"tramp" poems
How beautiful is the rain!
After the dust and heat,
In the broad and fiery street,
In the narrow lane,
How beautiful is the rain!
How it clatters along the roofs,
Like the ***** of hoofs!
How it gushes and struggles out
From the throat of the overflowing spout!
Across the window pane
It pours and pours;
And swift and wide,
With a muddy tide,
Like a river down the gutter roars
The rain, the welcome rain!
* * * *
In the country, on every side,
Where far and wide,
Like a leopard’s tawny and spotted hide,
Stretches the plain,
To the dry grass and the drier grain
How welcome is the rain!
16.7k
one April dusk the
sallow street-lamps were turning
snowy against a west of robin’s egg blue when
i entered a mad street whose
mouth dripped with slavver of
spring
chased two flights of squirrel-stairs into
a mid-victorian attic which is known as
O ΠΑΡΞΕΝΩΝ
and having ordered
yaoorti from
Nicho’
settled my feet on the
ceiling inhaling six divine inches
of Haremina in
the thick of the snick-
er of cards and smack of back-
gammon boards i was aware of an entirely
***** circle of habitués their
faces like cigarettebutts, chewed
with disdain, led by a Jumpy
***** who played each
card as if it were a thunderbolt red-
hot peeling
off huge slabs of a fuzzy
language with the aid of an exclamatory
tooth-pick
And who may that
be i said exhaling into
eternity as Nicho’ laid
before me bread
more downy than street-lamps
upon an almostclean
plate
“Achilles”
said
Nicho’
“and did you perhaps wish also shishkabob?”
11k
Men give less value to a Promiscuous or immoral woman, and sometime she’s a victim not the circumstance, why do men hold less value to the hurt that is caused because they heard you get around or you trusted them with your secrets?
Some choose to pursue a faithless, unworthy, or idolatrous desire only to find out this person this ***** does have a heart and *** is not meaningless ,to scurry around and bounce from bed to bed giving disregard to the countless broken hearts laid by a path of deceitful pleasure should you be so lucky??
Who gives a **** about a ***** or ***** or ********** they’ll get over it, there used to it, does it not come with the job or there easy! Not always true even a ***** needs love or the ********** needs genuine affection.
Why do you not care enough to hold them and or ease their pain if their hurting as well ,defined love and what’s valuable to you ….I don’t care about her I hurt my family but you cared enough to slip your **** up in her …and or have it ****** !
****** have feelings too!
You took your time and played out the situation, found a vulnerable place to lay you head even enjoyed getting in between this WHORE's legs ,now you’re feeling some sort of way and she has to go because after all she’s a ***** and the pleasure was mutual, she was your refuge an open ear in your time of need ..But she still a *****
WHY bother??
written by Monica Chrisandtras Hines
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 5:00 PM UTC
The pockets of our greatcoats full of barley...
No kitchens on the run, no striking camp...
We moved quick and sudden in our own country.
The priest lay behind ditches with the *****
A people hardly marching... on the hike...
We found new tactics happening each day:
We'd cut through reins and rider with the pike
And stampede cattle into infantry,
Then retreat through hedges where cavalry must be thrown.
Until... on Vinegar Hill... the final conclave.
Terraced thousands died, shaking scythes at cannon.
The hillside blushed, soaked in our broken wave.
They buried us without shroud or coffin
And in August... the barley grew up out of our grave.
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Hello, Midnight
with your ragged stars
hidden behind clouds
Hello, Midnight
a tramp's salute
to restless thoughts
Hello, Midnight
a girl flashing her skirt
in the red light district
Hello, Midnight
calling with ******* & ket
at people's doors
Hello, Midnight
guarding the silence
in the dim suburbs
Hello, Midnight
whispering poems
to writers & poets
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 7:13 PM UTC
You are the ocean breeze
Gives breath to tired lungs
So soft and sweet you swirl the sea
Place troubled minds to ease
And protects from the scorching sun
You are the crystal sand
Between toes and there remain
If today I travel, ***** or trod
You hold fast no matter where I land
Fine and light like grounded grain
You are the water’s wave
So beautiful to watch thee
By God’s hand greatly, gently guided
Mesmerized I become a slave
Each thunderous crash I guarantee
You pull me further out to sea
You are the ocean breeze
May 11, 2011
May 11, 2011 at 8:02 AM UTC
She smiles with wounds hidden
Beaten by sticks
Thrown by stones
And yet she still remains the Queen on the Throne.
