"rogues" poems
who lit the candles
placed so eloquently
behind purple rock?
that sculpted radiance
and chapel grace
wound in a chosen
defined way
down the spiral
stone stairs
street cars dawdle
alongside
the packer slew
biding merchants
shuffle their wares
as the front man
and pock face
sing their sullen
holy blues
cut jazz echoes
over the accompanying
gabble and drone
incense and haze
pour from
a lower trap door
sack fish, truffles
and splendid crafts shine
inside the stained glass fronts
a wide mouth snapper
with a bloated tongue
greets the
morning tide
(not camera shy
in the least!)
the fish traps
and beaneries
bring life
to the flourishing causeway
hula hoops
and circle ballers
join the
cobaine stage
favoured rogues
and mac jacks
speak easy
of the big daddy
beth’s triple by pass
taking firm hold on
tricky ****
and the nutcracker
maze ways,
taggers and
lost tunnels
of cu chi
strike a
nerving blow
a poised finger man
belts out his tune
(with a sniff sock
and iterating glare)
his nosey neighbors
cut artisan bread
(with a white wine
and jelly spread)
midwives push forward
for an afternoon
toddle and stroll
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 11:12 AM UTC
Little moist drops of heaven
Trickling down my throat
The heavenly burn,
delicious
Synonymous with an Angel's wings
fluttering in my esophagus
Liquid lightning, striking
Almost blasphemous
A devilish game of Russian Roulette
With four shot glasses,
Three rogues and one gent
Emotions getting looser
Clothing getting tighter
The taste becoming
Sweeter
Liquefied demon tears
Playing a wicked game
with my insides
Putting a beautiful curse on my mind
Melted Whiskey Raindrops
Sending shivers down my spine
This hellish war of love, hate and
Intoxication
Has never felt so
Divine
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 4:19 PM UTC
I will not die for you
Woman fey of flesh and home,
I linger but to see you unfrock
The holy, set rogues to roam.
Why should I thus be consumed
In breath like coldest fire?
Shape of rising waterfalls
That state, I surely do not desire
The downy ******* the runny skin,
Spark of cheek, notes of hair in shower,
The gliding step, the gusty tone,
Fools have died for much less a dower.
The lancing pools, the hemlock mien,
The highland sheen, the dawn-bird voice,
The Safire eye, over step of pyramid
Merlin gave Arthur a safer choice.
I will not drown for you,
Flood of hair, red as the lye
In parted Jordan, that sea, not me,
Shall pine as ever, slowly dying.
Your healing humors, your subtle sovereignty,
Your blood, noble as seven-seas are blue,
Little mirror who paints the sky,
Though nearly, I will not die for you.
Jun 24, 2012
Jun 24, 2012 at 10:28 AM UTC
Rascals, ruffians and rogues alike.
Slumming the alleys with their slurs,
And sewage rats.
Across the streets, just beyond the performers.
The dames of paradise carrying flowered parasols.
*A ***** she is. Stupid Alessandra!* one said.
The hooligans hugged each other with glee,
As the women struck each other,
With their spiteful words.
Filthy, is the life of the cleaner souls,
And rich, is the life of the poorest minds.
Alas, the weirdest of them all is God.
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 4:48 AM UTC
In every “Poetry Place”
There is a Copycat Corner.
We know it’s a disgrace
So here’s another “Warner”.
Why they do it I’ll never know,
Those Copier and Pasters.
Their words they seem to glow,
But they’re a bunch of Wasters.
Taking all that praise,
For stuff they haven’t written,
It seems to be a craze,
And many do get bitten.
Just Google their “fine words” or use those plagiarism sites,
And you will find the original poems
Bedecked with copyrights.
I’m sure this place just isn’t free
Of people like this,
Just look and see!!!
The Admins must get their fingers out,
And give these villainous rogues a massive clout.
Me, I will show all due diligence,
But my job here,
Is to show My brilliance.
(NOT someone else’s!).
Paul Butters
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 6:19 AM UTC
A majestic beast that runs on four legs
A wolf will stand tall when a good leader comes along.
A wolf is humble
But oh so very proud
The wolf will not stand to be kicked when he is down
A poet is a person who stands on two legs
With two arms to pick up things
We are just sheep without a second thought
when a wolf comes running up and picks us off.
What happens to that sheep no one knows
A pack is a great place to be
Yet only when the wolves all get along
Some packs don't accept a lone wolf
Others are packs mostly made from rogues, yet
Everybody looks down on wolves
But they never tell them no
A tiger and lion have performed in a circus
But have you ever seen a wolf in the circus?
