"ringers" poems
Oh how I hate
this time of year,
with the stupid songs
and holiday cheer...
Annoying bell ringers
outside the store,
and the tacky wreaths
hanging on the door.
Cardboard calendars
filled with waxy treats,
ice and snow making
death traps of streets.
Frazzled parents
spending more then they should
on entitled kids
who are far from good.
Fake smiles & wishes
in the "spirit" of it all,
the empty shelves-
the crowds at the mall.
The hour long line
to see Santa the phony
who falsely promises
an x-box or a pony.
Having to gather
with family who annoy,
gifting another cheap
Chinese-made toy.
Fire hazards
strung with tinsel and lights,
tensions leading
to fun Christmas fights!
Secret Santas-
holiday parties for work-
ugly sweaters
making you look like a ****
The stress of having
an enormous list
and a tiny budget
just makes me ******
No, nothing seems jolly
or merry or bright...
Oh how I can't wait
till post-Christmas night!
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 9:24 PM UTC
My darling boy,
The real one. The real thing and all.
A figment of my imagination but in my (tiny) self I hold.
You.
There is much awe in my city, my dear, but you are the skyscraper. Much joy in my world, but you are the bubbles, clumsily blown by a three year old. Much wonder in my life, but you are my eyes when fireworks are set off. There is much music, but you sing a different song, of other lives lived, of sisterhood, of soul mates, of brothers, of lovers. Once again, we are.
It had been so long and on your descent, your landing, your smooth slip through Heathrow’s arrival gates (the home of my memory hidden in its ink)
I felt myself climb
Back into you
In the strongest, yet weakest way
Possible
Now you must rest. Go home to your mother and sleep til you wake.
Those days later
I watched you step out of that car
And as if in swift teamwork, my body was broken and healed at once.
I watched you cascade, so graciously, towards the bell ringers.
The people, your people
Your girls – full of anger, heavy wombs and hurricane.
I whispered, under my breath, ‘thank you, I love you’ and became
Me
You arrived and left without a girl on your arm – because, the truth is, you could never have anyone on your arm
Not even
You
My olive tree
The fruits of my loves labour never lost
A middle aged woman’s warm self among metallic scratches and blips.
A photograph – taken just before
Half of your face
Filling the whole page.
I will write to you
For you
As yours
Daily
And at the end of each I will
Whisper, under my breath, ‘thank you, I love you’
Thank you
I love you
Scorpio x
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 10:02 AM UTC
Retailers hope to net profits with the overlapping of holiday seasons.
Thanksgiving is yet to be history; but, out comes the Christmas trimmings.
No big surprise seeing holiday reminders arriving and filling mail box,
comes with pre-season, this early blitz of commercials on tv now the net.
Early arrival of holiday brings bell ringers standing between shopper's exit,
a failure to repeat and repeat donations, brings looks of extreme displeasure.
Each and every time you enter or exit discount, drug, and many retail stores,
shoppers face not only bell ringers; but, 365 days donate at register requests.
Most can't equal billion dollar give aways by Bill and Melinda Gates' circle.
Most work extremely hard and donate but also choose to live on budgets.
I donate and have nothing against charities; but, how much should one give?
Retailers, putting shoppers on the spot, asking for donations upon check out?
Never a pinch penny when it comes to sharing when there's an "actual" need,
generosity is always a personal choice, I let guilt not be my companion in giving.
Multiple donations to canister's of amnesiac holiday bell ringers? Wont happen!
Nothing against legit charities; but, giving until you're broke, you "will" be needy.
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 8:04 AM UTC
I wish the world
banana seats and ***** bars
chariots of childhood
transports to imaginary kingdoms
erasers of boundaries
freedom makers
brother bonders
vehicles of the delegates of peace
a better way.
Bolted to a heavy metal frame of
metallic green with
ape hanger handlebars
the playing cards clothes-pinned in spokes
making siren noises with our mouths
rope-lashed weapons aboard
discovering creeks
woods
forbidden backyards and
never-before-known games with
barn side lumber and pop cans
double-dog daring inedible things
teasing girls
riding to secret clubhouse meetings and
the playground.
I wish the world
our playground
summers of innocence
bottomless wells of laughter
center of the universe
June to September
ages 8 to 18
bean bags and ringers
tether ball - hand and paddle
basketball and baseball and
box hockey
(where it was encouraged
to give children axe handles and
a softball
to beat through holes
in a 2 x 6 board
defending a goal
with their life and
busted knuckles).