She is sometimes treated
as passing paper
blown by winds
that illuminate stains on streets
As his feet seek to *****
her cleansed soul within...
The baggage she carries.
The shades of burden she walks with.
The sorrow that she has married.
As she feel like dust
as it has no value
when it's wiped of valuable goods..
He enters her purse
as she is not obliged to
be taken advantage of
By him who played the characteristics
of a two-faced lover...
All thanks to lust.
The beauty of a woman
not appreciated.
All her struggles fail
to define her, but are then told
because they are the reason of
UBUHLE BENTOMBI!!
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 9:43 AM UTC
Sun swollen
reddening as it sank
that brutal ****** disc
scored by church steeples
and chimney stacks
almost lost in the drifting haze
of sulphurous yellow
and char-black smoke.
Duck boards dip
into the sodden earth
as men ***** along in conga lines
holding tight the pack of the man
in front, lest they should slip
lose quick their footing
be ****** down and smothered
by mud.
The walls of the tunnels
are packed earth
rich with blood and bone
bits and pieces of human
anatomy dangle and hang
as if posed by an artist
with a strange and cruel eye
for detail.
The scrabble for fox holes
and rough scraped ditches,
anywhere, below the line of fire.
The ting and whiz-bang
of a night of action
The whistle, the dash
and the forward push
counted more in men
than metres.
© M.L.Emmett
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 12:28 PM UTC
Milk!
MILK!
THERE IS NO MILK!
well I'm not
getting out of my pyjamas,
so the cat will have to go
..........
One p.m, a week's ***** dishes in the sink
mind like a bog
.....
& the new radio
doesn't work
.........
MILK!
THERE IS NO MILK!
.....
& I want my coffee
but my purse
has had enough
of spending sprees
a POUND it says?
YOU WANNA SPEND
A QUID?
You *****
You *****
Forget all about that!
You spent everything
on coffee yesterday, remember?
hanging out in posh cafes
& all for what?
There is no milk!
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 9:36 AM UTC
Little Barbie Doll,
oh, how you love to be played with!
So kind, you are,
to offer your services to all;
to not be sexist
or rude,
to not be selective
or specific.
Little Barbie Doll,
oh, how pretty you are!
So beautiful, you are,
with lashes so long;
to not be fake
or plastic,
to not be secretive
or allusive.
Little Barbie Doll,
oh, how active you are!
So mobile, you are,
you'll play anywhere;
to not be restrictive
or exclusive,
to not be immaculate,
or unblemished.
Little Barbie Doll,
oh, how I wish to be like you!
So perfect, you are,
with a reputation of a vamp;
to not be pure
or classic,
to be unclothed
and slatternly.
Little Barbie Doll,
oh, what a ***** you've become!
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 10:09 PM UTC
She smiles with wounds hidden
Beaten by sticks
Thrown by stones
And yet she still remains the Queen on the Throne.
She is sometimes treated
as passing paper
blown by winds
that illuminate stains on streets
As his his feet seek to *****
her cleansed soul within...
The baggage she carries.
The shades of burden she walks with.
The sorrow that she has married.
As she feel like dust
as it has no value
when it's wiped of valuable goods..
He enters her purse
as she is not obliged to
be taken advantage of
By him who played the characteristics
of a two-faced lover as he has entered her...
All thanks to lust.
The beauty of a woman
not appreciated.
All her struggles fail
to define her, but are then told
because they are the reason of
UBUHLE BENTOMBI!!
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 3:58 AM UTC
matter of respect
boss at me!
I will respect you
***** my rights!
I will respect you
disturb my peace!
I will respect you
trash my cause!
