"tweed" poems
I say unto you with a sniveling snarl,
Will you go on and be friends with an owl?
Why, YES! I said boldly with a pompety grin
My new owl friend will be lucky and win!
He will hoot and toot a most beautiful song
He will win a singing contest and sing all day long
We will take all his winnings and spend it on mead
We'll sing, drink and be merry, indeed!
we'll capture a horse and dress it in tweed
then ride to the sunset on our horse named, "Sardine!"
Sardine might get hungry so we'll feed him some hemp
We'll lay down to rest on a bed that's unkempt
We'll wake in the morning to see Sardine's fate
Sardine has died from starvation this date
The sorrow we feel is so hard to beat
So opon his flesh we started to eat
w'ell pair it with taters all mashed in a pan
we'll eat up our dinner as fast as we can
but hold on a second, how silly are we!
We tripped on some mushrooms we found on a tree!
our minds started swirling and twirling; so dizzy!
my owl friend shrieked and then started to tizzy
he gouged out my eyes and laughed at my pain
I fell to the ground and made peace with my name
for I never did say from whence I came
cause stories like this are not easy to tame
I lay here in misery, my friend's not to blame
It's all in my head, this silly word game
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 12:48 PM UTC
'Neath canopy of paradise
Super troupers' shafts of light
Illuminate his terpsichore;
***** he struts, the impresario
Gyrating on spindle shanks;
Needle thin and knock-kneed
He dances a samba
On stage of verdure;
Midst Elvis blue-black thrusts,
Steel rimmed amber orbs
Seek admiring and desirous glances
From the dour drab hen,
Mousy in her beige twin set
And mottled tweed skirt;
With nonchalant disinterest she exits
The arena; audition over.
Jun 24, 2010
Jun 24, 2010 at 11:40 AM UTC
See the various Poems the scene of which is laid upon
the banks of the Yarrow; in particular, the exquisite
Ballad of Hamilton beginning—
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow!
From Stirling castle we had seen
The mazy Forth unravelled;
Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travelled;
And when we came to Clovenford,
Then said my “winsome Marrow,”
“Whate’er betide, we’ll turn aside,
And see the Braes of Yarrow.”
“Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,
Who have been buying, selling,
Go back to Yarrow, ’tis their own;
Each maiden to her dwelling!
On Yarrow’s banks let her herons feed,
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow!
But we will downward with the Tweed
Nor turn aside to Yarrow.
“There’s Galla Water, Leader Haughs,
Both lying right before us;
And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed
The lintwhites sing in chorus;
There’s pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land
Made blithe with plough and harrow:
Why throw away a needful day
To go in search of Yarrow?
“What’s Yarrow but a river bare,
That glides the dark hills under?
There are a thousand such elsewhere
As worthy of your wonder.”
—Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn;
My True-love sighed for sorrow;
And looked me in the face, to think
I thus could speak of Yarrow!
“Oh! green,” said I, “are Yarrow’s holms,
And sweet is Yarrow flowing!
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
But we will leave it growing.
O’er hilly path, and open Strath,
We’ll wander Scotland thorough;
But, though so near, we will not turn
Into the dale of Yarrow.
“Let beeves and home-bred kine partake
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow,
The swan on still St. Mary’s Lake
Float double, swan and shadow!
We will not see them; will not go,
To-day, nor yet to-morrow;
Enough if in our hearts we know
There’s such a place as Yarrow.
“Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!
It must, or we shall rue it:
We have a vision of our own;
Ah! why should we undo it?
The treasured dreams of times long past,
We’ll keep them, winsome Marrow!
For when we’er there, although ’tis fair,
’Twill be another Yarrow!
“If Care with freezing years should come,
And wandering seem but folly,—
Should we be loth to stir from home,
And yet be melancholy;
Should life be dull, and spirits low,
’Twill soothe us in our sorrow,
That earth has something yet to show,
The bonny holms of Yarrow!”
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They squirm inside their clothes
tweed, chiffon tiered skirts, and bows
of their grandmothers’ sepia, halcyon days
with lumberjack flannel and Kerouac quotes,
but it’s more a matter of age than size,
these charging, listless, candid creatures
with hairstyles that can only be described
as gravity readily defied and self-cut,
frequently dyed to shades that swing
between black coffee and New York poetry
deep imagism and social realism against the backdrop
of American Apparel ads on scratched up Macs.
