"vicarage" poems
Hypotonic collusions
Rising in osmotic lesions
An eruptive soul reversion
Emissions of embered logs
Each lightening with a glow
A youthful straw of clemency
Pollinated sandals, handled
Gripping the flesh in vessels
Houses of lost and unreal dreams
Vicarage gardens of suppression
Masticated in delegated abstractions
A surmise of death and redistributions
Each a beat rise, slide on frosty ice
Un-enveloped in seasons of erosion
Delusional commotions sprawled
In the dance of the ecstatic programming
The body waved and led in hypnosis
********** with the intangible essence
To make sense a revised tense,I fence
Straying in lenient lunacy to fields afar
A merry to ferry the phoenix dance
Rattles shaking in transit translations
Drums pause settling in finesse pond
A coitus of dimensional valour and vice
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 9:37 AM UTC
Benedict sat in a pew
of the old church
while Jane arranged flowers
up at the altar end
with an older woman.
The church smelt of flowers
and damp and age.
Sunlight poured through
the coloured glass windows.
He sat and watched Jane
sort the vase, her fingers nimble,
her body slim, reaching up
to the take down vases,
the sunlight catching
her movements.
Jane’s mother had told him
she was in the church
when he called
at the vicarage.
She won’t be long,
her mother had said.
He sniffed the air.
It had a churchy smell.
She arranged flowers with care,
her fingers patting into place,
her arms in constant motion.
The other woman
having completed her tasks
left the church.
Jane came and sat beside him.
Looks good doesn’t it, she said.
Yes it does, he said.
She smelt of fresh apples,
he thought of orchards,
sunlight, warm days.
She leaned in and kissed his cheek,
her lips moist, warm.
He put his hand on her thigh,
sensed the pulse of her.
Let’s go out in the daylight, she said.
They walked out of the church
and along the path to the lane
hand in hand.
I’ve just go to go home
for a minute for something,
she said and he followed her
to the vicarage
and waited outside.
After a few minutes she was out
and they walked along the lane.
The hedgerows were brimming with birds,
their songs and chatter filled the air.
It was never like this in London,
he said. Never this freshness,
never nature so near and alive.
I’ve only known this, she said,
this countryside, the small local town,
the cows and fields, the open sky.
Must seem odd to you the contrast.
He looked at her; her hair dark
and free from constraints,
her eyes dark, catching sunlight.
Yes, it is, he said, like escaping Hell
and finding paradise. She smiled.
With or without me? she said.
You’re the icing on the cake,
the angel that makes
it all seem worthwhile. She laughed.
You have such a way with words.
They passed the water tower;
cows mooed in a nearby field.
She put her arm around his waist
and kissed his neck. They stopped
in the lane. Momentarily it seemed
as if the birds had ceased to sing
or chatter; as if the sky had exploded
with colour. He kissed her and held her.
Their 13 year old lips met.
This was paradise, he thought,
nothing else could matter.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 2:25 AM UTC
Spoiler alert. The original poem is followed by the solution.
*"Why Mr Holmes! Come quick! The vicar's dead!"
"Dearest Lestrade! Another killer lost?"
"The Reverend Green alas was killed in bed,
The frightened Mrs White mirrors a ghost!
Mrs Peacock is in quite a shock,
The Colonel Mustard is attending her;
Motive remains unclear, although the clock
Was stopped at six, when Mr Black was here
He burned the mail, perhaps it held a clue,
The man then ran, and no weapon was found;
Miss Scarlet who was sleeping, slept right through;
Such a tough case, so care to stake a pound?"
"Lestrade! To take your cash would be a crime!
One wonders why the clock stopped at that time!"*
Who murdered poor Reverend Green, why and how?
*CLUE: the solution contains 15 words.
CLUE:
“I say old chap, those kids in Baker Street
They’re running and a skipping: SHOO AWAY!”
“Dear Dr. Watson, rest your weary feet!
Perhaps you’ll learn something from childish play!”*
SOLUTION
"Why Mr Holmes! Come quick! THE vicar's dead!"
"Dearest Lestrade! Another KILLER lost?"
