"tills" poems
The head fuckery of societies rules.
The indoctrination in our schools
has led to the homeless on our streets while politicians count their seats.
The privileged few, too rich to mention
fail to reveal their true intention.
The NHS setup to break by psychopaths all on the take.
Big business stripped of all its gold,
no pension funds left for the old.
Big pharma, they don't miss a trick,
they're making you & I feel sick.
They push the pills that ring the tills
even though they know it kills.
With the best advice and greatest will
our kids are on **** & fentanyl.
While we're divided black & white,
we'd never stand up to their might
So take your neighbour, hold their hand and together we'll reclaim our land.
Poetry by Kaydee.
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 11:36 PM UTC
he is the guy who plants the rice corn and wheat
so each one of us has something to eat
at break of day he tills the many acres of land
for his harvest of food there is a great demand
he is the guy who milks the cows twice a day
to make the butter and cream for afternoon tea trays
shop sell these goods to people everywhere
his milking shed produces such fine fair
he is the guy who grows peaches and marrows
collecting them on tractors and in wheel barrows
he is dedicated to the pursuit of growing staples
which grace our kitchen and dining room tables
he is the guy that rarely gets much recognition
hard work he does and in all weather conditions
the man on the land provides our mouths with a feed
his vocation serves a community of need
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 5:18 AM UTC
Unwatch'd, the garden bough shall sway,
The tender blossom flutter down,
Unloved, that beech will gather brown,
This maple burn itself away;
Unloved, the sun-flower, shining fair,
Ray round with flames her disk of seed,
And many a rose-carnation feed
With summer spice the humming air;
Unloved, by many a sandy bar,
The brook shall babble down the plain,
At noon or when the lesser wain
Is twisting round the polar star;
Uncared for, gird the windy grove,
And flood the haunts of hern and crake;
Or into silver arrows break
The sailing moon in creek and cove;
Till from the garden and the wild
A fresh association blow,
And year by year the landscape grow
Familiar to the stranger's child;
As year by year the labourer tills
His wonted glebe, or lops the glades;
And year by year our memory fades
From all the circle of the hills.
3.2k
Knows he who tills this lonely field
To reap its scanty corn,
What mystic fruit his acres yield
At midnight and at morn?
In the long sunny afternoon,
The plain was full of ghosts,
I wandered up, I wandered down,
Beset by pensive hosts.
The winding Concord gleamed below,
Pouring as wide a flood
As when my brothers long ago,
Came with me to the wood.
But they are gone,— the holy ones,
Who trod with me this lonely vale,
The strong, star-bright companions
Are silent, low, and pale.
My good, my noble, in their prime,
Who made this world the feast it was,
Who learned with me the lore of time,
Who loved this dwelling-place.
They took this valley for their toy,
They played with it in every mood,
A cell for prayer, a hall for joy,
They treated nature as they would.
They colored the horizon round,
Stars flamed and faded as they bade,
All echoes hearkened for their sound,
They made the woodlands glad or mad.
I touch this flower of silken leaf
Which once our childhood knew
Its soft leaves wound me with a grief
Whose balsam never grew.
Hearken to yon pine warbler
Singing aloft in the tree;
Hearest thou, O traveller!
What he singeth to me?
Not unless God made sharp thine ear
With sorrow such as mine,
Out of that delicate lay couldst thou
The heavy dirge divine.
Go, lonely man, it saith,
They loved thee from their birth,
Their hands were pure, and pure their faith,
There are no such hearts on earth.
Ye drew one mother's milk,
One chamber held ye all;
A very tender history
Did in your childhood fall.
Ye cannot unlock your heart,
The key is gone with them;
The silent ***** loudest chants
The master's requiem.
2.4k
She swept the house;
Sorted through a chicken
To make a *** of soup;
Chopped vegetables,
Boiled another *** of
Vegetable soup;
Broke eggs
And made a quiche;
Drove to work
And balanced all the tills;
Returned home,
Washed the sheets
And pillow cases...