They slouch up and down trafficked Newbury,
dropping names like Morrissey and Bukowski
pausing now and then to pick up on the ennui
of twenty-three, and how they will one day live la vie
Dharhimian, running on American Spirits,
James Dean, Truffaut chic,
a monthly check from their parents,
an apathetic sneer at holding anything too dearly
and how they hate that word—hip-ster.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 6:44 PM UTC
Well, what a week, full of revelation
Enough to stir this talk of revolution
Makes your hackles turn on end
Then send you round the bend
The southern gentry have found oil
Right beneath their derriere boil
Now most of us on this golden isle
Need not worry about this pile
Those who wear weekend country tweed,
Built their fortunes from housing greed
Have already decided
That it will be one sided
They’ll say it’s theirs, by rights
And if we argue, will read our last rites
The South will declare independence
In certainty of their full ascendance
Over the outer reaches of this nation
They pounded into servitude, by taxation
And if we have the nerve to debate, I’ll be bound
They’ll leave it horded in the ground,
Then blame the anti frackin’ hound
Now I may need a political re - education
In a 1984 establishment for rehabilitation
But I can see it coming a five-nation island
Southland, Wales, Scotland, N. Ireland,
And the Detritus
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 5:27 PM UTC
Fareweel to a’ our Scottish fame,
Fareweel our ancient glory;
Fareweel ev’n to the Scottish name,
Sae famed in martial story!
Now Sark rins over Solway sands,
And Tweed rins to the ocean,
To mark where England’s province stands—
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!
What force or guile could not subdue
Thro’ many warlike ages,
Is wrought now by a coward few,
For hireling traitor’s wages.
The English steel we could disdain,
Secure in valour’s station;
But English gold has been our bane—
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!
O, would or I had seen the day
That treason thus could sell us,
My auld grey head had lien in clay
Wi’ Bruce and loyal Wallace!
But pith and power, till my last hour,
I’ll mak this declaration:
We’re bought and sold for English gold—
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!
2.4k
after witty humour, which spawned slapstick... slapstick can only spawn the last of the known humours... the offensive type, the 'get me out of this straithjacket of everything's fine apathy,' the ugly humour... rude humour... i take oaths humour... i rather write a swear word to oil up than degrade myself with thesaurus usage humour.
why is poetry such a ***** of coding
daily activity...
who needs poetry if the everyday is intact?
atheism didn’t **** god...
it merely killed the logic of myth....
atheism is far worse than mythology...
it just regurgitates facts
to make you submit to them
without the necessary philosophical awe of
finding them interesting...
poetry isn’t dead... it’s a *****
which is worse than death where i come from...
there’s ezra with his fountain comparison:
‘i ****** in it... and put pigmenting chlorine in it -
you **** in it... streaks of blue... i think
that’s called cubism in france.’
did i say alcoholism was engineered by the nazis
for the bomb sarcasm?
cheap humour you say... ah well slapstick was invented
after sarcasam...
i heard the new best anti-ageing cream was butter rather than l’oreal -
there are too many stages in the differences of women,
i quite like the summer spring autumn winter thing going...
it’s like this thing that’s happening right now...
christian nations censor words... like **** cultish **** of the brothel...
and islamic nations invoke words... like kefir (sour milk,
not quite youghurt), dawah... adhan salat abraham...
one party censors words for excess *****
saying: ‘we don’t like swear words in accomplished spelling,
we like dyslexia and **** teen **** graphic...’
sounds about right...
the other party says: ‘we hate censoring ***** words,
that’s doubly censoring,
censor ***** words get more dirt out of it...
we invoke the power of arabic to teach koran latin for
the knobs!’
problem sorted... we’re all power brokers of spelling /
punctuation / arithmetic -
that’s what i don’t get,
the ratio of the two languages...
all you have in the digits A to Z is spelling and punctuation...
but what you have in the digits ZERO to NINE
is so much more...
is grammar a castle that’s keeping certain functions out?
in mathematics you have +, x, obelisk, -, square root, etc.
but in linguistics you have this permament reminder:
SPELL RIGHT FROM WRONG AND RITE FROM THONG.
well... ****** me timbers...
i think i just spotted a lumberjack chequers tweed jacket.
