"waistcoat" poems
A proud man,
Upright and unshakable
In belief and morals,
Once only I did I see him
Without a tie.
A child of Edwardian England,
The links Of his watch chain
Glinted
As they hung
With formality and elegance
From his waistcoat pocket,
Yes, even as he worked.
And work he did.
Patiently,
Brilliantly and tirelessly
With ingenuity and imagination.
A craftsman from a bygone age.
A master of his tools.
Grandfathers are soft,
Playful, bear-like in their
Gruff-whiskered familiarity.
Not Poppy.
Unwittingly aloof from his grandchildren,
We avoided the need for directly addressing him,
Unsure of where we stood.
He’d probably have secretly
Loved the informality
Of our secret nickname.
I hope he knew.
The chapel piano did for him.
Too much weight for his work-weary ticker.
Grandma gave me his pocket watch to keep,
And for a time I treasured it,
Measuring its weight
Like a smooth round pebble
In my palm.
A workman’s watch;
Practical.
A yellowing face
Behind a scratched
And hazy glass.
But accurate,
And precise.
Reliable as the man.
Detached in life,
I liked to hope that
Gazing down,
Watching,
He just might have
Laughed
In loving acknowledgement of his
Grandson’s curiosity
And foolishness
Sitting cross-legged on the carpet,
With heart-thumping nausea
Adrift in a sea of springs.
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 3:15 AM UTC
Happy the lab'rer in his Sunday clothes!
In light-drab coat, smart waistcoat, well-darn'd hose,
Andhat upon his head, to church he goes;
As oft, with conscious pride, he downward throws
A glance upon the ample cabbage rose
That, stuck in button-hole, regales his nose,
He envies not the gayest London beaux.
In church he takes his seat among the rows,
Pays to the place the reverence he owes,
Likes best the prayers whose meaning least he knows,
Lists to the sermon in a softening doze,
And rouses joyous at the welcome close.
5.5k
There is a sequence of small events, signs; that as they occur point us in the direction of the mid-winter festival. This morning: the first snow; iced rain, not the soft down-like floaty stuff, but hard crystal-shaped foot-crunching shards. Yesterday, it was on with the wooly hat, the padded waistcoat and a more than just sprightly walk in a park of leafless trees. Everywhere, a damp coldness.
Sitting companionably after the meal, a fire spitting in the hearth had brought a glow to her cheeks. She was replete with glowness, her speech dancing too and fro after the family phone calls of a Sunday night. Outside, the sound of wind against the house.
Settling herself against him, feet tucked under his reclining body, she tells him about her niece, a birthday girl just two last week. This little one was touchingly innocent of what happens on a birthday. She knew it was coming, next week, soon, then tomorrow. Imagine her the night before: just think you'll wake up and be two! And that's what this birthday business is? She wakes and there is something special in the air, her sister smile-full, bouncy with expectation. Her parents’ voices are louder than usual, there are bigger hugs and longer kisses. Birthday, birthday, birthday. Her grandparents arrive. More hugs. THEN her father appears with a cake! It's only just after breakfast, but the large people are having coffee and there's her juice cup and a cake! Birthday, birthday, birthday shouts her sister. For me, a cake for me? My cake? Daddy lights the candles! Oh, oh, oh. This is . . . and something wrapped in pretty paper is being handed to me. Her sister, being wonderfully sisterly shows her how to remove the wrapping. A book! Read it to me now, now, please. It's my birthday, now.
This is a sign he thinks later when in bed she folds herself to him, arranges his arms and hands to hold her into sleep, still glowing a little. This is surely a sign. A child's discovery of the birth day. The joy it brings, the way it lights up our lives. And never again will her father see quite that measure of surprise and delight in his daughter's face. Next year she'll be full of expectation, know all about birthdays . . and be three.
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 1:56 AM UTC
Whilst camouflaged
The Golden Dragonfly
With emerald eyes
And rubies, and diamonds
Upon it's wings, and tail
Slept
And whilst it slept
It dreamed
And within its dream
It wandered
Flying over a turquoise pool
The Golden Dragonfly
Began to ponder
On its existence
And wondered why
It was a dragonfly
But then she saw her own reflection
On the soft rippling blue water
As she became aware
Of her own beauty
And instantly found
An inner tranquility
Just at that moment
As is the way of dreams
A long rolling tongue
Shot out
And swallowed the Golden Dragonfly whole
The frog
Had no other thought
Than to feast
The Golden Dragonfly
Then woke up
Relieved
That it had only been a dream
But now
Also aware
That it now had conscious thought
Beyond its natural instinct
And at first
Felt quite afraid
Looking around its surroundings
First making sure
That there were no frogs around
It glanced up
And realised
It was attached
To the outer skin
Of a curious looking creature
Some kind of giant
With hair flowing
In the soft zephyr breeze
And without realising
Spoke to the giant
"What are you?"