And then she bathed
And went to bed,
Certain that
Her house was clean,
And that
Her family would be fed.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 7:00 AM UTC
~for my dear, dear friend, T.R.
who tills the soil of Jordan’s Garden,
from which life springs eternal
<>
see your words, sent direct to my ears and all our mutuality of senses,
fingertips tasting the soil, the moisture, the granularity,
the chemical composition and the color, always the colors…
our gardens are our children, each similar but always,
unique, altogether different, altogether similar
how I love the how-work of it; how the soil, you, suckle each other
with nutrients of tears, Georgia heat, outcomes of
the summer produce(s),
a refresher course of memories, of frustrated endlessness
we see heaven only by looking down, you, me, on our hand and knee,
touching each plant by hand as if soft stroking a cheek of our children
in some spots, the ground unyielding, keeping its riches
stored for another day, only then, when it wills, offer up
its specialty - a surprise, a wind-blown in, seed sprouting
it so many different ways, the work gets harder, and yet,
more tender, more desirable and we do not wonder on it
for this the way, of planting, and planning human desires,
tempered by elements over which we relinquish a
sense of control, yet forever knowing, happily, renewal~marked by
the forever and ever on seasonality
of a rebirthing garden
that sustains
us
6/25/23
Jul 2, 2023
Jul 2, 2023 at 8:23 AM UTC
Knows he who tills this lonely field
To reap its scanty corn,
What mystic fruit his acres yield
At midnight and at morn?
In the long sunny afternoon,
The plain was full of ghosts,
I wandered up, I wandered down,
Beset by pensive hosts.
The winding Concord gleamed below,
Pouring as wide a flood
As when my brothers long ago,
Came with me to the wood.
But they are gone,— the holy ones,
Who trod with me this lonely vale,
The strong, star-bright companions
Are silent, low, and pale.
My good, my noble, in their prime,
Who made this world the feast it was,
Who learned with me the lore of time,
Who loved this dwelling-place.
They took this valley for their toy,
They played with it in every mood,
A cell for prayer, a hall for joy,
They treated nature as they would.
They colored the horizon round,
Stars flamed and faded as they bade,
All echoes hearkened for their sound,
They made the woodlands glad or mad.
I touch this flower of silken leaf
Which once our childhood knew
Its soft leaves wound me with a grief
Whose balsam never grew.
Hearken to yon pine warbler
Singing aloft in the tree;
Hearest thou, O traveller!
What he singeth to me?
Not unless God made sharp thine ear
With sorrow such as mine,
Out of that delicate lay couldst thou
The heavy dirge divine.
Go, lonely man, it saith,
They loved thee from their birth,
Their hands were pure, and pure their faith,
There are no such hearts on earth.
Ye drew one mother's milk,
One chamber held ye all;
A very tender history
Did in your childhood fall.
Ye cannot unlock your heart,
The key is gone with them;
The silent ***** loudest chants
The master's requiem.
1.6k
A warm glow radiates through the bones
that are usually filled with aches and groans
as I pass my place of birth.
The street screams my name by day
and whispers it softly when light has gone away
smell the air, smell the warmth rising from the earth.
The street entertainers of Portobello road
the cool saxophone, the sweet notes blown
the sound of a thousand footsteps.
The jugglers, magicians and the market stands
balancing, conjuring and selling their brands
the warm breeze scatter their scent.
Watch out for vagabonds and confidence tricks
souvenir shops serving countless tourists
the sound of a thousand tills ringing.
Eat in any language, speak in any tongue
dream of hustle and bustle and days long gone
still you can hear the street singing.
From Pembridge Road to Westbourne Grove
these streets tell me that I am home
they call me, repel me, thrill and destroy me.
This land that did bear me keeps willing me back
to walk it's streets and follow it's tracks
this land is the place I must be...
If I die, think only this of me,
through every pane of glass, behind every windowsill
there will always be a place called Notting Hill.
Aug 22, 2011
Aug 22, 2011 at 9:24 AM UTC
On the 12th day of Christmas
My troubles gave to me........