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 8:49 PM UTC
the soul of a writer can be found
in words
s cr
ib
b led on
crumplednapkins -- like horcruxes--
when sleep feels like a far off dream (when people watch you, wondering if you are strung out on coke while you scratch words on these thin sheets of paper in restrauntsbarscoffeshops
half
mad
eyes glassy)
in discernible handwriting comparable
to some
primitive
hieroglyphics-- a language of voices in your head and dreams too vivid
they can be found on the backs of hands
and journals
and popcornbags
when nightlights are too dim in the early hours of insomnia
and moonlight is obscured by curtains
in drinks like london fogs
and ***** chais
and black coffee
and black tea
in packs of empty
American Spirits
and half-full (empty) gas tanks
and piles of books that will never be read that will be re-read and quoted
and tweed scarves and
empty journals and chipped nail polish
in dead pens and phones
in unanswered texts, emails, messages
and unrequited love
their souls can be found in the
stained
bottoms of coffecups
and sticky shot glasses
and wine glasses (some still half full of cheap
redwhitezinfadel
because rent is hard to pay
when no one wants to
read words
scribbled on the back of a napkin
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 10:03 PM UTC
You're here today in your spot
Where the footpaths cross
And a little to the left
Under those tall trees
On a patch of flat earth.
Across the grass to the right
The old Plane, magnificent
In structure spreads branches
Like a globe of lightest green
Catching the glittering sun.
Your easel, an old brown relic
With leather carrying handle
Held together by a strap
Carries your canvas and paints
Whilst you wear a tweed cap.
And what I like, standing back
To watch, is the quiet consistency
Of observation; two living forms
Joining in the imagination
To create beauty and truth.
Love Mary
Mar 28, 2018
Mar 28, 2018 at 10:45 AM UTC
There he waits,
the Nice Guy,
looking academic
and out of reach
in his tweed.
There's something
feminine in the way
he crosses his legs,
draping right over left in the fainting chair.
There you are, across from
him, at this party your
roommate dragged you to.
And you ask how he is.
He ushers you to his chair.
Sit down, sit down. I insist.
You know, he says. Most people
would tell you they're good or just fine.
The Nice Guy reassures you he is
not most people. He's a Nice Guy;
he's down with feminism, waves
One through Three.
He has a dog named Atticus.
They frequent open-air bars
in the summer.
He's a Nice Guy, an old soul,
someone who should have been
a young man in the 60s.
God, he has so many female friends
he tells you, leaning on the banister,
sipping on Glenfiddich.
You wonder how he is. This was your question.
He has so many female friends. Notice
how I'm stressing the word friends, he says.
I do, you say.
He's a Nice Guy and all these female friends
they're all the same. They love the bad boys,
the rich snobs, the ******* jocks.
I don't, you say.
Oh, sure you do, he Nice Guy-splains to you.
And there's a golden light coming from the chandelier
behind him, and he looks so holy and pure as he tells
you how one day Tara, Sam, Whitney, and Amber
will wake the **** up and realize just what they're missing.
But by then, this Nice Guy will have rambled on. He'll become
someone's second husband. A Good Woman will see how precious, how rare this Nice Guy truly is.
Okay, you say.
Prove me wrong, the Nice Guy says. He leans in closer.
You can smell the scotch. Prove me wrong.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 1:21 PM UTC
Hear the languished drip of water
See the velvet grass in glade,
Beech trees stilled in chill of morning
Textured blend of contrasts made.
Still, I crouch, in rough tweed jacket
Brown brogues scuffed and fern in hair
Whiskers twitch as rabbit pauses
Rifle aimed at bright eyed stare.
Moment freezes animation
Breathless in the misty pall,
Shocking bang as bullet flies
Blue smoke masks the writhing fall.
Silence caps a deathly moment,
Crunching steps retrieve the game,
Swinging for the breakfast kitchen
Roasted rabbit in the frame.
M.
Foxglove farm
Taranaki
Nov 27, 2018
Nov 27, 2018 at 11:16 PM UTC
Walking up the rickety stairs,
Patchouli and cigarette smoke
combat for supremacy
Before I even reach the door,
and I step through to see
The everyday undead scattered on the thick carpet like so many corpses blown out of Wednesday Addams' haunted dollhouse.
Maybe it wasn't wise to come.
