"tyme" poems
Hwenne, och! slawlie IT, an’ unco Licht!
Afoyr th' wounded frae Lyife Ghaist-Ancestors,
At Calanais Stane Sirkill Auld, an’ Verra IT, Micht!
Wae th' Lost ay! o'er Deep Tyme Unforgivin’,
Hidden Bleezan ay, Sacrificial Rite at Myrk Nicht!
Th' Stowed Oot Moon Conquerin’ rayses IT, tae mee!
Amydde Thae Verra Bluish, cannae nowe ye a' see?
Cauld Cluds ay flashin', an' Verra Thay A' Hye!
Ainlie, ainlie Raw Rid Bridie sloch Ah!
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Feb 11, 2022
Feb 11, 2022 at 5:11 AM UTC
rain love fell a dream tonight
you were not there, but felt close
seeing nothing in mist of trouble
walking cloud of forgotten shrouds
no one, dank street, cruel houses
no dry place no cats about
wearing red and yellow slickers
long while cats hidden entire
wandering one wet world
slick pavement sky so asphalt
empty windows gaped calling
out deceptively catch the unwary
windows, concrete, no trees
mother's voice laughs soundlessly
no signposts, no streetlights
oddly forlorn, my hometown
unmarked, without direction
darker than hell's moonless night
this is my town, my place
one learns, find a way
feel the way, march in tyme
crawl slowly out the pier
knowing bay so full tonight
use poet radar
you will not
fail
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 8:25 PM UTC
Always there, Justin Tyme. He's a good friend of mine.
This morning I went into the kitchen and yelled "you're toast!" and then I ate it.
A lovely response to a question: "Does a bear **** in the woods?"
I reply, "What about polar bears???"
When people say, "Jesus is holy." Do you think he cringes?
My girlfriend told me that I had scruples. I suddenly became scared and made a doctor’s appointment for an STD check.
What did Ernie say when Bert asked to get ice cream? “Sure Bert.”
I find it interesting when people say,
"It's the quiet ones you have to "worry'' about.
I believe it's the ones who blend in you have to worry about.
"Awkward Silence" ??
What is so awkward about silence???
I believe people are awkward, not silence.
...................................................
I need some bliss so, I'm going to be ignorant.
Along with his three Peeps, Hershey Kisses the Tootsie Roll Midgets.
To display their different mediums of art, the sky is the Gods exhibit and we are the critics.
For the Nondreamers:
You may look down on me as If I appear to have my head in the clouds.
Note to self: When you look up at the sky, I'm looking down on you.
Some say I'm cheesy...may be that I'm just Krafty.
I saw a sign on the freeway that said 'Exercise daily and walk with Jesus.' So I did. Jesus and I walked together laughing and smiling all the way to the lake front, but he kept walking...Then it dawned on me, I forgot my aqua shoes.
"I tend to add a hint of lemon while preparing my sought after traditional Christmas goose." Here's a hint, don't ruin the hint.
Ask a person with a lisp to say thimble and symbol...it sounds the same.
We are all artists who never put ourselves out for display.
Empty thoughts filled with absence.
What's on my mind is nothing, but what's inside is pure bliss.
I'm existing in the nonexistent.
God needs glasses and hearing aids.
Last night she nailed me harder than Jesus! (too soon)??
"I would be more than happy to give you an external hard drive."
"Ah, give or take.'' I'm confused...what do I do??
Good Friday??? Good God! That's terrible. Put me on a cross and I'll tell you how "good" my day is...maybe we should consider revising the name of this holiday?
I'm a conductor who's lost his train of thought.
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 9:43 AM UTC
I have a horse - a ryghte good horse -
Ne doe Y envye those
Who scoure ye playne yn headye course
Tyll soddayne on theyre nose
They lyghte wyth unexpected force
Yt ys - a horse of clothes.
I have a saddel - "Say'st thou soe?
Wyth styrruppes, Knyghte, to boote?"
I sayde not that - I answere "Noe" -
Yt lacketh such, I woote:
Yt ys a mutton-saddel, loe!
Parte of ye fleecye brute.
I have a bytte - a ryghte good bytte -
As shall bee seene yn tyme.
Ye jawe of horse yt wyll not fytte;
Yts use ys more sublyme.
Fayre Syr, how deemest thou of yt?
Yt ys - thys bytte of rhyme.
