"queues" poems
I reminisce by this railway siding pond,
Musing on rail relics rattling on,
Recalling lives and times bygone,
But memories of their shades linger on,
The lonesome call of distant steam trains,
Eras that may never come again,
I see they're gone nowhere in particular,
Replaced by planes and transport vehicular,
I imagine queues on foggy platforms,
Awaiting the misted trains' shadow forms,
Standing by, expecting the status quo,
I blink my eyes, where did they all go?
Looking backwards along yesterday's track,
I'm no kid any more, get off my back,
I reflect and reminisce,
Nostalgia is for the times we miss,
I'll reminisce by the railway siding pond,
I recall the times and lives bygone,
As ghosts of rail relics keep rattling on......
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 8:53 PM UTC
Inequality is something that should be preserved.
Else who will wash my clothes
and who will wash the sink full of utensils?
What if we all got the same number
of eyes and hands?
We have created inequality with wealth and education.
I cherish this inequality as I am above of some millions,
else I would have been standing in queues and footpaths, begging, sleeping and scavenging.
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 3:31 PM UTC
A seventies child
Born in Wales, one of the four
Countries of The UK.
I remember brown as the colour
of the day.
Fabric embossed wallpaper
all the neighbours names, who married who,
who was carrying on, the alcoholic, the beaten wives,
Even, get this the peadophiles (or kiddy fiddlers as was known)
Dai the milk, Mair the bread, the shop of infinite items.
Rugby practice for dad, baking for mam
(Cake and babies) gossip over the garden hedge
Fish on a Friday a Sunday roast, hot sweet tea.
Bubble and squeak, post delivered before you
left for school. Mist on the mountain, dew on the grass.
Welsh valley life, sounds idyllic
but scratch the surface and a darker colour
than brown emerges. Petty squablings leading to
familial feuds, the Williamses don't get on with
the Joneses, and as for the Pritchards, less said the better.
School, local, no not for me. I was sent to a Welsh
School, taught and learnt the language denied to my
Parents by English politics. Cat amongst the pigeons there.
Did I think I was special? Ideas above her station. That's what
the neighbours say.
Well, you all had the option.
Dr Forbes FRCS
Delivered babies buried men and women
Loved by all, especially his lollipop sweets.
I wasn't a child to get ***** or rip wrapping paper
off of gifts, I liked to go under the stairs (like Harry Potter)
and read. I left the dirt for my sister born 4 years later.
Then in 1982 came my brother, tidy my mother describes it.
'74,'78,'82 poor dad to have to wait I say!
More pubs than chapels, more walking than driving
more rain than sun, more music than ever was sung.
The '80's came, and we had strikes, no electric, candles
toast made with a toasting fork over the fire.
No mines, no steel, no jobs.
Picket lines, dole queues, women in work
latchkey kids, Thatcherism, ******* times.
Falklands war, IRA bombs, Royal weddings
Tory rule
But, the fire in the dragon never went out
and Tom Jones still sings his heart out.
Cymru cysglyd gwlad y gân, deffrwch
nawr, dyma'ch tro.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
Her first ever play party,
They barely had a chance to talk.
This was the first time they were able to interact with one another.
Her offered her a massage.
they went up to the massage room, and He got undressed and on the table. It started off as an innocent massage.One thing led to another and they ended up all over each other, it until it was over.
After it was over, they rolled over and started over because they weren't done. He did what no one else had ever done…
He took her over.
Without asking, he bent her over...
the massage table,
lifted my dress,
and ****** her.
hard and deep
until her legs gave weak from getting weak
He took what he wanted, Her
Cause she need hit to,
He just read the queues,
After listening to what she was saying,
he heard what I wasn’t saying.
and gave in.
He grabbed her,
He bit her,
then he ravished her.
Each satisfying ****** filled her with pleasure
Him deep inside her wetness, pleased her
as she pleaded, he wetness throbbed for more.
She wanted Him, and she got him
now she addicted, and won't settle unless she gets more.
Mar 24, 2024
Mar 24, 2024 at 10:43 PM UTC
Imaging you when you were a school girl
Mini- sarong, small white shirt
A bag jam-packed with books hanging on your shoulder
Tiara in head, and two queues like two small dark snake
And those long eye petals highlighted with collyrium
Your two sapphires fluctuating in deep Blue Ocean
Impish humming birds were humming with their assiduous tongue,
to get your attention.
Let the Almighty curse their tongue was your supplication
Walking in two fickleness legs, licking an Ice- cream
Bewilderingly, you became my “A Midsummer night’s dream”.