A cd player informs me that, indeed,
Bela Lugosi's dead,
And I cautiously move into the living room.
Ruby lips and ivory faces emerge from the gloom,
Incurious glances marking my progress
As an acolyte guides me to the Queen of the festivities
Holding court in a corner of the living room.
Her waist-length silver-gilt hair and damp skin like fresh camellias gleam in the candlelight,
A studded black goblet brimming with Jack Daniels
Is handed to her,
A token of homage she eagerly welcomes
while nodding me forward.
Whispers behind me tell her story,
Of how she's seen a thing or two in her time,
And why her flat stare and Theda Bara smile give glimpses of her bottomless occult wisdom.
As her slim fingers play with a knotted black necklace,
She considers me long before finally declaring,
--"My God, you're an old soul"--
And she pats the cushion next to her,
An invitation to drink deep and close of her dark knowledge.
A cup of something unknown is pressed into my hand
and I sip, hanging onto every arcane word she utters.
Night slowly fades into dawn
and I wake cold and stiff from a kitchen floor sleep
only to see the Queen buttoning the cuffs on her white poplin shirt.
Smoothing her tweed skirt, she steps into her pumps,
Grips her cup of coffee,
And with a cheery wave, leaves for work.
Oct 19, 2020
Oct 19, 2020 at 3:42 AM UTC
A chair in the corner sits huddled with the shadows,
while a second chair lowers itself by the door.
A window between the chairs hangs silently on wall,
as the curtains whisper with the wind outside.
Towards the left of the window is a shrunken bed,
with bedposts like redwoods and the body of a willow.
On the bed is a bundle of fabrics and tweed,
twisting and spinning amongst eachother.
Joining the first chair is a spindly wooden table,
with wobbly fingers and with only three legs.
The top of the table is clustered with trinkets,
pinecones from Alaska and feathers from Pompeii.
Littering the floor are denims and glass,
clothing and pieces of vases strewn under the door.
Thrown under the second chair is a pair of old shoes,
weathered and worn and left to die.
On the walls with the window is doodles and sheets,
drawings of childhood tapped in the space.
Paintings on the plaster are dusted with flakes,
burdens of memories of past and future.
In the center of the room stands a coat stand of mahogany,
standing tall and strong in the ruins of its lost kingdom.
Unaware of what goes on outside of his window,
all he knows is the dust and objects trapped with him in the room.
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 4:08 PM UTC
A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain,
Nor of the setting sun’s pathetic light
Engendered, hangs o’er Eildon’s triple height:
Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain
For kindred Power departing from their sight;
While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain,
Saddens his voice again, and yet again.
Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners! for the might
Of the whole world’s good wishes with him goes;
Blessings and prayers in nobler retinue
Than sceptred king or laurelled conqueror knows,
Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true,
Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea,
Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope!
1.5k
I know it inside me
And I can feel it
Everyone has it to some degree
A beauty about them
Everyone will be loved
Everyone finds someone
To love them
But I haven't found him
So much lust
From men with the wrong beauty for me
I feel just like them
Looking for the one
I want to love
But it's not returned
It's never returned
I can't wait
I can't wait
Is he brown-haired and tweed?
Is he a four-eyed blond?
Is he full of confidence?
I have so many hopes and crushes
Crushed
Is he perfect or almost perfect?
Or one of those men with the wrong beauty?
Will I settle?
No, I won't back down.
I'm an idealist so I won't back down.
You can't make me settle
Like they did in 1391.
You can't make me settle
Like they did in 1391.
You can't make me settle.
Like Erin Everly.
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 4:08 PM UTC
She sent a package
tied in this biege tweed cord.
It turned out to
be a picture of you two
at the lake,
that day it was cold
and she wore that beanie with the flames,
her hair all curly and escaping,
your lips all red and chapped.
A folded note tucked on the inside
of the frame reads:
"I have Connie,
**** you
Love always,
smiley-face,
smiley-face
smiley-face,
smiley-face,
me."
Connie: your/her rat terrier.
You put the picture
in its black frame
on the tv table.
The tweed
you nail
to two spaced planks
on the wall above the tv.
It's like abstract
modernist-expressionist-
constructionist-art.
It's just one string.
A taut cord
of brown tweed.
The black night comes,
over and over,
over and over,
she doesn't return,
but the tweed remains
as taut as a fingernail
or an exposed artery.