We liked it that way.
We lived as legends.
I wish the world
a bike ride with friends
ending at the playground.
For there has never been a bad day
on a banana seat.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 2:51 PM UTC
I’m rather fond of chocolate cake
I’d like to learn to knit
But I can’t abide Celine Dione
And Celery is ****
I find a book most comforting
And the odd banana split
But I hate celebrity look-a-likes
And Canadian singers
And celery are ****
I’m happiest by the fireside
Some music, I’ll permit
But I grit my teeth at gossipers
And dead ringers
Canadian singers
And Celery are ****
I love the air about my hair
And the grass beneath my feet
But I've never been too keen on wasps
And **** slingers
Dead ringers
Canadian singers
And celery are ****
I’m partial to a cup of tea
With a biscuit next to it
But I’ll never vote conservative
And insect stingers
**** slingers
Dead ringers
Canadian singers
And celery are ****
I like to bake a birthday cake
Or build a Lego kit
There are many things I truly love
But Right wingers
Insect stingers
**** slingers
Dead ringers
Canadian singers
And celery are STILL ****
**
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 7:37 PM UTC
I miss you like maps miss fingers,
Like mikes miss singers,
Like hells bells miss ringers,
Like bringers miss takers,
Like ******* miss fakers,
Like cakes miss bakers,
Like lakes miss boats,
Like bad swimmers miss floats,
Like politicians miss votes,
Like doting parents miss school plays,
Like nymphomaniacs miss lays,
Like hypochondriacs miss prescriptions,
Like ****** misses addictions,
Like carpets miss friction,
Like Billy Bunter misses midnight feasts,
Like the grim reaper misses grief,
Like Henry misses the good fellas,
Like sand sculptures miss umbrellas,
Like Rubix cube devotees miss puzzles,
Like rabid dogs miss muzzles,
Like Van Gough missed his brushes,
Like speed freaks miss rushes,
Like pens miss paper,
Like the Mona Lisa missed Pater,
Like the canvas misses the creator,
Like the thirsty miss water,
Like the hungry miss food,
Like ***** miss the lewd,
Like the mind misses mood,
Like the tides miss the moon,
Like the sane miss the loons,
Like the dark misses the light,
Like the brave miss the fright,
Like the kite misses the wind.
I miss everything.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 3:25 PM UTC
1.13.
Let me get
high
So I can
sing
to you
the blues
Crush up
poison petals
of small town
sunflowers
Shoot up
on toxic
threats
These are
the promises
of small town
regrets
Last time
I overdosed
I was became
president of
Club 27
Contraband upsells
*** seduced kills
Been craving
the bitter
temptations
Got caught
a few times
stealing
prescriptions
To trade
for cheap
trills
I was getting
my fix on
the worlds
crazy pills
Smashing mirrors
mirrors on
the wall
Who’s the
fairest
*****
of them all?
These are the
lies that lie
between you
and I
I wanna be
your girl
Just don’t give
me a name
Call me nothing
at all
I seek and
I see
a blind
humanity
Pulling the
trigger
on
overpriced
Silver bullets
Dead ringers
with
no dreams
they can say
they had
on
there own
Taking out
loans to get
you to sleep
when your all
alone
All your
secrets
I see
In the crack
of my looking
glass
Everyday
I get
more and
more
outta place
Trying to
maintain
my social
rank
Trying to
afford these
sinister
ways
Maybe just
maybe
one day
I’ll be a
good woman
I’ll learn to
behave
Jun 11, 2019
Jun 11, 2019 at 4:42 PM UTC
....No man is an island, entire of itself...any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee
No man an island
yet we stand with brand
in hand, waiting
to set set alight all bridges
as we make our stand
for ourselves
over our fellow man.
We stand and watch as
killers **** then
turn the channel
seeking the next
momentary thrill.
