"skippy" poems
While the sun is sleeping and the morning dj's too,
The radio news anchor is in to work by three
It's not because we're busy, or we're special..no, no , no
It's because the station trusts us, and besides...we have the key!!
We're on the road, at Dunkin' Donuts,
while the day olds are still fresh
We're in before the DJ's
Because we don't live like Phil Lesh
By the time the DJ's wander in
We've read more, than they will say
We've even cued up the morning intro
We know the songs they all will play
We have our room for research
Actually, two newspapers and a phone
We're not quite Walter Cronkite
But, hey...throw us a bone
The life of a radio anchor
Is not one that's all rosy
We do it 'cause we love it
It's not just because we're nosy
We get the freshest donuts, hottest coffee and the key
And did I neglect to mention, first one in gets donuts free?
The DJ's do their concerts, party hard, are full of soul
And twice a week you'll find them, down at Skippy's Pool and Bowl
We're not all like Les Nessman
Although, there is a part of me
That would love to have a station
Like old W K R P
The life of the news anchor
Starts out daily in the dark
We dig around for stories
And make up others for a lark
We are in line for more promotions
We're the one that the boss sees
Did I mention, we get donuts
And that the boss gives us the key?
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC
WIMBLEDON COMMON
Wimbledon common
Was always the place to go,
Catching the train from Streatham
The family all aglow,
Sandwiches in a paper bag
Thermos in a sack,
Plastic sandels and tennis racket
Not forgetting the cricket bat.
Everyone was skippy
The sun high in the sky,
Dad had his umbrella
But the rain was shy,
Jumping from the platform
Down a row of steps,
Brother took a tumble
And that was that.
Plasters in a pocket
All was mended soon,
Finally recovered
Felt over the moon,
Reached the grassy stretches
Whoops mind the dogs,
Come away from the lovers
They're out for a jog.
Find a shiny tree trunk
Horizontal on the ground,
Four happy people
Tuck in to raspberry jam,
Now for the thermos
Plastic cups ahead,
Here come the wasps
To eat our jam and bread.
Later penguin biscuits
And a trip behind the bin,
Dad puts out the wickets
Let's see who wins,
After a quiet session
Brother looses his cool,
Slings the bat skyward
You should see it go,
Mother looked upwards
Covering her head,
Just managed to miss it
Landing on the hedge.
I went off walking
To gather pretty flowers,
Dad hid under the paper
We had a quiet hour,
Clouds gathering slowly
The sun going down,
What a lovely day in the country
We're now homeward bound.
In memory and gratitude to my lovely mum and dad
Grace and Eric Ayton- Robinson who always did their best.
Love Mary **
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 10:47 AM UTC
I
Aspiring to reach the solar rabbit hole eclipse
--climbing up the well,
the photon test tube
sodden and crusted on the outside
by angsty
adults
snorting obsession
through The Manhattan Project straw.
The pirate boy wanted to be named
Skip--so determined Alice named him,
Skippy, conqueror of blueberry mucus
--he reminded her of sidewalks
she found far in the misty woods
--no one walked
the unexpected like him.
Each placement of a pore: a bat cave
a depressed skull
a hollow exploit
a lame *** joke
a mildew plop
Almost certainly this cadaver matryoshka doll
would be human by the time
the two runaways
were born again Hallelujah! The dish breaker is crowning again
back to the galleons, rotting awkward candles.
"Leave what is human in
inhumane
places." the well speaks.
Skippy tears the corners of his lips
to his ears. Alice turns her temple to the sharpest part
of the monumental
test tube
and cracks her childhood back to the bottom
--back to Euphoria. light poles open
up faces and throw their lights to the ground.
Both of the thrift store
lovers continue to climb--ripping off purchases
to the beggar's tin cup.
II
Severed hearts beat without metaphor
as the empty vessels that hold them.
Spines sing of freedom like centipedes
facing fan blades. Pirate boys mock the smoker's language
of mutiny.
Devalued skin,
dirty armor
casted,
lowered,
teased, by the cadence
of tumbling blood. Marking territories other brother's can smell
Obediently, we see what
gods are doing to them. They're paying
for drawing the different suits of God
on the cave wall. Hit jobs--vacuum spoils,
sucker punch postage stamps
--revenge from a peaceful creator
forcing the two to climb/climb/climb
back to a speck
where dandelions grow
from the revolution fetus and graphite,
& tongues, & lips, & nerves, & veins &
wolf spiders pour down/red matter clusterfucks.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 12:10 PM UTC
WHEN I WAS JUST A LITTLE BOY
I USED TO ASK MY “MUDDA”
DON’T GIVE ME PEAS OR BROCOLLI
JUST BRING ME PEANUT BUTTA
I’D DIP MY FINGER IN THE JAR
AND SCOOP IT IN MY MOUTH
THEN WAIT FOR ABOUT AN HOUR OR SO,
FOR IT TO SLIDE DOWN SOUTH
I USEO TO EAT THE KIND CALLED “SMOOTH”
BUT QUICKLY SWITCHED TO "CHUNKY"
I LIKED THE WAY IT TASTED
SORTA GRITTY, KINDA FUNKY
SKIPPY, JIFF AND PETER PAN
WHERE BRANDS I LIKED THE BEST
I’D OFTEN LINE UP ALL THREE JARS
AND HAVE A TASTE TEST-FEST
BUT CHOOSING BRANDS WAS EASY
FOR MY MOM WHO WAS SO WISE
SHE’D EYE EACH ONE SO CAREFULLY
THEN BUY THE LOWEST “PRICE”
YEA, WITH SOME JAM.. ON WONDERBREAD
OH WHAT A DELICIOUS TREAT!
