"revellers" poems
#*Here comes the day
With coloured hands and faces
To the music we sway
Touch not with intentions perverse
Its Holy
The festival of colours
Children
Gear up with your water guns and sprinklers
Filled with organic colours
No chemicals please
Look for revellers dressed in all white
Drench them all in the hues of the rainbow bright
Munch on the Gujia, a sweet treat
Time for a rain dance to the desi beats
It's time to cheer
Spring is right here
Happy Holi*#
Mar 1, 2018
Mar 1, 2018 at 5:26 AM UTC
Covent Garden.
Midnight.
Revellers and tourists combined.
The market is heaving.
Last trains are leaving.
An eclectic mix to broaden the mind.
Covent Garden.
2am.
The place is pretty quiet.
Pubs have closed.
Clubs.... God knows.
The tourists have frozen their riot.
Covent Garden.
4am.
A drunkard stumbles by.
Flood lit shops.
A rickshaw stops.
The backdrop against a reddish
sky.
Covent Garden.
6am.
Blokes lurk down Langley street.
The glint of a blade.
A blur in the shade.
Lava tip of cigarette falls to a strangers feet.
Covent Garden.
8am.
Commuters emerge from underground stations.
Workers prepare.
Visitors beware.
Pick pockets attracted like gravitation.
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 2:30 PM UTC
--I. M. Edward John Henley (1861-1898)
Where are the passions they essayed,
And where the tears they made to flow?
Where the wild humours they portrayed
For laughing worlds to see and know?
Othello's wrath and Juliet's woe?
Sir Peter's whims and Timon's gall?
And Millamant and Romeo?
Into the night go one and all.
Where are the braveries, fresh or frayed?
The plumes, the armours--friend and foe?
The cloth of gold, the rare brocade,
The mantles glittering to and fro?
The pomp, the pride, the royal show?
The cries of war and festival?
The youth, the grace, the charm, the glow?
Into the night go one and all.
The curtain falls, the play is played:
The Beggar packs beside the Beau;
The Monarch troops, and troops the Maid;
The Thunder huddles with the Snow.
Where are the revellers high and low?
The clashing swords? The lover's call?
The dancers gleaming row on row?
Into the night go one and all.
Envoy
Prince, in one common overthrow
The Hero tumbles with the Thrall:
As dust that drives, as straws that blow,
Into the night go one and all.
2.6k
Merry revellers
cast one glance on me
before your mind wavers
throw me one penny
My eyes are deep in socket
but ears are sharply keen
catch jingles in your pocket
silver's pompous din
Pray not be too aloof
need a lil of your pity
a penny can't buy a roof
can buy a crumb for belly
It wouldn't hurt you much
for one less from too many
merry revellers before you rush
toss my way one penny.
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 10:59 AM UTC
Long I followed happy guides,—
I could never reach their sides.
Their step is forth, and, ere the day,
Breaks up their leaguer, and away.
Keen my sense, my heart was young,
Right goodwill my sinews strung,
But no speed of mine avails
To hunt upon their shining trails.
On and away, their hasting feet
Make the morning proud and sweet.
Flowers they strew, I catch the scent,
Or tone of silver instrument
Leaves on the wind melodious trace,
Yet I could never see their face.
On eastern hills I see their smokes
Mixed with mist by distant lochs.
I meet many travellers
Who the road had surely kept,—
They saw not my fine revellers,—
These had crossed them while they slept.
Some had heard their fair report
In the country or the court.
Fleetest couriers alive
Never yet could once arrive,
As they went or they returned,
At the house where these sojourned.
Sometimes their strong speed they slacken,
Though they are not overtaken:
In sleep, their jubilant troop is near,
I tuneful voices overhear,
It may be in wood or waste,—
At unawares 'tis come and passed.
Their near camp my spirit knows
By signs gracious as rainbows.
I thenceforward and long after
Listen for their harplike laughter,
And carry in my heart for days
Peace that hallows rudest ways.—
2.2k
She sleeps
I'm outside under the eaves sheltering little from the rain
smoking late into the a.m. wide awake,
coffee for company and her scent
clinging to my skin.
