"scarborough" poems
~~~^♡^
black light posters
lava lamps
purple haze
and mega amps
bright **** rugs
in pink and green
long straight hair
or Afro-Sheen
go ask Alice
how time flies
starships blast off
In her eyes
yellow ribbons
in her hair
Vietnam
Scarborough Fair
beaded curtain
leather n lace
brains are gone
without a trace
Mother Mary
let it be
flower power
love for free
you can find
a cause to bend
but it's hard
to find a friend
psychedelic
music blasts
what was "groovy"
now the past
soulsurvivor
5/10/2015
~~~^♡^
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 7:51 PM UTC
Scarborough circa 1989
Jacqui in the night of the instant sunrise
Raises the morning on her shoulders
Swelling between tears and laughter
She melts words into meaning
and gambles on intuition and power
Jacqui in the night of the instant sunrise
looking back and looking forward
finds the dawn most appealing
and issues commands and warnings
to all those with the inner strength to heed them
Jacqui in the night of the instant sunrise
smiles, and the strength of metal
and the purest of beauty
are forged anew
Into the eyes of this miraculous woman
I enter a new beginning
where wisdom lives, and moves, behind her horizons
Jacqui in the night of the instant sunrise
becomes the centre
where all truths are issued passage
and all lies are refused
Jacqui in the night of the instant sunrise
blends courage and compassion
into hues of fine precision
and automatic weapons
Jacqui in the night of the instant sunrise
spreads warmth like a familiar blanket
and moves the day by her power
just as it moves her.
James H. Webb
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 12:02 AM UTC
Drapes for windows anew, imitating neighbourhood too,
Furniture rearranged, pictures too; all in blue,
Watchin’, dreamin’ lucid at the porch, of you;
Lay hanging on by the leash, I wait to let go,
Like magic birthday candles reignite, reignite,
Thoughts raced of rats and Tremor Christ,
Dried tears shed tumbling down as I cried;
With every moment I lay, I lay inspired;
I’ll make my yellow bucket list,
This’ll also include in it some of Budapest,
I’ll head off maybe from Scarborough,
Go all the way to Bali with packs of Marlboro,
And maybe then, I’d have answered;
All those questions that have lingered,
And maybe then, I’d have lived,
All those rights and wrongs, greeted and treated,
I’ll travel alone but not lonely,
My feet, my only carriage, I’ll carry;
I’ll carry me home one night!!
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 10:01 PM UTC
You felt a Monster
when your Hamster Wolverine died
Did that almost turn your head to Sylvia Plath
Yet you are decidedly amongst the living
and should never pilgrim with Mannequins
When Life's bedevilled by doubt
can your wise friend find rhyme with you
perhaps to Scarborough and back again
on some weekend decider.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 10:39 AM UTC
Don't cry in the whisky baby
I am an alcoholic highlight reel
mostly made from concentrated
words--
I'll quit when I'm ready
for all kinds of art
vibrating love venom,
and words like love--
I can't seem to agree with authority.
My ankle indicates some sprain or tweak.
There's plenty of beer in the fridge,
I am not going to *** my pants ever again
like a **** and bottle of bourbon.
Thanks, I'm full
but parents never cared.
The road is litered--
the marrow ****** from their veins everyday
and the gypsy whisper of "why are we?"
is in my heartbeat.
There it went, frolicking through the midnight sky
like a car wreck,
haunting, like the song "Scarborough Fair."
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 12:09 PM UTC
Resting redly in an ocean of shadows
is Scarborough Fair.
With sweet and cardinal scent of the roses clinging to the air.
A woman of cherries, potential untapped.
With a harsh fate upon her as well as a pact.
A child born to parents star-crossed.
A love that was denied and a high cost.
I see her there
Fair-skinned, dark-haired.
Lips of rosed sin
And slinks the world prepared.
And with this woman walks the four,
Weapons of mass destruction that
the Devil would **** for.
The sass of Parsley
The wisdom of Sage
The touch of Rosemary
The passage of Thyme
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 11:34 AM UTC
Your name tastes like cotton candy
The way it melts on my tongue
Sweet. Light.
Your eyes feel like the farris wheel
When you get to the very top
Hypnotic. Captivating
Your kiss sounds like a roller coaster
Sitting at the very front
Active. Alive.
