"sheila" poems
from an idea by Sheila Sharpe
In the foul heat and damp and rot and stench
After dusting off 1 the bodies of dead pals
The living and the dead, the living dead
Old Boats 2 lit off a cigarette and growled
“They say this stuff’ll **** ya.”
1 Dustoff – noun. Dust off – verb with an adverb. A dustoff is a medical evacuation via helicopter, as in “Doc, your dustoff will be here in three.” To dust off a patient, then, is to transport a patient, not to tidy him. I have recently read detailed arguments about the terms dustoff, dust off, and medevac, but no one quibbled about such minutiae along the Cambodian border.
2 Boats – a boatswain’s mate, the brains and muscle of the Navy. Boatswain’s mates do it all and are seldom acknowledged in history or art, not even in the recent film about Dunkirk. A boatswain’s mate is often addressed as Boats, and always with deference, even by the C.O.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 3:49 PM UTC
✿⊰✲⊱✿
At the sound of my name, I see the faces
turn and smiles of many friends;
Queen Sue of Ruikruya in her lilac silks,
Queen Sarita of Khaikar in orange silks,
Queen Deb of Daegeral in magenta,
Queen Kim of Geniael in creams,
Queen Robin of Naeneiana in periwinkles,
Queen Fawn of Yuamor in red-violets,
Queen Dawn of Khesian in dandelion-orange,
Queen Jugnu of Enuryn in jade-greens,
Queen Yidna of Puhan in indigos,
Queen Cne of Phelyra in turquoise,
Queen Xaela of Lonusea in peach,
Queen Ayumi of Wadia in tan-gold,
Queen Sheila of Naizzuzia in cornflower-blue,
Queen Stars of Yurithireatha in green-yellow
✿⊰✲⊱✿
King Edmund and his wife in matching
forest-greens attires,
King Omni of Khaniel in silvers,
King Emeka of Ghalali in white,
King Devon of Monait in blue-violets,
King Fugue of Thavia in blacks,
King Yacov of Igrador in olive-green,
King Joseph of Eaqellurene in bronze,
King Fredrick of Emirinait in mauve,
King Rob of Balan in sea-green,
King John of Khesian in melon-red,
King Aslam of Ikaesa in deep plum,
King Brandon of Huarean in ocher,
King Kikodinho of Izugalla in taupe,
King Jobira of Zavalon in orange-red
and many many more.
✿⊰✲⊱✿
And last but not least, King Paul of
Luciuscemi himself in emerald-and-gold.
He wears his favourite emerald green
jacket with ruby buttons, bright gold
embroidery of suns and lions; his sleeves
stitched with pearls and rubies to match
the red sash across his chest; his trousers
black as are his boots, but even they have
gold laces.
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 6:17 AM UTC
Brigid was born on a flax mill farm,
Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan,
At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road,
The last child of the Sheridans.
The sluice still runs near the water wheel,
With thistles thriving on rusted steel.
Little's known of Nellie's early years;
Da died before she knew grieving tears,
They'd turn her eyes in later years.
She's eleven posing with her class,
This photo shows an Irish lass.
Her look is distant,
Her face is blurred,
But recognizable
In an instant.
She was schooled six years
To last a life,
Some math, the Irish,
To read and write.
Her Mammy grew ill,
She lost a leg,
And bit by bit,
By age sixteen,
Nellie buried her first dead.
Too young to be alone,
Sisters and brother had left the home.
The cloistered convent took her in,
She taught urchins and orphans
About God and Grace and sin.
There were no vows for Nellie then.
At nineteen she met a Creamery man,
Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan;
He delivered dairy from his lorry,
Married Nellie,
Relieved their worry.
War flared, men were few,
There was work in Coventry.
Ireland's thistles were left to bloom.
Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy,
Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin followed,
When war floundered to its end,
They shipped back to Monaghan,
And brought the mill to life again.
The thistles and weeds
That surrounded the mill,
Were scythed and scattered
By Daddy's zeal.
