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"stuart" poems
“Yorkshire! Yorkshire!” I hear the EDL scream, as if somehow the county, relates to their regime? Trying to push on others their far right views, and tainting Yorkshire with their taboos cos Yorkshire to me, is whatever the **** I want it to be, I do love a bit of local pride... maybe to revel in the comfort it provides, and even though stereotypes say we're tight, as well as stubborn, argumentative (they're prolly right), But I'd rather that, than be uptight, like a stereotypical southerner might I recently read a quote from Stuart Maconie, “England has a bottom half, but there isn't a south, in the same way there's a north” The North in the south means desolation, A cultural wasteland with deserted stations, a place built on violent, aggressive foundations, With mid summer Arctic temperature fluctuations, Nothing that comes close to a nation.... But that's not what I see, To be from the north means good fish and chips, with tomato sauce and vinegar, it's glory on the lips, I see people willing to lend a hand, A honest chat about the weather as you stand at a bus stop that you never planned, It doesn't matter whether it's a cob, bun, bap, barm or roll, Or that the north was ****** over by the outsourcing of coal, Or your opinion that we're all just sat on the dole, drinking tea out of a ***** bowl. We should still all have a similar goal, To have a good time, and not hurt a soul Sometimes I do like to revel in the divide, but I'll always welcome people from the other side, Acceptance is not sin, and if you let it, it generally ends up with a win : win What's Yorkshire to you? I haven't got a clue... but come sit down so we can have a chat and a brew! And hopefully we'll both learn something we never knew.
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Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 12:33 PM UTC
The Divide
“Yorkshire! Yorkshire!” I hear the EDL scream, as if somehow the county, relates to their regime? Trying to push on others their far right views, and tainting Yorkshire with their taboos cos Yorkshire to me, is whatever the **** I want it to be, I do love a bit of local pride... maybe to revel in the comfort it provides, and even though stereotypes say we're tight, as well as stubborn, argumentative (they're prolly right), But I'd rather that, than be uptight, like a stereotypical southerner might I recently read a quote from Stuart Maconie, “England has a bottom half, but there isn't a south, in the same way there's a north” The North in the south means desolation, A cultural wasteland with deserted stations, a place built on violent, aggressive foundations, With mid summer Arctic temperature fluctuations, Nothing that comes close to a nation.... But that's not what I see, To be from the north means good fish and chips, with tomato sauce and vinegar, it's glory on the lips, I see people willing to lend a hand, A honest chat about the weather as you stand at a bus stop that you never planned, It doesn't matter whether it's a cob, bun, bap, barm or roll, Or that the north was ****** over by the outsourcing of coal, Or your opinion that we're all just sat on the dole, drinking tea out of a ***** bowl. We should still all have a similar goal, To have a good time, and not hurt a soul Sometimes I do like to revel in the divide, but I'll always welcome people from the other side, Acceptance is not sin, and if you let it, it generally ends up with a win : win What's Yorkshire to you? I haven't got a clue... but come sit down so we can have a chat and a brew! And hopefully we'll both learn something we never knew.
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37
Little heaven  Little homeliness  Little money Little loneliness  Little me  Little you Little time  Little clue  Little life  Litte sleep  Little love For me to keep  Little point  Little reason  Little love  But I'm still squeezin I'm still trying Don't know why If its not me It leaves or dies Little time Little place  falling behind  Pick up the pace  Who to have Who to choose Little me  Without the You Little me  Without the you Little time  Little clue Little reason Little place  Life is wheezin After the race  Life is long  Life is short Life is wrong Life will hurt Life will last  Forever for me Cause life wont end A lock with no key Life won't end  Till I seize to see Life won't end Till I end me. Life won't end  Until life leaves me
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May 17, 2012
May 17, 2012 at 11:24 PM UTC
Stuart little
Often alone I think of you rolling mountains covered in a purple haze both in highlands and lowlands too running water so pure sparkling bright making our whisky a natural delight Caledonia - the land of my dreams I hear music played from the heart oh' the sound of pipes and drums heart racing hairs standing on end poetry filling my eyes with tears recited at suppers year after year in celebration of bards no longer here Caledonia - the land of my dreams Men wearing tartan skirts with nothing underneath dancing between swords at highland gatherings playing games testing their manhood eating haggis a pudding often misunderstood porridge,shortbread, salmon and oatcakes quality food that is for sure Caledonia - the land of my dreams History remembered with pride Mary Stuart, Bonnie Prince Charlie Wallace, Culloden and Nessie too some myths, some true castles, lochs, bridges and glens places where lassies are called hen where houses are often **** un bens people answering with ah' ken Celtic blood running through my veins makes me glad I am alive and living here Caledonia - the land of my dreams
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Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 5:44 AM UTC
CALEDONIA - THE LAND OF MY DREAMS!!!!!
