"sherwood" poems
like that pill bitter Sunday morning (after)
with a nauseating hack
the previously uneventful Tuesday
derailed
in surrealistic tale
with Auntie and Jack (and a quarter of fate)
in the 748
on a night flight
from Sherwood to Lore
reverberating waves
of imminent summer haze
river flats
and flower fields
fly weights
and silver bait
shredders and shysters
and open gates
(into those everlasting
and sweated journeys of hope)
bloods and strays
and florentine grays
(reminiscent of Rockwell fame)
running horses
and overgrown country lanes
morning grace
and gentle cheer
eyes clear
on the river pass
*blunted paddles for those ancient
and not so willing suckers!*
duke making his own way
(to the corner club)
Parsons and Poe
stream from the torn screen door
cricket cadence
and symphony of the Deere
calm and deliberate
in the soft
and silent fields
meadows open for grazing
(guineas scamper across the till)
pocket apples fill
the country ripe air
drunken bees
and chestnuts
and electric fingers
strike the surface pool
(a cedar strip wedged on the white wash dock)
baited bull heads set to cast
evenings with hearts
and Nolten Nash
may flowers bloom
across the grass
~ time unmatched ~
with blue jays
and river bends
and channel cats
...and that warm
and recurring
Coleman drift
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 11:36 PM UTC
you can hear the echo via Zizek the Slovak,
well, attire me in slavic myths and
i'll be mumbling purrs in mud too
for a helium bubble to become a comedian,
i know a jittery ******* addiction
when i see one...
if one thing the catholic schooling system
taught me was how to avoid
sniffing glue and how to recognise
a Freudian apostle - still, with all
the hippy **** you'd think
sniffing glue was what Ukrainian existentialism
prescribed with paracetamol,
catholic education just said: no no.
**** me it's the late 90s and we're talking
post-Chernobyl antics...
but that's how i see the left, leftist politics,
the right
utilises prefixes and suffixes in the
old stance of simple pre- pro-
anti-
qua-
-so so...
the left? oh they're right in there...
their prefixes are
Marxist-
liberal-
Hegelian-
whatnot...
they don't
use abstract prefixes,
their prefixes
are concrete,
they want the porridge in their mouth
to ensure a slur that never comes,
among a range of onomatopoeias they argue
from the perspective of the hushed and ushered crowd,
via one observation: Stalin clapped after a speech
to enjoin with the crowd, a real big brother,
****** never clapped, a sitting-duck method;
i'm not advocating, but by a proxy placebo dynamo
experimenting, it's called experimenting with
thought rather than practising with will,
former no chance of footstep evaluation for
cult status imitable -
the left intellectual
has no rubric of thought concerning to and fro -
it has to be concrete layered and a shut off
perfect architecture without fault -
it can't be what it is -
con-
has to be conservative
pro-
has to be socialist
you once said legitimate
transparency - but you didn't say legislation -
well, the left understood it as legislation,
the right too wanted legitimate transparency -
the green party said we could have neither
but could have the replanting of a thousand
oak trees with a Robin Hood placard on the first
oak tree replanted in Sherwood Forest...
b. ~ d. ~... shot ~100 bent arrows into a bullseye -
hurrah! hurrah! maid marian lost her virginity
too! to a broomstick rather than maradona's
fingernail toothpick!
at an essex market the cockney shouts (out of
place): *** yer courgettes! *** yer courgettes!
ta fa a pudding! ta fa a pudding!
*** yer cucumbers! tooth firth 'un!
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 9:50 PM UTC
to a friend
No! those days are gone away
And their hours are old and gray,
And their minutes buried all
Under the down-trodden pall
Of the leaves of many years:
Many times have winter's shears,
Frozen North, and chilling East,
Sounded tempests to the feast
Of the forest's whispering fleeces,
Since men knew nor rent nor leases.
No, the bugle sounds no more,
And the twanging bow no more;
Silent is the ivory shrill
Past the heath and up the hill;
There is no mid-forest laugh,
Where lone Echo gives the half
To some wight, amaz'd to hear
Jesting, deep in forest drear.
