"pram" poems
upon the elephant rode a boy prince,
his royal command, he was there to evince.
dark with grace and dripping with youth.
bringing his men, his crown and his couth.
town after town he strode fierce through the gates.
and any detractors were left to cruel fates.
and on one windy day, as they strode into town.
the faces where tenfold and a hush passed around
the grey of the creature with knowing black eyes
swayed left towards the crowd as if to capsize.
and the mass gasped in horror; bairns seized by their mam.
men flung at young ladies, babes pulled from the pram.
the bewildered and flustered
tired elephant sat.
in the center of all on the bald pastors hat.
the old pastor looked stunned to see such a disgrace.
until he remembered, and composed his face.
'your highness' he bowed. his manners restored.
but the poor prince was toppled his mighty seat floored.
they gasped for the prince, just really a child
dressed in fine silks on this elephant wild.
pastor said, 'here now' extending an arm
hand wrinkled and gnarled from the land that he farmed.
then the guards sprung to life as if sudden awake
guns point to the man of whose life they would take.
and just as they squinted their eye for the aim
a boy sang out sweetly, 'sire he's not to blame!'
and the prince from street where he lay in pool
held up his hand and recovered his rule.
he looked at the crowd and he said 'boy now speak'
the boy said, 'prince it is the prayers that you seek.
the prayers that you'd visit. the prayers that you'd stay.
lord must of heard them and granted this way.'
his eyes wide with truth and the love of his church
the prince laughed a beautiful belly filled lurch.
the carriage was called as the prince shared a feast.
and even some water was splashed on the beast.
such a good time as he danced and he spun
till the horses arrived in the dust of a run.
to thank the town and the lovely haired boy
the young prince gave up his own precious toy.
the beast stays quite put in the center of town...
but prayers said no more...so the prince won't fall down.
sahn
04/10/2014
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
I sat all morning in the college sick bay
Counting bells knelling classes to a close.
At two o'clock our neighbors drove me home.
In the porch I met my father crying--
He had always taken funerals in his stride--
And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow.
The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram
When I came in, and I was embarrassed
By old men standing up to shake my hand
And tell me they were "sorry for my trouble,"
Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest,
Away at school, as my mother held my hand
In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs.
At ten o'clock the ambulance arrived
With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses.
Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops
And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him
For the first time in six weeks. Paler now,
Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple,
He lay in the four foot box as in his cot.
No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear.
A four foot box, a foot for every year.
12k
1
I see you, ya
I may be finger-punching
my smart phone at the dining table -
but darling, I see you, yeah
We’re seated at the table
you say something
but you think I’m listening to
Taylor Swift on Youtube
True - but hey,
I see ya, I hear you
I hear both of you
I multiply, I multi-task you see
2
I’m walking along the shops
I’m pushing the pram
with my baby inside
and I’m updating status
on the phone too
and getting that download –
but hey, stranger round the corner
I see you, ya, don't ya worry; yeah I see
my baby and I see you
stranger round the corner –
but hey, watch where your going
3
hey - I see you guys, I see you
no doubt all day I sit
in my couch tapping away
on my new supersize phone
but I’m smart hey – I see you guys
I see you my darling at the kitchen –
get me another coffee, will ya
And I see the kids glued to their sets
and little Toby our kitten
curled at my feet – why, thank you
for the coffee;
darling, can you
put a few cans of beer in the fridge –
see? I see ya, yeah…I see you all
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 11:28 PM UTC
Holding a torch to single motherhood with one hand
~ I push the pram of invisibility with the other!
*Perhaps I should get a curve hugging costume,
a (wipe-clean) comic strip silhouette of a kickass mother.*
"I'll be doing it all because I can!"
Aug 12, 2012
Aug 12, 2012 at 6:12 AM UTC
daydreaming alone -
Lady's Bedstraw golden buds
under my pillow
*powerful hailstorm -
under the casino's eaves
the homeless man sleeps*
**sleeping baby boy -
his mom places in the pram
a lavender thread**
grandma's funeral -
I stumble over the roots
of an old oak tree
*tall rose at the gate -
grandma's gray mohair shawl
the same every year*
**quiet afternoon -
grandpa tells his dying wife
about the new pups**
brimming hay wagon -
on the end of the wood pole
a blue butterfly
*Forty Martyrs Day -
a child on a bike circles
the street crucifix*
**deserted station -
wild blackberries rimed in blue
through the barbed wire**
still summer morning -
wiping off a dove's claw prints
from my windowsill
*Forty Martyrs Day –
a little girl kneels once more
to watch snowdrops grow*
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 1:09 AM UTC
Autumn Friday in sepia,
Counting conkers in the park,
Lit by a fuzzy chestnut sun
That fairly crackles
As it touches the chilly branches
Of the mother tree.