He built himself
A generator,
Providing power
To lights and wheel.
Sean was born,
Gerald soon followed;
Then Michael died.
A nine year old,
His Daddy's angel.
Is this what turns
A father strange?
Francie arrived,
Then Eucheria,
But ten months later
Bold death took her.
Grief knows no borders
For brothers and sisters.
We left for Canada.
Mammy brought six kids along,
Leaving her dead behind,
Buried with Ireland.
Daddy was waiting for family,
Six months before Mammy got free
From death's inhumanity.
Her tears and griefs weren't yet over,
She birthed another son and daughter;
Jimmy and Marlene left us too,
Death is sure,
Death is cruel.
Grandchildren came, she was Granny,
Bridget, Nellie, but still our Mammy.
She lived this life eduring pain
That mothers bear,
Mothers sustain.
And yet, in times of personal strain,
I'll sometimes whisper her one name,
Mammy.
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 5:09 PM UTC
Crystal clear waters,
A cool gentle breeze.
The quiet of the ocean,
Where life lives and breathes.
The rain starts to fall,
One drop at a time.
Then more and more,
To create a tide.
The white water falls,
And kisses the sand.
Like the soft touch,
Of god's gentle hand.
The beauty of the sea,
It is willing to share.
And gives of its life,
With love and tender care.
We sit in wonder,
Of the mysteries of the deep.
Then leave it to grow,
With restful sleep.
Sheila..
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 4:41 AM UTC
Ladies of the Net… A warning to male adolescents everywhere…
“Hi Honey….I just got matched with your profile”… At least that’s what I think it said.
Brilliant I thought because I’m available and life round here is, well…it’s dead
“I’m looking for an experienced guy who’s good in bed… been round the block, but not the clock…
One with plenty of experience and a huge…err…appetite…
for hooking up instead of these inexperienced boys…
They’re all excitable, probably all over too quick…
need someone with poise reserve and a twelve inch errr… Libido?… ego?
Click my pics kiddo and let’s get it on… you Stud!… Well I would!
****** hell! I’m overwhelmed but let’s not peak too soon…
There’s loads of stuff coming in as Spam that would probably make us all swoon.
So check it out…without fail, “eeeh!” They’re all there - these ladies of the net - they crop up daily -
Sheila Blige… Tanya Hide… Mandy May, Bette Sheedus, Lovinia ****
I’m not sure if these are their real names... But - Phew -
with things like this going on round here we could all get *******
She says she’s just round the corner, you know like Sompting, Steyning, LA (that must be Littlehampton)… Southwick…Little Haven Halt, Portslade.
We could meet in a lay-by and we’ll get laid… just an innocent little escapade.
It won’t be my fault if you miss this chance…
Just try it - I’ll handcuff you to the bed and lap dance.
Click on my pix, big boy, they all beckon.
Take a closer look at these sonny boy - now what do you reckon?
Well, you’d have to say they do look very alluring in the taster…
so why not just click...
to the next page… see the site… don’t waste-ya time…CLICK!
****** hell! The screen’s gone blank…
now I won’t even be able to have a ____
Knock, Knock, Knock!
"Kevin!!!?"..."Mum?" "Is that you?" "Yes Mum!… Everything’s OK!… I’m just turning out the light… G’night!"
Apr 1, 2019
Apr 1, 2019 at 5:45 AM UTC
Bridget was born on a flax mill farm,
Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan,
At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road,
The last child of the Sheridans.
The sluice still runs near the water wheel,
With thistles thriving on rusted steel.
What's known of Nellie's early years?
Da died before her grieving tears,
But burn her eyes in later years.
She's eleven posing with her class,
This photo shows an Irish lass.
Her visage blurred,
Her eyes look distant,
Yet recognizable
In an instant.
She attended school for six short years,
The three R's, some Irish,
And a Doctorate in tears.
Her Mammy grew ill,
She lost a leg,
And bit by bit,
By age sixteen,
Nellie buried her first dead.