No you probably haven't
For they are too prideful for that
Poets are like a pack of wolves on a hunt
The hunt that takes them through the jungle of words
They try to catch the catch of the day
"A poem"
That's the catch.
When they get back a lone wolf is standing with a limp tail
They surround the wolf with love and admiration.
The wolf grows to be strong and proud and surrounds itself with a pack
I was once the lone wolf with a limp tail
You guys were the pack that were so strong and prideful
I stood in the middle my legs all shaking
You guys shrouded me with love and turned me into a majestic beast
With skills still untouched.
My life was fixed.
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 11:55 AM UTC
free-floating, untethered
like a chimney-sweep orphan
it swirls alone in space
no star nearby, no system to call it home
free, wandering, swaying to a symphony of
embracing silence
there are possibly millions
these drifters, these mavericks, rogues
sub-stellar, not mainstream
no pull on each
not your usual planet
with position, star-bound and mooned
but a maverick, free, solitary
untethered, untethered, indie planet
in no one’s sway
….a maverick, it does it all its own way….
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 5:30 AM UTC
tight are the waxers
with gelatin scrub
their alcove smiles paired
on a check-board slate
dive jackets
and coveralls
mark the blue persuaders
stuffed lockers
and lattice straps
for a cold
pilgrim's stare
cork boots
and poly rot
rest in the C block
rank and file
mask a heavily
worn charade
windows wide
and curtains
thread bare
greasers
and **** rats
pardoned
on principle
chain link and
tether held
firm in the grasp
bead bites and
castle tops
slip in the **** steam
chants and speakers
blast from the back wall
elements stacked wide
for tainted leaners
strummers and pickers
held high on the jimmy jack
a chilled base breeze
at the ****** hole
rogues and hatters
stir at the mixer
an imitation face
closing in on the feast
maiden hands clasp
hard at the inseam
scuffed heals shuffle
on the peripheral scene
a cloaked man scurries
(chilled in his double sock)
moonshine
and mickeys
turned up in the jar
light streams blind
the paranoid eyes
laggards peeled
from the wretched
framework
veneer shattered
on a point strip groove
an overwhelming trauma
from slaughter
harbor
Apr 18, 2019
Apr 18, 2019 at 3:16 PM UTC
Fareweel to a’ our Scottish fame,
Fareweel our ancient glory;
Fareweel ev’n to the Scottish name,
Sae famed in martial story!
Now Sark rins over Solway sands,
And Tweed rins to the ocean,
To mark where England’s province stands—
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!
What force or guile could not subdue
Thro’ many warlike ages,
Is wrought now by a coward few,
For hireling traitor’s wages.
The English steel we could disdain,
Secure in valour’s station;
But English gold has been our bane—
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!
O, would or I had seen the day
That treason thus could sell us,
My auld grey head had lien in clay
Wi’ Bruce and loyal Wallace!
But pith and power, till my last hour,
I’ll mak this declaration:
We’re bought and sold for English gold—
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!
2.4k
Classing class as I class colour
One is one and one is the other
Finding freedom in fervour
Can one lonely soul discover?
Touching seeing hearing things
Sensation's where it all begins
To start the start of anything
Is to start the start of everything
Counselling countless souls
Neighbouring wanted rogues
Harbouring heavy loads
To shed’s to sheer to shake things clear
Maybe sometimes I’m not me
Maybe sometimes I can’t see
Maybe sometimes I’m not me
Maybe maybe she can see
Now I know when not to squander
Feel through feet the wildest thunder
Open up let me discover
Your wildest wishes up and under.
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 12:59 PM UTC
“Mistakes were made.”
I quote at least three recent former U.S. Presidents,
Who wrote or spoke infamously in the passive voice.
Here’s a bit of history:
The words spoken by automated phone systems,
Were code written by computer programmers.
Computer geeks, revered for their cold logic and impartiality;
Like scientists taught to maintain objectivity,
When studying fascinating subjects like Base-2 Binary Codes,
Disk partitioning and hard drive defragmentation.
Impersonal, the passive voice avoids sentiment,
Steers clear of pesky opinions unfounded on certainty or proof.
Unsurprisingly, the passive voice seeped quickly,
Into the language of politicians,
Our beloved rogues and rapscallions,
Hiding truth, avoiding accountability and culpability.
Practitioners of political science,
They bob and weave and spin.