The giant
Looking startled
Had obviously wondered
Where the small voice was coming from
The Golden Dragonfly
Spoke again
"Are you going to eat me?"
The giant
Then realised where
The voice was coming from
Looked around before answering
Whispered, "No!"
The Golden Dragonfly
Accepted that this was at least true
"My name is Lucianne" said the Golden Dragonfly
Not knowing, until that moment
That she had a name
"My name is Petra" said the giant
With the long flowing hair
"I don't understand how it is possible
to be conversing with a dragonfly"
The Golden Dragonfly
Felt the same confusion
As it had never conversed with anything, ever
And never had questions to ask
But now
The questions came quicker
Than her wing beats
The giant spoke again
"You are welcome to remain on my waistcoat"
"And we can speak more, when we get to my home"
At that moment
A sudden gust of wind
Blew the Golden Dragonfly
Off the waistcoat
Into some dense undergrowth
And within this undergrowth
Sat a frog
And in an eye blink
A long rolling tongue shot out
And swallowed the Golden Dragonfly
Whole
The giant, named Petra
Searched the undergrowth
For several hours
Shouting out for Lucianne
Other giants around
Became concerned
When Petra explained
That she was looking for
A talking Golden Dragonfly called Lucianne
Petra would often return to the park
But never again
Did she see, or hear
The Golden Dragonfly again
by Jemia
Jul 11, 2022
Jul 11, 2022 at 8:18 PM UTC
There was Old Man in a pew,
Whose waistcoat was spotted with blue;
But he tore it in pieces
To give to his nieces,
That cheerful Old Man in a pew.
3.4k
The wings of a hurricane
the cry of a beast
concerns of a teenager
present at a feast
salt in fresh wounds
twigs in my cape
soaring through states
this is my escape
you might infest
your precious being
with all the sickness
you’ve been seeing
You might forget
the origin of your shape
you shake off reality
that is your escape
But the threads in my waistcoat
the apples in my crate
can not be forgotten
in this mental state
I spill the ideas
that society has taped
inside my thoughts
this is my escape
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 1:18 AM UTC
Searching in the gutters
of Meadow Row
and up along by the back
of the coal wharf
Benedict picked out
and up
dog ends
or cigarette butts
as his old man
called them
and picking them up
he tore open the paper
and tipped the tobacco
into a white paper
sweet bag
how can you do that?
Ingrid said
all those people’s
spit and dribble
on them
she pulled a face
he smiled
she looked serious
germs on them
she said
she wiped her hands
on her stained
green dress
he bent down
and picked out
another cigarette ****
and opened it up
between fingers
and thumbs
and emptied it
into the bag
you’re too young
to smoke
she said
if my dad saw me smoking
he’d smack me silly
she said
he does anyway
he said
she bit her lip
and looked away
sorry
he said
didn’t mean
to be like that
he touched her hand
she stared at him
through wire
framed glasses
she liked it when
his hand touched hers
no one else
touched her tenderly
she looked
at his cowboy hat
placed to the back
of his head
the six shooter gun
stuffed in the belt
of his jeans
the borrowed blue waistcoat
(his grandfather’s given
a month or so back)
she put her other hand
on top of his
he took his hand out slowly
in case other boys
from school may see
and walked to the shelter
of a wall
of a bombed out house
and they both sat down
he took out a packet
of cigarette papers
( liberated from
his old man)
and pulled out
a paper and shoved
the packet of papers
back in the pocket
of his jeans
and taking a pinch
of tobacco from the bag
he fingered it
in a straight line
into the cigarette paper
then rolled it
as he’d seen
his old man do
then licked the end
to form a thin cigarette
Ingrid watched in silence
as his fingers moved
and his tongue licked
you’re not going to
smoke it are you?