Too young to be alone,
Sisters and brother had left the home.
The cloistered convent took her in,
She taught urchins and orphans
About God, Grace and sin.
There were no vows for Nellie then.
At nineteen she met a Creamery man,
Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan;
He delivered dairy from his lorry,
Married Nellie
To relieve their worry.
War flared up, and men were few,
So the work in Coventry
Left Ireland's thistles to bloom.
Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy,
Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin were carried.
When war floundered to its end,
They shipped back to Monaghan,
To work the flax mill again.
The thistles and weeds
That surrounded the mill,
Were scythed and scattered
By Daddy's zeal.
He built himself a generator.
And powered the lights and the wheel.
Sean was born,
Gerald soon followed;
Then Michael died.
A nine year old,
His Father's angel.
(Is this what turns
A father strange?)
Francie arrived,
Then Eucheria,
But ten months later
Bold death took her.
Grief knows no family borders
For brothers and sisters, sons and daughters.
We left for Canada.
Mammy brought six kids along,
Leaving her dead behind,
Buried with Ireland in familiar songs.
Daddy was waiting for family,
Six months before Mammy got free
From death's inhumanity.
Her tears and griefs weren't yet over,
She birthed another son and daughter;
Jimmy and Marlene left us too,
Death is sure,
Death is cruel.
Grandchildren came, she was Granny,
Bridget, Nellie, but still our Mammy.
She lived this life eduring pain
That mothers bear,
Mothers sustain.
And yet, in times of personal strain,
I'll sometimes whisper her one name,
Mammy.
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 2:49 PM UTC
I was an idiot back then,
those trips to Rebekah's hovel.
though they did make me sentimental,
for the days when her dad had taught me guitar
for eight weeks when I was thirteen.
she told me of a suicide dream
that utilized her iron deficiency.
I told her I would tell her parents
if she started pushing it in motion,
that made her cry,
though in retrospect, I wanted her to die.
I was at that misery factory age
when your heart pumps nothing
but razorblades and jealousy,
and the death of some overly-depressed
girl would at least give me a story to
tell.
I was a pseudo-lover,
writing page upon page
of poetry for Sheila,
I used an alias for her:
"Nature's Criminal".
It felt appropriate.
what she did to my
emotions seemed rather
unnatural.
we would kiss on dark, dirt roads,
and duck when cars would passby.
she would always preface
our encounters with,
"remember this doesn't mean anything."
now, Rebekah only writes to tell
of artists signed to Saddle Creek.
she got married to some diabetic,
acne-marred, sex-fiend that
bares the burden of a pet peeve
that revolves around bananas.
now, I only see Sheila,
when some boy is ********** her,
when she feels beyond used.
in her parasitic apartment,
I always remind her
they don't mean anything.
Dec 22, 2010
Dec 22, 2010 at 8:35 AM UTC
At preschool last morning, when first class began
Our teacher Miss Fortune, has entered the den
And promptly asked us, the pure younglings
To write on the devil that make us do things
So teacher sat down, and we tykes got engaged
And committedly filled page after page
As we took up an oath, us the urchin, the youth
To speak the whole truth, and nothing but truth
So first rose the young boy Timothy Veet
And confessed all the text that he etched on the sheet
How last week he attended the birthday of Sheila
And got high on some hemp, and two shots of tequila
As he sat, quickly stood his companion wee Tom
And he told how he broke to the principal’s home
Where he gingerly snatched, like a cat burglar
A computer, some cash, and antique silverware
But who took the whole cake, was shy Rosaline
As she stood up and gestured to Billy, her kin
And with timid resolve, and an ear-to-ear grin
Said: “He is the devil that makes me do things…”
Miss Fortune, chalk white, and clearly distressed
Was rushed on a gurney, to the ER no less
Our innocence wither, like a flower well hidden
So why keep insisting on calling us children
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 4:36 PM UTC
You wouldn't welsh on a bet with your ******
And you wouldn't go to bed with the mob.
