8:33 PM UTC
Everyone’s a mutt in this paradise
adding to the Gumbo: America.
Anglo pure blood and breed will not suffice
To thicken spicy stew’s- Hysteria.
Strength, which each American is made of-
From the poor origins like Plymouth Rock
to indentured servants-it’s not enough.
Like bitter tyranny of slavery’s stock,
And exotic railroad builders toil…
Sweaty brows and every acrid tear dropped
pierced this soil, made this land boil
with every dreamers dream heavy hearts stopped.
We overflow into the salty seas
with ancient roots long as sequoia trees.
Dec 28, 2011
Dec 28, 2011 at 2:50 AM UTC
On my way up the stairs
carrying a cardboard box
of old books, bad poems
and overdue bills heavy
in my hands, not thinking
between steps, moving,
on my way up the stairs
remembering slowly, not thinking
that on my way up the stairs
i carry coat hangers, cockroaches,
an ex-wife, a hot plate, werewolves,
toys and old landladies.
three years now
on my way up the stairs
eight or nine rooms in
three years
one month in a closet
three weeks
in a '49 Plymouth and
god, nothing in here is so
immediate as what pain is.
there's much less to move
than remember.
on my way up the stairs
is the same as now
is 19 ways to forget
this is climbing and could
have come two rooms back in time.
on my way up the stairs
carrying a few letters, two pair of shoes,
an armful of clothes and what happens
is swift, irrevocable, between
steps, not thinking, in suddenly
like a snapshot falling
from the pages of a book,
a memory, i see it
on my way up the stairs,
the brilliance of finding
on my way up the stairs
a thing lost, a memory flashing
and fading and fading
is a picture of a picture of
my daughter forgotten in a closet ago
on my way up the stairs
i keep falling from these pages
captured and posing, in this
yellow faded place
on my way up, etc.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 8:06 PM UTC
Hand on the good book that I never read,
I swore my loyalty though you know I like to fib,
Even as your see the guilt gushing beneath my skin,
I’ve been holding the prosecutor’s hand, with another on the switch,
A spineless snitch waiting for the green light to fry you for what Benjamin did,
So sorry this couldn’t have been different,
But the chair only seats one according to our governance,
And I’m not the victim with a scheme preached as providence
So sorry for the inconvenience
But I want to feel the pulse of the pompous cease,
And watch the stillness of eyes that once blinked,
When they found the oval throne of a tyrant
Instead of the virtuous,
The one who was to lead us,
So who’s stopping me from strapping you to that seat?
Since my crime caused the scene
Since your fathers where the ones who put your sons to sleep
Coming from the cranial cracks of the insane,
Those that tried justified slavery while promising us all equality
I am the reason they put price tags on humans
And why this isn’t the land of the free
I’m the governor forcing your loyalty
Or I tell everyone you’re a traitor before finding you guilty,
I’m Uncle Sam’s mistress,
The thought process of social unrest,
When the enemy was a homegrown threat,
When Plymouth protest turned to disobedience,
I was with the Protestant,
I’m the crack in the Liberty Bell,
The judge, jury, and judicial jezebel,
The King, the colonial, the freedom fighter, the insurgent
I’ve once facilitated your independence,
I was your lust for a better existence
Since the struggle against a parliament
I’ve been dealing you an idealistic hand,
Since the election of the forty-third,
I am the notion that this isn’t the promise land
Like a revolutionary remedy
I am the idealistic ******
The enemy of our mentalities
The thought of defying the constraints this reality
Apr 6, 2012
Apr 6, 2012 at 2:38 AM UTC
Two weeks in the sweltering heat of El Salvador
Sweating out the familiarities of home
A windswept airport parking lot
Speckled with miniature palm trees.
Open your eyes,
Dust off your ears,
And let those worries evaporate
Into the atmosphere.
Embarking down a little dirt path,
Where years of civil war
Unleashed their wrath.
Subtly, a foundation shifts
From the Miquon woods
Towards a smaller rural community
In the altitudes.
A laid-back game of soccer
In the oppressive 115-degree weather.
Against the firmness of dried brown dirt
Frantic feet are light like feathers
A history is present here
A common ground
We both hold dear
It’s clear,
The passion is sincere
Above all
A Spalding ball
Replacing Plymouth Meeting Mall
I, them, we, thaw
Once feeling cold
Now living raw.