I REMEMBER ALL THE GOOEY GOODNESS
HOW MUCH FUN IT WAS TO EAT
BUT NOW I’VE GIVEN UP THAT SNACK
MY CHILDHOOD TASTES I’VE TRADED
I’M OLDER AND MY PALATE
HAS BECOME SOPHISTICATED
I NOW EAT FOOD THAT’S LOW IN SALT
AND SATURATED FAT
BUT WHEN I WANT TO CHEAT A BIT?...
“HEY SKIPPY, WHERE YOU AT”!!!!
Sep 4, 2011
Sep 4, 2011 at 1:05 PM UTC
By the sight of engine blocks
melted on the frays of mocking birds--the city is mohawked
and the large intestine of betrayed Alice is a flintlock in the early morning
--carnal ***** flooded with music and chardonnay
bruised by the fiery sort haunting the genius drawing
of humor--a tumor of gunpowder and splattered cardinals.
We have no kings--just kids
--no queens, just compensation--
and on the hood of a 1969 Chevy Impala
with the American Jolly Roger ablaze
like that of a tick in the sun--wanting Alice carves
the cheeks from Skippy's black wound-up drool toy--in his mouth
is the last word to make deities cry sentient lives
and now you see it, the glint, the ball, the powder, and the breezeway windows
carved in the gum line of his mouth in reverse,
and how she whispers, "Impress me."
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 12:14 AM UTC
Skippy hopper
One leg bopper
The wife's my shopper
Food for grasshoppers!
I will eat like a Piggie
Today when I eat some Piggie
Gonna have to digalig biggie
A hole
For the piggie
Bones
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 8:44 AM UTC
a kangaroo springs
are envied
No-one jumps like Skippy
and no-one talks like Flipper
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 11:58 AM UTC
Crackerjack, penny back, living on a dream
Pencil head, silly Fred, stay til he's mean
Debbie-downer, sit on the counter, can she move on
Howdy there, on a dare, don't be a pawn
Straw hat, kitty cat, I must be gone
Skippy chili, pilly dilly, standing on the lawn
Ritty rat, I'm out of that
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 10:56 PM UTC
I wanted long , thin legs
A skinny waist
And collar bones that stick out.
I wanted to be pretty.
But what I didn't want
Was the price.
Skippy meals,
Using constant excuses.
I wanted to be perfect
But instead,
I was lifeless
and years later I still pay.
I soon reached my goal,
But was the price I paid worth it?
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 12:44 PM UTC
.
I remember that old electric guitar,
no name brand, a Fender knockoff,
stripped and painted
to look like an American flag
because Peter Fonda made it cool
That Silvertone amp, volume cranked
reverb, two inputs, tubes, bass, treble,
when Sears was the place where
music dreams came alive
because Dad had a credit card
Out in my parent’s garage,
Skippy on drums and John on bass
Wearing shades in the dark like John Kay
A tape recorder mike hanging from the ceiling
Playing “The Pusher” at all hours
Until the neighbors called my mom
and we had to shut the door
or turn it down, we shut the door
Black light posters, an old couch,
power saws and Christmas decorations
We were gonna be stars, rock stars
Chicks would dig us and guys would envy us
Our hair down to our shoulders
Incense to hide certain smells
Bad *** wasn’t even a term yet, but we were
Patch covered jeans, zig zag
and faded denim jackets,
peace signs and headbands,
Santana and Arlo, “Alice’s Restaurant”
Nothing could stop us
I remember that old electric guitar,
the guys are gone now, not dead, just gone
I can still hear Alvin Lee rocking “I’m coming home”
But somewhere along the line I got old (grew up)
when I wasn’t paying attention I guess
I still wear my hair a little long, a little
and I have nice collection of guitars
But that “Rock Star” dream faded long ago
Now I carry a different instrument,
I carry a pen...
and it’s a name brand pen
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 3:24 PM UTC
I want to save your soul.
This is why I am here.
This is why I'm in this world.
I have no other mission,
But to love You without permission,
Selfishly.
But don't you forget, Skippy,
It's just the moment making me say this,
You are only here for an hour,
Then I turn to something else.
Use your time wisely!
Do not waste it Skippy
Until you are in my heart...