Somebody put Kylie Minogue on from the wall mounted touchscreen one-pound-a-go jukebox- Coldplay would've been better, but I should be so lucky- and the rising water in the Titanic's engine room of noise rose to a First Class stateroom chatter and Kate Winslet and the queue to the bar grew a little longer and then you walked in like a Sunday morning walk, one long stroll by a river edge or lake side, through a Westfield, Bluewater Meadowhall in one long rehearsed map move entrance dodging standing drinkers and their plus ones in Zara trench coats and Boden shawls, and you left a wake of wet forest and crumbling beachhead afternoons behind you as you walked on through the crowd to the pool table at the back where you watched *** after *** after pint after *** after we need more one pound coins to play more pool, and you went out for **** though you don't smoke yourself and you looked up into the mist because you're the kind that would find New York Stuart Little big: mostly building, building, building, window, balcony, bridge, statue and Central Park trees, and you walked back in with river eyes, your lids moving from cold back to behind-the-fridge, pub-room warm and they watered a little, Pacific blue sliding over eternal black; I think she's the kind that needs a lion tamer not an orchestra leader, but I've only got Petit Filous muscles and I had four raw eggs this morning and I'm still not as strong as I’d like to be, (put the baton down, Tim) a River Phoenix younger Harrison Ford stasis, one train wreck ride to remember, nowhere near the lion tamer you need. Kylie sings for the fifteenth time in a row, and the bar is past last orders though cash is pushed under for pints and you disappeared under bar light and then into the moonlight and now I'm sat grieving the Golden Retriever of The Nutshell in Bury St Edmunds this evening.
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May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 12:26 PM UTC
YOGURT FOR A HEART
Somebody put Kylie Minogue on from the wall mounted touchscreen one-pound-a-go jukebox- Coldplay would've been better, but I should be so lucky- and the rising water in the Titanic's engine room of noise rose to a First Class stateroom chatter and Kate Winslet and the queue to the bar grew a little longer and then you walked in like a Sunday morning walk, one long stroll by a river edge or lake side, through a Westfield, Bluewater Meadowhall in one long rehearsed map move entrance dodging standing drinkers and their plus ones in Zara trench coats and Boden shawls, and you left a wake of wet forest and crumbling beachhead afternoons behind you as you walked on through the crowd to the pool table at the back where you watched *** after *** after pint after *** after we need more one pound coins to play more pool, and you went out for **** though you don't smoke yourself and you looked up into the mist because you're the kind that would find New York Stuart Little big: mostly building, building, building, window, balcony, bridge, statue and Central Park trees, and you walked back in with river eyes, your lids moving from cold back to behind-the-fridge, pub-room warm and they watered a little, Pacific blue sliding over eternal black; I think she's the kind that needs a lion tamer not an orchestra leader, but I've only got Petit Filous muscles and I had four raw eggs this morning and I'm still not as strong as I’d like to be, (put the baton down, Tim) a River Phoenix younger Harrison Ford stasis, one train wreck ride to remember, nowhere near the lion tamer you need. Kylie sings for the fifteenth time in a row, and the bar is past last orders though cash is pushed under for pints and you disappeared under bar light and then into the moonlight and now I'm sat grieving the Golden Retriever of The Nutshell in Bury St Edmunds this evening.