I, too, am a mother tree
Hoarding conkers in the bottom of the pram,
For excited little twiglets,
There must be near two hundred in there now,
Large and small,
loving them all,
My daughters
wonder at the shiny brown bullets,
Loading their skirts with more and more,
Dropping, laughing, searching, competing
For the biggest, shiniest ball.
Home we go,
Loaded with treasure,
I will stash them in a bag
And let them live with us
'Til Summer.
They must be kept,
I cannot be parted
From the source of so much joy
For the keepers of my heart.
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 1:11 PM UTC
1.
Potholes
spots of sunshine
wobble
2.
Sudden downpour
noisy trucks at midnight
crowded footbridge
3.
Sipping coffee
at a wayside stall
cockroaches too
4.
The morning sun
fondling with tender fingers
the red roses
5.
Chasing each other
in the bylane
two birds
6.
A girl
between the railway tracks
swings her pony tail
7.
Softness of wind
magic in her nearness
sleight of hand
8.
End of festival:
I stop by her haiku
on twitter.com
9.
A teenager
glides past me on roller blades
her long hair flows behind
10.
A toddler
trying to stand up by the pram—
young mother watches
--R.K. SINGH
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 12:52 AM UTC
While reading an article last night about fathers and sons, memories came flooding back to
the time I took me son out for his first pint.
Off we went to our local pub only two blocks from the cottage.
I got him a Guinness. He didn't like it, so I drank it.
Then I got him a Kilkenny's, he didn't like that either, so I drank it.
Finally, I thought he might like some Harp Lager? He didn't. I drank it.
I thought maybe he'd like whiskey better than beer so we tried a Jameson's, nope!
In desperation, I had him try that rare Redbreast,Ireland's finest. He wouldn't even smell it.
What could I do but drink it!
By the time I realized he just didn't like to drink, I was so feckin ********* I could hardly
push his pram back Home.
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 3:24 PM UTC
Look at how fast they grow,
the last you saw them was in a pram,
and now they are as tall to walk on the ramp.
They were the ones to ask you what to do,
they looked for your guidance when they were two.
look how fast they have grown!
now they tell you what to do when you're on your own.
They look after you like you looked after them,
they are now the guardians that you were to them.
I'm talking about the little ones who used to crawl,
They would make you cry and gauge at your eye *****
Each of them a menace for all ounce of their breath,
To pull your hair like they were meant to stretch!
They are my baby brothers who I had sworn to protect,
But now they are strong enough to fly out the nest.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 2:10 AM UTC
We’re at the shops
and Tim runs off of to the escalator
and Mum shouts to him:
You stop there!
And Tim freezes
like ice got hold of him
And Mum pulls out
the flap over the pram
and helps baby Didi
with the milk bottle
and I scream to Mum:
*Let me go;
I want to go to Tim!*
But she pulls hard at the rein
and I can feel it tighten
round my waist
a little
And I scream:
Mum! I want to go!
And she says:
*Jill -
be quiet and still
as my shadow!*
And from the distance
Big Tim screams:
Mom! Can I go?!
And Mom screams loudest:
*You come here
and stand right beside
your sis Jill!*
And we’re all together again
baby in the pram
Mum standing beside
and me on the rein
And Tim sulking at the side
And nobody else
from the crowd dares
come near
for they all know
my Mum -
she’s Wonder Woman
she’s Super Hero
cos my Mum’s supermom
Feb 1, 2012
Feb 1, 2012 at 12:41 AM UTC
Faces lost in blank expression
Wait in stasis for their stop,
Shuttled from one potential
To the next like letters
In a mailman’s bag.
The sounds and smells of strangers,
The uncomfortable touches,
The squeezing in spaces,
The jerking rhythm of the ride,
The pram queens who sag
Against the railing
While their kids twist and turn
And scream at the lack of fun
In the faces of blank expression,
While couples tongues quietly wag.
Youthful monsters sit at the back
Playing tunes for the irritation
Of the old school music hacks,
While grandma dozes against the glass,
Shopping drawn up like a wall
To protect her from her past.
Father and daughter
Playing a game,
Sitting next to two lovers
Who are doing the same.
The tickling natter of friends,
The glare of phones,
The lying dog’s stare.