Less and less we involve
ourselves with others
in a meaningful way
we are more likely
to be engaged in
digital play
as we die
a little more
each solitary day
If it sounds
like I am preaching
it is because I am
More to myself
than others
but then again
perhaps I am reaching
to you and others like
to those who understand
the carillion is a ringing
that, the sounds of bells
are stealing up upon us
as we ignore calamity to play,
tetris and zombie clan
"All mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated.
we the poets of consciousness,
are the translators ....
of the thoughtless thoughts
and long lost creeds
we are the heart that cries
as this world bleeds
from razors cuts
by the many thousands,
we are the recorders of the deeds
both small and large
important an seemingly insignificant.
scribes and libraians we be both
noting written word and oral oath
we partake, we give to all
but at our best we are the accord
of action and thought, deed and word
so that we reflect upon
ourseleves and others
the joy, the hate,
the hurt, the succour
the wonderment and ease,
the love and loving care
we make the hard easier to bear
we make the horrible, we make crazy
we have the ability to make the hard person care
those in despair hope...those at the end of themself
reach once more for the dangling rope
we are the fabric, the paper
on which this world is printed
we are the old gold coin
and the newly minted
we are islands with bridges between
we are understanding,
between commoner and queen
we are those who stand ready
to extinguish harmful flame
yet we are those to set hearts alight
we are those who call others
away from the game
and into the heart of the heart
into cognizant frames
we are listeners
and bell ringers both
we refine the languages
we create the quotes
we are the fresh morning
we are the new start....
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 20, 2017 at 7:50 PM UTC
I hurried...
a hooded scrape
of epaulette through
rhododendron corridors
an exit to the brace.
All tradition is mine
so I threw her a peace sign
that caught in the ivy
both long-tooth
and way-tied
I walked....
a slow Nantucket sleigh ride
to the field where she waited,
tall,
sheep- skinned in her cuneiform
We talked..
Met, smoking by the ringers net
sequestered in the biscuit verge.
Too long into the bison grass
of Pompeii afternoons, is how
We slept
Sep 14, 2017
Sep 14, 2017 at 10:46 AM UTC
a day spent in shades of gray
of Havisham wedding cakes
and once untattered lace
of some eighteen-thousand yesterdays
of both ****** and present hair
and a never-again tie
"not unless you bury me in one"
Jul 22, 2011
Jul 22, 2011 at 3:47 PM UTC
Your Youth. Your Time. Your placed Investiture
So did these Ringers let your Throne announce
With fresh commentary spring your Boys pure
And clasp their Spirits for Victory enhance
Now there's the Go! Humbled yet so Pronounced
To apply Punctuations for your Team's End
Which the Lion roars their Thoughtful Doubts bounce
And Mark every Tariff they could Append
When most Nations laugh, they Green in Despair
Why his Coloured Mane kept whipping the Waves
Perhaps Leisure, his fleeting Vice repair
Kept hard-earned Fortiments from Woes and Slaves.
Still on still, these Songs by Splashes carry
Another Batch-of-Stamps; To Home they tarry.
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 10:06 PM UTC
Love you lots,
Despite the pain
Despite the rain
From my eyes
Under blue sunlit skies,
In spite
Waking up
Restless in the night
Were I
An abandoned pup
I cannot lie,
I miss you
Night and day
And I have no clue
What else to say,
My mind in knots
I cannot undo
As I think of you,
Minor relief
Knowing you're alive
But that disbelief
Still lingers
Nine to Five;
Dead ringers
All the pictures
Permanent fixtures
In my head
That I cannot
Dislocate
Until I'm dead,
And for that I wait
Patiently
Fervently,
Though a race
This is not,
It is a surer bet
Than to ever see your face
Again; which I will never forget...
APAD13 - 146 © okpoet
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 5:28 AM UTC
I miss you like maps miss fingers,
Like mikes miss singers,
Like bells miss ringers,
Like cakes miss bakers,
Like lakes miss boats,
Like bad swimmers miss floats,
Like politicians miss votes,
Like doting parents miss school plays,
Like nymphomaniacs miss lays,
Like necrophiliacs miss graves,
Like hypochondriacs miss prescriptions,
Like ****** misses addictions,
Like carpets miss friction,
Like Billy Bunter misses midnight feasts,
Like the grim reaper misses grief,
Like Henry misses the goodfellas,
Like sand sculptures miss umbrellas,
Like Rubix cube devotees miss puzzles,
Like rabid dogs miss muzzles,
Like Van Gough missed his brushes,
Like speed freaks miss rushes,
Like pens miss paper,
Like the Mona Lisa missed Pater,
Like the canvas misses the creator,
Like how the thirsty miss water,
Like the hungry miss food,
Like ***** miss the lewd,
Like the mind misses mood,
Like the tides miss the moon,
Like the sane miss the loons,
Like the dark misses the light,
Like the brave miss the fright,
Like the kite misses the wind.
Like a phone misses a ring
Like every misses thing.