A flash of colors
Mirrors a Macaw
The blend of people
A game will draw
With warm legs kicking
One draws upon
More natural law
A hand exchanged
For faster paw
Metamorphosis leaves
Humans in awe.
Who’s watching us?
The Eye of Ra
I feel awake
I think I’ve heard the bugle call.
Aug 31, 2011
Aug 31, 2011 at 1:53 AM UTC
That BBC accent over the air,
a beacon in my hour of despair,
Thames, Dover, Portland and White,
the warm, soft glow of the radio light,
Shannon, Fastnet, Plymouth, Biscay,
Soothing my soul ‘til light of day,
Dogga, Fisher and German Bight,
my only comfort throughout the night,
Cromarty, Malin, forth and tyne,
Through static crackle, his voice so fine,
Those childhood days have long since gone,
No big old radio to twist and turn on,
But I’ll always remember, forevermore,
Listening to the shipping forecast on Radio Four.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 8:54 AM UTC
Syrian pilgrims on boats of hope
Finding no place to land
No one to lend them a hand
No Plymouth Rock to throw rope
How can Republicans cope?
They believe this land is their's
Exclusively, for a Macy's parade
A big balloon with man in stockade
Thanking themselves, saying prayers
Really just showing no one cares
Blaming it on religious beliefs
Though zealots they are themselves
Confusing truer issues as well
Where have gone the Indian chiefs?
To Mexico forced by Trump's police
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 2:34 PM UTC
the hard face
sunburned remnants of a man
allways loudspeaker for his intent
announces to the empty room
of his arrival
his field of landmines eyes
wander the crowd in the empty chairs
looking for the face
that will conquer or capitulate
looking for the ever present weak link
most days you can find her
in some park feeding ducks
some real some not so much
dont really make much difference these days
most days you find a smile in her heart
all of em real but not always so quick
most days nothing changes
but sometimes everythings gotta go
and she got no fear putting it on the line
he walked the carpet hall
with the framed pictures of three piece suits
and the victories they had over the outside the line desperado's
sunburnt remnants of a man
he walks with his shadow upright hand in hand
he walks in the darkness of the bright sun
looking for a face in the crowed emptyness
looking for someone that will conquer or capitulate
hes looking for her
but shes looking for you
cause she loves you
and the kitten you carry on your shoulder
most nights shes on the hood of her plymouth
drawing pictures in the dust of the road
sketching echoes out of the nights song
most nights shes driving a backroad with rockabilly
smoking her speakers
most nights you can find her in your arms
but not tonight
not this rainswept night
where we goin
why should this kind of thing happen
why take from someone never done you wrong
why do such things
is it any wonder you never see my face no more
is it any wonder im far away
most of the time
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 7:46 PM UTC
beer belly muscle
her voice with sharp tone
is the one thing that can draw
me back from slumber
she has seen far too much
but her shy glancing is a
picture perfect to paint the near
**** image of innocent young
country girl gone bad
his bent neck two handed stride
beer belly muscle sweat grinds
on your senses
but his voice is low and slow
like a Plymouth idling on a hot swamp road
like a man once drowned and saved
looking at an ocean with
reservations deep deep reservations
they bore a child
better put she bore them
her unreserved laugh
and hot hot smile sleek by her eighteenth
but its her depth and soul its her brilliant poem
at 4am its her drunken fisticuffs with a stuffed animal
its her wrapped around you and burrowing into you with every grunting sweating twenty two year old hardbody mile
that leaves body and soul reborn
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 6:47 PM UTC
An intensely timely attempt to right a Ship of State,
The U.S. Constitution, from a Supremacy Court decision,
'Citizen's United', wrought by it's being dragged
Across the Plymouth Rox, that landed on US, 'cause
We didn't land on it, by the tug, the S.S. Tea Party,
And it's ignoble leader, not ebony, but ivory, working
Together in perfect harmony, merx for more to mercs for war,
Amongst the 21 flavors of, in this 'baskin and robbins' of
Supremacy, the united **** of assassins, through the lack
Of 'separation of church and state', demanded in it's
Fallen noble leaves, the Founding Document of this great
Nation, that actual religion of the bi-headed false gods
Of mammon, wealth, avarice, and mollock, extreme violence,
Grinding up seed, exemplified in king george and his ****
Cheney's, along with the republican conspiracies' elite's,
Purposeful non-prevention of the attacks on 9-11 and their
Unnecessary, "unending war on (supposed) terrorism", the
Coup that divided a people, dictating they choose exigency
Over humanity, continually, which set-up the invisible coup
Elections of 11-16, it's installation of Trumpler, etc.,
Not being separated from the state, being sociologically
Programmed into everyone, by the corporate structure's
Convolution's devolutionary direction, undoing Evolution,
Is practiced by almost all behind the masks of supposed:
Christianity, atheism, Hinduism, science, art, Wicca, etc.,
Possessing everybody in that form of self-possession,
And we need to be exorcised from it before we can
Again exercise our responsibility, necessary to again
Realize it's Siamese twin sister, freedom, for the
Intellect can't lead, as the life doesn't follow.