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 4:01 PM UTC
She walked slowly displaying grace and beauty with her mistress on the boardwalk
Her paws barely touching each plank
She is eighteen years old as of yesterday
Her owner said it was her last walk
A stunning golden angel will grace the Rainbow Bridge soon
Rest and play well beautiful
Hope a handsome Golden Retriever named Skippy greets you
C@rainbowchaser 2023
Nov 6, 2022
Nov 6, 2022 at 9:42 AM UTC
Sweet giving
Scared lonely
Giggly skippy
Sad torn
People feel
People show
Theres Difference
Its significant
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 4:30 AM UTC
Whats up knucklehead! Where have you been hiding? What transit did you take to get to 44th and Broadway? We found the petting zoo just fine without you, although the ***** in the Ballroom B Lounge had a few words to say about it. In case you were wondering, Kat and Marissa picked up a shuttle and then onto a cab that later found a flat on the parkway. Yea, they were ****** but made it just the same. Pops called again and asked about the drinking thing, I covered for you and said you be home by sunset. Whats up knucklehead, Where you been hiding?
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 10:15 PM UTC
She will be loyal
She will always be true
She will always be loving and kind
That smile of hers that melts your heart
Even when you know her a short while she stays with you
Joy and kindness personified
She will be greeted at the Rainbowbridge by a handsone Golden Retriever naned Skippy
I can hear him calling her name
Tori accompanies him and watches over us
We love her forever and always
C@rainbowchaser2024
Mar 5, 2024
Mar 5, 2024 at 1:16 PM UTC
I laid there staring
at the ceiling fan spinning,
grinning about the night before
& thinking
what happens
in L.A.,
stays in L.A.
**** skippy.
I could barely see
through my red,
tasted my Marlboros
like they were liquid,
felt lost in an illusion.
I tried to whistle Dixie
& forget about
the pretty sleeping
pixie
lying next to me,
buck naked
& snoring like a buffalo.
But how could I?
She drove a Mazda
with Andretti-skill
& cooked a mean plate
of spaghetti.
Her lips were Mona Lisa
smirky & she made me crazy
with moves she's said she learned
from reading ****** poetry.
I loved the fact
she loved fine art
& traced her constellations
with my kisses
until she awoke
& loved me again
sinfully.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 10:01 PM UTC
Memories of a father long gone and only just remembered.
"You must remember this a kiss is but a kiss a smile is just a smile...., as time goes by"
sung as my lullaby in a deep low voice.
The smell of cigarette smoke, old spice and brylcreme.
The bone of your knee bouncing my backside as we watched Skippy on TV.
The deisel and oil that darkened your hands.
Barking laughter when you played rough'n'tumble with the boys.
Big gentle, fumbling hands when you came to "afternoon tea ".
The sheepish grin and shoulder shrug when you came home "weathered" from the pub.
Pockets empty except for betting slips.
Too many dinners of two dollars worth of chips please.
Christmas gifts in late February,
sometimes not at all.
The plate of bacon and eggs sliding down the wall,
inches from your head.
Angry shouting when we were meant to be sleeping, door slams followed by broken weeping.
Silence so intense it had us kids creeping round the walls.
Back bumper of a muscle car,
tailights burning red,
tyres sqealing,
suitcases stacked high in the backseat.
Selfish ******* whispered, by my mother,(the first time i ever heard her swear), into the coldnight country air.
As we stood watching and yearning for life to treat us fair.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 6:41 AM UTC
There is no 'Skippy'
no more kangaroo
it was traded as bush meat
so you kids
could eat.
'Flipper got put in cans
sans flippers,
tasted like fresh
kippers,
they tell me.
TV's responsible for
killing our dreams.
but I still see them when I sleep
'Clarence the cross eyed lion'
is there to keep
me company
another safari
one more
'Daktari'
I'm on a different page
'Lady Penelope and
Parker
are all the rage
watching 'Thunderbirds'
seeing Gilligans isle
while Popeye and olive
give me a smile
and I know it's for me
It's on the TV.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 10:19 AM UTC
Here in Oz, they're banning fairy tales,
Indeed, a giggle did not fail,
Children's lit must be correct politically,
Here's the new style ode for thee,
Listen up and you shall see.
Skippy has two mummies,
Their boyfriends spat the dummies,
Now Skippy's mums got preg,
Their boyfriends did renege,
So along came little Skippy,
Hopping off to eat Mr. Whippy,
Yes, totally correct politically,
New fairy tales for the kiddies,
Skippy has two mummies,
Our norms do change, it seems....
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 4:48 AM UTC
The deck is awash
Wind rips the sails
The crying and screaming
The birds and the waves
My senses are reeling
Can this be real
"All hands on deck!"
Old Skippy screams
Wet rigging is whipping
Can barley grab hold
Cold rain beats down
Chilling my soul
The cries of my mates
Can barely be heard
All know their place
Their tasks are secured
Float as we may
A mere cork on the sea
Holding out hope
Riding the waves
May God have mercy
Upon all our souls
Cried the ships Chaplin
Old Skippy just groaned
A lifetime at sea
More days than on land
The old crusty mariner
Had many a scare
No longer bothered
by things such as fate
Calmly he waited
Claimed by the waves.....
Jan 1, 2023
Jan 1, 2023 at 1:09 PM UTC