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47
It was at the stroke of midnight that the Earls took flight; sailing from Lough Swilly, sheltered only by the night. They headed for the continent fleeing from the Stuart King. Better far a death in exile than let the English clip their wings. They sailed to raise an army to reclaim their ancient rights, Not admitting that Kinsdale had become their final fight. They lost sight of Downpatrick as they sailed the storm swept sea. The verdant hills of Ireland they nevermore would see. The English and the Spanish had determined to make peace. Tyrconnell died soon after, some say he died from grief. James Stuart called them traitors; took their titles and estates. The Gaelic order was broken and by Protestants replaced. Tyrone would end his days in idleness; his corpse interred in Rome. His spirit wanders restless still, a soul without a home.
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May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 10:31 AM UTC
The Flight of the Earls, 9/4/1607
The power of the “Bonnie Prince” had broke and fled away. William, Duke of Cumberland, at Culloden field held sway. His juniors came and asked the Duke about the  wounded men. A playing card he then held up on which two words were written” “NO Quarter” said the playing card thus was the order given. They wasted not one bullet for a wounded, dying man. By sword, by knife, by bayonet The English played their hand. Charles Edward Stuart fled the field when, clearly, all was lost. (He never had a kingdom but at least he had a horse.) He fled up to the Hebrides where , despite a huge reward, No Scottish Laird betrayed the man who was their Sovereign Lord. The butcher of Culloden made the Scottish Highlands pay: Women ***** crops destroyed, the livestock borne away. He never caught his cousin Charles though he came close at Skye: The bonnie prince, dressed as a maid, sailed by him on the sly. The Jacobites were finished men and nevermore would rise. Their cause died on Culloden field back there in Forty Five’ For over two centuries Scotland has been held against her will as part of the United Kingdom, but she soon may regain her freedom and self Government.
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Feb 2, 2012
Feb 2, 2012 at 9:14 PM UTC
Nine of Diamonds
The troubles buried deep in past. Life doesn't look like it will last. Finding a way-out, His final check-out. May the other-side be a contrast.
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Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 5:29 AM UTC
Stuart
This little seahorse necklace Missing Penelope Is the symbol of my subservient existence In your absence My dearest little baby Off my neck you will not see A second, a moment, A Wrinkle In Time As my pledge to you Of an undying love And thoughts towards better days
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Aug 21, 2010
Aug 21, 2010 at 12:59 AM UTC
Stuart
A bright lad called Alistair Cook Did enjoy the occasional book, He went out to bat, NO - don't play at that, They did him; line, sinker and hook. On him I'd bet my whole house, More like a lion than a mouse, He bats with aplomb, Both dainty and strong, It can only be Andrew Strauss. From the pavilion did Jonathan Trott, Nervous and anxious he is not, He'll be there for a while, All England will smile, And South Africa know he is hot. Next in is the feisty KP, His batting, the top of the tree, Sixes so great, They should be worth eight, Now just stay IN for a hundred or three! A chap from ooop north who is good, Goes by the name of Paul Collingwood, Gritty and tough, We just can't get enough, Fight as hard as him, we all should. No more will the fear he smell, He's been down to the gym as well, His batting is slick, Number six does the trick, The crowd cheers for Ian Bell. Swinging his bat, it's Matt Prior, Born with iron grit, steel and fire, If he holds each catch, We'll win the match, And his ranking will go much higher. Our spinner is next, Mr Swann, His bowling is coming on strong, His batting is great, Which the opposition hate, Not to pick him much sooner was wrong. Our tall quickie is young Stuart Broad, His bat is a rapier like sword, He can oft' bowl too short, Yet the batters get caught, And Of wicket-taking we never are bored. James Anderson is our king of swing, Late movement his favourite thing, Please bowl nice and full, Offer nothing to pull, And just hear those stumps go 'ping'. Graeme Onions comes in at long last, Cannot bat but, he can bowl fast, He makes them play, While others may stray, Durham long-hops a thing of the past.