You wouldn't mess with a street gang ****
No matter if he's crab, or slob.
You wouldn't backstab a man on death row,
Cause you know he just might **** ya.
If you've got the gumption.
You wouldn't have it long,
If you cross Evil Nurse Sheila.
You shouldn't be like the fool who tried
To play games with her heart.
She left him a crushed, empty man.
Well, he was doomed from the start.
Sheila isn't a ******
And you'd better not let her hear
You snickering about her at the social club.
You might not have time to fear.
Sheila's makes the headlines
Each time she tries to settle down.
She plans to live a carefree life,
But soon she has to leave town.
Everything she does
Is warped, but in the name of love.
Except when she hates your guts,
When it's Sheila you've run afoul of.
If you've never heard her story.
You'd best take this advise.
If you cross her path just keep walking,
You best not look back twice.
Evil Nurse Sheila's got a heart of stone
That looks like a heart of gold.
If you are responsible for it's tarnish,
There's no hope to which you can hold.
Sheila takes no prisoners.
She don't take any guff.
If she thinks to give you a warning,
You'd better not call her bluff.
You wouldn't want to rouse her wrath,
Because her fury won't be tamed.
She's restless, bold and beautiful.
She cannot be contained.
It seems things have been quiet.
She's been off the grid some time.
If she thinks that you might suspect her,
You may be her next crime.
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 4:01 PM UTC
Let’s stand up to those bullies who think
Gay bashing is fun.
If it happened to one of your family members
Would you stand up and fight? Or would you run?
If you found out it was your mother
Who liked the same gender.
Would you say something to offend her.
A 13 year old in Texas shot himself for being gay
Another 13 years old also hung himself.
And now a freshman from
Rutgers college jumped off the George Washington bridge
Because two people thought it was funny, so they
Taped him that day.
Gays have been around since the beginning of time
Open your eyes, you’re not blind.
They live, they work, they play, the same as you
And their lives they’ll give for their country too.
They don’t tell you who you can and can not love
These all come from up above.
If GOD had made us exactly alike
Then we would really argue and fight.
You would be making love to yourself
Because there would not be anything else.
How many more lives must be taken
Before you are really awakened.
Bullying doesn’t only apply to gay bashing.
People who talk down to you because
You may not be as smart, or as good looking
Or as slim as them.
Don’t you feel like they offend?
We are all at the bottom of that totem pole
Even the ones who think they’re in control.
Is Roy smarter than me? does Sheila
Have a better body than me?
Everyone has their doubts, but that’s
What life is all about.
So before you start to put anyone else down
Turn and look around
They may be talking about you
The same way that you want to do.
(c) LOUIS RAMS
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 12:29 PM UTC
Love the name.
Got upset
When the man called out, Seen.
Stupid man.
It's Sean, and not Shawn.
A year older than Gerald.
Two younger than Kevin.
Two older than me.
That's Sean.
Daddy wrote home about us.
Maura was working at the hospital.
Sheila was finishing highschool.
Kevin won the Science Fair.
Sean plays ice hockey with the All Stars,
All over Canada and the U.S.
I found the letter, penned in '62,
A jagged European cursive. They tend to write the same.
I've seen the words, run together to hide the spelling;
With JMJ's and TG's sprinkled like manna throughout.
The last page was missing,
Just when Daddy'd write about Gerald, me, and Marlene.
Gerald with his Beetles haircut.
Me, mimicking ( probably mocking),
Some unknown priest, to my father's delight;
Marlene, the wee pigeon, he missed most when he worked
Away from home.
Jimmy, The Bruiser, wasn't here yet.
The last of an Irish brood settled in Canada.
I discovered it in the spare room at Granny's and Frank's.
There was no mention of Michael, Eucheria or Particia.
He exaggerated about the harsh, six-month winters here,
And our proximity to the North Pole.
Suggested Frank try putting copper wires around Granda's wrists;
The Egyptian mummies didn't exhibit signs of bone deterioration.
Daddy was hard-pressed to be proven wrong when he concocted.