Each second I encounter you in my Ruya
For years you are my Ruya.
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 10:06 PM UTC
"Have you forgotten your ticket... or your luggage?"
Because I wish you did.
I wish we both Had forgotten everything behind, included clothes,
and this bench was a bed, a small bed, so you would have to sleep on my chest.
Tomorrow will be another day. Tomorrow will be another day without check in, without gates, without running, without reading books,
without delays, without waiting queues, without sweat, without planes landing, without the morbid wishes for a plane to crash, without escalatores everywhere, without you.
How I hate airports... How I love airports.
******* Airports... full of their welcome laughs and goodbye tears, their happy endings and melodramatics departures.
The sad concept of living it's all condensed in this place. You are never happy with what you got till you are sad for what you lost.
But I was happy with you. I was happy at the Dublin Airport.
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 11:15 AM UTC
The city is loud with chimneys,
bristling with dimpled sky dishes,
afloat in a dammed lake of sunset fenestration,
beneath unwitnessed, unappreciated clouds,
its streets a grid of flowless canals,
to the music of "Hey, mister, got any change?"
Oh,
but,
when the lights go down,
and the pretty people come out!
and the beef bouncers sort snort the buzzing sequin queen queues
for the sparkle dance houses,
the city,
the city,
can one ever get enough?
Jan 10, 2011
Jan 10, 2011 at 7:29 PM UTC
I.
A louse in a house
or a mouse on a blouse.
A bell that goes ****
or a gong that goes ****
A gap on a map
or a cap on your lap.
A drink in the sink
or an ink that stinks.
A spleen on a screen
or a queen who is green.
A bow in the snow
or a crow that glows.
II.
A wash or a whip,
a lip or a lop,
a top or a tip,
a car or afar,
a bar or a war,
a door or a snore,
a bore or a nail,
a flail or a whale,
a run or a bun,
a sun or a moon,
a spoon or a bus,
a fuss or a sigh,
a cry or a cheer,
a fear or a smile,
a while or a pen,
a den or a cat,
a mat or a hat,
a bat or a glass,
a vase or a weight,
a mate or a fork,
a cork or a mop,
a cop or a stop.
III.
Apples and artichokes, ants and antelopes,
bees and beers, books and brains,
cucumbers and chimneys, ***** and coats,
dogs and drains, dots and dominoes,
ears and eejits, elephants and exams,
flies and flutes, files and friends,
grasses and guts, giants and gyms,
horrors and hiccups, horses and hills,
igloos and irons, irises and idiots,
jumpers and jackets, jodhpurs and jellies,
kings and kettles, kites and kittens,
lions and lamps, lemons and lunches,
mums and monsters, mosses and moths,
noses and notes, nightmares and needles,
oblongs and orang-utans, organs and oranges,
paintings and pennies, ponds and pants,
quiches and quizzes, questions and queues,
rainbows and rings, rascals and rabbits,
snakes and sprouts, sweets and salts,
trumpets and trains, tables and toasters,
umpires and ukuleles, umbrellas and uniforms,
violets and vests, violins and vials,
wheels and wings, windows and weeds,
xylems and x-rays, xylophones and xysters,
yachts and yoghurts, yards and yaks,
zigzags and zephyrs, ziggurats and zombies.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 5:03 PM UTC
Spellbinding sparkling queues of pearly faces
Seethe in a gemstone sea of lips and beaks.
Veiling night, my Nirvana, leads us places
Fraught with clandestine lies and feathered peaks.
The hidden eyes reflect the burning light
Rampant within the painful lifelong dance
And swivel southward, scorched with silent fright;
Parades of fiends swing by at ev'ry glance.
Burn the voiceless witches! Condemn the dead!
Slash the hopeless visages to the night!
Raccoons, exposing drooling mouths unfed--
Charming music conceals their true delight.
