"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.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 12:33 PM UTC
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
May 17, 2012
May 17, 2012 at 11:24 PM UTC
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
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 5:44 AM UTC
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.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 12:26 PM UTC
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.
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 10:31 AM UTC
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.
Feb 2, 2012
Feb 2, 2012 at 9:14 PM UTC
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.
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 5:29 AM UTC
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
Aug 21, 2010
Aug 21, 2010 at 12:59 AM UTC
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.
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 10:59 PM UTC
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
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 2:31 PM UTC
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.
Mar 18, 2012
Mar 18, 2012 at 4:18 AM UTC
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.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 1:42 PM UTC
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»
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 9:01 PM UTC
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.
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 11:28 AM UTC
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
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 4:06 PM UTC
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.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 8:24 AM UTC
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.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
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
Nov 30, 2018
Nov 30, 2018 at 7:01 PM UTC
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
Feb 2, 2010
Feb 2, 2010 at 11:00 AM UTC
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 ©
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 7:17 AM UTC
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
Jun 11, 2010
Jun 11, 2010 at 11:51 AM UTC
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.
May 27, 2012
May 27, 2012 at 10:22 AM UTC
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
Feb 2, 2010
Feb 2, 2010 at 2:29 AM UTC
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.
Feb 15, 2019
Feb 15, 2019 at 10:05 AM UTC