she asked
he put the cigarette
between his lips
sure am
he said John Wayne like
but you’re only 9
she said
you’re only 9
and you’re watching
he replied
he took out a box
of Swan Vesta
(borrowed from
the cupboard at home)
and lit the cigarette
and puffed slowly
she waved a hand
as smoke came near
her face
my dad will smell that
on me
she said
and think it was me
smoking and tell me off
she said
beat you black and blue
Benedict thought
not said
he coughed and spluttered
and took out
the cigarette
and blew smoke
from his mouth
and spat out phlegm
brownish yellow
if your old man hits you again
I’ll shoot him
full of cap smoke
he said
she laughed
and hit his arm
he flicked the cigarette
onto the bombsite
with a finger
and watched
as the smoke
he’d blown out
like a pale ghost
seemed to linger.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 3:50 PM UTC
First the Governor, the Father:
He suggested velvet curtains
looped about a massy pillar;
And the corner of a table,
Of a rosewood dining-table.
He would hold a scroll of something,
Hold it firmly in his left-hand;
He would keep his right-hand buried
(Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat;
He would contemplate the distance
With a look of pensive meaning,
As of ducks that die in tempests.
Grand, heroic was the notion:
Yet the picture failed entirely:
Failed, because he moved a little,
Moved, because he couldn't help it.
Next, his better half took courage;
She would have her picture taken.
She came dressed beyond description,
Dressed in jewels and in satin
Far too gorgeous for an empress.
Gracefully she sat down sideways,
With a simper scarcely human,
Holding in her hand a bouquet
Rather larger than a cabbage.
All the while that she was sitting,
Still the lady chattered, chattered,
Like a monkey in the forest.
"Am I sitting still ?" she asked him.
"Is my face enough in profile?
Shall I hold the bouquet higher?
Will it come into the picture?"
And the picture failed completely.
2.1k
The Banker's Fate
They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care;
They pursued it with forks and hope;
They threatened its life with a railway-share;
They charmed it with smiles and soap.
And the Banker, inspired with a courage so new
It was matter for general remark,
Rushed madly ahead and was lost to their view
In his zeal to discover the Snark.
But while he was seeking with thimbles and care,
A Bandersnatch swiftly drew nigh
And grabbed at the Banker, who shrieked in despair,
For he knew it was useless to fly.
He offered large discount--he offered a cheque
(Drawn "to bearer") for seven-pounds-ten:
But the Bandersnatch merely extended its neck
And grabbed at the Banker again.
Without rest or pause--while those frumious jaws
Went savagely snapping around--
He skipped and he hopped, and he floundered and flopped,
Till fainting he fell to the ground.
The Bandersnatch fled as the others appeared
Led on by that fear-stricken yell:
And the Bellman remarked "It is just as I feared!"
And solemnly tolled on his bell.
He was black in the face, and they scarcely could trace
The least likeness to what he had been:
While so great was the fright that his waistcoat turned white--
A wonderful thing to be seen!
To the horror of all who were present that day,
He uprose in full evening dress,
And with senseless grimaces endeavoured to say
What his tongue could no longer express.
Down he sank in a chair--ran his hands through his hair--
And chanted in mimsiest tones
Words whose utter inanity proved his insanity,
While he rattled a couple of bones.
"Leave him here to his fate--it is getting so late!"
The Bellman exclaimed in a fright.
"We have lost half a day. Any further delay,
And we sha'n't catch a Snark before night!"
2.1k
The snow lay crisply on the sill
And gripped the windowpane.
A coach and horses scurried by
Slowly, slithering down the lane.
Beneath the gas light in the gloom
A group of choirboys sang.
‘Ding **** merrily on high’,
And all the church bells rang.
Whilst in his bedroom, up above,
A little schoolboy lay.
He’d hung his stockings on the posts
And he dreamed of Christmas day.
And on his bed an old greatcoat
Around his neck held tight,
And on his feet a rag knot rug
To warm him through the night.
His water bottle at his chest
Had now become quite cold.
But in his mind the warm thoughts raced
Of many stories told.
His Mom and Dad below him sat
Less warmly by a candle,
And worried how to pay the rent
Thus to avoid a scandal.
‘But one things sure’, his old mom said.
‘This year may be our last,
So we’ll do all that we can do
To make it better than the last.
‘Remember to be quiet’, she said.
‘Don’t wake my baby boy’.
Here’s an orange, apple and monkey nuts
And a little wooden toy’.