I, the regisseur, perform my role
Then fade behind the mask that chokes my soul.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 12:53 PM UTC
You are a money hungry hungry ***** you are
You just sit there counting your doh
You are definitely a money hungry
Money hungry ***** you are
You don’t care for the poor on no
You go into the country club
As the poor go to the pub
And after you say goodbye to your Mates saying I had a great day
The pub people are having a brawl
The poor aren’t free
But you are mate in that great
Country club
And that makes you are money hungry *****
Every day to go
You are a money hungry money hungry ***** you are
Enjoying spending money like wearing
Underwear
Money hungry money hungry ***** you are not caring for the little guys
Oh no
The poor head off to the football match thinking any seat will do
But as they get there the rich avoid the queues and head straight up to the members stand for a great view
What a money hungry money hungry ***** they are enjoying the match and the view
While the poor are fighting for the best spot and sometimes it can be a brawl when you go to a concert to listen to the lovely tunes you get your spot thinking it is good
But the money hungry ****** have found a better spot
In the middle in the box
With champagne and nibbles oh yeah but we have to sit there watching them be total total fools oh yeah
You are being pushed over by the crowd while they are sipping champagne it is enough to drive a poor man nuts
Come on mate move out of the way
The rich are driving me nuts
Money hungry money hungry money hungry ****** always seem better than you, you know **** them
I don’t care the rich don’t care about me I prefer to stay here enjoying being poor saying the rich have nothing on me
Apr 27, 2019
Apr 27, 2019 at 5:35 AM UTC
"They're selling postcards of the hanging" Bob Dylan
Frolicking in the Hague festooned
as if some monarch's golden jubilee
not a room left empty in all the land
queues for miles to get a ringside seat
at what is billed as The Trial of Man
as W, **** and Rummy sit chained
to the bionic calves of barstools while
Condo Lisa bears witness atop a piano
ferreted throughout the conurbation
breadlines and circuitous routes
recalling the Nicaraguan case
low on the radar of short-term
the disunited states of disarray
vetoes its own trial's outcome
and it is business as usual
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 11:42 PM UTC
New faces look through
glass, forlorn features pressed
against the panes figuring
out where this all came from.
Long gone lineage, here in this
hall, is now a pressed image
collected by a flower picker’s hand,
gloved to protect the rust and frozen
within two sheets of glass far taller than
any Yorkshire lass, here somewhere secret.
Old faces gaze at another frame
filled with someone else’s misery,
it’s pinned to another wall next to the
menu for the restaurant down the hall, first left on the second right.
Short queues form under hanging light bulbs,
it’s this month’s exhibition, the Pharaoh’s jewels,
on display all the way from the splayed deserts
of Egypt, but some given by a museum in Manchester
so it looks like there is more than there is.
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 4:27 PM UTC
They gave us some time to think about it,
but what's the use?
I knew it the moment your eyes met mine,
and the breeze came through
tipping me to my toes like the night.
Yes, I'm yours and you're mine.
**** possession, I just haven't figured
out the next best thing.
Baby, I'd like to live my life,
but what's the use
if it ain't you by my side.
Ooh, girl. With those baby blue queues
you'd never see me getting outa line.
Hypnotized. I'd wait a life time for the right time,
change tides like Poseidon or get you
extra cheese if that's something you needed.
They gave us some time to think about it,
but what's the use?
I knew it the second you smiled that white lie.
God **** can you make a broken man feel fine.
Aug 1, 2018
Aug 1, 2018 at 10:01 AM UTC
I cannot fathom the scribbling in my brain into poetic queues as of now. I am in excruciating pain but I am liberated. I am dying on the inside but somewhere behind my rib cage is a thump. Less of a thump, more like a knock. The love of my life is tearing me to shreds and the universe is softly tapping its knuckles on the door. Through an addictive relationship I have discovered my origin.
I am a healer. I am an angel and I can do no true harm to a soul; I heal even those who are the radial balance of my suffering and bleeding. I have an expendable heart; it has been squeezed, sliced, punctured, chewed, stepped on, scraped, pulverized, shattered, cracked, drained, dried, bitten, and hungrily ****** on by the mightiest of leeches. I stand before myself scarred but glowing like the chest of a newborn child. Once again my pain has given birth to me. I am new, the world has not made me an ******* I refuse. I will love. I will care. I will heal and I will push through my crucifying pains of being leeched. I will continue to give what cannot be returned to me.
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 1:24 AM UTC
Urban lives, controlled by traffic lights
Queues form round corners
According to imaginary lines
There’ll be gridlock on the internet tonight
So avoid the information part of the highway
(Junctions nought to one)
If at all possible.
And now for the weather sponsored by
Hello Poetry.
Sep 18, 2011
Sep 18, 2011 at 5:45 PM UTC
if time went into storage
wouldn’t that be great
all those moments that went adrift
just waiting to be claimed
like a ‘lost and found’ for time
sounds quite bizarre
it must be at its brim by now
bending out the walls
i must admit most of that time
is all because of me
those 10 minutes that I fell asleep
just because of bordem
queues I had endured
loitering through the streets
tangled between the sheets
lying down watching the fan
making patterns on my hand
doodling the armegoden
simple things, useless things
but most in vain
the time I spent
waiting for true love
pursuing those who’d disregard
someone like me
someone not worth their time
i suppose I wish
there was a way
to get back all that time
all that time I could’ve used
to waste another way.