And everything looks like a first date.
Vivid. Relevant.
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 1:10 PM UTC
Off to buy a discounted Pentax Spotmatic 2
down Purley Radios.
I want to book a holiday in Scarborough too.
Dracula's brood back in Shirley
deserve a wait long for that postcard.
Later I plan to take Rachel to see
"The Phantom of the Paradise"
and together buy some vinyl down HR Cloakes.
"Calamity Jane", by Stray Dog I suggest
Parfait is the world for us bedsitters in Waddon.
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 3:47 PM UTC
I remember the times we had
the love between us
a dad and his son
fooling around and having fun
the football games in the hall
the family holidays
the time we got stuck in the snow
family holidays in Scarborough
playing football with the club
playing football in the hall
with a spongy ball
a bust old door for a goal
Christmas’s at my aunties
playing Pictionary
the parents were really competitive
them times have passed now
and I know it will never be the same
dads died and I can’t change that
but every hour of everyday adds a
memory to the times we had.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 8:48 PM UTC
the day near finished and
the night aglet as if day;
what came first -
cliff richard's devil woman
(chicken) or the eagles'
witchy woman (egg)?
cockerel via ****** already took
the opera seat, and the soprano
slit open the larynx of the castrato...
just so the chandelier and windows
shattered in practice...
if your poetry isn't musical, not rhyming,
just write about music,
that's what bukowski conveyed...
make poetry an interest in music,
don't make it this trollop-cod-whipped-turd
self-interest... if you can't sing because
an elephant stomped on your ear
or you never had enough money to buy a saxophone,
don't make complex musicology of symphonies
cute with "adoration" using the rhyming technique,
forget it, it's not cute, it's damnable...
true virtue isn't afraid of critique...
write about what you love so i can look it up
and share it, don't write self-love walking sticks
of decrepit fidelity of marathon runners
that wheeze out after the 100th meter in
goldfish dollops of addictive lungs gulping for
breath... no technique in poetry will ever be music
in terms of actual music...
ever heard tenacious d's one note song?
most poetry sounds like that:
sound
around
orange peel
foot massage that turned into zest of extra
sound
around
a tambourine tabernacle
with st. thomas ********* a rib cage
kangaroo pouch
cunt's ouch
five multipliers mono
********
softy
doughnut
peach;
'bitch where's the cream?!'
'oh boy it's coming, coming with the flying scotsman's
steam;
choo choo!'
puff up you puffing puffin ************
well, i was always going to be an extension of her
doing the triceps choo choo dangle motion;
morph into a church bell uvula
morph into a church bell uvula...
of a-ding-along-for-a-ding-dong of st. ursula's
interpretation of english police officers
deviation from the standard:
'allo 'allo 'allo.... n'est-ce pas pas ce comme ce?
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 11:28 PM UTC
Tis near the day that you was lost away
departed from this earth yet met with love
into another place
such peace within yet a knowing time was thin
Im happy thats your there with gramma,grandad
love and care
seem strange so long ago we had your madness
love and woes
but now I am at ease that freedom found you and found me
mum i still do see the love you had and gave me
i share it with my son yet hide the troubles that were done
your kindness and your smile
a love of scarborough ..Christmas syle
so another year flies by and yes i'm saddened
oh i bless
take care mothers child see you up there
mum of mine
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 2:47 AM UTC
Are you going to the Scarborough Fair?
Drowning in mists of gardens unfair,
No I'm not going to Scarborough Fair.
You may ne'er return from there,
So cross the hatch on Scarborough Fair.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 12:51 AM UTC
A woman stands strong and sensuous and proud
Her mind a fractured mirror cloaked in fog
Shard by shard
The bayonet finds her way, following the sweet scent of the ****** rose
Wielding her Scarborough Fair
The sass of Parsley
The wisdoms of Sage
The touch of Rosemary
The passage of Thyme
The woman
Born of the dark side of the moon
With powers untold
Able to twist and bend the spindles of shadows and time
Fair-skinned
Lips full and glazed with cardinal sin
Slick locks of ebony
A perfumed 500 year blur
With the night's lunar charm that twinkles in her eye
And butterflies that swoon for their Madama
She
The blood child born of the union of the sun and moon
The black sheep of the dark arts
Is one with the most beloved of Umbran treasures
Is the sweetest cherry with a long-forgotten radiant smile,
A harsh destiny
Who looks to the left side of the moon for the upcoming chaos.