There's isolated bouts of traffic
late night revellers
returning
shadows
there to witness between
lamplight neons,
but I'm cocooned away
restless in the washes of rain
thinking of one in slumber within
the walls on which I lean
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 10:16 PM UTC
Running the gauntlet down Midchester Road,
A veritable suburb of Gleethorpes City,
You pass a line of house-castles
Of the well to do.
But don’t be fooled
By what you see,
For I know someone
Who lives there.
And he will tell you,
Of bountiful gardens
Stripped bare
And concreted over
So that families can park their fleets
Of expensive cars.
See those conservatory extensions
And widened pavements.
A lady poses,
Doing her best
To emulate the Kardashians.
Money attracts
No end of thugs
And dodgy dealers:
Swarming parasitic wasps
Around the honey ***
Nights of drunken revellers
From the local pub:
Swaying from trees
And kicking cans about.
Boy racers tearing down the road,
Music systems booming
With a mindless
Moronic drumming.
“Where has reality gone?” asks
My despairing friend.
They have their money
Their riches,
Expensive toys
But few of them are Happy.
What happened to “Goodness” and virtue
And dreams of Utopia?
Where are the heroes
Inventors and creators?
Instead we have a world of celebrity,
In which true talent – even genius
Is ignored and undervalued.
“Where are we going?” my friend exclaims.
Things get worse and worse,
The world all in reverse.
For it’s “Unreal City”,
Far from pretty.
So have a think,
Don’t let yourself sink
Even further into the mire.
Just get real,
You know the deal,
It’s you I’m trying to inspire.
Paul Butters
© PB 2\8\2019
(with help from a bloke who lives in such a place. Same town as me).
Aug 2, 2019
Aug 2, 2019 at 6:01 AM UTC
a fine week was had
the day a married
black candle mass
time dawdle
our loved stalked
angel and demon
the devil called
heel warm-
a fly born
and in squash
and in *****
moaning no..
fiery ****** tongue
take the bride upon
the stair
the groom served by
sundry elf
while maiden scent
his self-
spit of toad for
potent
death watch for
content
goblet of newly
born blood
and saw the
dead born
watney´ s pale in
an eight pint
can
red and gold
before the god
the revellers
kowtow
and the girls
vie for a smile
so ennuyer
etched
across his face
evil always
some distraction
a turbid dracula
bored
vice a hold
the betrothed cam
sweet innocent
like starsky
and hutch
naked and bloodied
to the dark one first
rites
right is right..!
crazy horses kicks
off
donny makes a
come back
o scream the tree
crack
through
the clamor
witchs hover
ashine with mire
o higher the crying
the exultation..!
evil the mad one
ah..!
evil made persona
the couple sworn
at each end
scant hors d'oeurvre
to the masters
seed served
cold the
young old
and old..
wine flows
strange going on
in the coat room..
be loved *****
shared..reverence
and shy glance..
our old ice cream
man
strikes up the band..!
thus man and wife declared
tied and together darkness
with out end..
all cracked raise to health..!
something by sinatra
in the sky yon moon turns
to aversion
the forest weeps
there then the fire
in the eye of
the songbird
there then the
cleansing sweep
of the blackbird
to flight..
Dec 8, 2018
Dec 8, 2018 at 8:14 AM UTC
no doubt a right rotten mess
all that ******* noise
who can stand it?
i hate guy fawkes day
maybe it was a clever idea at the time
now it's a rotten mess of noise and the revellers don't really get
now it's crackers and food and idiots making noise
boom-boom go the cars, kicking ball on your wall
you ********* you mothersucking *****
**** off!!
do they even remember the reason behind it all?
******* idiots make a rotting ******** bunch of noise collection!
worse than a box of rotting tomatoes or rotting beefstrips in the corner
they should be made to EAT that!
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 4:27 PM UTC
On a ridge by the ocean, the dragon respires.
Hide rugged as the coastline, against him the eons crash like waves.
Legend enchants the seabreeze, an inbreath to a shimmering trance.
Before the incandescent glow sparks like innocence into a fire.
The crystal-eyed call this Hollywood.