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 12:37 AM UTC
A man who fought for freedom
Is frail and old yet remembered
For all his contributions and sacrifices
He made to rid all types of discrimination
In the early years a Law Degree
Seemed perfectly suiting
Boxing made him tough like a brute
But his soul-passive, polite and caring
A role-model to everyone
Who said, "Debate, no guns!"
A peace_maker for all
A teacher for all
Even in darkest hours
His humilty, nobility and responsibility
Is but a few of what we can reap of his success
27years of incarceration
All for the fight of discrimination
His sacrificed time
In quarries of lime
A day that they remembered
A day that they paraded
With happiness and delight
1994
People in queues of snakes
Waited for a chance to cast their first vote
*We salute you TATA MADIBA
Thank you for your valiant services*
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 1:10 PM UTC
*The Heart
Wants a Break
Wants to be Wordless
The Mind
With Thoughts
Never on a Break
Ceaselessly Aloud
Almost a ****
The Insane Chatter
Disrespects any Barter
A quick punch
To The Head
Successful ....
Words
Align in queues
Ordered
Odd and Even
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 11:30 PM UTC
Aged, wrinkled and worn
Our Palms of fortune and destiny
Show tracks leading to new places
Playing out the timeline of our lives
Like a show - a Chorus Line
The queues will flock for the matinee
And so this poetical line ends.
Apr 7, 2021
Apr 7, 2021 at 5:10 PM UTC
Vietnam's got a raw, dangerous side to explore,
And whilst I'm far from one to detract or deplore,
From the beauty of the place, the gentle souls of the people,
There's some dark things balancing the good with the evil.
Prostitutes are shedding clothes and dignity in bars,
Whilst ***** old men sit with wet mouths ajar,
People claim to help you whilst emptying your pockets,
Because they can't afford to live on their pitiful pay dockets.
Prices sky rocket based on the colour of your skin,
But we're from a wealthy country so we can't make a din,
The protectors - the police will only help you for a bribe,
And if you can't pay the price then you'll get locked inside.
Just alive malnourished dogs with heat exhaustion,
Rats dwell beneath restaurant tables waiting for their portion,
Agent Orange victims left with face contortion and extra limbs,
While aging, old ladies gather supper from the bins.
Children roam the streets at night and noone blinks an eye,
So much is wrong that you're left wondering what's right,
But in this world of chaos can we chastise their plight?
Whilst we take advantage, judge, rule, bomb others and fight.
The 'United' Kingdom separates itself from the world,
Covering up so many lies it makes your toes curl,
Corrupt chains thwart families hopes and beliefs,
Let's form orderly queues for the corporate thiefs.
Every country has a blood money epidemic,
We simply hide it better as we're more academic,
A nation crammed full with political actors,
The fact we follow suit is the critical factor,
To the downfall of our country and the people who reside.
It does not abide to say, ‘Well, at least we tried!’,
But as we all know in this puppet show ********
We've only ourselves to blame, therefore I'm the biggest culprit.
Feb 21, 2019
Feb 21, 2019 at 3:37 PM UTC
Stock them high was the order of the day
In queues one by one, they flock shops
A social warehouse of common sales
Slashed home events, buy one get one
On a balcony I sip Chai Latte swiftly
Masses line up on spotlight street path
Each drawn in enterprises of expenditure
A dime for a good, a rhyme to amass more
Coloured triangle on the forehead illuminates
A third eye, a seer pry, mood eased to try
Our eyes meet and my tiled notebook melt
Sing my heart don't protest,soul free to sate
We lost in narrowed jungles strolling multiples
Outer casts giggling, deep withering multiplex
Pasted blocks of concrete as loneliness replies
A vice subtle, an automated paradigm in demise
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 1:24 PM UTC
Below the hanging tree I wept
Remembering the past.
There was a secret I still kept
Or – it kept me aghast.
A secret so ingrained in me,
An ache, a pain so deep,
A nightmare all day long for years
I could not fall asleep.
Beside the hanging tree I crept
My world – a shrunken hiss…
That fateful night I found the cure
Was in the air I kissed.
Beneath the hanging tree I dreamt
Of stranger things to come.