On the fairest time of June
You may go, with sun or moon,
Or the seven stars to light you,
Or the polar ray to right you;
But you never may behold
Little John, or Robin bold;
Never one, of all the clan,
Thrumming on an empty can
Some old hunting ditty, while
He doth his green way beguile
To fair hostess Merriment,
Down beside the pasture Trent;
For he left the merry tale
Messenger for spicy ale.
Gone, the merry morris din;
Gone, the song of Gamelyn;
Gone, the tough-belted outlaw
Idling in the "grenè shawe";
All are gone away and past!
And if Robin should be cast
Sudden from his turfed grave,
And if Marian should have
Once again her forest days,
She would weep, and he would craze:
He would swear, for all his oaks,
Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes,
Have rotted on the briny seas;
She would weep that her wild bees
Sang not to her--strange! that honey
Can't be got without hard money!
So it is: yet let us sing,
Honour to the old bow-string!
Honour to the bugle-horn!
Honour to the woods unshorn!
Honour to the Lincoln green!
Honour to the archer keen!
Honour to tight little John,
And the horse he rode upon!
Honour to bold Robin Hood,
Sleeping in the underwood!
Honour to maid Marian,
And to all the Sherwood-clan!
Though their days have hurried by
Let us two a burden try.
3k
Silent chords play
What did you expect
Boarded room, no light
The minimalist move
No wave, no raves
She winds her body
Quantum twerk
Put the Mac down
Fall asleep
Pills kick in
Wake and bake
Vacuum drones
Somewhere, singing
Okay,
bass,
standing waves
Stale wave, stoic day
All meaningless
Ultimately
This is the grave
This is cleansing
This is no ending
A new day, one day
and a new style
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 10:39 AM UTC
A bright blue police box spins through the sky
Over 50 years have passed, so no one bothers to ask why.
A Doctor in name, but no medicine dispensed
His adventures defy all common sense.
A Companion is always along for the ride
When the TARDIS lifts off; it’s bigger inside.
Our open-mouthed guide every step of the way
Their first visit extends to a permanent stay
The last of the Timelords or so people say
From a long-distant planet they call Gallifrey
Endlessly loyal with a mind second to none
He has never resolved a dispute with a gun.
He never seems to look the same for more than a few years
A fact that has left some in fits of angry tears
But everyone he’s truly known has felt a deep bond
Just ask Rose, Martha, Donna, Clara, or Amy & Rory Pond
Questioning the world and its traditions, his mind often lingers
On the tasty goodness of custard and fish fingers.
His personality leaves cause for some alienation
But what else can one expect after regeneration?
Friends often follow quickly in his tracks
Like Danny Pink, Madame Vastra, Jenny, & Strax
Otherworldly villains into our imaginations creep
Psychotic snowmen, The Master, Daleks, Cybermen, and unrelenting Angels that Weep
Dinosaurs in London, the Titanic in space
Motorcycles driving up Big Ben fast enough to win a race
Green forests of Sherwood; painting with Van Gogh
He can take us anywhere we want to go
And if when the journey stops your lips begin to quiver
Just breathe deep and imagine the Song of a River
Don’t go off the handle or fly into a rage
Open up a favorite book and tear out the last page.
That way, the stories won’t ever end and we can let them be
Soon another generation will come along to see
How a man whose true name remains unspoken
Can face life’s harshest obstacles and still remain unbroken
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 9:47 PM UTC
My sister won her soccer game
Now the whole school will know her name
Tomorrow she plays Sherwood
This should be good
I hope she wins
Cause I want to see her grin
Jul 30, 2020
Jul 30, 2020 at 11:08 AM UTC
Robin
Kind husband, vigilant father, loving son, mischievous brother
Brother of Lizard and Kippie-bombs
Lover of Kahtabeak, Danbug and Benbot
Who feels joyful, happy and satisfied
Who fears brown recluse spiders, level 4 biohazards and tsunamis
Who would like to see an end to mourning, outcry and pain
Resident of Sherwood Forest
Hood
Oct 25, 2019
Oct 25, 2019 at 2:44 PM UTC
For Sia
wake up unscrubbed,
sleep still in the eyes,
dream crusted,
probably unaware, child,
that you are a poem
sleeping
when a little girl,
reverting, designing
real from dreams,
processing, reforming,
the dreams lusting
to be poems
to go awandering
no wonder you have
more first names
than the rest of the world
combined
who you gonna be
this day?