I discovered you there, costumed in flames, as the discharged smoke became your disguise.
Together, we performed as if we were in the dark.
Scorching exhales fogged your glasses and stifled my voice.
They say, “When you are mad, you see nothing”.
All saints watched us in the dark this time.
Camera lenses covered your eyes and captured the revellers.
Tides ****** my mind and erased the crime.
Until they told me that I was on fire.
Misted glasses repelled your kaleidoscopic sublime.
So, from the stake, I rasped for nothing more than an ashen grey.
Orbs burning, in smoke's efflux, blindness grew.
My gilded urn haunted you, gold’s sharp sting.
Fairy-dust spells your name, always sparkling.
Fractured glass and lapsed cinders don’t brand you.
Only your frame in my pillows would do.
Like rogues caught in opulence, we're running.
They say, “When you are mad you see nothing.”
But madness is what you chose to see through.
And you saw blue in eyes I thought were grey
With iridescence glowing from your face.
You tasted darker than the fruits I stole.
And I’m the secret that you won’t betray,
Fused to your body by slumber’s light lace.
See through me, as my words sound in your bones.
Oct 21, 2020
Oct 21, 2020 at 3:41 PM UTC
The Cri de Coeur
screeches urgent emotion
but their Exclamations
are unpicked , back to determination
Did the Revellers needlessly pay for this their Summer ?
But for Capricious truths
they now run fickle and jarred
naked is the heart of the matter,
a hastened path runs counterintuitive
as empty silences often veers
ungrounded.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 3:44 PM UTC
He Told Me About Paris
he told me about Paris
after making love…
how he once sat in the Café de Flore
as a boy… awaiting his mother
who danced for a living…
he told me about Paris
over morning coffee, and no mention of the night before
he talked with love for a city I’ll never know….
strolling along the river Seine
in sunsets of orange and tangerine…
he told me about the The Musée du Louvre
as he made Coriander omelettes
… squeezing fresh lemon in glasses of ice water…
la Ville Lumière… he murmured as he gazed deep into my eyes
City of Light and Love…
I’ll take you there… if you dare to come
he promised as he lay a soft tender kiss on each toe…
he told me about Paris… and the Notre-Dame Cathedral
and Café de la Paix, where the streets were Prolific
with revellers and the after-opera crowd…
I’ll take you to The Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel
he whispered as he placed a Bracelet on my wrist
and we can hold hands as we stroll around the monument…
I’ll take you to Paris, in the Autumn, he promised
our feet will crunch the golden leaves of the Jardin des Tuileries….
… so young I was… such a dreamer… floating on visions that he wove with love-
- he told me about Paris, his voice husky with longing
and I too young to realise… he was dreaming too….
Sharonlee©9-
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 1:35 AM UTC
Dripping with gory sarcasm
The sharpest tongue cuts a dash
The house speciality is cruelty
Naturally
And so, gathered revellers
To the evening's main course
An innocent
A babe amongst blades
Who'll carve?
With glinting teeth and cutlery
Feasting on the lamb begins
An ideal from each bone that's chewed
Is spat upon the floor
And they're snatching and snarling for more
More succulent and pure
Fresh blood for the body politic
Come to the party
Who'll pour?
By Phil Roberts
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 4:06 AM UTC
I play drums until my drum sticks break
Hitting the melody on every beat that breaks
starting a rhythm of revellers in Harlem shake
Like Kelis, I bring the girls to my yard after a date and a twerk
We flossing to a drum roll, and we clap
kick drum cues the end with a tap of a hi-hat
Wake up in the morning in bed
Wearing a Bugs Bunny onesie and a top hat
Did this really happen?
I don't know?!
Wondering about my pillow
With splinters and the broken drum sticks
Jun 2, 2021
Jun 2, 2021 at 5:24 PM UTC
I think the truth is always right.
Duel, measuredly I do count my steps.
Tired eyes, yes, the night was sleepless.
I hope God will not leave me in the wrong.
My opponent, accepted the challenge, did not blink.
Bustling I always respect the bravest.
Yesterday's evening among the tipsy revellers,
May come up today with fresh blood pouring out.