But all my dreams were swiftly swept
With shafts of morning sun.
Behind the hanging tree I stepped
And took the leap of faith.
And now I know you are to come
To this most sacred place.
The memory of ones we lost
Will never fade away
And neither will our love for them –
Not for a single day.
We might seem peaceful, fair enough,
But we have shown our teeth.
When freedom cried and duty called
We chose to clench our fists.
With every step along the way,
With every drop of blood
We learnt there was a price to pay.
We hardened our hearts.
With every cut and every bruise
And every shot we took
Our numbers grew, so long the queues
That everywhere you looked
You’d see the mothers and the sons,
The daughters and the dads,
Their fiery eyes, their daring hearts,
Their disregard for death.
With every blast and every hit
And every shrapnel piece,
The hopes went high, the dreams grew big –
Our dreams of lasting peace.
But first there was a war to win,
An ego to submit,
Old gods to cast aside for good
And fears to defeat.
A score of scores to be paid off,
A destiny to meet,
Old shackles to be shaken off,
A brave new world to greet.
And long and hard the battle went,
The toll is still unknown…
But to this day we reap the fruit
Of seeds of love we’ve sown.
…
And now, around the hanging tree
We join our hands
As we recall what made us free,
What brought peace to our lands.
I smile as I linger on –
A minute, maybe five
As I recall the war we fought,
The sacrifice, the lives.
I weep no more, so wild and free,
And all I ask of thee:
Are you, are you
Coming to the tree?
Feb 24, 2017
Feb 24, 2017 at 2:51 AM UTC
Fields of foliage green, with endless dope yields
streams of wasted life, Churchill's empire threadbare, poverty and ***** of its dignity.
I wish I could bury the soundless whispers that I seldom resite, turn off the light and with pride retire.
I see conceived walls of destitute junkies, rejected societies and abused deafness of blind philosophy, I highly rate the nostalgic plea.............
Postwar shadows of hidden government policies that call, I will, I shall, I will never.
Dust to dust, neon lights and queues to the other side, Cheque books and empty ink pens of thoughts i wish to re-sight a wasted life cannot do so............
I sentence you to a death of insanity, and still the concaved walls molded from the backs of bodies once leant, Rocking and craving I shall, I will, I know I'll return.
Jan 28, 2011
Jan 28, 2011 at 8:48 AM UTC
Donald J. Trump:
Say what you will, but
He’s the only guy out there
Asking the obvious questions,
Common sense questions like
*“Why don’t Japan, South Korea &
The House of Saud, pay the USA for
Defending them militarily?”*
We sustain their political status quo,
We put boots on their ground, &
We provide them gold-plated munitions of
Mass Devastation
(like Mass Destruction only worse.)
What do we get? Bupkis, as in
“Bupkis Mit Kaduchas"
באָבקעס מיט קדחת
Translating roughly to
*“Shivering **** *****
The 2016 election truly highlights
A profound social shift taking shape,
A demographic division, similar to what
The 1960s called the Generation Gap.
Trump is anathema to most of our
Over-indulged, Millennial offspring;
Our privileged kids, a cohort of Americans children
Reared by blue-collar but college-educated parents,
Those of us who busted *** for our
Bourgeois lifestyle & discrete charm.
We were the Flower Children of the 60s.
We left Yasgur’s farm on a
Hallucinogenic carpet high but rudely
Crash-landed, a consequence of
Altamont Speedway,
Gasoline queues & shortages, &
Years of bipolar economics,
Replete with spinning gerbil wheel of
Double-digit inflation.
We went to work.
We got our **** together.
We settled down.
We gentrified.
Our kids?
They tell their friends they are house sitting,
But the place is the house they grew up in &
Their parents still live there.
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 2:19 AM UTC
Ain't blemished with blood
There're queues of personas
Trying to nick every motion and shift
Every angst of the heart
Until they're hopes sink in.
On those blue and hard things
They find comfort from each infirmity
There're linings all over
Maneuvering every groove
Shaving the people out
To the finished and whitened stucco.
Gold steels are not embroidered
The hand of the room
Looks inviting
With warmth and fondness ,
Some drives in
Unlocked and melting every delusion
The sky speaks
The clouds has no mutual feelings
Acting odd and remarkable
No rainbow to be seen.
Blonde arrows
With every breath one takes
With every move one tries
Choosing to hold close the lacks
Accepting every fault
For indeed, at the latter days
The Healer Himself was the Way.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 11:16 PM UTC