"reginald" poems
He was only three foot tall, but
He wanted to be like his
Famous daddy
"The pirate" long bob
Plated
Silver
Toe
A renowned pirate or so
He told me.
So he looked around the house
to what he could find,
A hook was out of reach
As it was dangerous you know,
it could take an eye out
or if trod on cut your toes,
He would have defiantly have shed a
Tear
Or
Three,
So he found a spoon, not
Gold
or
Silver
Not plated precious,
It was copper it would have to do.
So he put his hand up his sleeve,
Holding the spoon quite
Menacingly,
I'll scoop your ice cream
From right under your nose,
One scoop,
Two scoop,
Three,
"Ill bounce the bowl upon your head"
"Then run so you never knows it was me"
"Who had eaten your desert from"
"Right under your nose you see"
He giggled and smiled a child's grin,
What next does a pirate need to be
"King of the sea"
A hat he thought,
As he looked around his fathers hats
Covered his head,
He walked in to
Table
&
Chair,
For it was to big over his eyes,
He was unable to see.
He bounced Off the door, the bed, the
Window sill too, with holes cut he still
Was unable to see properly,
So he got a sock with a patch on the heal
Putting it on his little head
looked in the mirror amused
By what could be seen.
I need one more thing
To be like me pa..
A ship to sail the high sea,
But he was only tiny 3 foot tall was he,
So he looked around
Finding a table in the yard,
Discarded but could be used by he.
"A sail was needed"
A table cloth tied to the back legs
To catch the gusts of wind yar see,
A crew was needed??
But there was only room for
Him
And his parrot
Reginald,
*******
*******
He would squawk at me,
A I dry one given and a pat on the
Head from me.
I was known as a captain on
My
Green
Sea,
Plundering the apple tree
The raspberry bush
All the berries were now mine
That I could see,
I wanted to be like my father when I grew up
But lets be realistic I'm three foot
"I'm four and three months"
Who would be scared of little spoon pirate me.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 3:34 PM UTC
Reginald "combover" Twistleton-Smythe
had hair on his head but just on the side
He wore a big hat when out for a walk
Too scared to shave and have a flat-hawk
One day at his Gran's fell asleep after tea
and woke up to find he was combover free
He saw grandmas scissors behind on the shelf
As she looked in his eyes and said "Be yourself!
With that combover thing Reg, you sure do look silly
Go shave your head, you'll look just like Bruce *****
"But my heads the wrong shape, it just wont do the trick,
I'll look less like Bruce ***** and more like a ****
"Listen to your Gran for I always know best,
I'm not saying go out and run round in a vest.
Just cut your hair short and wear it with pride,
it'll be like a mohawk but just on its side"
Reggie "flathawk" I've heard people say
now runs round in vest shouting Yipee Kiyay
Jul 29, 2010
Jul 29, 2010 at 11:31 AM UTC
I fell in love with a black gay man,
and I knew he was gay...
I didn’t know he was black.
You see, there are people who teach you how to think for yourself,
and there are people who teach you how to think like them.
That was my problem.
Those people taught me how to think like them,
so I went through high school thinking that white men were better than black men.
Every time a black guy approached me,
I made it clear from the beginning that I didn’t want anything beyond friendship.
And that’s how I met Reginald.
The first black man I fell in love with.
And I know I’m saying now that he is black,
but even so, I couldn’t see the blackness in him.
He was the white boy people talked so much about.
He was the dream boy of any living girl,
but he was locked in a black body that those same people didn’t understand.
The first time,
I saw a black man—
a man who wanted more than friendship with me,
but who wouldn’t.
In the end, we became friends—
and very good ones.
That issue of black men not being part of my heart went to hell
when I started getting to know Reginald better.
I started to love him.
For the love—
but above all, for how they had taught me to think—
I started to see him as a white man:
of high rank,
with a good family,
and a magnificent sense of humor.
But then, I found out that my beloved Reginald was gay.
Ironic, right?
The only black man I had ever fallen in love with—
and it turns out he is gay.
Still, I couldn’t keep myself away from him.
I started doing everything I could so that we were always together,
hoping that he would start to feel something for me...
He didn’t.
And I don’t blame him.
How was I able to notice his passion toward men
but not remember that he was a black man?
