"poppets" poems
A sonnet of moonbeam,
a moonie for a son.
Hey Salkind and Salt, too!
Once young peeple gathered
we magicked the world
to shape a future out of the Cold
We demand no more curtains
No poppets, no straw men, no g-men
Mother nature's calling
She cries out daily
for her children
the moon, her star -the Sun
Earth magic and wishes alone
can no longer fill the breach
of promises too long forgotten
Let her rip,
like a lioness
Roaring at the injustice of her first ****
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 9:52 PM UTC
in the interval
when the ice cream lady
came
we bought
Kia Ora
and a box
of Poppets
I put my arm around her shoulders
she said,
it's not that cold,
I was hot
chewing poppets
and when the movie started
I tried to kiss her
but
only once,
she told me
that she'd tell and
I would go to hell for it.
Her name was Jacinta and
we were at the Odeon
the Odeon's gone now
and
Jacinta married
Bob Shriver who
drove for Amoco
I remember her though
very well.
Oct 31, 2016
Oct 31, 2016 at 3:51 PM UTC
Chilling in blanket, grey red edged, itching,
Bright clear night,
Leaves him colder,
Fingers smart,
Blue, cold attacked,
Feeling older,
Cloud cover dispersed,
Lack of cloud makes night feel worse!
Holds on to night's mantle , try to keep warm,
His tatty grey blanket protects him from harm,
May warm his heart, if only a little,
It's only the cold that keeps him alive,
My homeless friend, a fight to survive,
Fights on night after night,
Wrapped in winter's chill overnight,
Stern, severe, no desire to be here!
Circumstances beyond his control,
Left him stuck unearthly hole,
It's Friday night,
Greetings abound,
Soup served by poppets,
Angels wrapped in overcoats,
Ladles in hand,
Here again to meet Friday nights,
Supply with demand,
Not societal pariah,
A sad soul, lost in loneliness,
Living, but not alive!
Livvi Kent 29/04/2013
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 12:15 PM UTC
Eris
The press of
some boy’s
Levi rivets
on my hips
and liking it.
School girl poppets,
******* scraps
thrown in our faces.
A policeman
asking Eris
the colour of the
wanking man’s pants.
Fleshy pink she laughs.
Mysteries at 14.
Eris knows men
with fast cars.
Fast hands.
We fast forward
to forget most bits.
Never question
why we are taken,
we never
speak of it.
Why bother,
my mother’s drunk
with the man
whose daughter
Eris is.
Mysteries at 14.
I’m told
no alcohol.
There’s nothing
worse
than teenage girls
disgracing themselves.
Stay nice.
My father’s charcoal
drawing
on our wall
of the woman
with the
pointy *******
She is Eris’s mother.
Double standard
mysteries at 14.
Eris is taller than me,
blocks my way
with her back
as I try to leave.
Stay she says.
Scent of lemon
on her blonde hair,
caught up in a ponytail.
I flinch
as she flicks
it to one side,
like a stamping palomino.
Strands caught
by the butterflies
pinning
the gold studs
to her ears.
Blonde in my mouth,
lemon on my tongue,
best friend,
girlfriend crush.
She turns,
dissolute and desolate.
Eris says we’re enjoying it,
all the mysteries at 14
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 5:49 AM UTC