Life on the buses,
A slice of people
For the cost of a fare.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 6:11 PM UTC
The west wind blows
white with snow
pushing the new mom
with her new babe
in a new pram
I looked over
and all I could see
was a blue hat
and a blue blankie
with a pink nose
in the middle
snorkeling up
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 4:27 PM UTC
The Sister
pushing pram, playing
face ever changing, as she grows.
The Father
drinking tea, swaying
blurring the edges of his woes.
The Mother
going out, sneaking
looking over shoulder, as she goes.
The Brother
behind bars, crying.
Only Mum visits, everyone knows.
The Child
Safe, soundly sleeping.
Sweetpea visable, until it first snows.
Jan 9, 2011
Jan 9, 2011 at 11:04 AM UTC
I confess I’m addicted to my phone
My observations tell me I’m not alone
For when you venture out it’s plain to see
The majority of us are glued to our screens
Whether on the tube or pushing a pram
We all have devices in our hands
Surfing the net or social networking
Everyone obsessed with being plugged in
It’s getting so bad even in company
We’re not fully there as we view our screens
And now there are warnings from TFL
Not to fall down escalators as a result of this swell
In checking our messages, writing posts
Face to face interaction up in smoke
We’d rather be alone in the cyber world
Than engaging in reality with other boys and girls
It is an epidemic that’s spreading extremely fast
Thus it seems that human contact
could become a thing of the past
No need to leave the house anymore
When everything can be ordered and delivered to your door
A society of zombies isolated could we become
If we don’t down devices and venture out into the scrum
And mingle with other beings physically there
Where we can look them in the eye
and maintain that stare
Connecting on a basic level without the aid of WiFi
And concentrating on each other
instead of being distracted by
Notifications and little beeps
Incoming communication that never sleeps
And keeps you up all night as your brain just can’t switch off
From all the incessant stimuli we’re inundated with
Time to give it a rest, take a break just for a while
Look up from your laptops and perhaps give someone a smile
Watch where you are going, don’t get yourself run over
Be present in the moment and you hopefully won’t fall over
Have a coffee with someone instead of instant messaging
Regard the world around you taking note of everything
Don’t zone out and go into a solitary trance
Assemble your tribe, spin some tunes, have a little dance
Limit your time on the World Wide Web
Grab yourself a hottie and get jiggy with them instead
I’m talking to myself
As well as anyone else
Your family and chums are precious
And deserve nothing less
Than your undivided attention
For one day there’ll come a time
When perhaps they’re no longer around
And you regret being online.
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 2:24 PM UTC
I walk across
to Hannah's flat
in Arrol House
and knock at the door
Mrs Scott opens
the door and stands there
she's a short thin woman
with a face of granite
with a slit
where her mouth is
whit is it?
she says
her Scottish accent
rough as stone
is Hannah home?
I ask
I dunnae kinn
she replies
HANNAH
she bellows
over her shoulder
Benedcit is haur fur ye
she adds
scowling at me
jist coming
Hannah replies
from back in the flat
yoo'll hae tae bide
Mrs Scott says
and walks back inside
leaving me
on the red tiled step
I look into the interior
of the flat
and smell breakfast
having been cooked
I look back
into the Square
kids are playing
near by
on the pram sheds
and over by the wall
girls are doing handstands
their feet
against the wall
dresses falling
over their heads
showing underwear
sorry about Mum
she has a mouth on her
Hannah says
where we going?
she asks
thought we'd go
to the South Bank
see the Thames and boats
and have ice cream
I say
do I need money?
she asks
just about 2/-
I say
for bus fares
and ice cream
I'll ask Mum
for a handout
but wait for the answer
Mum have you 2/-
I can have?
Hannah asks
fa dae ye hink
Ah am Rockerfeller?
nae Ah huvnae
her mother replies
no problem
I say to Hannah
I'll have enough
for us both
are you sure?
yes don't aggravate
your mother more
than you have to
so Hannah gets her coat
and we walk off
through the Square
she's like that sometimes
Hannah says
she's as tight
as a wing nut
we walk down the slope
and up Meadow Row
I ask her how her father is
she says
he's Ok but in
the doghouse more often
as not with Mum
but he's a softy
to Mum's hardness
but Mum says
he's soft in the heed
but he's lovely really
Hannah says
-I know her old man
he's English and a bit
simple after helping
to empty out Belsen camp
in 1945 where some
he told me were
more dead as alive-
we wait at the bus stop
she with her dark hair
pony tailed
with a tartan skirt
and white blouse
and me in blue jeans
and white shirt
and quiff of brown hair
and hazel eyes
she with a budding beauty
with her mother's
touch of tongue
who if roused
could give words
full lung.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 3:25 PM UTC
When she was young
(she's still young, painfully young)
I asked her if she needed help
with her dance shoes.