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 10:25 AM UTC
POETS AND SINGERS AND DANCERS AND BELL RINGERS
ARE IN MY HOUSE TONIGHT, I PARTY WITH ANGELS
AND ALL I EAT IS BAGLES, AND THAT MAKES ME FEEL SO DIVINE
I WENT TO THE POETRY SLAM, WITH VOICES IN MY HEAD SAYING POETRY IS FOR GEEKS
BUT I AM A GOOD PARTY POET, WHERE EVERY POEM
EXPLAINS HOW I WANNA PARTY HARDY WON’T STARDY
MOVE IT ON UP, MOVE IT ON UP
AND SHOW US HOW TO HAVE FUN
AND TONIGHT THERE WAS A POET BLASTER WHO HATED POETS
SHOOTING AT ANYONE GOING OUT FOR SMOKES
YOU SEE WE HAD TO DESIGN A WEAPON TO **** POETS
AND MINE WAS TOO EXTREME, FOR THEM
YOU SEE, I DEVELOPED CANNON ***** AND 1 BILLION AMMO HERE AND 1 BILLION AMMO THERE
AND BULLETS, AND LOADS OF OTHER STUFF AND POINTED IT AT THE POET READING
AND BLASTED HIS HEAD OFF, SORT OF WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME TONIGHT
MY OLD MATES, SAYING, IS BRIAN INTO WRITING POEMS AND THEN THEY SAY POEMS ARE BORING
AND I SAY, NO MATE NO, YOUR BORING, SURE I AM DISABLED, BUT IT DOESN’T STOP ME FROM WRITING A GREAT POEM THOUGH
DISABLE DISABLE I MIGHT BE A BIT DISABLED, IT’S NOT MY STYLE TO NOT JOT IT DOWN, YEAH IN A POEM YA SEE
I HAD COKE TO DRINK AS WELL AS A PACKET OF CARAMELISED ONION AND SOUR CREAM CHIPS, ****** AWESOME DUDES
I AM DISABLED, TOO DISABLED, FOR THE GOING TO BED MEN OR KIDS OR LADIES
I DON’T WIN VERY MUCH, BUT THE ORGANISER REALLY LIKES MY WORK
I PARTY LIKE I GET HEADACHES FROM CHAMPAGNE, THE PURE ALCOHOL DOES WEIRD THINGS TO THE BRAIN
AND MY FAVE, THE SCHITZOPHRENIC MACARENA, IT GOES LIKE THIS
1 2 3 4 DO THE SCHITZOPHRENIC, FROM THE FIRST DIAGNOSIS TO MY CURRNT SITUATION
AND NOW, WITH MEDICATION, I CAN BE REFORMED, OH YEAH MATE YEAH, I AM SCHITZOPHRENIC
AND FLY BURGERS ARE GOOD ENOUGH TO EAT, FLY BURGERS ARE SUCH A TASTY TREAT
JUST CATCH A BLOWIE BETWEEN TWO BUTTERED BUNS, ADD SOME LETTUCE AND TOMATO AND HAVE SO MUCH FUN
YOU SEE MY POEMS TALK, ABOUT HASPPINESS FOR A GREAT PARTY, HAPPINESS FOR GREAT ART
AND HAPPINESS FOR THE OLD SMELLY MAN WHO FARTS, WHILE HE PLAYS AND BEATS ME AT DARTS
MOVING ON UP, MOVING ON UP MOVING ON UP, MAKING AN EGG SIT RIGHT IN THE CUP
THEN WENT OVER TO PAT HIS PUP, AS HE ENJOYS MOVING ON UP
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 8:21 AM UTC
Stay out of trouble,
rebuttal,
probably gonna **** if we cuddle.
I smoked one too many singles someone pack a double.
Twenty ringers ain't fun for the lungs but they gatta be done,
someone pack another for the girl we gettin **** done.
Not, just chillin n smokin ***
Smokin marijuana, you wanna do it or not?
Settle in, its not like its a ****** rock,
yeah she has one in the pocket but that **** would make you pop.
See for us it be okay,
take it and we sway,
have another popper and we feel it fade a way.
It comes back and it's great,
numb to the face and cant complain,
run with the flow, now whats my name,
I had to get it, I had it, now I'm insane.
Now you, scared you wont like the truth,
you like it as much as the youth,
but you wont let nothing diffuse the situation,
love n hate will make a mess,
your selfish habits wont have it so **** it just take a rest.
You figure that I'll just bewilder the thought of you as a villain but you can just call her a killer cause she gon keep up with the killin.
Wanna **** round with a beast, its only your head.