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Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 10:59 PM UTC
Upbeat England XI
A bright lad called Alistair Cook Did enjoy the occasional book, He went out to bat, NO - don't play at that, They did him; line, sinker and hook. On him I'd bet my whole house, More like a lion than a mouse, He bats with aplomb, Both dainty and strong, It can only be Andrew Strauss. From the pavilion did Jonathan Trott, Nervous and anxious he is not, He'll be there for a while, All England will smile, And South Africa know he is hot. Next in is the feisty KP, His batting, the top of the tree, Sixes so great, They should be worth eight, Now just stay IN for a hundred or three! A chap from ooop north who is good, Goes by the name of Paul Collingwood, Gritty and tough, We just can't get enough, Fight as hard as him, we all should. No more will the fear he smell, He's been down to the gym as well, His batting is slick, Number six does the trick, The crowd cheers for Ian Bell. Swinging his bat, it's Matt Prior, Born with iron grit, steel and fire, If he holds each catch, We'll win the match, And his ranking will go much higher. Our spinner is next, Mr Swann, His bowling is coming on strong, His batting is great, Which the opposition hate, Not to pick him much sooner was wrong. Our tall quickie is young Stuart Broad, His bat is a rapier like sword, He can oft' bowl too short, Yet the batters get caught, And Of wicket-taking we never are bored. James Anderson is our king of swing, Late movement his favourite thing, Please bowl nice and full, Offer nothing to pull, And just hear those stumps go 'ping'. Graeme Onions comes in at long last, Cannot bat but, he can bowl fast, He makes them play, While others may stray, Durham long-hops a thing of the past.
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55
To my gran who I have just seen Who is old and can't remember things Who is kind and asks me the same questions Who lies in bed and drinks tea Who has bought up four children And has seven grand children And seven great grandchildren It was so lovely to see you. We had a good chat; You asked me where I was going next about a hundred times And I loved answering every time. Australia. We drank tea And looked at photos. I bought you a soft toy And you liked him "A sweet little fellow" You said "It's a shame He doesn't squeak" You said Squeezing him. And you put him on your lap While I showed you photos Of your great grandson And we laughed About things. When I left we caught eyes I said "bless you" And bowed to you. You said "take care of yourself" And I saw you And you saw me And that is where we met. In the eyes And in the soul. That is what I came for What I hoped for That moment When we met. I took your hand And said "it's been lovely to see you" And then I left Wanting To say more Wanting to say thank you for everything Thank you for knitting me the duck When I was a boy Thank you for being a pillar In my life That even though I havn't seen you much You've been so important To me. Just knowing you were there Family. Has helped me To be strong. I wanted to stay and say goodbye Just in case... But I didn't I got you a blanket Because you looked cold And I left Because Stuart was waiting In the car park And I had a train to catch. And I was worried it might disorientated you Because we had had a lovely time together. And I wanted to leave you happy. I looked back Through the ward window D8 And you looked so alone And now I'm on the train To Liverpool street And I miss you I think of you Lying there And I want to sit by you And show you more pictures And get you tea And make sure your warm And look after you Because your so frail And vulnerable And I feel sad Because Well...grief! The tragedy of life, That we must part From everyone. But I'm happy too Because My bones feel full And my heart feels Warm And I feel my right To stand up on this earth. With a warm heart And wet cheeks
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Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 2:31 PM UTC
For my gran, who passed away today
To my gran who I have just seen Who is old and can't remember things Who is kind and asks me the same questions Who lies in bed and drinks tea Who has bought up four children And has seven grand children And seven great grandchildren It was so lovely to see you. We had a good chat; You asked me where I was going next about a hundred times And I loved answering every time. Australia. We drank tea And looked at photos. I bought you a soft toy And you liked him "A sweet little fellow" You said "It's a shame He doesn't squeak" You said Squeezing him. And you put him on your lap While I showed you photos Of your great grandson And we laughed About things. When I left we caught eyes I said "bless you" And bowed to you. You said "take care of yourself" And I saw you And you saw me And that is where we met. In the eyes And in the soul. That is what I came for What I hoped for That moment When we met. I took your hand And said "it's been lovely to see you" And then I left Wanting To say more Wanting to say thank you for everything Thank you for knitting me the duck When I was a boy Thank you for being a pillar In my life That even though I havn't seen you much You've been so important To me. Just knowing you were there Family. Has helped me To be strong. I wanted to stay and say goodbye Just in case... But I didn't I got you a blanket Because you looked cold And I left Because Stuart was waiting In the car park And I had a train to catch. And I was worried it might disorientated you Because we had had a lovely time together. And I wanted to leave you happy. I looked back Through the ward window D8 And you looked so alone And now I'm on the train To Liverpool street And I miss you I think of you Lying there And I want to sit by you And show you more pictures And get you tea And make sure your warm And look after you Because your so frail And vulnerable And I feel sad Because Well...grief! The tragedy of life, That we must part From everyone. But I'm happy too Because My bones feel full And my heart feels Warm And I feel my right To stand up on this earth. With a warm heart And wet cheeks