Sean had a drawer full of ribbons, medals, trophies and plagues,
And a large S, his Senior Letter.
He also had sideburns, a much smaller nose, and, smelled
as good as he looked,
The Elvis dip-curl, the Connery swag, the Selleck stash to Clooney cool.
Sean kept a disposition of hidden pains secreted for others.
A heart of tears.
A spirit of adventure.
I love Sean, I recall.
He is always welcome here.
Drops by sometimes.
It's always a great surprise.
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 1:09 PM UTC
Sheila can't settle her mind
to lessons
she sees only
the boy John
in her mind's eye
his words repeat themselves
each time
the teacher speaks
maths
English
double P.E
had to be
got through
until at last
it's lunchtime recess
and she can hope
to find him
on the playing field
after a rushed meal
and she stands
on the edge
of the field looking
out to see if he's there
but she can't see him
and worries that recess
will go and she won't
have seen him
she walks onto the field
and there are kids
everywhere in groups
playing ball games
and sitting here and there
then as she turns
he's there
coming towards her
hands in his pockets
walking across the grass
looking for me?
he asks
she nods and searches
through her mind
for the right words to say
been looking for you
she says
trying to put on
a face of not being
put out
but isn't succeeding
he looks at her
taking in her glasses
and large eyes
and hair pinned back
at one side
with a metal clip
well I'm here now
he says
her name's gone again
he says
what is your name?
Sheila
she says
feeling unsettled
that's it
he says
he looks back at the field
behind him at boys
kicking a ball
Rennie asked me
about a game of football
but I said I was seeing you
John says
what did he say?
she asks
said I need to see a doctor
John says
o
she says
looking at the boy
and wondering if
he wants to be there
with her
do you want to play
ball with him?
she asks
no it can wait
he says
and walks on
and she walks beside him
why doe she say
you need to see a doctor?
she asks
as they walk on
he thinks girls
are a waste of time
beside football
I see
she says
don't worry about Rennie
I want to be here
with you
you do?
sure
I wouldn't be here
otherwise
o right
she says
let's go sit up
that end near the fence
away from the others
and we can talk
he says
she nods and smiles uneasily
he's is near to her
and his hand
is mere inches from hers
and as much as
she'd like him
to hold her hand
she's frightened
that he might
o what to do
she thinks as they walk
on towards the fence
and sit on the grass
and she feels undone
yet excited
to at last be there
with him
watching him
and taking in
his hazel eyes
and quiff of hair
and glad
she's sitting there.
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 1:58 AM UTC
Will an eligible bloke happier be if he
Marries a ranking *ele like Miss Universe
With all her glory and graces, and 'cause
Of marriage mirth? Will a sheila pretty
An unbroken regalement have for a dream
Prince Charming--the fairy man of her whim?
Will the soul be jolly for the sophomore
More than for the frosh rapture of success
Had in the Ivy League of cosmic business,
When the heart cut a caper and an encore
Of hilarity requests of narrowed life--
To have constant binge in lieu of strive?
What man is wholly from trouble free, whose
Being be to sadness inured? Within, the
Spokes do sometimes snap at the rotary
Wheels of serenity, and chaos is let loose.
What thus can stay the pillars of pleasure in
A plagued world is above this little noggin.
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 11:57 AM UTC
**Distant drumming of the thunder,
Calls my soul back to mother earth.
Tiredness overwhelms me,
I have lived my worth.
My old feathers are worn,
My war paint faded and cracked.
My mount, is old and beaten,
The old ways are not coming back.
The eagle flies in preparation,
For my flight to the land of shadows.
I see my path before me,
My life's journey only borrowed.
The rain cleanses mother earth,
Washing away the stain.
The years of damage man has done,
Has become a weight of pain.
Mother earth is now calling me home,
To join my soul with hers.
I will live no more forever,
And help replenish the earth.
Sheila.**
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 10:46 AM UTC
Margaret Murray, the one with the glasses.