His Father crept into his room
And by his stockings knelt.
He slowly placed inside the gifts
Then in his waistcoat felt.
A tiny farthing in his hand
And in his eye a tear.
He gently pushed it with the rest,
Then to his boy drew near.
‘If only I could give you more,
Then Son I surely would.
For if it were the only thing to give
Then I would give my blood.
His Son lay there without a care,
A smile upon his face.
He kissed him gently on the cheek
And left without a trace.
Then slowly creeping across the hills
And softly clipping trees.
An orange globe of Christmas cheer
Began the frost to tease.
Wiping sleep out of his bleary eyes
And awakening to the cold.
Quickly rummaging into the socks
Clutched a farthing as if gold.
A little boy whose Christmas dreams
So simply had been blessed.
Sang a little Christmas song
And rapidly got dressed.
Each breath he breathed froze in the air.
His tiny hands and feet were frozen.
His mind already at the shop
Espied the sweets he chosen.
Liquorice wood and kali dabs
Pink sugar candied mice.
The little journey down the lane
And sliding on the ice.
His mom and Dad they saw his glee,
Forgot their sorry states.
At least upon this Holy day
They’d have food upon their plates
Dec 6, 2009
Dec 6, 2009 at 7:49 AM UTC
There was an old man of Port Grigor,
Whose actions were noted for vigour;
He stood on his head,
Till his waistcoat turned red,
That eclectic old man of Port Grigor.
1.6k
He fell down a rabbit hole,
chasing after a crazy dream
He met a rabbit with a waistcoat.
He braved the Red Queen.
He had tea with a caterpillar.
He spoke with talking flowers.
He faced his worst nightmares,
and he lived to tell the tale.
And eventually he crawled back out,
ready to face the world.
But no one believed him.
The more he told,
the more he was scorned.
And he drew farther and farther into himself,
comforting himself with stories and talking flowers,
and a rabbit in a waistcoat.
Soon that was all he had left,
stories and fantasies.
Until one day he plunged back through the rabbit hole,
grasping for a crazy dream.
There he learned the trade of making hats,
but he soon surpassed his masters and peers.
Once again he was scorned,
and he relocated to an old house with two other outcasts,
making hats and drinking tea to fill his time.
He retreated into himself once again,
this time literally becoming as mad as a hatter,
and this became his title.
And soon no one remembered his true name,
knowing only that was mad,
until his title became his name: the Mad Hatter.
Only one ever tried to know why he was mad,
and her name was Alice.
And in her presence,
he found himself, though still quite mad, less mad.
He even found that he liked it,
though he never let his other mad companions know that.
But she, too, fell back through the rabbit hole,
and he was alone,
with only fantasies and madmen to keep him company.
Until one day many years later he found a woman, wandering,
mumbling about talking flowers and rabbits with waistcoats,
almost as mad as himself.
And her name, he found, was Alice,
and in each other’s presence they found, though they were still quite mad,
they were decidedly less so.
And they found they liked it.
Mar 5, 2010
Mar 5, 2010 at 1:19 PM UTC
In the dream Ginsberg tells me I am beautiful,
he moves his stool a little closer to mine
to see me in the dull glow of the bar.
I sip at my cocktail as he takes Howl from his briefcase,
tells me Jack loves my baby-blue eyes.
Somewhere at the back of the bar
I can hear the jazz men munching sandwiches,
chatting to the girls who bring them empty beer glasses
for coins to be dropped into, for requests to fill.
The old poet with his Buddhist waistcoat
wants to change the world with his masturbatory atom bomb,
wants the President of the United States
to be silent, to be silent, to be
silent.
So Ginsberg calls the barman Moloch,
wants him to find himself in a wounded page
filled with Christmas catalogues that make the children sing.
It’s a bald-guy thing he tells the beer puller,
‘Look at the jazz boys **** the metal,
sweet sounds, Jimmy The Joe makes , sweet sounds.’
The barman wants the music to end
just long enough for him to miss the woman he loves.
‘So get your heart in a sonnet,’ Ginsy tells him
‘Get your heart in a ******* sonnet, gypsy caravan boy.’
I put my fingers to my temples, try to bring the poems together,
try to imagine the perfect microphone in the Kaddish hand.
Tell me another three line joke, Alan,
tell me the one about the Arabic love call you never heard
when your papyrus was just desert dust.
You know the one, Allen. You know the one.