I will respect you
deny me speech!
I will respect you
teach me to lament!
I will respect you
think your self big
That is respect
Pure deception
That is respect
fool me
That is respect
destroy me
That is respect
exploit me
That is respect
you are righteous
That is respect
Take it upon my word!
In the near future, fate
will bring you to my
hands! familiar hands
And you will face the
music!
Mar 11, 2020
Mar 11, 2020 at 1:09 PM UTC
I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better
Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan, years ago,
He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him,
Just "on spec", addressed as follows, "Clancy, of The Overflow".
And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected,
(And I think the same was written with a thumb-nail dipped in tar)
Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it:
"Clancy's gone to Queensland droving, and we don't know where he are."
In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy
Gone a-droving "down the Cooper" where the Western drovers go;
As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing,
For the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know.
And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him
In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars,
And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,
And at night the wond'rous glory of the everlasting stars.
I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy
Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall,
And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, ***** city
Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all
And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle
Of the tramways and the buses making hurry down the street,
And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting,
Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless ***** of feet.
And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me
As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste,
With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy,
For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste.
And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy,
Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go,
While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal —
But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of "The Overflow".
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Truancy is a ***** with ***** stamps and skunky hair
her constant need to blow smoke up the ***** of those trying to try
is inconvenient at best, irresponsible at worst,
maybe amusing in the eyes of the elders.
Been there, done that
she rolls her eyes and pouts
slits her wrists with carnival glass
so she bleeds the multi-dimensional colors imperceivable to human eyes,
an entirely different color spectrum,
ultraviolet, super violent,
tasty and warm.
This young lady is no lady at all
just a little girl,
vulnerable and scared
and a total ****** *****
grabbing her ankles and thumping in dumpsters,
pretty little thing,
with scabs and gin
and cute little *** stains.
Leave her be,
this street walking angel
she never learned her lesson,
too swag for education.
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 10:20 PM UTC
the copper beech tree,
rooted over the road,
seems ageless though it has been,
there since Grandfather Time,
came from some unknown place,
and implemented his power,
into the land.
the copper beech tree,
hangs over the road,
the branches move,
like a body of
fine hair in the wind,
to and fro to and fro to and fro.
the copper beech tree,
still over the road,
sees all walks of life,
the scolding ***** the
busy mothers, the
mindless teens.
the copper beech tree,
watches us from over the road,
gazing into this silent home.
It knows, it realises,
It sees, it feels,
all the way down,
to its wise roots.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 3:57 PM UTC
Even before our first date
You make sure we have The Conversation
Heaven forbid I should mistake you for a man of honor
That I should have any expectation....
That you know how to treat me
As a friend .....or a lover
As a woman of substance
A lady not a *****
Your immaturity doesn’t surprise me
But until that moment that you showed your hand
I was willing to suspend my disbelief
To give you the benefit of the doubt
To let you set the bar higher
But you succeeded in lowering my expectations
Even further
Jun 21, 2018
Jun 21, 2018 at 3:53 AM UTC
A quaint little bazaar
In the heart of the town
Tells a story
Of a thousand moments
Dal Bazaar as they call it
Or "Curry Market" for others who don't know.
I have fragments of memorable memories
Deep within my mind
The smell
The intoxicating smell of spices
Blended with the quiescent yet cacophonous lives
Of Merchants and Beggars
Of Buyers and Sellers
Of Bullions and a single calloused rupia
In the hands of the old *****
The sunlight baking
Bags of turmeric.
Suspending the scent
In the minds of men.
Capering clouds of black and grey
And the sudden squall
Stirring the monotony
Of the customary.
The pirouette of rain
The one that excites the plainest of the plain
Painting the whitewash with shades of grey
The chalky walls
Dust
Moist corriander
And the relief of earth
Conciliating
So rewarding
For the ruins of the bare sun.
This flashback into my soul
Where all my senses seem to be so awake.
The feel of the wooden veranda
Scent so inexpressible
My eyes devouring the sunset
Tasting the heavens
Hearing it all.
Feeling it all.