Helen,please forgive me, later you will understand,
The hot breath only the bullet can cool up.
The day begins, my time has come.
But the coming up evening, I hope, will be starry ....
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 3:30 PM UTC
The weekend revellers
hand over a half-hour of toil,
of eros, of prayers in cash,
of dizzy heights, life lived
and to be lived again
as I hand over their bottled beer,
their ice and *****
their poster boy of good times
and the erasure of all day
spent watching the wheels.
Spent watching the clock
wind its endless route
to freedom.
Legs cramp,
eyes blur to focus,
and cash moves dirtied hands,
one to the other, to the other
and back again.
Back again to the dancefloor,
to the gape of sweaty arms
flailing in catharsis,
in sweet memories
of playground kisses and
lunchtime riots.
We play sweet imitation
of black-man-blues
and toast the new day
as it comes 'round the corner,
steamrollers through
into Sundays spent
with cigarette ends and
heads in buckets.
This, my origin of misery,
their open-doored appearance
to substantial existence,
to footprints of two-time
than carbon.
To commutes of whiskey sour
and wine dry,
car left in park at home,
whilst the taxis
pick up the slack.
Poisoned in the promise
of forever-youth,
the cougars cover
the same old ground,
the same old ground
every week.
I spot them in the corners,
by the doors,
in the cloakroom
and in the fire of backway passages;
the closest hope to
human touch
they'd ever dare to dream.
And the shot girls.
The shot girls kick water
in a sea of salted men,
football hooligan,
semi-political lyncher
and the neck-tattooed reality hero
who crawled in from
some bar or other,
to condemn losses with shouts
of ***** of ***** of please.
“Please, just once,
afford me a want in life”,
comes the mating call
of lads and businessmen alike,
as young female flesh passes by
their lives,
like some unfulfilled match,
kicking up sparks
but refusing to flame.
Each day I wonder
why dread exists. Why I
cling to the bedsheets,
why stories are poured
and glasses written,
why I settle for anti-living
and artificial light,
why woman is singular
and drinks are solo;
whilst all life passes by
in the excruciating hours
spent stood behind
the beer taps,
behind the barrier
that separates me
from them.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 11:59 AM UTC
Cruelty and savagery explodes upon our streets
violence multiplies in every part of society
nobodies safe in the urban jungle or their homes
promises to cure the soaring carnage has failed
deaths go on as the young rule many no go areas
where is the law and order to protect the people
why are the taxpayers pockets endlessly drained
there is still too much ground left blood stained!
Emergency services being attacked on their call outs
hospital staff assaulted in Britain's A and E units
trying to help all the thousands of drunken revellers
as those giving support are being put under pressure
decision makers seem to live in a different dimension
as their statistics down play just what is happening
out in the harsh concrete and tarmac jungle no control
if gangs and criminals power grows evil will take its toll!
Law and order has been dissipated society breaks down
as with official bureaucracy we all shall drown!
This could apply to anywhere on our overburdened earth!
TheFoureyedPoet.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 12:00 PM UTC
On tippy toe the brown mud smiles
Trails of mud trapping some unaware
Boots no match when bare footed with painted toes
Drawn down into caressing clutches
Suckling mud burgeoning a surprise
Rain washing suffering from ones muddy eyes
Freshly cut hay thrown into the melee
A raft floats on muddy surf
Regretfully, revellers begin the paddle home
Sep 2, 2021
Sep 2, 2021 at 12:37 PM UTC
Sleepless in the city.
The storming night cabs flying by.
The youth are making a racket.
Not a tennis match in sight.
Floodlights pollute the night sky.
Even the stars hide.
Can't abide the sleepless night.
Drunken teenaged revellers.
Revolting noisily outside my house.
Our tomorrow's,
Insomniac sorrows.
Start of academia.
The freshers are here.