The jazz boys find their lips as Ginsberg finds his tear ducts;
I want him to chant his evolution into the mind of the sax solo.
‘It’s just us,’ he tells me, ‘we’re saving the world, Johnny Boy,
the greatest minds of my generation were ****** up the ***
so you ungrateful rhyming ******** could put colour on your book covers;
you see Lawrence throwing his spanners into the printing press?
That’s our little revolution: cherubic haiku page numbers
just waiting for the computer evolution to do something worthwhile.’
So Alan sorts his papers and gives that little attention-seeking-cough
the barman has been waiting all night for.
He pours the drinks, cuts the lime,
lets the poets supply their own anecdotes for this one-night-stand
that’s going to set every ******* pulse racing,
every heartbeat breaking for the goatee beard going grey.
In the dream Ginsberg tells me I am beautiful.
I tell him his spotlight is shining.
Dec 29, 2011
Dec 29, 2011 at 5:47 PM UTC
Can this be the time once more
Of utter giving up of our control
The simple folliwing of commercial madness
Our desire for the day when food and wine
Have to be gathered about us like the defences of yore
Headlong we run from mid-summer until
We are exhausted in body, spirit or credit
The desperate worry of what to buy whom
Or when to order the especially fattened bird for your table
The ridiculous overspending on presents
When time could be the finest present you could give
Yule tide is a special period for Druids and all pagans alike,
The wonder of simplicity of reflection of our past year
The elements of sleep as mother earth regenerates herself
Resting often under the warmth of a blanket of snow
Gathering of families and loved ones
Blessings of the solstice as the wheel of the year turns
Once more into the light as the sun begins it's journey
Returning to the northern hemisphere
Our birds and native animals preparing for the winter
Storing their food, digging deep as they look for vitals
Likewise the land is resting,
The soil teems with dormant life, every insect and worm
Every root, form and bulb
Slowing right down as the degrees fall to freezing
The frosty and rime ridden mornings giving the flora
A lift of white dusting and sparkling light reflecting
The weak, beautiful winter sun
Heaves itself onto the low glancing position
Just making it to the tree tops before retiring once more to sleep
Leaving glorious swathes of orange and red
Painting the sky as it falls and rises.
Yule tide comes as all seasons, times and periods
But once a year in our short lives
The earthy sounds, the images and emotion
The smell of the newly fallen snow and woodsmoke
The foraging birds and squirrels
The warbling and tuneful song of the blackbird
And the tut tut of Mr Robin resplendent in his
Bright red waistcoat bobbing around in the crisp frost
Our lifetime of Yules is a wonder to enjoy,
I know as I look from my window where my heart is
As the distant tree bare in it's winter shroud speaks
To me as a friend and anchor within this beautiful planet.
Dec 17, 2017
Dec 17, 2017 at 5:22 AM UTC
There lived an old man in the kingdom of Tess,
Who invented a purely original dress;
And when it was perfectly made and complete,
He opened the door, and walked into the street.
By way of a hat, he'd a loaf of Brown Bread,
In the middle of which he inserted his head;--
His Shirt was made up of no end of dead Mice,
The warmth of whose skins was quite fluffy and nice;--
His Drawers were of Rabbit-skins,--but it is not known whose;--
His Waistcoat and Trowsers were made of Pork Chops;--
His Buttons were Jujubes, and Chocolate Drops;--
His Coat was all Pancakes with Jam for a border,
And a girdle of Biscuits to keep it in order;
And he wore over all, as a screen from bad weather,
A Cloak of green Cabbage-leaves stitched all together.
He had walked a short way, when he heard a great noise,
Of all sorts of Beasticles, Birdlings, and Boys;--
And from every long street and dark lane in the town
Beasts, Birdles, and Boys in a tumult rushed down.
Two Cows and a half ate his Cabbage-leaf Cloak;--
Four Apes seized his Girdle, which vanished like smoke;--
Three Kids ate up half of his Pancaky Coat,--
And the tails were devour'd by an ancient He Goat;--
An army of Dogs in a twinkling tore up his
Pork Waistcoat and Trowsers to give to their Puppies;--
And while they were growling, and mumbling the Chops,
Ten boys prigged the Jujubes and Chocolate Drops.--
He tried to run back to his house, but in vain,
Four Scores of fat Pigs came again and again;--
They rushed out of stables and hovels and doors,--
They tore off his stockings, his shoes, and his drawers;--
And now from the housetops with screechings descend,
Striped, spotted, white, black, and gray Cats without end,
They jumped on his shoulders and knocked off his hat,--
When Crows, Ducks, and Hens made a mincemeat of that;--
They speedily flew at his sleeves in trice,
And utterly tore up his Shirt of dead Mice;--
They swallowed the last of his Shirt with a squall,--
Whereon he ran home with no clothes on at all.