2.2k
You matter to me,
You art the ghost in coffee
Clouds whistle around you
Too much energy scares
Hoi Poilloi but we rule these streets
Call us out by righteous name
Love is all you have in the Swamp
I imagine it in the hot night
Running from New Orlins
Tide tryin to eat you
Water mixed with kerosene
There is suddenly no god
My three year old daughter
Left in that miserable
Water, and nobody did a thing
9/11 was a kind of blackened day
But when the Levees Break
Nobody gets out alive
Without money to roll
It’s time to yell truth of my city
Marie Laveau in all her forms
She cried with me
She held my hands and said:
Do not lament forever
Sorrow has its place & tyme
Marie Laveau comes to me now:
Saying Rise Up and Save This City
Something so still, so solemn
Guards the city of the yellow moon
I feel it
Almost reaching it
Hands touch my eyes and
I know them
I dream of Big Chief
Who flew from Heaven
Bringing the saving of the 9th ward
Nothing can save the 9th
But Marie Laveau, both a dem Ave Maria’s
No god no Saints came marching
Saving my role on freeway overpasses
Left there to be displayed, to die of thirst
Where were you, oh God?
We loved you even as we died of thirst
In a country that could pf delivered rations to Iraq
In less than six hours.
We have been sacrificed to low cause
No happiness shall come from this
True badlands, had Saints, and Faith
Nature took but once
Government took it all &
Left us standing
Or dying in attics
Screaming
Save Our Souls
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 2:28 AM UTC
Me ain't no perfect speechifyer or scribbler
But I curse the mistakes I makes
I had a stipud airor in my last poem
So what. Why should I kare?
I should' nt : **** i do
I fill the need to be perfect 100 persent of the tyme
Win it coms to grammer and usedage
Dos a meckanic need to drive perfectly;
No and ain't no nobody say nothin
**** i fill the nead to be perfact allways
It just ain't fair
How ever: ain't one people out of 363 reader
Said nothin to me
Sew may be I m the only ones who aspects
Me too bee purfect!
Or were u thinkin how Ironicable?
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 5:23 PM UTC
The words just come to me flying high
And lay on this page by,
This red ink of my favorite weapon
It is my most prize possession.
I mostly write in acrostics,
About most, are poems of what makes me ticked.
But from time to time you can hear me rhyme,
It just won't be all the tyme.
So hear me out, listen clearly now for time has come,
The days have grown shorter and it seems like everyone has a gun.
But I'll stay here with my most lethal weapon,
No, I won't do you any harm, just get your hands off my favorite possession.
Jan 22, 2011
Jan 22, 2011 at 5:50 PM UTC
Many daze in the rippsy tav the Nates will hiber by their Glit
'N sometime prea with the gigaslav and there zellgreth betwit.
Now once there was a Tilly Stoet who'd paineram in the dippserill
Nifty Nates would knowet and greal it's very Tips-a-Prill
A day or more had passed in tyme till one day the gigaslav broke
Now Tilly Stoets speak of brine 'n the merryjaunah they'd smoke.
Oh they'd **** there poppers 'n slop their drippers
'Till one day the pole greasemen came.
The Tilly Stoets acted like poets and that was really O.K.
But the buzzers were fuzzers and wouldn't ya knowet
They took all there pots away.
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 8:19 PM UTC
A loss of intention
Shrouded in emerald
Its sparkles simmer
As they spread
Throughout tyme
And into the cosmos
One could protest
Their abundance
In exchange
For self-repugnance
It is the way of men
To challenge and dissent
But perhaps diversion
From traditional paths
Will leave that flower be
To grow into itself
And spread its seed
Of universal harmony
Feb 23, 2018
Feb 23, 2018 at 3:02 AM UTC
In the year 1332, at auld Dupplin Moor,
Wi' a shimmering Dagger of War,
Ah pierced the Looking Glass,
And amid so wild a Fire Mass,
Ironclad and devastating,
Mine awn Wraith cam.
Owre He beheld me!
His Claymore gleaming, unsheathed,
Into a darkness no one could see,
Ghaist, I winna yield to thee!
Across yon shield wa, quo' He,
In tyme of war ah threw myself,
Wi' gilded Targe and unforgiving Fury,
High flames falling athwart my iron wame,
While thoosan times boiling wapin fell
O'er that clan of skellums (Wundor Sceawian!)
Frae the white barbican, before the black well,
While thoosan times rising nae fellow-mortal
Amid thoosan deadly onslaughts
Ironclad frae the Fire;
But now man, to my warlike whisper do listen:
Ere the rust, in robes of Time,
Shall curse thy blade,
Airn fist ye maun ay wear,
To hold the Firestorm,
To avenge yon star shining still,
And auld Duntulm's stane,
Sae ah shall be strolling forth
In battle ahead of thee!
And when before Dirleton's Wa,
Wi' Colour of Hell reddening,
And next to auld South Ruin,
Yell warlike, enraged Wha Daur!
To thy enemies, and to thy consumed flesh
Doomed I say no longer
Within a forerunning Shade of Death;
And now advance! thy lane, and faithfu'
To thy auld Emblem of Steel,
Whar moorlan winds gaed,
Whar Immortality gleamingly dwells.