(c)Livvi
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 5:51 PM UTC
*concerning an English lass... i rather 'ave a kebab than eat that **** to be honest: she's had more **** than me -stani! well yeah, thank **** for that, i don't need gangrene on my mouth as necessary lipstick; i liked Queen and Freddy Mercury too! but that ain't the point!*
shady concerns for East Europe by
feminists concerned with
prostitution are only subvert assertions
of post-colonialism; one
***** doesn't mind another,
write like a **** darling,
you'll get anywhere - the *******
are from England or Corseted France,
uptight ***** let's face it,
real "rebels", instead revellers of Ibiza,
and nothing more, Brussel's toothpicks
rather than chopsticks fidgeting over
some other worthy capitol; i mean, who needs
a chocolatier nation to govern us
when we're all suddenly diabetic?
turn my women into ****** i turn your
men into ******** cock-users un-necessarily
circumcised by the St. Paul's doctrine on
his way to Damascus - because those
retards should have, have your feminism's worth
of **** to boot - index and thumb
insignia on the Ire forehead: L: LOSER;
cos' you are - fudge-pack those sheep
off **** off the Dover cliffs and i'll won't
gang bang you silly with a Welsh tongue,
ole V!
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 9:32 PM UTC
We sipped cocktails in the dimly-lit lounge, candlelight flickered, not a sound was heard beneath the murmurings of the early morning revellers.
A high pitched giggle pierced the snugness, the light chatter and knowing looks of lovers and would-be-lovers, smiling at one another, dreaming their dreams and dreaming their partners dreams for them, they came to enjoy the evening and the night would take care of itself.
Our day had been splendid, more than we could ever have hoped, and now exhausted but not wishing the day would end we escaped into the comfort of each other, for once to the exclusion of all others.
We talked of everything except what we were thinking and what we were thinking was exciting and the very thought took away our breath and our hearts drummed a faster beat and drinks done we departed in search of a finer heaven.
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 3:20 AM UTC
I wanted to out perform performance Art
so I painted a splash of colour to your dress
but the revellers were like City drones
deciding this was unbearably light,
so I moved back to Molly, who still unbowed
performed her theatrical reprimands
but the Labyrinth was like a pulse
translucent.
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 4:10 PM UTC
“Get over here!” you bid me join
And I, transfixed at Dawn,
But gape at you, my dear; and he, and the revellers at Dusk
The revellers:
The conceited dance ballet,
Twirling in pairs with a swirl
Their slender lithe bodies swish through the air
Imposing arrogant silhouettes on the wall
That shimmers, as if resentful of their delicacy,
From that beam through the door,
But the splendid parquetry deceives,
Some pairs slip and slump on the cold hard floor.
You, my dear, are serene;
Mellowed by the serenade.
Twilight is dying, dusk is born;
Night is growing old,
As it gets darker and darker.
The pairs embrace, kindling a passion halo.
The glow of the embrace is mediocre,
They find a warmer glow ‘neath each other’s tutus and breeches,
But the flame of the warmth singes;
By and by, some ballerinas change girdles
With bigger ones as buds sprout in their bellies.
By and by, the foolish tire;
And tumble from prancing as injured knight horses
You, my dear; and he, are radiant, your eyes sapphire;
Are you part of the revellers?
Prancing and ballet have grown banal
The revellers decide to improvise the flue’s melody
Of fumes whirling flippantly; stifling your smile,
Some imitate the Sponge and get drenched
Other play nurse with syringes
Capsules
Lozenges
And queer pills:
Inviting Grim Reaper.
I join you on the moonlit balcony
You titter as you marvel at the starry sky
Oh dear; your titter is irony
To he, “We resemble the twin stars” you say;
And to me, “The Little White Dwarf, lovelorn”
You laud the intimacy twin stars portray
My dear the stars are but gleaming
Pearls studded on a brine of darkness
Such is the paradox, for I am longing
For a caress
Akin to your lambent embrace unto he my dear
And I ***** on this little stair,
Teenage, where caresses and embraces but flare!
Time ***** her wings fast my dear, time flies
Even my colts cannot keep pace with her
“Give free rein to your cravings,” she says
“Consider the brevity of life!”-Even so my dear,
I have become frigid
To the sweet aromas and aphrodisiac melodies;
Mirages clogged my mind, my neurons frayed
My puritanism and gravitas;
They are fabrics of a stale fashion of preservation.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 1:35 PM UTC