Somehow
it's so human and obstinate
that the woven vertebrae
seems to curve minutely
and femininely.
As time passes,
the tweed moves
from beige
to golden
and gravitational.
A call to a friend goes something like this:
"Come over here, I've got this amazing thing on my wall."
The friend, Eric,
calls more friends.
The friends come over,
all piling around this golden tweed
after they've taken stock of the kitchen
and Wild Turkey.
They take turns
plucking it,
thumbing it,
putting their ears to it,
and studying it,
all
at your insistence.
Somebody,
******* Eric,
coughs in the room.
More people begin to cough.
Eric walks up
to the the string,
that is nailed at top
and bottom
on two spaced planks.
Eric gives it a final hard tug,
snapping it like a belt.
the tweed hums and shivers off a few flakes
of dust and amber material.
"I've just wasted five minutes
with this thing,"
Eric says
to the string,
and you.
Eric speaks for the group.
He turns and leaves,
taking the whole group of
twenty
with him.
They trail behind Eric
like a great, long tail
flicking
and knocking things over
in your apartment
out of sheer agitation
on the way out.
The golden gravity subsumes you.
You do not close the door behind them,
you can't even hear their tiny, black voices
as they all clamor into the elevator
and ding.
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 11:30 PM UTC
Regular as clockwork
the spotters gather there
binoculars and notebooks
as up the track they stare
assembled on the platform
with all the day to spare
they put the world to rights
and wait without a care
clad in finest anorak
tweed caps are in this year
their fleecy inners covering
heads once thick with hair
Every day I see them
sometimes just a pair
shuffling on the concrete
sometimes with a chair
Pensions less than peanuts
Blame young Tony Blair
But everything forgotten
at sight of one thats rare
Life is breathed to tired legs
nostrils start to flare
sweaty palms note hastily
with eager thank you prayer
And oh the day the Queen came
They stood in open air
and cheered to see that engine
sweep in with royal flare
I'll not be hear to watch you
From comfy office chair
From now on I'll be missing
But I know you'll still be there
Jan 24, 2010
Jan 24, 2010 at 9:50 PM UTC
the snow falls sincerely sorry,
like a pale yellow skirt at the foot of your bed-
i always said, "i didn't mean it".
but i meant it.
it's that time of the year,
where you'll wrap yourself in wool and leathers,
in hopes no one will feel just how cold you truly are,
but i can feel it.
you drink your whiskey straight,
yet feel too inhumane to rest your lips on the same bottle
as the only people who've ever loved you drink from.
your glass gets frosty.
you blow hot, pungent air between your teeth like steam,
in hopes we'll see you as some frightening machine,
instead of how you really are when you forget
that you should be holding up your fashionably unfashionable walls.
you're just another washed up actor,
who somehow lost the ability to differentiate between being on-set,
and being alive.
so you lie.
frantically,
frivolously,
and frusterated,
that nobody you trust can trust you to be you.
the scenes that you build get muddled and confused,
rendered too busy by your lack of attention
and over-use of the exact same hues.
you used to seem so beautiful,
until i found your pallet
under your worn-down mattress...
you only paint with grey.
oh, how you tried
to hide the colors that i am under a tweed cloak of comfort ability,
but i don't fade,
and i most certainly do not run.
i change every day,
and when i begin to hate the direction that my masterpiece is heading in,
i change course entirely.
i abandon the compass,
and the guide books,
and stampede across the pages,
until i become the new and improved version of who i was yesterday.
stop pretending,
and just be.
you wear your "fight" face everyday,
as if you may have to chase a pride of giggling hyenas away
at any given moment.
put down your knife and act right,
no one here wants to hurt you.
you hurt me,
you tried to hide me,
and you lied to me.
still,
all i want to do is teach you.
teach you to let go of your charade,
to embrace the life you've made,
and how to paint the sunset as a sunset-
not a eulogy.
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 3:16 PM UTC
THE PONIES IN SNOW PARK
Under flapping green and white awnings
On a wide Toronto street I feel your gloved hand on my tweed coat.
You are cold. We run. It is one o'clock, winter afternoon.
Waiting for the car to warm up we touch mouths and tongues.