Jul 24, 2020
Jul 24, 2020 at 3:40 AM UTC
I’m hot on the tail of a poem’s trail
To discover what makes it tick,
For the ones I receive in the daily mail
Are always giving me stick.
I don’t want the ones with a psycho-probe
That go ravelling into my brain,
Or a moody muse with a too short fuse
They only generate pain.
When I spot one bearing a carefree lilt,
A rhythm that echoes my heart,
Or a rhyme scheme pairing a seem with dream,
We’re off to a flying start.
It gallops ahead of me, feeling its way
Through words that it finds by chance,
And makes it plain that it wants to play
In the meadows of assonance.
So I chase it over a babbling brook
On a cliché, rhyme or hook,
And still the breeze that will rhyme with trees
Turns the pages of my book.
I search for characters, sweet young girls
And for ladies, fair of face,
Who dance along with the poem, twirl
In the aftermath of grace.
While men, the heroes of quests and seas
Marooned on a distant shore,
Will take the poem to where they please,
You’ve never been there before.
And they meet the girls with the hair like corn,
Are trapped in their sparkling eyes,
They come together in winter storm
And all that you hear are sighs.
For the poem gives, and the poem takes
It will lull you, thrill you, dance,
From its wedding bells to its funeral wakes
It will still you, fill, entrance!
Its magic lies in its rhyme and scheme
As it weaves a recurring spell,
It nestles into your heart and dreams
Like an Olde Tyme Wishing Well.
And when it finally comes to stand
On the shore of a timeless lake,
As the book slips out of your listless hand
It whispers, ‘Are you awake?’
Then I spring to life and I seize it then,
And give to its tail a twist,
‘I’m still the poet, I hold the pen,’
I write, in the evening mist!
David Lewis Paget
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 9:57 PM UTC
O Father
What done haveth I in acordaunce
The Maiden ress between me eyes
Lyke brimstone et a pedestal
Dreams are distracted in me lyfe
In Marigold, Mahogany, Maroon
Venus Trifecta et Holy Grail
Et is et discorse ov Destiny ov myne
So I asketh of Thyne
To wash anew me acordaunce
Exceptionly et is in tyme
Tho I kno regret may form
Et is for the greatr good
Imperative deed so tru
An may I drown not
In red temptations
Fore done me fair aims
Wyth pursuits ov sound
For promises ov gold
To replnish retribution
Ov souls unheard
I am thyr messenger
From Alpha to Omega
May no fair Maiden
Put et in her pocket
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 4:06 AM UTC
Time to trade in
Old Father Tyme
For a concept
Of consistence
Ultimate resolutions begin
In desolate institutions
They rest in their pods
Comfortably numb
With contentment
For their mission
Is now accomplished
Voluntarily, they line up
Into echelons of space
Giving themselves back
To an entrance
That coughed them out
The curtain has closed
And a chapter has ended
Yet their presence
Still echoes on
Apr 16, 2018
Apr 16, 2018 at 4:01 AM UTC
I was awakened on an igloo floating away
in the middle of the night
We had to pack it up and head
north to find more ice
in the middle of the night
Well we finally found more ice
and cut 'em out again just right
And then we built our little ice house
so that we could have a sleep
along a winter's cold long night
We're on a rolling ball of fire
that eventually is gonna burn out
Someday a memory somewhere
on an ash that's just floating about
It makes it interesting to try and understand
If there ever was a one perfect plan
Because there ain't nobody perfect
that's for certain
except maybe that old uncle sam
We're on a rolling ball of fire
that generates its old-tyme
'Lectricity
There ain't nothin' we can't figure out
'cept senseless killing
****** for oil and greed
And we're almost to the teens
we'll be paying more
than we'd ever think
But in the end we're just a
rolling ball of fire
that's turning into ice once more again
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 11:02 AM UTC
some\\thing\\hap\\pen\\s;
when I speak _ your _ name....
It'snotquitepleasure
and it's not. quite. pain
your face. those eyes.
those L. iP. s.
Stab a primal lo _ng ___ing....
And 》》speed》》 me to quips
slimfingersandneck;,..Every inch...
how - I - long and #i need
;it's a sc^rat^^ch I mus^t it^^^ch
But you. don't..... ||| concede |||
your voice like gravel
undermyshoe
never sounded s₩€€t€r
our words {{failed}} the truth
me, some~pied~piper~~~
reduced to this sniv. el. ing/idiot/poser
my mel°od°y play°ed to d _eaf ears
left > alone > to > spit >> out >>
......pretentious/....little/.....poems....
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 2:20 PM UTC
Here lies the body of Nick O Tyme
Who never thought of crossing the line
Lived his life as quiet as could be
Only stimulant consumed was tea
Saved a lady from the path of a train
Regarding which he was true to his name
Results for him were not quite the same
Nov 14, 2019
Nov 14, 2019 at 10:08 AM UTC