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114
My existence is taunted by the mesmerizing aroma, The delightful demitasse of her Mocha brown essence, A mere arm’s length away yet still an unreachable distance, The inviting warmth of her crema’s supple surface, Intensifying temptation to unending heights. Espresso feelings brew for an eternity, The barista’s pressure refusing to cease, Steaming desire straining at every point, Ever seeking release from the torment. Ground, grated and pulverized am I, In the grip of my addiction – A tortuous thirst that can never be quenched. But for the warm dark brew being wrapped in the sleeve of another, I would pour her in to the most precious Italian ceramic bowl, Embrace her warmth in the palms of my adoring hands, Breathe in her rich exotic essence, Explore her complex depths each day till the end of time. And still I’d wake each morning anew, Longing in my never ending desire for another sip, A deeper understanding and appreciation, My lips longing to embrace but one more luscious drop, Love’s ambrosia - the hot dark brew. Stuart Zukerman Vancouver, B.C.
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Mar 18, 2012
Mar 18, 2012 at 4:18 AM UTC
Espresso Feelings
Started with Happy New Year spelled out in rails of ******* carefully measuring which letter was largest each of us got one you remember. Carolyn came with me she was dressed in red she figured that bowl of quualudes was all meant for her. The gang was all there passing out gifts rusted out back scratchers found in the garage no kids yet. Sheraton spoke in mysteries his wife Jane hustled me behind the shed Joaquin was  drunk on his knees again screaming for ***** and poetry Patti had recently found recovery and I was spending my time trying to convince her to drink. The party didn't begin until Mary and Stuart arrived our personal gurus took us all one step higher. Olivia and Aaron had much to hide. Davey was the ring master. We didn't have to go to the circus we were the circus. Little Feat were still willing the Dobbie Brothers in high pitch were still chillin the Dead played amazing riffs Bob Dylan was street legal the Boss was depressed the sound track to our lives. I gotta job working in a drug free program all the staff sat in a VW van having a staff meeting and passing a joint. Carolyn and I kinda got married had a big party I knew I was in trouble when she launched herself on the bed of gifts and tried to swim up stream. I learned all the messages of Alanon in one brief flash Everything passes everything changes we all know that. I got a real job I wasn't qualified for missed a deadline at school tossed out on my *** no 26 year old Ph.D. for me just another suicide on the horizon saw my grandmother and the white light but also at the job met the future mother of my children and of course she was to be my future ex-wife. When Carolyn found this out she brought a gun to my work to tell me what she thought about that it ended all right on that night. I lived in Laurel Canyon in a beautiful garden on Wonderland Avenue John Holmes was my neighbor bigger than life. 1978 It ended as it started with ******* the big chill crowd together again one last look back at the year in Super 8 Davey's traditional dance as historian for the year that passed one last look and farewell.
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Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 1:42 PM UTC
1978
Started with Happy New Year spelled out in rails of ******* carefully measuring which letter was largest each of us got one you remember. Carolyn came with me she was dressed in red she figured that bowl of quualudes was all meant for her. The gang was all there passing out gifts rusted out back scratchers found in the garage no kids yet. Sheraton spoke in mysteries his wife Jane hustled me behind the shed Joaquin was  drunk on his knees again screaming for ***** and poetry Patti had recently found recovery and I was spending my time trying to convince her to drink. The party didn't begin until Mary and Stuart arrived our personal gurus took us all one step higher. Olivia and Aaron had much to hide. Davey was the ring master. We didn't have to go to the circus we were the circus. Little Feat were still willing the Dobbie Brothers in high pitch were still chillin the Dead played amazing riffs Bob Dylan was street legal the Boss was depressed the sound track to our lives. I gotta job working in a drug free program all the staff sat in a VW van having a staff meeting and passing a joint. Carolyn and I kinda got married had a big party I knew I was in trouble when she launched herself on the bed of gifts and tried to swim up stream. I learned all the messages of Alanon in one brief flash Everything passes everything changes we all know that. I got a real job I wasn't qualified for missed a deadline at school tossed out on my *** no 26 year old Ph.D. for me just another suicide on the horizon saw my grandmother and the white light but also at the job met the future mother of my children and of course she was to be my future ex-wife. When Carolyn found this out she brought a gun to my work to tell me what she thought about that it ended all right on that night. I lived in Laurel Canyon in a beautiful garden on Wonderland Avenue John Holmes was my neighbor bigger than life. 1978 It ended as it started with ******* the big chill crowd together again one last look back at the year in Super 8 Davey's traditional dance as historian for the year that passed one last look and farewell.