Oh the plight of poets
The ritual to end a poem.
Painful.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 3:33 AM UTC
I know this vampire Clarence,
He is a hippy vamp,
He never wears dark cloaks,
Or wanders like a *****
This ghoul is non confomist,
His clothes are sunshine bright,
His fingernails are azure blue,
His favourite drink is sprite.
His blood comes from the blood banks,
He files his fangs twice weekly,
His friends are *** head hippies,
And , ****** he sleeps so sweetly.
He enjoys sleepovers with his girlie friends,
And loves to bathe in milk,
His coffin looks more like a scoobydoo van,
All covered with pink silk.
Im looking forward to halloween,
His parties are the best,
We boogie, all liquered up,
So next day, we can rest.
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 30, 2010 at 5:05 AM UTC
I have walked so many miles
Never in your shoes
I never seen many smiles
Never been the one on your lips
So many journeys always alone
Many places to go
Where I travel unknown
In these worn boots
In these worn boots I mark
The earth with my feet
God gave me a spark
So the earth I enflame
Every journey a mission
I walk with these boots
Some stop, and they listen
To the words I've carried
These boots are a gift to my feet
Many steps they have made
Whether dirt road or paved street
They make their mark
I could sleep while I walk
My boots know the way
They keep going, they never stop
It is a path ever-trod
Ever to encompass the earth
Until I walk home
To my humbled birth
Deep inside your heart
These boots I stomp at the door
Like a knock to the ground
I love you, do you know what for?
Because you gave me these boots
You knew I would always walk
And didn't want me to forget
You couldn't follow, wouldn't stalk
The person who let me go
Wanted me to remember, those times
You were my rest
You colored me between the lines
Now you carry me
With these boots on my feet
I will find a way
A way for us, again, to meet
At a crossroads
Intersectable, so connectable
Like Lego bricks
We are built, unbreakable
This love, unmistakable
I don't always like
What you have to say
Never will I strike
You, and walk away
A promise that comes from a past
A promise it is
A promise that will promise to last
My word.
So these boots continue
To carry promises
To walk, because I miss you
Just to be closer
Even if I never touch your heart
I know we
Are never far apart
Not in my head
Boots to ***** in the dirt
To find you
Boots to wear, when we flirt
Or any other time
Boots a map to my home
To find you, my love
So I will not be alone
Just me, and my boots
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 11:20 PM UTC
She remembers the day the stick turned blue, “wow for **** up the spout”
He remembers her smile when she told him. Smile, really?
Then there was telling her parents, “okay we'll make this work”
Then there was telling his parents, “You threw your scholarship away for this ***** you're a dumb ***
She remembers the morning sickness
He remembers the hangovers
She felt warm inside when he said it was her choice
He felt like dying when she said she was keeping it
She framed the first ultra sound photo
He deleted his Myspace page
She noticed the day she started showing
The same day he noticed the legs on the waitress
She was snickered at behind locker doors
He quit the team
Her mom brought home baby shoes
His mom circled the classifieds
She got peanut butter cravings
He got hand gun cravings
It's a girl
It's a girl
She remembers finally talking again after four months
He remembers being cornered after 3rd period
She wanted to pick names
He wanted to hang up
She remembers their second first date
He remembers how nice she was
This could really work please kiss me goodnight
We'll see how this goes please don't kiss me
The doctors say the shadow on the ultra sound could be nothing
What if the thing on the picture is something
She prays for the health of Amelia
He begs God to do something about this
They have such a bright future ahead
He had such a bright future ahead
She goes to Goodwill for maternity clothes
He rings her up at the cash register with a kiss
She remembers buying baby clothes at the mall
He remembers how cute the onesies were
She sees him smile
Amelia...good name
She's due next week
He packs his cleats to make room for the crib
She packs to move into his house
His dad packs for a motel
She's still craving peanut butter
He's still craving the waitress
She ate peanut butter
He ate the waitress
She's in labour
He's in traffic
Hold my hand
Ouch...Okay breathe honey...ouch
There's no crying
Nice, quiet baby
Amelia's dead
I'm not a father
She cries into her shirt
He leaves the hospital
She cries into the onesies
He returns the crib to Wal Mart
She burns the ultra sound photos
He grabs his cleats
She gets a hair cut
He quits his job
She returns the diapers and shower gifts
His new Myspace says “single”
She shops for a prom dress
The waitress finds out he's seventeen
Her mom hugs her as she falls asleep
His dad pats him on the back after wind sprints
She can't stop starring at him during prom
He wonders if she went to prom
She writes Amelia in bubble letters on a piece of paper she hangs on her wall a reminder of what's important
He buys a Costco pack of condoms and tacks one to the wall a reminder of what's important
Jan 4, 2010
Jan 4, 2010 at 10:17 AM UTC
Cleopatra, Cleopatra
take down those fangs of yours
for while you're mad all Egypt cries
oh, will you leave us all alone
Loved alike by loosers and champs
both snow and rain
twain king and *****
We yield Cleopatra, Cleopatra
oh, please leave us alone
Fire to the heart
a glacial wind to the brain
the honest is vanquished
the poor is slain
No more Cleopatra, Cleopatra
now let us drop the arms.