Yes, mistakes were made.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 8:11 PM UTC
1598
Who is it seeks my Pillow Nights—
With plain inspecting face—
“Did you” or “Did you not,” to ask—
’Tis “Conscience”—Childhood’s Nurse—
With Martial Hand she strokes the Hair
Upon my wincing Head—
“All” Rogues “shall have their part in” what—
The Phosphorous of God—
1.5k
Reckoning gaze, learning ropes, knotty pine encasement, knowing what the box looks like from inside is preeminent inimitable. I was so certain last year would be it. Likely even, I thought the same the year before and years before that, all whilst whittling away, planks of this coffin, scratching to get out. Sealed in a fate, this vampiric rising, doomed to eternity of night crawling. Yet, by no means has glamour of Hollywood realm flickered any sheen, this direction. Not all vampires can afford tuxedos. Grosgrain lapels, and red satin lined capes do do wonders for former stars of silver screen, but this succubus prefers his naked lot. Apparently, malignant rogues who lie amongst worms don't always have the wardrobe to go with it. New Year's resolution: a tuxedo, perhaps some tails, and somewhere to wear them.
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 2:03 PM UTC
Talk to me, talk to me of Old St. Nick
Talk to me of Sinterclaus
Of Mikulas, Pere Noel, or Babbo Natale
Talk to me of candles, christingle and a silent night
Talk to me of crackers, carols and calamities
Talk to me of snow, sleighs, and stars
Talk to me of Christmas cards, wrapping paper
Talk to me of gold, old spice and mice
Talk to me of icing, icicles
igloos, ivy
Holly
Oh sweet Hollie
Tots of Drambuie
Marmalade and toast
Talk to me of Philip Scholfield
Carols From Kings
Mary Poppins
Scrooge
Festive films
Radio Times
And things that are too pretty
Lights, nights
Hark, Dark
barking dogs
tinsel
Tinsel Town
Wolves at the door
Salvation Army playing once more
Talk to me
Talk to me
Cream Crackers, cheese
Frosty mornings, old knees
Talk to me of snow covered alpine forests
Gateaux
Cherries
walnuts and berries
Festive fun,
A seasonal run
Of All Gold telly
With a full belly
Farts, sprouts
Turkey that tastes just like chicken
Oh talk to me of
Terry Wogan
Rosh Jogan
Grogan Josh
Last minute deals
Black Friday
White Friday
And all the Cyber Mondays
Talk to me of
Happy Mondays
Dancing Bez
In a Festive Fez
Talk to me
Talk to me
Of Festive time
Late nights
Early mornings
Beer
Cheer
All in entertainment
Oh talk, TALK to me
Of hangovers,
sleep overs
gloves
mittens
and cute kittens
Oh talk to me of
fake Chanel
Faux Fur and underwear
Celvin Klein
Talk to me , Talk to me of
Jonah Lewie
Bony M
The Pogues
and all those rogues
Fairy tale of New York
Stop the Cavalry
Mary's Boy Child
And the
Spaceman who came riding by
Oh talk, Talk , Talk to me
of places, and spaces We all know
Christmas markets
Tesco, Aldi and John Lewis Adverts showing
Christmas is coming
Christmas is coming
Christmas is coming
Chris
Oh talk to me
Oh talk to me of old St. Nick
Talk to me
Talk to me
Eggnog
Talk to me
Talk to me
Bah humbug
Talk to me
Talk to me
Happy Christmas
Dec 19, 2019
Dec 19, 2019 at 4:54 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
slender, pale moonlight;
a fine evening for imperceptibly
amiable rogues
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 1:28 AM UTC
Big Mama Africa
Poor Mama Africa,
Madiba has gone.
Remember his dream
& move forward, as one.
Don't let his dream
be put down & forgotten;
by the schemes of the greedy,
the rogues & the rotten.
Dear, big Mama Africa,
your beautiful indeed
and rich enough to give your children,
all that they need.
So why is there such poverty,
starvation and despair?
There's wealth enough to go around,
if everyone would share.
But those who can, horde riches,
far more than they need.
Denying their own people,
with selfishness & greed.
You must get together
and speak, with one voice.
Across the land, shout your demand;
unite and then rejoice.
Briz 9/12/13
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 3:15 AM UTC
I will not die for you
Woman fey of flesh and home,
I linger but to see you unfrock
The holy, set rogues to roam.
Why should I thus be consumed
In breath like coldest fire?
Shape of rising waterfalls
That state, I surely do not desire
The downy ******* the runny skin,
Spark of cheek, notes of hair in shower,
The gliding step, the gusty tone,
Fools have died for much less a dower.