Jul 22, 2017
Jul 22, 2017 at 11:06 AM UTC
I saw his shadow and warmed at his smile
my dad my mate my soul plus one
he never ever saw me other than his son
faultless little bundle from heaven maybe hell
saw him sat beside me wanted
wishing me was here wanting so to call him brought me to a tear
Can hear his voice so sweetly ...laughing so out loud
remembering all those good times
scarborough sounds about
yet there I was this daytime looking over there
seeing daddys shadow sitting the chair ..made me sad and happy
that thoughts I knew he had
son just be ones happy ...
dont worry im alright
Mar 3, 2011
Mar 3, 2011 at 12:00 PM UTC
Laxius log: 1215889----
This will be year 23 that i have been long adrift from an attack by an unknown enemy: I still have plenty of food and water to last another 23 years.. seems so very long ago that the attack took place: I have tried to repair my engines but to no avail: On this morning however i captured a transmission on my com-staion: the signal seem mixed at first but i was able to clear it: I then heard tones and strange voices: It was very beautiful: The tones created a sort of pattern while the voice would join in from time to time also trying to create a pattern in sync with the tones: From where ever this beautiful signal came from, I am showing that i am but 20 years away from its original orgin: Although adrift, I am still in route toward this signal: I can only wonder what sort of life could make such a beautiful beautiful signal: I do not know what to call it otherwise: But for its beauty in tones i will call it wish-dream..
Oct 7th 1969: Today I brought my son to work. I have worked for NASA for the last 10 years.. It was sort of a boring day until I took him into the research center.. I took him to one of our most powerful telescopes.. He wanted to stay there for hours just looking at the moon and stars.. He asked " Dad do you think there is life out there.?" I then took him to our transmissions building.. And I told him that we could send a signal out to space in hopes someone will hear it.. I told him we could send anything we want.. He decided to send "scarborough fair canticle" He decided on that song because that was his mom's favorite song.. I wish she was still here with us.. He then told me something very beautiful. " Dad maybe mom will hear this in heaven."
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 10:18 AM UTC
Ladies and gentlemen, stop and behold
Bid farewell to shingles, to gout and the cold
And a mighty assortment of general malaises
From cranial trauma to scratches and grazes
Your bones will be mended, no need for a cast
With acute tonsillitis consigned to the past
For I bring you a medical miracle cure
And the name of this potion you’re sure to procure?
Doctor Morcomb’s Tincture
From the institute of Scarborough
With a measured twist of alchemy
And three lumps of macabre
A drop or two will beat the flu
Retracting recent sneezes
Buy Doctor Morcomb’s Tincture
For all manner of diseases
Pungent red syrup can clearly be spied
Past the decorative label adorned on the side
A drop eases aching, a second for pains
A capful should rapidly unblock your drains
With daily consumption, whilst not recommended
The length of your tongue will be vastly extended
Avoid naked flames, never jiggle or jolt
Keep it cool, in the dark, in a circle of salt
Doctor Morcomb’s Tincture!
Most marvellous of potions
Farewell to bitter tasting pills
To liniments and lotions
Take only by the moonlight
And in arms reach of a swan
Now buy as much as time affords
By sundown, I’ll be gone
Nov 16, 2016
Nov 16, 2016 at 7:18 PM UTC
ash white
sycamore tree
we meet again
at
the
scarborough fair
your
autumn leave
hang
pumpkin orange
and
maple brown
your
face
so round
and
fair
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 2:34 PM UTC
The title comes from the song SCARBOROUGH FAIR by Simon and Garfunkel. This one line has inspired me to write this poem. Isn't that what Generals do, "order their soldiers to **** And that's what soldiers do, as well as being killed, as happens to too many of them. Why don't Generals (who are themselves rarely killed) order their soldiers to love, to put down their weapons and find another human being and give that human being a hug. Maybe even break bread with their fellow member of the human race. Killing each other is insane. We no longer have to use high-powered military weapons to **** our distant relatives. Some crazy son-of-a-bitch (e.g. **** Trump) may accidentally, or on purpose, drop a hydrogen bomb on a city, let's say, and in so doing, **** all of humanity in short order. Nations are anachronistic anyway; catastrophic climate change, which threatens to **** all living creations on Earth, tells us we are all in this together. There are no national, political boundaries to keep us from possibly dying of the coronavirus pandemic. The Arctic and Anarctic glaciers that are melting as I compose this poem are oblivious to national, political boundaries. So are the toxic fumes that oil-using nations spew into the air that all living creatures eventually breathe and, in time, die from doing so. Why do we need Generals ordering their soldiers to **** when presidents and dictators are doing a far better job of killing than Generals ever could? I myself prefer a hug to a hydrogen bomb.
Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks
Mar 25, 2020
Mar 25, 2020 at 4:11 PM UTC
My Demons are trying to taunt me mum, I constantly feel them pushing through. Maybe it's caused by the way I feel, maybe it's because I miss you.
I miss you every day mum, with every beat of my heart. Although I always knew the day would come, the day we had to part.
I never thought you would leave so soon, I wasn't even 30 and you were gone. You never should of left mum, it's here where you belong.
You will always hold a place in my heart, please believe that this is true. Ill always hold a happy place, I can go to think of you.
I cannot seem to grieve mum, nearly two years I have tried. My pain won't seem to get easier mum, it's still as sore as the day you died.
I wish I could stop the pain mum, and just remember the great memories so true. Of love and laughter and dancing round the house, the crazy times just me and you.
I'd love someone to help me, make the bad thoughts and Demons go away, and help me focus on the good memories forever every day.
There are days I have good thoughts, from memories over the years. The ones that make me laugh and smile, yet still bring me to tears.
Before I go on I have to share, a few memories that make me smile. One's that help me through a bad day, even just for a little while.
I remember snowball fights in winter, back walking in the summer. Coming home soaked and covered in mum, then going back and doing it over.
I remember you shouting and laughing at me, soaked and covered in mud those days when I came home. Making me sit outside til I dried off, looking like a little garden gnome.
I remember being in Scarborough and walking with you and dad, making sylvester speech sounds making you laugh so bad.
I remember you lent over, laughing so hard out loud, those days we had were magical, u always looked at me so proud.
You're other little girl is getting married mum, I can't believe it's true, she knows you will be there with her mum, she really misses you.
She knows you will be with her, when she walks down the Isle, she knows you're there in spirit mum, watching with pride and a smile.
I'm trying to push my life forward mum, I hope that you can see, and when the day comes that I get married mum, I hope you are there with me.
I'm going to write off now mum, i really need to sleep, ill see you in my dreams mum, with the memories I keep.
Goodnight, godbless, sleep well mum.
I love you oh so true,
Sending love and kisses to the stars,
Sent from me to you.
I love you mum xxxx
Apr 29, 2019
Apr 29, 2019 at 11:24 PM UTC
He recalls the details of the grand fair-
Dark Amontillado seeps in a bit.
Sure of his love’s bright light that’s waiting there.
He offers up to God a silent prayer-
If it is heard he will have to admit
he makes his way to his first ever fair.
He steps into a swell of steamy air
where half-truths and quick looks pull him to it.
Sure of his love’s bright light that’s waiting there.
The signs all point, but his mind is elsewhere.
What kind of ode praises the opposite?
He arrives at the ever-popular fair.
The whole town knows but he decides not to care.
He trusts the Snakes had nothing to omit.
Sure of his love’s bright light that’s waiting there.
She always hid but now wants to care.
Adieu chérie scrawled on the eyes; unfit
he waits at the gate of her past love’s affair.
He never truly looked for her there.
Dec 17, 2018
Dec 17, 2018 at 8:13 PM UTC
in scarborough
we saw richard wilson
but no one believed us
we looked for god in york
amongst the money changers
he had gone outside
with the music
in whitby we played boats
pirates the next day
and all the while we were changing
thinking of herrings and eating nuts
she caught a small thing
tiny tiny mouse
ate it
but the bitter entrails remain.
nasty
she could have let it go
Mar 10, 2019
Mar 10, 2019 at 4:48 AM UTC