undecided?
a new name adopted?
why not...
did you think I didn't notice?
the degree of yours ungranted,
I favor most is the one
you
never take
unless given
but always only
offer all:
friend
escapade thy 'they' thru
their assorted flavors,
nose rings, tongue piercings,
take 'em all, on the train ride to
see Sia run
see Sia play
see Sia read
see Sia lead
her troupe known only to me as the
Sherwood Forest Baker Street Irregulars
on adventures all over the U.K.
someday you will get a degree
from Peter Pan in
all grown-up-ness,
settling down,
but I surely hope not,
for I will then be sadder,
way sadder than I am
even now,
a different generation man,
when
forgone, missing,
the little dream crusted girl
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 10:15 PM UTC
The pungent aroma of sandalwood is a poor diversion for the administration of intravenous ******
One may be spellbound by whispering seductions which can lull a person into a golden-brown complacency.
Overdose captivates the attention, and the reality of fantasy pervades the human heart in the same manner as an arrow from a crossbow which strikes the soul in Sherwood Forest.
It’s a texture like sun. But many are the afflicted under her psychoactive propagations. Now you truly know what it is all about. Or do you?
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 2:44 PM UTC
The smell of sweet maple syrup
I remember living there and the riding the horse with stirrup
All the furniture was made out of wood
The log Cabin had plenty of trees of Sherwood
Down the way was Joseph the Lumber Jack
He had muscles that were well stacked
Joseph could cut down some trees
In fact, our Log Cabin was built and it was a breeze
Yet that Log Cabin is what I called home
It was a place where I used to roam
There was an Sun roof we called the “Dome”
But I will leave that alone
Oh that Log Cabin takes me back
I have a clear memory of it like piles in a stack
I remember a little stream that ran behind
This whole memory is all mine
Log Cabin, thanks for showing up in my mind, I will visit again from time to time.
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 6:48 PM UTC
From here the trees look black
Mourning the loss of time
Chasms in a sky of slurry grey
Relatable and untouchable
There's no pulse
Forsaken and lost to the cares of others
Sentries of a land doused in fog
Immune to the forces of nature
It's not a deafening silence
It's that sound left here
Fearing it too may suffer this fate
Hopelessness
Complacency prevails the spirit
No sense to be found in searching
Only more of the same beyond
A world void of light
This forest in my head
I walked too far
Oct 4, 2016
Oct 4, 2016 at 8:54 PM UTC
Lee and Drilona Perry got married at Newark register office late on Saturday afternoon.
They headed to the adjacent Newark Castle after to take photos but, in the meantime, register office staff went home and the gates were locked.
They were rescued along with their 50 guests after an hour and the council has now apologised.
'Wedding to remember'
Mr Perry, from Newark, Nottinghamshire, said he thought it was a joke at first.
"You plan a nice, beautiful wedding that you expect to be the most wonderful day of your life....only to find you get locked in," he said.
"As it started to get dark and the rain started to come down we thought let's wrap this up and get to the function, but the gates were locked."
He said they had been given no explanation as to how it had happened but "it will be a wedding to remember".
"We can laugh about it now. It could've been a lot worse," added Mr Perry.
Jeanette Hall, registration area manager at Nottinghamshire County Council, said they appreciated it "must have been frustrating for all involved".
She said: "Newark and Sherwood District Council lock these gates at around dusk and unfortunately we should have alerted the couple to the possibility that the gates may be locked when they went into the grounds."