The psychic, the mystic, her tarot card classes.
Told Sheila her mangoes were ready to eat.
Told Mary her cousin'd be back on his feet.
Beverley Spence was a sceptic, tough cookie.
In seeing her fortune snapped up by the ******
Decided to tell her her ulcer would heal.
It's better than sharing with friends what was real.
Patty was eager to hear from her mother.
Jessie bereft at the loss of her brother.
Beatrice needed the skills of a healer.
For Margaret saw death and she would not reveal her -
True destiny seen in the cards at the clubby.
Preventing a scene with her hard drinking hubby.
£20 fortunes, no refunds, no worries.
There's no better tarot than Margaret Murray's.
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 1:18 PM UTC
**I am a man locked in a cell,
Not a slave; not a free man.
I am trained to fight, trained to ****
A man trapped in hell.
My cloths are simple and *****
And the food is tasteless, bland.
A bowl of slop, is all I get,
That is all that is put in my hand.
I am trained to fight to stay alive,
From hour upon hour.
Until I can hardly move a muscle,
Or until I can hardly stand.
But I will be free one day,
To live the life I deserve.
To fight for freedom, and my right to live,
To put my family first.
I died to save the people from slavery,
And my bones were burned to dust.
But I live on in history,
My name is Spartacus!!
Sheila..**
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 11:00 AM UTC
John is on the playing field
with other boys,
says Sheila,
I am too shy
to talk to him now;
I watch him
from a distance
by the wire fence,
my nerves on edge
wanting him alone.
Other girls pass me by
on to the field;
they giggle and laugh
loudly on their way.
I watch him
as he sits and talks,
take in his gesturing
hands and laughter.
I saw him that time
in the playground
when it rained
and the sun shone
and he said about
a monkey's wedding.
I think of him often
in the day: from early dawn
until bed at night.
He is alone now,
the other boys
have gone,
I hesitate to walk
to where he sits;
my nerves are taut
and still I wait;
he rises
and walks away:
too late.
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 2:02 PM UTC
He bravely went and asked her to dance,
A blush lightened up her face.
He held out his hand to lead her out,
His heart quickened in pace.
The music played a slow waltz,
He kept to the rhythm in time.
His thoughts ran away with him,
If only she was really mine.
As the music slowly halted,
He showed her back to her seat.
The thought swam around her head,
Oh my god! how sweet.
His pace quickened as he walked away,
His stature now elevated and tall.
Asking the teacher to dance with him,
Is no bother at all.
His mates all started cheering,
His triumph is now complete.
He is so darned relieved,
He didn't have two left feet.
Sheila
19/11/14
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 2:15 PM UTC
It’s a gravy boat
Gravy is delicious
It’s a gravy boat
For your appetite
Spicy, nicey onions float
In the lovely gravy boat
If you should want to know
It’s not a train
Don’t buy a ticket
That’s not cricket
It’s a gravy boat
And it contains
Liquid velvet for the throat
Absurdly decadent and smooth
It’s a gravy boat, not a gravy train
I pour gravy on my food
It’s a gravy boat
It’s not a train
If it was then I’d complain
A train is always late
And I refuse to wait
Anyway, railway food’s appalling
Wait, I hear my dinner calling
It’s a s......... gravy boat
Now we’ve got that right
Bon, bon bon............
Bon appetite! (or appetit?)
Anyway if there ever was a gravy train, (and I’m not saying there was,) the last train has gone forever, utterly broken, irreparable, too many politicians scrabbling to climb aboard, (don’t you watch the news darling?)