The lancing pools, the hemlock mien,
The highland sheen, the dawn-bird voice,
The Safire eye, over step of pyramid
Merlin gave Arthur a safer choice.
I will not drown for you,
Flood of hair, red as the lye
In parted Jordan, that sea, not me,
Shall pine as ever, slowly dying.
Your healing humors, your subtle sovereignty,
Your blood, noble as seven-seas are blue,
Little mirror who paints the sky,
Though nearly, I will not die for you.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC
write something for me, darling.
write me like one of your fancy girls
all glowing and sinning in my gown.
write me a beautiful scene
in an italian countryside
with you and we're both just in the best of shape.
write me at night under the lamplight
where you can barely make out
the outline of my face,
but you see the lamplight in my eyes
and for once you wonder
what's behind that twinkle.
oh but darling just write me
in anger when i can't meet your needs
and you blame yourself,
throwing your possessions all about
and tearing your clothes off
ripping me apart asking why oh why not
couldn't i have just been faithful?
but you know she never burned me
like you do.
won't you write that.
don't you write me darling.
don't you dare put us on a boat
in the middle of a sea
ready to capsize as the rogues pass,
sloshing and tossing us about.
don't you take me below deck
and remind me that jesus h. christ
is [where oh where don't we both know]
... and yet i've forgotten.
it's been so long.
i'm hardly adjusting to the altitude, you know.
not to mention the wine.
won't you write me a philosoph-
checking and correcting and spiritually connecting
until i throw my manifesto into the fire place,
and in your face, your blazing face,
that dances as the flames charr and erase
the passionate loss and cherubim embrace-
doll, what does your skin feel like these days?
oh lovely, write it for me. write it for me.
write me for it.
right me for it.
i'd like to be erased, thus:
know-it-all that i've become!
unwittingly writing with my two left feet
and my two left thumbs.
[cough... sputter... shoulder glance.]
i have wined and dined myself again, dear.
no thanks to your writing.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 1:03 PM UTC
The coffee was too sweet as I mentally sketched a blueprint for each sentence I hope to speak. My tongue eagerly bounced between the most eloquent wordings to express thoughts that even you probably know are too complex for me.
I firmly grasped my the frigid mason jar, afraid that the same twilight that illuminated all the right parts of your face and highlighted your rogues strands of hair like golden thread would be enough to knock me from my seat. If I explained that, would it be romantic?
I pondered whether geeky comedy could be my niche. Decided against it. My hands grew colder from icy condensation and hesitation.
Every calculated consonant passing through your lips becomes fuzzier as i balance my focus so you don't notice how distracting you are. I struggle to pretend this is effortless for me, too.
I wished with each passing moment that I weren't one moment closer to death, one less moment sipping sugary coffee in your company.
I wished each passing moment elapsed quicker. my coffee is dwindling, the lump in my throat is a landform in of itself.
Though I'd rather babble about the universe and love, history and life, your small talk captivated me. Vowel after vowel. Of ambient noise, you could compose symphonies, your stare a screenplay, of simple Walmart trips, novels.
Of me, I'm but the fly on the wall in a fleeting moment of daylight in a rocky chair in a café in a day of your life upon which I couldn't even confess that I think about you more than the universe and history and life and coffee. Until you know that, I'll see you next time and we'll order the coffee black.
Jun 18, 2016
Jun 18, 2016 at 2:51 PM UTC
I speak a dead language to a shadow
Spreading a disease like honor among thieves
I use my hands to open doors
Disguised as another man that's out of reach
I'm out of time to read the stars
My sister
I don't ask for understanding
Only this
That you would hear my song
I'm digging up fossils that time forgot
Like the leader of a band of rogues
Searching for answers buried in the past
And should be left alone
Picking at a wound so it can never heal
My sister
There are spirits on my side
That only want
That you would hear my song
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 12:01 AM UTC
Hello old friend
I've come to see
How time has fared
For you and me
From distant days
In white trilby
With metal cased
Laboratory
You've kept well I note
New cobbles, posts and signs
Adorn your ancient routes
Some familiar names I see
Comfortable but cool to me
Some names hollow or tired
Some refreshed and bright
French antiques have shut their door
And Kwiksave now a factory store
Butcher, baker ghostly corpses
Faced yes, but blank and still
Emma’s cookware welcome calm
A mess of pots bright and warm
Some old rogues still lurk
Catching breath ‘til evening
And time for more
half hearted cooking
There's money spent
It's the rural modern
I like and loath it all at once
Which isn't fair because
It is me that grew old
Uttoxeter changed
For better for worse
I mourn my youth
But glad still more
For remembrance sake
Jan 24, 2010
Jan 24, 2010 at 9:46 PM UTC
He wandered along old Codshill Street,
Quite late on that Christmas Eve,
And scanned the used haberdashery
Society ladies would leave,
The hats they’d worn, but only the once,
The boots with barely a scuff,
The poplin prints they hadn’t worn since,
A single dance was enough.