She said they were trying to contact the couple to investigate what happened.
read more:www.marieaustralia.com/orange-formal-dresses
www.marieaustralia.com/pink-formal-dresses
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 12:43 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Robin Hood and Jacques Derrida
As the first stars came out above the leaves
Of Merry Sherwood, the lads in peaceful repose
Put away their after-supper mending of gear
And idled over their ale of October brewing
Then Robin Hood spoke to Allan-a-Dale:
Don’t sing to us of Neo-Post-Colonial White Supremacist Patriarchal People-of-Color Matriarchal LGBTQTY Non-Binary Feminist Chomskian Existentialist (existentialist – how quaint) Hegelian Post-Structuralist Logocentric Sausurian Psychoanalytical Post-Modern Marxist Jungian New Critical Cognitive Scientific Neo-Anarchic Canon-Repudiationist Neo-Informalist Catarrhic De-Constructionism.
Sing to us
a story.
Mar 15, 2021
Mar 15, 2021 at 12:36 PM UTC
Spring is just about on its way.
That means I can walk back to Sherwood forest!
I suppose I could go in the winter, or summer, especially in the fall,
but I don't want to go to far.
It's very special in the spring.
I like to stop short, and climb my mountain,
look across my town, (which is just trees) and try to find my house.
And Sometimes I go too far.
I go to the abandoned center of the town.
I go there to reminisce about things I wasn't alive for,
and I can claim the noble title of prophet, by simply claiming to be there for the passed.
But my heart still lies in Sherwood.
I can't wait for spring.
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 11:11 PM UTC
A Small Boy to His Pencil
O, Ticonderoga, my magic wand –
I wave you, and I am an engineer
Speeding a silver passenger train
From Texas to California, and back
I wave you once again; I am Robin Hood
Drawing my bow against a bishop fat:
“I invite you, Your Grace, to a great feast
in Sherwood Forest, at your own expense!”
I wave you yet again - and Old Miz Grouch
Fusses at me: “Do your sums! And don’t slouch!”
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 4:39 PM UTC
Howdy Mr. Jones:
The dinosaur was the most interesting animal on the Titanic that month. The dinosaur (whos name was Joan) was unfortunately, on the floor, dead as any pile of bones you'll ever hear of. The room was full with Characters, who traveled lightly from abroad. From wonderland and Oompavil and Sherwood forest and mars' second biggest moon. In the room, Rashida: Queen of Forest Rhythm, bounced around the room, jangled up against the lead wind chimes, and flew right smack into the portholes. And the King, stood on his pedestal, With his silver scepter pointing away, so that he could think deeply about who exactly he is king over. And the girl with the button nose running frantically, for no reason. And screaming gibberish but we all just let it slide. And Floobert: Ruler over the Toddlers, Yelling "floobee flooblah floobobo bafloo." And little Adolf starting to grow up before our eyes. He starts talking like a fish, and in his fish tongue says "every man for themselves" So now we start thinking, "are we mans? Or are we selves?" Then, When all hope is lost, the sweet girl with the button nose drop-kicked Adolf. That is all I remember... It was a good month.
Forever *******
-Iguana
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 10:06 PM UTC
I am sitting on the bed
Alone
In San Pedro
In my small studio apartment
Reading Sherwood Anderson
Opening the third beer
I started thinking about the hell
The last year brought
The loneliness
Agony
Then I started to laugh
It was so god awful
I had to laugh
Yes, im still here
******* at a beer
Waiting for greater agonies
I looked over at the stack of books
That kept me alive this year
I thought
You idiot
This was one of the most
Important years of your life
I often daydream
Of being a 250 lb
World Champion Heavyweight
Boxer
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 9:11 PM UTC
It is life that is perfect and
me that is not,
if X marks the spot then
I am the why.
I contribute to charity,
search to
find my spirituality,try to
discover hope and some clarity,
and if X marks the spot and life is
just perfect
I am happy with what I've got
which after much consideration is
an awful lot more
than I had.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 7:18 AM UTC