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127
161 to 180 of 3251 Poets «78910»Viewsshow detailshide detailsSort by Margaret Kaufman Photo, Brownie Troop, St. Louis, 1949 Deborah Warren Marginalia Regan Huff Occurrence on Washburn Avenue Anne Marie Macari From the Plane Gerald Fleming There are no poems by this poet on our website. Sebastian Matthews Barbershop Quartet, East Village Grille Charles Harper Webb The Animals are Leaving Zozan Hawez Self-Portrait Jose Angel Araguz Gloves Russell Libby (1956–2012) Applied Geometry Robert Haight How Is It That the Snow Early October Snow Dan Lechay Ghost Villanelle James P. Lenfestey Daughter Robert Hedin (b. 1949) The Old Liberators My Mother's Hats John Maloney After Work Kaelum Poulson The Crow Stuart Kestenbaum Prayer for the Dead Emmett Tenorio Melendez My name came from . . . Gary Dop Father, Child, Water On Swearing Berwyn Moore Driving to Camp Lend-A-Hand «78910»
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Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 9:01 PM UTC
Many ones #100
I feel the answer to approaching adulthood gracefully is to chronicle your life in Stuart McLean vignettes. Spoken like Bach. Rubato. Cadential. Lovingly. With humor. Because you will notice, you see, that job burnout, the belly fat, and the dent in your bike are all crispy slices of burnt toast on the warm Christmas radio sound of Saturday morning CBC. They don't matter. And that's exactly what makes these stories beautiful.
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Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 11:28 AM UTC
Growing up to the Vinyl Cafe.
Thomas, Edward, Percy, James, There is a point, not random names, Scarlet, Kevin, Stuart, Bob, I've not gone insane, become a **** Manny, Diego, Granny, Sid, I've not gone hypo like some kid, Twelve random names that mean great fun, When watching telly with my son! © Cinco Espiritus Creation 2016
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May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 4:06 PM UTC
A Child's Disciples.
Elizabeth, the ****** Queen, left vacant the English throne. Her Scottish Stuart cousin came and claimed it for his own. Two nations with one monarchy joined in the Union Jack. The Scottish lost their nationhood and now they want it back. Saint Andrews’ Flag of Bonnie Blue will have to be unfurled if Scotland votes to take its place among nations in the world. Quebecois and Basques today are eagerly looking on to see if Scots will vote to tell the English to be gone. Hadrian’s Wall will, once more, mark where their dominion ends. Remove your subs from Scapa Flow; your lease is at an end. There still remains a problem which, just now, occurs to me. If the English take their Pound with them, what is our currency? It’s true we’re rich with North Sea oil and better off than Spain. Yet how do we do business if the Sterling won’t remain. We need a new “Gold” standard based upon the single malt! Who needs pounds when we have ounces stored in barrels and in vaults? So pour me a “MacCallan” on the day the rent comes due. Hand me a glenfiddich and I’ll purvey food to you.. Our creditors will be well pleased with hints of bog and peat. We won’t dilute our currency as Scots men drink it neat.