And he said to himself as he bolted the door,
'I will not wear a similar dress any more,
'Any more, any more, any more, never more!'
1.4k
I think if Madness were a person he'd be a handsome, sharp dressed, man. He would wear a well tailored suit with a deep purple, velvet, waistcoat. I imagine he'd wear a black fedora for the mystery and a pocket watch to keep time. A little old fashioned but ageless.
A few days before he arrives I always get antsy. My anxiety acts up and I do things like leave the grocery store in a panic and empty handed. I take my kids to the park and then I find I suddenly can't breathe and the world feels like it's ending. And then....there is the inevitable knock on my minds door.
"Oh it's you" I'd say.
"Dont pretend like you didn't know I was in town..." He pushed past me , drops his stuff , and easily finds the whiskey cabinet and pours himself a full glass. He has been here before. "I was at the grocery store yesterday and the park a few days before that. " he turns, glass in hand. He smiles and it sends chills down my spine. "Well..." He continues, "you should have known I was coming . The signs were all there." I turn away, nervously and indignantly.
He sips his whiskey, studying me.
"Right. You thought some vitamins and sunshine could keep me away."
The thought obviously amuses him. He laughs and downs his entire drink in one gulp. He loves this game. He pours another whiskey and walks over to me. He puts the drink in my left hand and stands right up against my back, his hands on my shoulders, his lips near my ears. I can feel his warm breathe and I am nauseated and comforted at the same time. He slowly moves his hands down my arms to my hands. He locks his right hand with mine and wraps it around my stomach so his arm is around me too. His left hand brings the drink up to my lips. I close my eyes for a moment wishing him away. It doesn't work.
"Now" he whispers "where were we?"
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 10:34 PM UTC
Lonely London boy,
A stranger to the City,
A fluffy-haired gull
Lost in a sea of suitcases
And Kodak-clad people.
Big dreams tucked
Into the waistcoat
That hugged his frame
A little too much,
Occasionally glancing
Into café windows to
See how disheveled
He had become
During rush hour
On the Bakerloo Line.
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 5:12 PM UTC
His spring was short, and he wore it
damp and dreary with query bulbs lightly
weaved in a soiled waistcoat. He will be
ready for summer.
His summer comes modest, not hot
enough for milking. Answers flower few,
so he dons a leaf-cushioned jacket
and waits for the fall.
His fall arrives late, too sweetly
burning assents of decay. Cracks branch thin,
and he slaps on a sappy topcoat,
with dread of winter.
His winter bustles with a bite,
but its nibbles and noms are blessedly
brief. He sighs, "It's a shame my seasons
can only be four."
Apr 4, 2010
Apr 4, 2010 at 8:09 AM UTC
Look at that naughty monkey
with that tin cup in his hand
he shakes it with small change inside
for his master the ***** grinder by his side
He gibbers and on a cigar he smokes
ladies legs as they pass he does stroke
he bites if you don't put something in his tin
for he knows with no food he will get thin
His red waistcoat and fez
well, they have seen better days
yet he is loyal to his master
as his buddy grinds away
His mischief has no bounds
as he bangs his cup on the ground
he is a crowd pleaser
and a great money reviler
this monkey with his ***** grinder
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
By NeonSolaris
© 2013 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 8:28 PM UTC
Feels a fairytale
The sweetness of your love
Dozens of roses
A garden of colours,
Except you stand out to me
With the glow of a million stars
Gives me butterflies all over.
I'm an Alice in Wonderland,
A girl in a world they never told
Discovered the fall
Down a dark rabbit hole
Awaken to a beauty
Left unexplained
But a song and by words
Yet it isn't enough to
Describe it all myself
A picture holds a thousand words unsaid
If we have each frame
Of a movie,
Even all those won't reach
The extremeness of
My love for you're
Muchness.
I've fell in,
Don't want to get out
'till we have a happily ever after.