"The Reverend Green alas WAS killed in bed,
The frightened MRS White mirrors a ghost!
Mrs PEACOCK is in quite a shock,
THE Colonel Mustard is attending her;
MOTIVE remains unclear, although the clock
WAS stopped at six, when Mr BLACK was here
He burned the MAIL, perhaps it held a clue,
THE man then ran, and no WEAPON was found;
Miss Scarlet who WAS sleeping, slept right through;
Such A tough case, so care to STAKE a pound?"
"Lestrade! To take your cash would be a crime!
One wonders why the clock stopped at that time!"
The solution is a simple skip sequence (hinted in clue 2), every sixth word is taken to obtain the solution.
*THE-KILLER-WAS-MRS-PEACOCK
THE-MOTIVE-WAS-BLACK-MAIL
THE-WEAPON-WAS-A-STAKE*
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 6:42 AM UTC
Cast iron clouds call their brushed allegiance to the age-clad masonry.
Whilst the mangled percussion of the infants' school bickers
with the soft tones of the older boys' band.
Still their sound is drowned by the whistling wind,
carrying parents' pleas that it's time to leave,
as the small groups crawl through the churchyard.
In a mossy corner, the window-man clatters,
with his brushes and buckets at the side of the oak shaded vicarage.
A scarf slides from an old man's neck
whilst he motionlessly salutes the monument;
his medals are dull in the lacklustre light.
But for all that's here, there's one thing not,
where I sit by this silent 'here lies' spot.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 6:02 PM UTC
In time,
Her blue eyes turned to amber,
Gaining serenity at the expense of dazzle,
She was, in short:
Diminished?
You know, the proverbial red,
Red rose misplacing its hue?
Over time, becoming the times that
Try men’s souls--as they say—
Particularly in times like ours.
Life at the Vicarage: an in-depth,
Stunningly frank & brutal TRIP 4-2.
Surely, the falcon & falconer
Out of range of each other, at last.
Share drowned innocence,
Sans conviction, intense & passionate,
An in-depth study--if you will—
If you won’t, **** YOU!***
A close encounter of mutual
Self-loathing & contempt.
Soon the blood-dimmed tide,
Mere anarchy loose as a goose.
I speak of a time without pretense:
Armed-black-militants
Killing-white-cops?
Are you ******** me?
Who has time to investigate
A simple case of what could or
Could not be spousal homicide.
But I digress.
Blood in the streets?
We haven’t seen that ****
Since Bobby Seale, Eldridge Cleaver
& Huey P Newton stalked the earth.
“Lord, Oh God!” we wonder.
“Deliver us a savior.
Rescue Us.
Rescue Me."
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 11:51 PM UTC
Sorry said the merry man, adjacent on his way,
I've gone and ticked you off while I've been out tramping today
And in my careless frolic I seem to have stole your heart
What brutal lust you blow towards me, gushing like a ****
But I'm not la-da-dee-da-dee, a manly bearded sprite
Jingle though my stirrups do like dormice held too tight
I'm a serious enterprise, a man deeply invested
In stacking stocks and picking prices, if you're interested?
She danced reluctantly to him, unnatured to the rhythm
But with a wink she start'd to slink and jim-jam along with him
The two then picked their sandals up and shuffled down the street
And drank and laughed amerrily at all they chanced to meet
To the bank they wandered, legislating they did go
In government, in finance, in high station to and fro
Each day they yawned and gargled on a fresh new tonic smell
And went on down the street to make a fresh mismanaged hell
Soon agiggling and adultering they fell down in a mess
Holes and tears ashaming his and her once modest dress
There they lay and blocked the road till bobby picked them up
And once they'd laughed their fill of him they bribed the greasy pup
He took them to the city square and let them borrow his hat
They gave out fines and sentences for being thin or fat
They stood on boxes, had ideas for rent for half a pence
And sat gracefully cross-eyed on the splintering picket fence
Then donned a mitre, did a dance, their pageantry displayed,
They became gods, just for a laugh, the vicarage dismayed
When down from heaven lightning bolts, shot with a holy hum
Came buzzing like a hornets' nest and shocked them on the ***
A **** of smoke, a whiff of cheese, the townsfolk breathed release
Gone at last those terrors past, they could return to peace
Then up from high a saintly sigh two angels billowed down
Golden halos greasy and no pants beneath their gown
The townsfolk wept and cried aloud, their stomachs plopped and churned
To see the pair of villains there, so gracefully returned
Blessed be the kingmakers the two of them agreed
Until next weekend, Duw my dear, and until then, God's speed.