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Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 8:24 AM UTC
Whiskey Business
From time to time I need a little help at work, casual labour. Someone said Bugg was a hard worker, you'll find him in the Crown. Sure enough he was there, yes he'd be pleased to help, starting the next day. Bugg used to live in a house, but bought a painted gypsy wagon, horse and all to live an itinerant life. He kept moving on, from one village common to another. I collected him at first, and sure enough he worked well. He said he once met Rod Stuart in a bar and I had no reason to disbelieve him, still don't. He started using a motorbike to get to work. His time-keeping was, well, non-existent. He came out with excuses like there was a police car cruising nearby, so he had to stay put as his bike was not taxed or insured. So we had a little conversation about that, and I thought I had convinced him it would be worthwhile getting it legal. He concluded the discussion by saying that well, the police don't stop bikes much anyway. One day he showed up at about eleven. Later on I casually asked if there had been a reason for his late arrival. His disarming reply was a simple 'no, not really'. A nice enough fella, but I was beginning to get the measure of him. Instead of being paid at the end of the week, Bugg wanted his money daily. I realised he was spending each day's money in the pub every night. I was still glad of the help though. When the work ran out he moved his wagon a few miles to another common, where he had work helping with a barn conversion. Ideal for him, a village with a common, work and a pub. One very early morning someone on their way to work saw his wagon engulfed in flames. He was in it, burnt to a crisp. When I heard about it I was shocked, but I can't say I was surprised. Poor old Bugg, hopeless old Bugg, rest in peace mate.
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Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
Bugg
From time to time I need a little help at work, casual labour. Someone said Bugg was a hard worker, you'll find him in the Crown. Sure enough he was there, yes he'd be pleased to help, starting the next day. Bugg used to live in a house, but bought a painted gypsy wagon, horse and all to live an itinerant life. He kept moving on, from one village common to another. I collected him at first, and sure enough he worked well. He said he once met Rod Stuart in a bar and I had no reason to disbelieve him, still don't. He started using a motorbike to get to work. His time-keeping was, well, non-existent. He came out with excuses like there was a police car cruising nearby, so he had to stay put as his bike was not taxed or insured. So we had a little conversation about that, and I thought I had convinced him it would be worthwhile getting it legal. He concluded the discussion by saying that well, the police don't stop bikes much anyway. One day he showed up at about eleven. Later on I casually asked if there had been a reason for his late arrival. His disarming reply was a simple 'no, not really'. A nice enough fella, but I was beginning to get the measure of him. Instead of being paid at the end of the week, Bugg wanted his money daily. I realised he was spending each day's money in the pub every night. I was still glad of the help though. When the work ran out he moved his wagon a few miles to another common, where he had work helping with a barn conversion. Ideal for him, a village with a common, work and a pub. One very early morning someone on their way to work saw his wagon engulfed in flames. He was in it, burnt to a crisp. When I heard about it I was shocked, but I can't say I was surprised. Poor old Bugg, hopeless old Bugg, rest in peace mate.
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7
Today, I do not die for in our time we have seen too many taken Waken in me are their souls Today, I will not die for Frank, for Russell, for Betty June too soon, too soon, my friends Pay attention, I cannot cry for Jeffrey, for Paul, my first kiss named Ray They, who left amidst it all Would not wish me to shed a tear Be here, be here and know their names James, and Donny and Danny, the twins Great possibilities gone forever We, hardened more as each dropped off check off each name and know Nelson and Dean, Tony and Roy Arturo, whose own survival story was cut short Stuart, who never had his proper farewell Toned down tears may well up Still, do not give up for they watch us now How could they be forgotten? For Trashina with her unbridled moxie for John whose brilliance matched how foxy a paradox, never understood Whoever you've known Whoever you've loved, give undying respect as wrecked were their lives for ours to survive Out-and-out trials they saw Shall have my most undying respect My undying respect for them all
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Nov 30, 2018
Nov 30, 2018 at 7:01 PM UTC
My Undying Respect for World AIDS Day