12 unpaid bills
11 ringing cash tills
10 packets of batteries
09 invites to parties
08 year olds a screaming
07 unwanted toys redeeming
06 packets of dog biscuits
05 unwanted parking tickets
04 overdrawn credit cards
03 strange looking leotards
02 forgotten to buy turkeys
And a garage for those car keys
Nov 29, 2010
Nov 29, 2010 at 3:03 PM UTC
piloted
plough tills the plot
overturns one season
for one of greater potential profit
Oct 26, 2022
Oct 26, 2022 at 10:31 AM UTC
Belly up to the
cannibal *** and feed, pig.
Be just like the rest.
Marrow in your teeth,
the flesh of your suckling brat.
You voted for this.
Your nose in the mud
tills up those pricey truffles,
while you eat your young.
Securitizing
your future derivatives.
Your fat on their plate.
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 2:34 PM UTC
Ding **** merrily oh my,
I hear the cash tills ringing
wondering what I'm going to buy
and what is Santa Bringing.
Gloooooooooooooooria
in Chelsea,
they're all singing.
Salvation army bands march past
trumpets at the ready
I was in the hostel once
the Sergeant Major fed me.
Gloooooooooooooooria
IN Chelsea,
they're all singing.
The elves are sat down in the bar
the reindeer are lunching,
accountants sat at home in fear
Christmas number crunching.
Gloooooooooooooooria
in Chelsea,
they're all singing.
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 11:49 AM UTC
How weird
I am here
and you don’t know it.
Sleeping they say,
in a better place.
George on my right
has been gone for years,
even the flowers all brown
gave up God knows when.
I wonder if you knew
your neighbours
before the batteries stopped.
Did Edith know Agatha?
Did Frank chat over the fence?
Chris was seventy-two,
moved here mid-nineties
when I couldn’t yet hold a pen.
Now just a name
on a slab of stone.
There’s a spot near a tree,
no stone no dirt.
I think ‘that’ll be fine,
a place by myself.’
I shake my head.
They’ll stick me
somewhere else.
These aisles go on and on,
one giant Tesco,
nobody at the tills.
If you could speak,
the stories I’d hear,
the chapters spilling out
like salt from a shaker.
But you can’t talk
and I can only walk past
and wonder how you went.
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 4:27 PM UTC
Arrested development,
life on hold.
Investment deterioration...
High Street trade goes cold.
Can we have our ball back mister?
Progress halted;
ambitions run dry.
Ineptitude personified
So up goes the cry…
Can we turn the clock back?
Lorry parks overrun,
trucking overspills,
paperwork’s not valid mate,
shortage at the tills.
Unemployment running rife... go on...
Can’t we just have another run at life?
Too many negatives
converging all at once.
Should’ve delayed departure
Covid, Brexit… Extend the talks!
Ineptitude • Handbrake turn before the exit?
No! This is like a yellow box so no!
Do not enter unless your exit’s clear!
Can we have our ball back mister?
Can we turn the clock back?
Can we have another run at life?
Too late goes up the cry… you’re disaffected.
Should’ve been better informed
by the people at the sharp end;
the people at the top…
Ever felt dejected... 1- 2 - 3 - 4...
take it from the top! No!
Can we have our ball back mister?
Can we turn the clock back?
Can we have another run at life?
Sorry say the throng…
we didn’t really mean them
to get it THIS bleeding wrong!
Dec 14, 2020
Dec 14, 2020 at 9:23 AM UTC
A seasoned spirit came to me and whispered through the vines
Said, come to me and you will see with otherworldly eyes
The grain was gathered up and stored in what you've built and kept
Although I've watched you walk away so many times, and wept
These walls are indestructible, the walls that house your heart
Surrounded by the higher things each time you fall apart
The ground will always move for you, the earth can only spin
But when the soil tills itself you'll turn to me again
I offer up a single cup of water for your needs
A colder finer sustenance, eternity exceeds
Continue on, September's sun has shined to keep you warm
The heat has changed October skies, compassion be adorned
And when the night is come anew remember what I said
A quiet hum, a gentle breeze, awaken sleepyhead
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 9:09 PM UTC
A lone plough tills a
moonless sky.