This is what I always wanted. We are young. We are wearing
Our favourite clothes. The green and orange plastic pennons
Of the service station slap in the wind. The ponies stand
Far away, at the edge of the woods in Snow Park.
Some bear their share of the burden of the meaning of life
More easily than others. I know that
When you are alone you must build walls
And figure ways to smash them down.
I know how some mouths opened over you
Like Borgia rings over a wineglass, and how, therefore, it was
Hard for you to abandon the problem many of us loved:
How can I avoid doing harm; how can I avoid harm?
Out of the changes in human emotion,
Out of the changes in faces and lives,
You took the power to do with me what once
You might have done for sadness, or for love, alone.
Our shape refuses depression.
I point at birds. There is music on the radio.
I grin and hug. A few silver minutes now
Of ponies, music, dull orange breast feathers.
Paul Anthony Hutchinson
This poem was published in WAVES
[email protected]
Copyright Paul Anthony Hutchinson
www.paulanthonyhutchinson.com
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 11:01 PM UTC
Oh, my cherished-
If I could give you him
I'd wrap him in picnic plaid
Like the gift he should be
(I know you'd like that)
And I'd tie him to you by
his tweed and sheepish smiles,
so tight that you'd turn into
a Great Ancient Tree.
Darling, if I could
shake the demons out of your forest,
I'd holler at them in a pentatonic fury
and bend them from your nation.
(With air. Not fire)
My Siamese twin,
connected at the heart,
If I could give you the world
I'd carry it to you
like Atlas
though I'd have to work on my long distance running.
I'd do it for you.
I'd do it a hundred,
and bring you all the jam ever jellied.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 9:27 PM UTC
I remember very little.
A hug of tweed
a porcelain sparrow.
Everything burns like a cigarette,
but you tasted better.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 2:37 PM UTC
july 16 2011
the air stuck to my skin,
clinging for life,
grasping for adhesion.
the cool, night air making minuscule mountains rise all across my arms.
we were far from alone,
yet all i could possibly be aware of was you.
feeling my head roll back onto the tweed, orange sofa, i looked up through the roof windows of the teepee.
i began to count and trace the stars,
only to steady my rapid heartbeat and abrupt breathing.
the breeze picks up and suddenly penetrates deep into my core,
sending out waves of shudders throughout my entire body.
shaking like a dandelion in a windstorm, you invite me closer and closer,
you can see the look of hesitation in my eye,
you understand it;
you feel it too.
ignoring your instincts, you envelop my frigid torso in your warm, big arms.
finally settling in, the others begin to disperse,
one by one,
until only we remained.
the beauty of this mid-july night was apparent,
and, all tucked away,
we laid there for hours
listening
intently
to the bullfrogs, to the crickets,
to the sound of the waves from the small lake kissing the shore, to the cool breeze mingling with the sweet warm summer air.
the morning crept along and we pulled each other
in and out
of the haze we created.
in the morning, it was cold again,
but i got only your jacket and a hushed
"don't tell".
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 12:44 AM UTC
**Epitome of Victorian man
demanding to be the patriarch,
the man of the house, the father figure
law, bread and butter, wearing the pants.
( With his chair by the fire and smoking a pipe,
tweed slippers he wears, masters dog at his feet. )
Stubborn, mule headed, unyielding as ice
he glares at the young, but less deserving than they
growls at them all, when all that they do
is play ... having so much fun.
But summoning always the housemaid he needs
( in her place, she's his surrogate mum, )
and when income 'flows' in, miracles work
their home all alone she keeps.
He, early to rise, and early to work, then early back home again
five whole days of graft works he, only two of solid rest,
but by the end of the month, a 'basic' brings home
she'd wish it would last a four week.
And under the thumb, thinks he holds her
putting down always, when friends call around,
taking his share of the kitty she holds
but always wants more of whatever she gives.
He never is wrong, the obvious stating
whats been mentioned before, now his to tell her,
and she takes it all with calm and grace
I still can't believe that it's really her.
So, far stronger than steel that hold down her feet
she now wears the shackles she forged,
and the scars I see bared from imprisonment
were carved when she donned, the shroud that see wove.
And the tears from my heart, to see her so used
she's still trapped in once gilded, now rusty cage,
so better by far, freedom from *******
far worse, life squandered in thrall.**
... ... ...
Jul 9, 2011
Jul 9, 2011 at 3:50 AM UTC