A SOLDIER A man born from flesh and blood Ordered to **** with no regret As the giant cannon ***** fly, screams of terror hollow in the distance trenches In the blistering heat He trudges through the valley of lost souls Looking at death straight in the eye Knowing deep inside there is no surrender Adreline begins to pump through his veins with great heist The sharp splintered ammunition waiting to feed the hungry giant spring gadgets Waiting to rip flesh from bone Behind the trigger he lays analysing the ****** field before him He sees the paralysesd faces of small children, running towards him arms open wide His thinks what can I do He closes his tired eyes for a second, he runs screaming get down Nothing happens, blood starts to flow from his jagged wound He cries out for help lying in empty hole, as vultures fill the clouded sky He knows now his on his own As darkness prevails vanquishing the perfect light He lays his head down to sleep. Droplits of blood soak through morning mist the smell of burnt flesh fills the air He awakes from his deathly sleep to fight another day LARRY A STUART 09
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Feb 2, 2010
Feb 2, 2010 at 11:00 AM UTC
A SOLDIER
I told the swifts they’d got it wrong I watched them glide and dip and play The sky was of the richest hue Without a the slightest hint of grey But slowly as the day wore on The clouds began to blot the light And doubts began to fill my head Could the swifts have got it right? Of course they had, why even ask No confusion in their feathery heads The clues were plain, the signs were clear The rain would come, as soon as said And so it did, with lightening flash With thunderous roar and constant pound With drops the size of apricots To slake the tired and parch-ed ground. We mustn’t doubt our fellow creatures They feel things that we’d never sense Watch for signs and **** an ear And bow to Nature’s sapience. Stuart Williamson August 2016 ©
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Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 7:17 AM UTC
I Told the Swifts
WAR War and peace does it go, no one knows From legend to myths to worries of Thor Viking God of war What is war, does it have no meaning? Where sons and daughters are trained to fight a system, where governments fail to parade Where names of loved ones go to the grave Does war ignite the fire, to unfold the targets that we have become The exposure, the rapid response to destroy life our future Where authority is given to people who sit in style, as people die for a country that has deserted them No escape I am afraid, Who is to blame? L STUART 09
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Jun 11, 2010
Jun 11, 2010 at 11:51 AM UTC
WAR
Honey there’s a lot of things I’ll drink to Because a lot of things seem the same But I know when I’m in trouble Because you call me by my name I’m not much of a sun bather More a fighting man instead And when you get on my fighting side I’d rather stay home in bed Staring up at the ceiling Praying that I don’t die Or worse you’ll catch me first Instead of staring at the sky And topping up your tan Please don’t think it’s a shame It’s the life I love to live Drinking by other people’s names You can call me D or Hinton Or maybe something a little more out of choice It’s all the same really to me It’s only words put together by a voice But darling when your voice gets angry Whether we be drinking or playing cards That’s when your voice really hits me And the words come down oh so hard I could deal with you never calling me I’m just an outlaw you couldn’t tame But this lion turns into a mouse When I hear you call my name I just have this inkling, that the only time I’ll hear Daniel Stuart Hinton, per se Is when Jesus has his glorious Final judgement day Because you never ever call me And I really think I could deal with the pain But I know I’ve done something wrong When you call me by my name.
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May 27, 2012
May 27, 2012 at 10:22 AM UTC
You Never Call Me By My Name
RAIN FORREST'S WHERE HAVE YOU GONE Paradise on earth where have you gone Over the misted green mountains where you once grew Standing like ancient cathedrals bowering to the stars above Silo-wets dazzled in your crowded light Bashful colours of green fade to grey Saviors of the human race Where have you gone Fossilized from where you had come Has fire become your enemy, man your ruler Dust to dust you return Waiting for the perfect time to rise again LARRY A STUART 09
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Feb 2, 2010
Feb 2, 2010 at 2:29 AM UTC
RAIN FORRESTS WHERE HAVE YOU GONE
My life long friend Friendship which goes the distance We stand on the edge of the great abyss This last little bit we have to take alone. A life long friendship nourished and encouraged Learning from you how to love each and every one Learning what it means to be I and thou Heading downstairs for one more round Looking in the mirror Integrity or despair? It's all been there But this life is like jumping Into Tahoe on a warm summer day, And hitting mountain thawing snow You could do it I never could The naked fisherman in the Golden trout wilderness The Buddha on the road We stayed so young While we got so old Couldn't have done that Without you The ocean is still out there with your footprints in the morning sand Your molecules in the laps you swam The poetry of motion The healing brought All of this and nothing more Every day our friendship, a blessing In everyway.
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Feb 15, 2019
Feb 15, 2019 at 10:05 AM UTC
For my dear Stuart