Votive seeds sewn once more
with ash-white dust
on February’s caustic,
elongated breaths.
Crows carry a portentous look.
Late August: we tied
six roses to the wall
with an expectant love
but faded blood
heralds nothing new.
©Thomas Gabriel
Feb 11, 2012
Feb 11, 2012 at 9:56 AM UTC
come choked up bled up fed up folks
and drink my robust brew my sweet Catawba
no, my sauterene or rock and rye
brush that musty blue off your cog stained collar
and stay a while
pay a while
two beers later when your tongue seethes dry
try my salt savored fish, my baked bean surprise
tilt your nostrils and inhale my dried herring
my free lunched ties really please the eyes
I’ll saturate your wet drawn gobs
like sand slips through sieves
teasing you by my strategic arrayed feast
until dollars are quenched out
by watering tongues that then dry the eyes
so come stand social where men may be men
enter through my wood swinging shut
-tered realm
and slug down your ticking inhibitions
gobble up this wonderful enterprise
and leave with that coat savored
by the mixed smell of sawdust, alcohol and cigars
hell, there’s no manners here
and class only exists in tolerance
for it feeds a fine exchange for a parcel of wage
to forget that day you bonded your body to your lady’s gaze
to forget the rascals of tots that teeth at you feet
to forgot the boss that tills your knees
so lets play mirror medley choose your poison
and chose it quick
this may be the Poor Man’s Retreat
but pocket less men make me tick
Sep 23, 2010
Sep 23, 2010 at 3:02 PM UTC
False mood enhancing pills and miscounted tills
Cracking windowsills and burning windmills
Long forgotten skills and justified kills
Overflowing landfills and spreading chemical spills
Freezing chills and oil-stained gills
Empty grills and shredded hundred dollar bills
Cheap family wills and expensive thrills
Broken Jacks and shattered Jills
All of these **** still.
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 8:48 PM UTC
The dinghy's bobbing helpless in the stream
The broken oars are futile 'gainst the force
The current pulling to the sea. The wind is blowing fro
Desperation searching for a course
And from the shore a shout, “Come on I'll save you
But you will have to pay a little fee
I don't want your money or possessions
All I want is you to think like me”
And from the other shore a darker voice
“I think you'll see this side is much more fun
All I want is never-ending gratitude
I can easily show you how it's done”
The wind was swirling, pressing on the dinghy
Pushing it from shore to rocky shore
Temptation to accept one or the other
Grew strong for fear of losing evermore
But wait, this dinghy's hull is sleek and smooth
Straight keel and mast above the haze
When sails are set it plays within the wind
Determined course to seas or sheltered bays
It's knowledge shapes the keel to slice the water
And courage 'gainst the storm to set the sails
And love that tills the rudder stays the course
With freedom jibe and tack among the perils
RC
Dec 24, 2018
Dec 24, 2018 at 11:01 AM UTC
My baby is a 45
she feels cool in my hand
their gonna listen to me
and obey my commands
She will get them to open the tills
my swag bags hurriedly they fill
then a couple from her voice will ring out
into the ceiling as I shout, stay down
Got my gun, don't want to loose it
I love the kick when I use it
I care for life like I care for me
I am a low life **** with no dignity
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 2:05 PM UTC
creeping madness slicks black and manic
spider high up on the wall
eyeballing me nervously, "who are you?
why are you stalling? whats come crawling back?
you know how this ends don't you?"
swift answers and an amniotic happiness installation.
speaking of stone, wired the lilies grow and the intrepid sank there was quite a stillness in the air.
sunken sand around my feet water cold and green.
out to meet the entity
her languorous form so ravenously tempting
so utterly repulsive and unspeakable.
looking for lights offshore
heretics of the unimaginable disciples of the moon
chemical ooze gels burns in the stomach
lit on up and walked out over the water.
after his peak, went heat seeking to the east and he ceased his babble easily, stuffing his mouth with pennies and bits of charcoal. we called him land-lubber and left him for said.
there is no part to this.
there is no heart in this.
blistering and out of control the fever spins.
wandering tills the level.
filtering cold and pushes me out into the yarns.