Nov 28, 2020
Nov 28, 2020 at 10:00 AM UTC
*"Why Mr Holmes! Come quick! The vicar's dead!"
"Dearest Lestrade! Another killer lost?"
"The Reverend Green alas was killed in bed,
The frightened Mrs White mirrors a ghost!
Mrs Peacock is in quite a shock,
The Colonel Mustard is attending her;
Motive remains unclear, although the clock
Was stopped at six, when Mr Black was here
He burned the mail, perhaps it held a clue,
The man then ran, and no weapon was found;
Miss Scarlet who was sleeping, slept right through;
Such a tough case, so care to stake a pound?"
"Lestrade! To take your cash would be a crime!
One wonders why the clock stopped at that time!"*
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 1:20 AM UTC
Where are you going, Jane?
Your mother said that morning.
Going to see Benny, you replied.
You see Benny now sitting on
the gate to the field; he is in his
blue jeans and black Wellington
boots, a white open neck shirt.
You wonder whether to tell him
you dreamed of him the night
before; whether to say nothing
and keep it to yourself. It had
been a lovely dream, and when
you woke up you wanted to go
back to sleep and enter the dream
again, but then you dreamed of
something else. He sees you
coming and climbs down from
the gate. You feel self conscious
as if he could enter your mind and
share your thoughts; you blush slightly.
How are you? He asks. I am fine,
you say, taking in his hazel eyes,
the quiff of brown hair, his smile
that some girls say is an Elvis smile.
You stand before him and hesitate;
wanting to kiss him; wanting him
to kiss you. I've been helping with
the milking on the farm this morning,
he says. That's good for an ex-London
boy, you say, smiling, seeing him look
at you. I have surprised myself, he says,
A few months ago, I didn't know a cow
from a bull. Shall I tell him about the
dream? You want to, but what will he say?
You talk to him about a bullfinch you
had seen that morning at the vicarage,
its colouring, the way it sat there in a bush.
He suggests going up the Downs; you
agree and begin to walk beside him back
along the narrow road and up the track
towards the Downs. He talks of his father
working in the woods a mile away; about
the time his father took him with him and
how he found skeletons of rabbits
and birds. You watch him sideways
on; wanting to tell him of the dream;
wanting him to kiss you. He looks
up, points to the sky through the tall
trees, it's a bright washed out blue.
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 3:28 PM UTC
The vintage was old vicarage
the label was old spice
the taste was new, peculiar,
a touch which I thought nice.
But I'm spinning rings
a hoopla stall
the fairground's gone,
what happened to it all?
Everything goes
every one grows
everybody knows why
except me.
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 2:29 PM UTC
The church is still there
at the end
of the narrow road,
the high hedgerows
and the vicarage
remain pretty much
the same,
but you are not,
for you lie
in another place
of rest than this,
although I don't
know where.
The inside is as it was,
the choir stalls
where we sang
all those years ago,
are as they were
although seeming smaller,
the ***** is silent now,
but still where it was
when the semi-deaf
organist played back then.
I look around me
as I stand;
the same smell
old churches have,
coloured light
through the windows,
the lectern
where the vicar spoke
(sometimes too long),
and the wooden pews
where the aging
congregation sat
and listened
or fell asleep.
I walk around
the church outside
and pass old tombstones
aged by time,
cross the small
wooden bridge
where we once stood
and watched the water
pass below or kissed
in moonlight after choir
before the ride home.
I stand alone now
and you elsewhere,
cancer's hold took you down
your brother said,
that time he met me
in the town,
sometime after.
I hear birdsong
and wind in trees,
but not your laughter.
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 6:43 AM UTC