How couldn’t I notice that I fell in love with a black man?
Then I realized—
the same people who had put such an idea in my mind
were black people.
People who had decided to surrender to white people
and insisted on thinking like them.
But they decided that.
They inculcated that in me.
The day Reginald died at the hands of my brother,
I noticed his blackness again.
And no,
it wasn’t because I had lost the love I felt for him—
but because it was my brother who taught me to think like him...
who taught me to think like whites.
I lost the love of my life
because of my black brother’s decision
to think in the same way white people do.
Maybe I was the one who should have died
at the hands of Reginald’s sister,
because he saw me as a white man too
the night we,
thanks to a drunken stupor,
decided to be one—
consumed in mutual pleasure,
without taking into account the consequences.
How will I explain the death of his father
to my son who is coming?
Should I tell him his father died because he was a black man?
Or that his father died because I saw him as a white man?
Should I blame my parents
for teaching my brother to think like a white man?
Or should I blame myself for paying attention to him?
Now I don’t know who I fell in love with...
And I really think I never will.
Jun 6, 2018
Jun 6, 2018 at 12:30 PM UTC
Tonight is for reflection.
Not the kind found in a mirror.
Which of course I have none. Mores the pity. I would love to see how splendid I look in my new shirt with French lace and ruffles. Under my sapphire blue waist coat and buckskin riding breeches. All I can clearly see full of, would be my boots. The softest leather and a shine to see ones reflection in. Sigh, But not mine.
Where was I.. Ah yes, I was waxing philosophical.
One can never be too busy to better ones self. Thus
my new clothes.
Let's see...reflection.
While looking back upon my long lived life as the Prince Of Darkness. I realize, I have been selfish. Not
once have I invited others to my humble home. Not once have I hosted a party. Not once have I allowed others to witness my grandeur.
Tonight, I vow to remedy that. I will have a party. One to outdo all the others which I have had the privilege to crash.
Hmm. Perhaps I should start a bit smaller.
A dinner party!
For the intimates of intimates.
Let me see. Who to invite?
Reginald Wadsworth! He's a jolly chap. No. He was a late night snack a few days ago.
Hortense Mayweather! She is always in good humor and a fair conversationalist. No. She had the misfortune of crossing my path last month while I was woozy from battle blood loss. A fight with a tresspasser left me a bit worse for wear. But Hortence fixed me right up.
I've got it! General Clayston! He makes for such a fun curmudgeon. Oh, He died of old age.
Hmm........
Oh look! The Carlstayton's are hosting a party tonight.
Looks like I will be dining out.
~Lord Kellington
Oct 22, 2010
Oct 22, 2010 at 7:07 PM UTC
Eft the newt
Swimming eagerly home
A dik dik on a mountain top
Roaming all alone
A quirky fate of nature
Say these creatures will never meet
Reminds me of the humans in a busy bustling street
Reginald the Chinese man
Walking slowly home
Bob the wandering,Desert nomad
Wandering all alone
A quirky fate of nature say these humans
Will never meet
Reminds me of the newt and the dik dik
In a busy bustling street.
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 9:03 PM UTC
The bass player for Korn
Reginald “Fieldy” Arvizu
Plays in a distinctive style
Using the slap bass technique
By down tuning the bass guitar
To the point where there is enough slack in the strings
That they hit the fretboard while playing
Slapping the bass
He also increases the treble significantly
Accentuating a recurring clicking sound throughout their recordings
Some people view this positively
I feel it gives the music more texture
Like putting a little pepper on the song
But some hate it
They say it makes Korn’s music unenjoyable
And annoying
A little clicking noise
Makes their music instantly horrible
For some people it’s never good enough
They will always be listening for your small clicking noises
And demand you change at their whim
Ordering you to tighten your strings until they snap
They say Fieldy *****
They say Fieldy is a ****** bassist
While never putting out any content themselves
So they can throw rocks from the dark
Forcing one to ask themself
Who am I making this art for?
The fickle and ignorant masses
Or the jaded and pretentious elitists?
The answer must be neither
Art must be made for the self
With the hope that others will be able to relate
And whatever your craft is
Some people will appreciate the hard work and dedication
And some people will hear a small clicking sound
You just have to slap their face
With the way you slap your bass
Jan 13, 2019
Jan 13, 2019 at 12:04 PM UTC
The rhyme was easy
The meter was simple
All we needed was the title.