Better keep up with the girl or get back n rest while she pull ahead. Yeah, now she only smokin on the best,
she been nursing a mind to **** us all up n go to bed.
See we ready, come n get me,
hell, we been it all along.
You say you're not convinced, she says you should tag along.
Jul 10, 2016
Jul 10, 2016 at 11:09 AM UTC
I can’t tell if crickets are the bell ringers of hell
Or the harps of heaven
With disdain I feel like writing poems
But as a little girl I made a vow
Never to do such a thing
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 3:48 AM UTC
Smoking his cigarette, a gold signet ring upon his finger
a complete antithesis to the other dead-ringers,
lips pursed, sipping at his golden liquor
in his eyes dancing excitement does flicker
diagnosed with cancer, he's re-living every dream in his head
for on the eighth day of this month he will be dead -
out and about, picking up ladies at the age of forty
days from kicking the bucket yet his libido still naughty
waking up on the sixth day with the first hangover in 10 years
the bloated pain distracting him from his fears -
no kids, divorced, a total loser
living the life of a player and a scheming user
alas, he'll never feel the wind upon his face
never again have the chance to experience love, hatred, anger or even disgrace
never see the kids he didn't have
never again able to make a decision - be it good or bad
and now sitting alone in his apartment as the eighth day looms
he burns the money in his wallet, exhales their fumes
"I'm... so sorry..."
his signet ring stained, still uncannily gold
attached to a finger now lifeless, stiff, cold.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 5:06 PM UTC
i was clay that turned soft in your hands
you were the creator that taught me to stand
you sculpted my mind
ran ringers down my spine
you created something when i was nothing
and when you leave for something new
i will stand here waiting for you
because i am just a little clay girl
who has your signature in her skull
Jun 14, 2019
Jun 14, 2019 at 12:57 PM UTC
Standing
In a ring
You pray
Overhead
Bells are ringing
Gladly
You obey the rhythm
That you have created
Listening
Watching
The leader
Reorders the movement
You respond
With precision
You rise and fall
Are stretched
And returned
You remain
Fixated
Grounded
Silently you work
Communicating
Subliminally
Sending messages
Above the treetops
Across the town
Tidings
Of hope
Alarums
Of communion
You are
A little known group
Operatives
Of ancient tradition
A community
Of enthusiasts
A family
Of bell ringers
Jun 11, 2016
Jun 11, 2016 at 1:45 PM UTC
I’ve had this feeling, ongoing for a couple of years, or more
Like the relentless moped rider who mounts the pathway outside your door,
Risking his life without a helmet on,
And others may too soon be gone,
As though its his mission to break you down and irritate,
Mind and body debate, until my shell accepts defeat,
It’s easy to make excuses when you feel this way, they say,
But I beat myself up, day after day,
If I sleep too late or hide away, exhausted, unable to concentrate,
The guilt pulls in my gut, like the church-bell ringers tug, slow, robust,
Without question, prescription or doctors review,
I take the mind numbing pill just to get through,
There’s no need for appointments or long waiting queues,
It’s ready and waiting with the supermarket crew,
among other essential survival tools to accrue,
I’ve fought so hard to come off this drug,
I’ve reduced the dose, though it’s not enough,
I’m shamefully addicted, though the GP insists they’re not addictive,
If only I could have predicted,
Without my fix I’m resticted, spaced out, blurry eyed, inflicted,
Out of this darkness I see lots of light,
I’ve allowed myself time and space to get it right,
holistically and patiently, I’ve learned is key,
Though the shame of depression will never leave me,
It’s an unattractive weakness, but it wouldn’t stop my attraction to you,
It’s my own insecurities that I need to break through
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 12:58 PM UTC
one is the I
on earth and in sky
two is the couple
soul and its double
three is the parent
father, mother, infant
four are the elements
of alchemist's experiments
five are the fingers,
thumb, pinky 'n ringers
six are directions
the points of location
seven are the days
of six and one o' praise
Apr 20, 2021
Apr 20, 2021 at 2:59 PM UTC
It was a night of manic dreams and
Ear shattering ringers from smoking cigars
Beyond counting.
I thought puffing one would bring me
Sunshine
It dumped me in a hole.
I never stay in one place long enough
To take care of what needs taking care of.
On the hustle from one cloud to the next.
Happiness flooding my veins
Till I can’t take any more of it
Then I spend days in a freezing cold bed
A house that isn’t mine
Stuck in a hole
Apr 12, 2020
Apr 12, 2020 at 4:18 AM UTC