Feb 17, 2020
Feb 17, 2020 at 2:17 PM UTC
At least some will say: jolly good fun,
When civilisation crumbles, comes undone,
Enraged fish, a horrible toxic dish,
Who would have imagined, laughable,
That we could poison an ocean; truly!
But we will do just that; so very soon,
This ***** bites, consumers shall say,
Leaving the tills, oh, have a nice day,
This ***** bites back, nature cackles,
Unwary fools, shredding on her hackles,
And all will pay, every single one of us,
Protest all you like, march: kick up a fuss.
But you who ruined the sea, polluted the air,
Oh not me, you cry, voice filled with despair,
Yes you, ****** the land for all she’s worth,
Stinking parasites despoiling green Earth.
And when at last, we are all but done,
Through hazy smog, viewing a setting sun,
At least some will say: jolly good fun.
© Paul Chafer 2014
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC
this: when your stomach
hurts,
and you can't remember why you were ever happy and
nothing is really even important,
especially yourself;
and you just sleep because you can't cope
and the sky is so beautiful,
but you can't feel sun dripping on your skin,
and your bones are numb with electricity,
but it's just rubber,
and you can't do anything,
ANYTHING.
anything, because you're you and nobody else can be you,
and the world is there to look at, so full of pretty things,
but, why look?
and it doesn't matter if there's somebody or nobody
or everybody, by your side,
because it's just this permanent moment
when the sharpness in your body is a droplet:
it hits the ground and wrenches itself into shapes,
patterns that coalesce,
you are enraptured, the sight is burning
into your retinas the emptiness that is
being.
the glacier that is your soul tills white light and branches out,
this creature that is cold and full,
folly with soft ears and sharp teeth.
*****
patches of grass
the birds are landing in your branches now
congregational hazards
social anxiety
disillusioned, giving in
but you don't mind the rest, there's only:
-you're on earth, and
-she's a star, and
stellar beings never come closer.
not for a moment.
they enjoy all views, from afar;
witness your retching in a
sad spectrum slideshow
the bile spills out, tumbling
across the sidewalk made
out of her tied veins
she is no god
we are free
be empty
listlessly dragging stones
be empty
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC
It's always the poor folk who get dropped in it,init? and ain't that the truth,isit?It's
no wonder this country is lagging behind when all that you find are the youth who put more than the truth in the words that they use to confuse,like,
I was like init,wasit,yeah and she said,'get you, king for a day',d'ya get what I mean,d'ya see what I say and that's the problem with the country today,no one can understand the native language of this land.
I blame the teachers,the parents,street preachers,Tesco,Unesco,the allied mills,electronic tills and mostly these little blue pills which make me drawl and crawl across the unlined sheet until I meet the pen that meets my hand and makes me write about the language of the land.
Banned it should all be banned and we should speak in picture frames with names wrote out in jig sawed games and the youth should be seen but never heard,an absurd idea,another flawed plan for the youth will grow into the woman or man that we are,
never far from the truth are the youth of today,we should stop for a while and hear what they say,
but we won't and we don't because the truth's too close to home,so we'll gripe and we'll moan and understand even less,
c'mon fess up
you know that I'm right.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 8:56 PM UTC
a woman,
clad in green,
in the mountains
with
dull, deep forests
and soft, blue
hills,
tills in the
ground
with seeds
not
yet ripe
with
life
a bird
chirps a sharp
tune in the
wind
and
the woman
wipes away
sweat
from
her forehead,
looking upon
her work
with a
satisfied
smile
she seems to know
everything
without ever
seeming
scholarly
and
yet you
never doubt
her advice
even when it
seems unsound
or completely
uninformed
she is the peace
that this word has
to offer
her work in
the soil,
her faithful
commitment to
the land,
that is all we
can give you
without
asking for
anything
in
return
we don’t expect
a yes
or
a no
we only expect
you know her name
and respect her
as your true
mother
Mar 19, 2011
Mar 19, 2011 at 7:27 PM UTC