He stood outside in his working boots
The ones he wore at the mill,
He hadn’t had time to change himself
He should have been working still.
But in his pocket he clutched the pound
He’d saved for many a day,
He’d squirrelled each shilling away for months
Out of his meagre pay.
And all he could see was Mirabelle,
Who lodged at his heart and eye,
She worked upstairs in the counting room
Above where the shuttles fly,
And he would glimpse her once in a while
Pottering to and fro,
Dressed in a worn and paltry frock
Where the stitching was letting go.
He’d wait outside, and follow her home
To see she was safe and sound,
The rogues that he’d meet in Codshill Street
Would keep their eyes on the ground.
While she was aware of his loving gaze
And sometimes gave him a smile,
Others were bold in their loving ways
And pressed their court for a while.
And so it was on this Christmas Eve
That a Squire had stood at her door,
With a string of pearls you wouldn’t believe
He’d bought in a jeweller’s store,
And she was flushed as she let him in,
So pleased to have such a gift,
For she was only a working girl
And his interest gave her a lift.
But there in the haberdashery
In a window, stood at the side,
Was standing a model, dressed entire
In a gown so fine, he’d cried.
He thought he could see his Mirabelle
In place of the mannequin,
In the gown of grey crushed velvet, so
In a moment then, went in.
‘You know that the gown is second-hand,’
The girl explained to his stare,
‘Here are a couple of tiny stains,
And there is a little tear.
But this, that once cost a hundred pounds
Is a bargain now for a cause,
If you can give me a single pound
This lovely gown can be yours.’
She placed the gown in a long flat box,
And tied a ribbon around,
Then he flew out to his Mirabelle
In hopes she still could be found.
He saw the pearls were around her neck
When she had opened the door,
But once she pulled out the gown, she checked,
And dropped the pearls on the floor.
Her kiss was sweet on that Christmas Eve,
Though he had showed her the stains,
The tears she shed on that gorgeous thread
He said, were like summer rains,
She had no time for the wealthy Squire,
She’d waited for him all along,
Her greatest gift was a second-hand gown
With the love that the gown came from.
David Lewis Paget
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 4:19 AM UTC
Let my past be published now,
I care for it no longer;
Look between my righteous things
To see I was the wronger.
Gather all the worries
I'd fret about in winter;
Shove them off the highest cliff,
Make them crack and splinter.
Traipsing in the gardenside,
Dancing in the hollow;
Feeling for a mason's nook,
Sweet Amontillado.
Down within the castle walls,
Down among the relics;
Bearded faces line the halls,
Lilting in Goidelic.
Slowing pace to stop and smell
Of a strange antiquity;
Thinking on a silver day
That happened once in Brittany.
Countrymen with muskets bared,
Bent on fiery shot,
Pounced upon the zealous rogues
Of Napoleonic lot.
Wand'ring mind, drop your guard,
Stop your nagging ways;
Hark! the drap'ry's bold aura
Welcomes warmer days.
Happiness is fleeting,
Sadness is extinct,
So let my every passing thought
Be mindful and succinct.
Feb 22, 2018
Feb 22, 2018 at 1:06 PM UTC
Worthless, hopeless. All alone.
A rogue wished to get gone.
He made it out of house at night.
Then one saw a raven in moonlight.
It spoke "One should come with me.
I know the place you'll call home, you see.
There is a village hidden in the northern ice.
Rogue live there in secret, and the place is nice."
So rogue followed the raven through the city.
And a forest they reached, covered in winter's beauty.
A woman waited for them out there in the snow.
And seven more teens came here. Also rogues, you know.
The woman began to dance. Wind have taken'em far away.
And they found themselves on an iceberg."This is Eupho. This way."
And woman guided them to a small house. And inside they found stairs.
Down they came. So they entered the city of Albino, and it's got many layers.
And so, there they live, hidden from world, with people weird just as are.
So many rogues found home here, as it's tunnels are big, ending to far.
And every single one of the rogues artist in this or another way.
And they live in balance, having their fun and sharing their art each day.
Dec 11, 2016
Dec 11, 2016 at 9:53 AM UTC