*No, no, I thought.
She can do it herself.*
And now,
three months after her boyfriend got hold of my number,
I wonder
if I ever thought
that she was older than she was.
She's kicking,
this little girl
inside this little girl -
(matryoshka,
matryoshka,
a limoges pram
for the matryoshka...!)
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 6:12 PM UTC
I don't want to go out dancing
I don't want to "hang" with boys
I don't want to wear a push up bra
(Not that there's much to push)
nor make out in some grubby car.
I don't want to cake on make up
I don't want to weave my hair
I don't want to wear stilettos
Or a skirt cut up to where??
I just want to write my poems
play my games and read my books,
have some decent conversation
not based around a popstars looks
(Or the *** he's ********
I know I'm odd but please don't judge me
I'm a girl, just not the same
call me names and laugh behind me
call me ****** call me lame.
Maybe someday you will see me,
well payed job and handsome man
and wonder how I got that lucky
just by being who I am.
Yet for now you only see me
as a nerd, a geek, a jest,
Take your hot pink lip gloss, sweetie
and push that pram like all the rest.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 8:34 AM UTC
Monica had a sulky expression
and pouted her lips
you watched her
as you waited
for her brothers
to come out
of the farmhouse
they won’t let me
come ride bikes with you
she said
but I can ride a bike
I have my own
she leaned against the fence
one foot resting
on a cross beam
it’s not up to me
who goes on bike rides
you said
but you could say
you want me along
she said
you do want me
to come along
don’t you?
why do girls do that?
you asked yourself
looking beyond her
to the farmhouse
hoping the boys
would show soon
eh?
she muttered
don’t you?
if your brothers
are ok with it
I don’t mind
you said
but they won’t
say that will they?
she said
folding her arms
and giving you
the big stare
maybe if you ask your mother
they might
you suggested
seeing her lips set
in a thin line
where a smile
should have been
she’ll side with them
Monica said
you’re too young to ride
with the boys she’ll say
Monica mimicked
in a motherly type voice
she put down her foot
from the fence
and walked toward you
you noticed she was wearing
a green dress
with flowers across
her small bust
she stood in front of you
her hands wrestling
with each other
I want to go with you
she said softly
please say yes
and they’ll listen to you
you studied her features
the way she tilted her head
and the eyes
how they searched you
the farmhouse door opened
and the boys came out
excitedly getting on their bikes
and riding up toward you
run along a play Monica
Pete said
yes go play
with your doll and pram
Jim said
I want to ride with you
she said
Benedict wants me to
she added
giving you a staring gaze
no he don’t
Pete said
he thinks you’re a pain
in the ***
no he doesn’t
she said
he said he wants me to go
Jim laughed and Pete said
sure he did
like he wants you
to kiss his ***
now go off and play
she looked at you
her eyes deepening
I don’t mind
you said
she isn’t coming
Jim said
now go away
or I’ll call Mum
and see what she says
Monica poked out her tongue
and walked away
the boys began peddling
their bikes as you did yours
but looking back
toward the farmhouse
you saw her give
a one finger up you sign
before she went indoors.
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 2:30 AM UTC
"...I WANT TO RAISE THE DEAD MYSELF..."
Here in Cookham
Stanley has become sunlight
his voice
become as leaves
that walk amongst
the breeze.
Here my hand
on his battered pram
pushing it along
stepping into the photograph
of him
that the camera catches.
His paintings chat with me
gossip about all they've seen
the comings and goings
in heaven.
I tell them about times
that have come
they talk about
time gone.
His resurrected voice
speaks to me in rain:
"Painting is
my way of saying '
Ta!' to God,"
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 9:49 AM UTC
when people meet strangers it’s only normal to ask “who are you?”, and the next sentence verbally put out will be what they call First impressions. when people meet strangers it’s only normal to ask “who are you?” and then what do we say? when i was 3 and in my pram i answered “i’m a girl”, when i was 8 and at a dinner with my mother i answered “i’m her daughter”, when i was 16 and at a party i suddenly found the words choked in my throat.
who am i?
that night i went to bed with crawling skin and whispering thoughts armed with hydrofluoric acid that nibbled away at my soul as the clock ticked by. painful seconds, minutes, hours passed, and i decided i couldn’t. that night i spent the remaining hours sitting in front of my mirror manually taking myself apart like a jigsaw puzzle that seemed to fit but never really did. there i sat, in the heavy, thick atmosphere of confusion, anger and suffocation.