Apr 22, 2021
Apr 22, 2021 at 3:35 PM UTC
The school bus stops
and kids get off
and Sheila waits anxiously
by the fence
watching the kids go by
looking at the windows
looking for John
one or two girls
she knows say hello
then move on
then John descends
the steps
and she says
can I hang
around with you?
he stops by the bus
o yes it's you
sorry can't remember
your name
he says
looking at her
Sheila
she says
he walks on
and she walks
beside him
what did you mean
hang around?
he asks
just be with you
when we can
you know
lunch times if we're
on the playing field
or maybe after school
do you live far away?
she asks
they pass by the fence
and entrance
to the girls' playground
he pauses
sure if you you like
I get a school bus
to West Village
where do you live?
he asks
taking in aspects
of the girl
I live in this town
but I can get a bus
to West most days
I think
she says
hoping she can
not sure
he takes in
her dark hair
her glasses
her school tie
untidy
look I'll see you around
at lunch recess
if we're on
the field ok?
she nods
unsure what else
to say
but then says
yes look forward to it
and hopes he is too
but he walks on
and away
and doesn't look back
and she goes
in the girls' playground
on edge
unsettled
watching him
disappear from view
undecided what else
to say or do.
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 2:57 AM UTC
Inspired by the movie 'The Songcatcher' and Sheila Kay Adams
A singer sings the ancient songs
and the kinfolk sing along...
and the kinfolk sing along.
They sing old harmonies
passed generations down
from mother to daughter;
their unique mountain sound.
They sing of dying, of love, of the dead,
of long lost loves, of breaking bread.
And these songs harken back
to the lands whence they came
with little more
than their backs and their name.
There are songs for working hard during the day
and songs for thanking, and making your way.
Together they play the ancient songs
and the kinfolk sing along...
and the kin folk sing along.
Stories are told
when their ballads are sung,
and banjos played;
strings plucked or strummed.
They sing of the simple joys of life,
of good times and sad times and endless strife.
Lessons learned and stories golden,
songs of killing, of blood, and pain,
Heard endless times in front porch warmth
Connections strengthened, kinship claimed.
People bred strong as the mountain's roots
Sing their songs, their simple truths.
And all the kinfolk sing along
when the mountain sings the ancient songs...
when the mountain sings the ancient songs.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 6:13 PM UTC
Peter taking Mark
behind the big rock in the park,
pushing his peter to the mark;
Mark screamed, "u're killing me,"
Peter said, "Be quiet, I'm almost done.
I'm done now." Standing,
"Now I'll do u," said Mark.
Shirley the Squirrel lived seven
blocks downtown up a cobblestone
alley; there were men gathered
in the alley every night Shirley
would be upstairs; no one ever
met Shirley b/c Sheila charged
a buck less & didn't mind the hard
cobblestone on her bruised backside
Sol came to Lot's backdoor & knocked;
what do u want, Sol said Lot
& Sol asked for a beer; go get ur own,
shouted Lot; ah, but if the Lord asked
u for a beer wouldst thou deny him?
Is the Lord at the bar right now, asked
Lot, if he is I'll buy a round for the house;
Sol went away thirsty never to know
whether the Lord was indeed at the bar
at that very moment;
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Apr 27, 2018
Apr 27, 2018 at 3:34 AM UTC
Goodbye Keith Wilson
We will miss you here
at Birthwaite Bards you brought us cheer
Always remembering the good old days
Lost loves
sometimes new
How many can you remember?
Twenty one or twenty two?
We had a laugh with stories you told
and poems so bold
Birthwaite Bards feel a loss
We'll remember you dearly
Happy days!
Nov 25, 2022
Nov 25, 2022 at 3:59 AM UTC
What's a cup of coffee?
'Nana' is it's name
They used to call me 'grandma'
but now it's not the same
Now I'm having a refill
I think it's coming now
So Sheila, take a bow
Mar 1, 2022
Mar 1, 2022 at 10:54 AM UTC
Sheila, this life's too long to leave behind
Sheila, your world's too small to get inside
It's a needle's eye I tried to squeeze through
I tried to get to you
Sheila, waiting for a place in time
Sheila, counting every tear she's cried
It's a coward's lie I needed to believe
To get to you
...and I almost threw it all away
Let the memory dim and fade
The only thing about you that I ever knew
Was your name
Apr 26, 2012
Apr 26, 2012 at 12:37 PM UTC