Then illimitable, indivisible you, walking in nature's
Balance giving back to nature's abundance can remember:
Compliance is suicide, we're defiance; if you're not
Taking bullets you're making them; an injustice to any
Is an injustice to all, and if it isn't addressed
Individually, it becomes a global injustice as well;
"Be the change you wish to see in the world", "the root
Of all oppression lies in (supposed) science", Gandhi;
Materialism isn't, abolish scarcity based global fossil fuel
Slavery by using abundant renewable energy, now. reality
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 8:07 PM UTC
Veered into sharp
splintered, split
old country bridge,
her blue Plymouth
plunged into the bay
she screamed
until she had
nothing else to
s
a
y
.
.
.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 11:28 PM UTC
the fast car evaporates into the inky darkness
like a hazy thought
in the summer night
like a fervent wish to endure
it rides some backroad near the county line
with some stratocaster echoing sweetly
and a crooner of these latter days
sing-talking bout all some love he had stumbled upon
in the backwoods of childhood
and the flame that endures in his soul for her sweet hand
this song fills the air of the empty road
as the fast car
plymouth grey with primer
her wheels spinning on the dust road
the river run by the metro north tracks
the stratocaster hits the end of its song
but some part of you just wants that song
to go on forever
you just want that midnight run to last forever
cause shes there with you
and she has smiles for you alone
your just like that stratocaster looking for
the opening notes of that song
that'll last forever
that'll be on her lips
be her song
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 9:51 AM UTC
I still talk about you,
And how you encompassed my soul.
And honestly, that feeling will never go away.
It will always be like the first day.
Your lips on mine,
In my father's hallway.
Can you honestly say
You don't remember?
I will always be passionately enthralled with you.
The push and pull of exotic enticement.
The deftones will always bring me back to your bed.
In catasaqua,
With the slushies ballroom dancing
And the old dude watching us **** in the back seat of my Plymouth acclaim.
Of tripping endlessly,
And the saying "beauty is free"
From staring at dead trees.
The bench,
And the roof.
Those feelings will always lead back to you.
I can honestly say,
I will ways love you.
It was so easy for you to say you don't love me,
But yet you instilled the fact that you'd be the only one who would.
I know now,
No matter what you say,
That I will love you more than anyone
Who will ever come your way.
I will love you,
Forever and always.
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 6:04 AM UTC
At the top of a rocky hill
Overlooking Plymouth Sound sits a Fort big and round
Known to the locals as the Royal Citadel
The Fort protects Plymouth Sound and all the citizens that live
and work around.
Originally designed by Sir Francis Drake and funded by taxes on pilchards exported by sea.
With walls 70ft high and host to 113 guns, the Citadel protected Plymouth for over 300 years and was home to the naval military.
When I was young annual Military Tattoos were held
Every child in Plymouth seemed to attend transfixed by the smart men all in time, marching and playing their drums and pipes.
Now the Citadel proudly sits on display but sadly has no role today, no tattoos or music of the night displays.
By 2024 the Plymouth Citadel will be no more
Three hundred years of history will be replaced by housing much in need but sadly no longer will it have a military history
Oct 8, 2017
Oct 8, 2017 at 5:25 PM UTC
Time melts away like
a Dali painting,
and my mind flies north;
a Canadian goose against the
loose gray sky,
freer than any man's ever been.
Yesterday, I was a
melancholic little one, feeling all of
Seasons in the Sun, on the radio.
5 years old, in the
backseat of my mom's black Plymouth.
Mom's gone.
Dad is too.
I'm getting old, but I will
never stop searching for that
gold in the heart.
I'm finally the simple prairie man that I
always longed to be.
I smell the autumnal night, and it's
nothing but cattails and bass from here until
that big orange fire paints the
west end of the lake.
Sep 3, 2023
Sep 3, 2023 at 9:44 PM UTC