who am i?
i arranged the pieces of me neatly on the silver tray― the oesophagus with years of corrosion by food that i reversed back up my throat so forcefully i made gagging look professional; the horrifyingly thin skin on my wrist with the twisted definitions of Art i thought would release the emotions in me. is there a word for putting back a shattered sculpture only to throw it down from the twenty first floor? is there a word for being forcefully submerged in bitter water and trying to breathe, only to realize you can’t? there is only so much you can lock into twenty six letters, but this is not about me.
this is not about me.
this is about the people who have lost grip of the kite strings attached to themselves and can proudly declare “I am a lawyer”, “I am a doctor”, “I am a teacher”, “I am an artist”, “I am a singer” but can not convince themselves about their empty eyes. this is about injecting those already stained with insecurity with self esteem, pouring emotions and feelings into their hollow shells of bodies, only then can we shrill with satisfaction “I have contributed to the world!” this is about dreaming of a day when people are asked “who are you?” and the answer will come flowing from deep within unlocked ventricles. we will refuse to be contained in blurry, grainy. colorless film with faces blended onto one another.
this is about dreaming of a day where mirrors are looked down upon and weight is merely a number.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 12:39 PM UTC
I can't speak for the others
I can only reflect on my own thoughts and the heat of discomfort.
I can't speak for the woman who wept beside her oversized suitcases on the Piccadilly Line to Heathrow, I can only consider her tears and what they did to my own heartache.
I didn't speak, but I reached over after several minutes of communal silence and placed a tissue (clean and unused) on her lap. Before I was back in my seat, she had taken it and covered her face in her grief and the tears came again.
The grandmother across from me got up next and placed a red stripped mint on the woman's skirt.
The dad who stood in the doorway, dressed for the beach, followed, leaving an offering of a capri-sun.
The child in the pram looked up at his mother and she smiled encouragement to him, as he offered his Spider-Man, pressing it to the woman's hand
and as she unveiled her face and saw the offerings, she laughed, brief and wet, but with a smile that stayed. She hugged Spider-Man, nodded and then with a sensibility to a child's needs, handed it back with thanks.
After a moment she found my eyes, and mimed a request for a fresh tissue and then in the silence she settled for her journey as we all looked away, dutifully silent.
Oct 19, 2022
Oct 19, 2022 at 11:55 AM UTC
Her brother's
vinegar-soaked-oven-baked
conker
conquering all other
conkers.
The moment held on a a string
before swinging to collision
like a cartoon
pOW!wOW!baMMM!
She cuts her chestnut
carefully in two.
The popped out conker
...her baby
in its greeny spiky
pram.
She talks to it.
Kisses it.
"Shhhh...baby a sleeep!"
Her brother's marble
a blue and cold world
propelled by a swift deft flick
of a bitten-to-the- quick thumb
the little blue world inches
relentlessly towards
scattering all be-
-fore it:
when worlds
collide.
A solar system
destroyed.
He now
the conquerer of conquerers.
She
places her marble
gently in her other
spiky green pram
like she's rearing
an alien.
She's got two babies.
One a conker...the other a marble.
She takes good care
of both of them.
Worries about
their well being.
Loving them for what
...they are.
She watches the world
through the eye of the marble
a tiny blue universe
held in her palm.
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 5:25 PM UTC
We still see and hear their annoying class,
business Blackberry users amplify their relic, a discourse with the plebs,
plumb clipped tones from deepest
Home counties and southern coast
tired men with families
moved to gentrified London,
at any farmers market you catch them
in their 4x4, dress down best
a pram in tow, Pomfrey junior
their prodigal Norman sounding offspring
rhetorically the promised land,
a seed bank unending.
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 4:24 AM UTC
Doctor and Mrs Granger
have returned from their honeymoon
they are expecting a baby
some time in the middle of June
Mrs Thrift has offered to take the baby
for pram rides in the park
Mr Clarke will escort her home
if she gets lost in the dark
a pleasant family atmosphere
is what Doctor and Mrs Granger want to create
they want to see their child grow up
with plenty of playmates
Mrs Granger wishes to have twelve babies
within sixteen years
this amount of children
will fill the Granger home with much cheer
they are presently decorating
all the rooms at the Granger compound
so it will have enough accommodation
for the babies they'll have around
last week Mrs Granger
spoke to the ladies at the coffee shop
and told them
her life and health were well on top
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 7:51 PM UTC