Whispered words in the night
Loops traced on restaurant napkins
A soft sound against my neck.
A burst of thought during lunch break
Scrolling through lines on a screen
Or the rasp of pages between dry fingers.
The title eluded us
A distant, provocative idea whose
Promise tasted sweeter than its journey,
But whose demand pulled at our stomachs
In an endless tug-of-war.
It was one a.m., he had garlic and
***** and toothpaste breath and I
Coughed and mumbled and
Shoved him away when he
Gasped and prodded my shoulder,
Excited feet making the bed shake.
Somewhere between my **** off"
And "goodnight, sweetheart" was the
Soft caress, the tickle on the back of my neck
That wormed its way into the
Corner of my brain
A white film that slowly seeped behind
My eyelids-
"Reginald"
Reginald
Reginald?
I sat up, I turned, I stared at him until
He opened one smoky eye and watched me
Watching him.
And then I laughed.
And laughed.
And that's why we named you Reginald.
Jun 29, 2019
Jun 29, 2019 at 12:29 AM UTC
Who am I?
I’m from the smell of seasons passing in the blink of an eye. The smell of spring, and summer, and fall, and the painful scent of winter.
I’m from giggles in the car with Reginald and Rose the foxes and their adventures through worlds.
I am from trips to the library, where I beg to get tens of thousands of books.
From the dusty rocks on my elementary school playground.
From songs that ring in my head when I close my eyes.
From peanut butter and jelly sandwiches that I gave to the dog.
From phrases that sit in my soul and sing to me whenever I’m in the big wide world. Skate with your head up: Kommen Sie, Bitte: Let the knife do the work: Slow and gentle: One hand,
From reading Hungry Little Caterpillar on the floor as my dad records me.
I’m from singing Frozen at the top of my lungs in the living room.
I’m from braces in second grade that wrenched and pulled my teeth.
I’m from countless restless nights and early mornings; where the darkness coos to me to sleep.
I’m from bear hugging my cousins, to laughing at their jokes that I never understood.
I’m from Food Network in vacation hotel rooms.
From chasing seagulls on the beach as I stomp on shells and salt sprays in my face.
From making clay pots when the air was hot and sticky, and my skin was pink with sun.
From my grandpa pretending to eat the Play Doh milkshake I made.
From countless walks in the woods, where the birds sung to me, and the sunshine embraced me.
I’m from losing people like water slips through cracks in the concrete.
I’m from being the last to be chosen.
I’m from being the friend that walks on the grass. The girl that was always left behind.
I’m from being the second choice. The person someone picked another girl over.
I’m from feeling like I’m constantly doing something wrong.
I’m from looking up at the sky and wondering why they would hurt me like this.
But most of all. I’m from throwing myself into people I love.
Holding them tight. Even if they wriggle from my grasp.
From screaming into the sky the names of people who love me. And people I never want to lose.
From giving people my everything.
From calling out into the world for someone to treat me the way I always treat everyone else.
And the world answered.
I’m from tears, to letting go of people who can’t handle me.
From letting go of people who don’t understand me.
I’m from healing.
From forgiveness.
From joy. So so much joy.
I’m from the grass, and the wind, and the songs of the Earth and melodies of who I’m meant to be.
From the flowers, the trees, the mountains, and the leaves.
From the waterfalls hidden behind rocks that no one could see.
From the magic the dances in the air.
From years of love.
I’m from me.
A.J. Busse
Dec 10, 2020
Dec 10, 2020 at 9:14 PM UTC
On a voyage
In the sea of knowledge.
Each and every page -
A new stoppage.
Many pages bound together
With a cover made of leather.
Pages as white as white feather,
All the information I gather.
A structured presentation
With graphical representation.
A sky of narration
And a table of notation.
Starting with table of contents
Then onset of concepts
Rich with facts and experiments
To every curious thought, I give vents.
From physics to chemistry
I resolve biological mystery.
From philosophy to history
A road to your intellectual mastery.
All about General Reginald Dyer
And explaining how do plants transpire
From magnetic field around a wire
To E=mc².
Jul 20, 2025
Jul 20, 2025 at 3:36 AM UTC