Sep 19, 2015
Sep 19, 2015 at 7:11 PM UTC
I shall go away
To the brown hills, the quiet ones,
The vast, the mountainous, the rolling,
Sun-fired and drowsy!
My horse snuffs delicately
At the strange wind;
He settles to a swinging trot; his hoofs ***** the dust.
The road winds, straightens,
Slashes a marsh,
Shoulders out a bridge,
Then --
Again the hills.
Unchanged, innumerable,
Bowing huge, round backs;
Holding secret, immense converse:
In gusty voices,
Fruitful, fecund, toiling
Like yoked black oxen.
The clouds pass like great, slow thoughts
And vanish
In the intense blue.
My horse lopes; the saddle creaks and sways.
A thousand glittering spears of sun slant from on high.
The immensity, the spaces,
Are like the spaces
Between star and star.
The hills sleep.
If I put my hand on one,
I would feel the vast heave of its breath.
I would start away before it awakened
And shook the world from its shoulders.
A cicada's cry deepens the hot silence.
The hills open
To show a slope of poppies,
Ardent, noble, heroic,
A flare, a great flame of orange;
Giving sleepy, brittle scent
That stings the lungs.
A creeping wind slips through them like a ferret; they bow and dance,
answering Beauty's voice . . .
The horse whinnies. I dismount
And tie him to the grey worn fence.
I set myself against the javelins of grass and sun;
And climb the rounded breast,
That flows like a sea-wave.
The summit crackles with heat, there is no shelter, no hollow from
the flagellating glare.
I lie down and look at the sky, shading my eyes.
My body becomes strange, the sun takes it and changes it, it does not feel,
it is like the body of another.
The air blazes. The air is diamond.
Small noises move among the grass . . .
Blackly,
A hawk mounts, mounts in the inane
Seeking the star-road,
Seeking the end . . .
But there is no end.
Here, in this light, there is no end. . .
3.1k
On my way home from work
I passed by a *****
In a tent-sized, plain orange t-shirt.
It was forever-stained
With fossilised fluids;
A chest cavity of spilt milk,
And subsequent tears.
A double-take took me
To the green and brown keratin
That dragged relentlessly over concrete.
His sloth paws were protesting
Every step of grey existence,
In the colourful expanse of new morning;
They were clawing the ground
And submitting to gravity.
He looked right on through me,
Through everyone and everything
As if part of a hologram
That was no happier, but at least
Apart. I re-count his limbs to ensure
Whether he is even human anymore.
I surmise: only partially.
He milks his palms whenever possible
To heal the cracks of wind exposure
And old substance abuse.
This was no doorstep lounger;
He was a stray cat with no freedom,
And only washed his hair when it rained.
Then, as I later adjust my mask
In the foggy bathroom mirror,
Mind preoccupied with dissertations,
Affectations and payment schedules,
I realise that it is I who has lost my humanity.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 2:34 PM UTC