I'm glad that rabbit in a waistcoat
Couldn't wait to bring me down.
Jan 7, 2011
Jan 7, 2011 at 5:11 PM UTC
Following the white rabbit in his waistcoat
Listening to the tick tock of his pocket watch
Let's fall down the rabbit hole nestled at the trunk of the tree
And where you land is a room
An entire world hidden behind a door and all you need is the key
A nibble from a cake that makes you grow
And with a sip of a drink, you shrink
Insert the key and twist the ****
Opens the door to a world beyond imagination
There's a cat that grins
And with a smile, he disappears
Have a cup of tea and a biscuit with the Hare, the Hatter, and the Dormouse
Paint white roses red with the Red Queen
Beware of her freakishly large head
Slay the Jabberwocky with the Vorpal Sword
And restore the White Queen to her throne
I'm sure the ****** Big Head wouldn't like that
"Off with her head," she would say
Listen to the bicker of the twins, Tweedledee and Tweedledum
The Red Queen calls them her fat boys
Partake in the musings of Absolem
The hookah-smoking caterpillar who transforms into a beautiful blue butterfly
Let us escape to Wonderland
It is far more appealing than the real world
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 6:25 AM UTC
You Mr Rabbit are or so nice
I could drink tea with you
and talk about rice
or melons,
growing in the summer sun
but Mr Rabbit, I couldn't **** you.
Dear Mr Rabbit, sorry to be calling so late
I feel like we left off on a bad foot
the carrots still hot on my plate
as you pointed
towards your rounded door
and asked me kindly to scoot.
No I understand it was rude
and that we have had a delightful eve
but, hmm, how do I conclude
you're lovely
and sweet as a bug
but I can't see us making out on that rug.
No please don't be offended!
Your ears are so soft to touch
and your eyes are to be commended
but, sexually
the lightning and fire
well, doesn't amount to much.
I bid you adeu, Mr Rabbit.
Our time together was truly splendid
but it must be said,
that without the waistcoat
you remind me an awful lot of my bed.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 6:15 AM UTC
I want to cry in the mourning of something I have not yet lost.
I live constantly concerned that the destructive actions of my soul that commence,
Like a reflex not simply in my body,
But somewhere so submerged in my fragile being and conscience
I cannot and do not manage to withhold the wreckage
Within me once it begins to emerge...
I will tarnish the things that have been my cradle,
My sanctuary of happiness and level headedness.
Interpreting your every move, almost anxious for any
Give away signs of lost hope, lost lust, lost companionship
Despite the metaphor of its definition,
Companions you cannot be over miles of land and sea...
It’s as if all this space between us is at retracting magnet ends,
Or a snow storm battling a deserts sand swoops.
Yet, throughout all of my own battles of emotion...
I secretly know you are in blissful ignorance, for you do not
feel time should be kept anywhere, least of all in a waistcoat pocket.
Oct 30, 2011
Oct 30, 2011 at 8:14 PM UTC
There were stitches up her leg
watching her walking slight ahead
crossing the street as the skin slowly pulled apart at her seems
transfixing crimson drops
they would fall slowly I thought
I blinked
Just a tattoo nothing more
the blood was gone, I looked away
She turned the corner, I waited for the bus
I watched the edge of her skirt disappear around it
like the coat tails of the white rabbit
looking down, eyes closed
what would that be like...?
A rabbit in a waistcoat skirted the edges of my thoughts
the wind teased cool fingers at the back of my neck
Feels like flying doesn’t it…
A disembodied voice chipping away at my daydream
I ignore it, instead conjuring a hole under my feet just like Alice
What is? my voice answered for me
another chip breaking away
I started down the hole
The wind… when it blows like that it feels like flying
I wished the voice would leave
I wouldn’t know I’ve never flown…
Neither have I…
I could hear the voice smiling
a crack of light broke through my daydream
I turned away from it catching a glimpse of blue coat tails just around the corner
Why is it like flying then?
another chip…
Why isn’t it?
Go away I thought bitterly
the bodiless voice laughed softly
cool air teased my neck, back of my shoulders
I heard the bus pulling up to the stop
Be seeing you then?
My daydream crumbled away into reality
I opened my eyes still looking down
No…
the only answer
Hmm… that’s too bad
Another pause
I looked at the bus doors opening to admit me
Well goodbye then… Alice…
It was smiling again
I shivered, turning to put a face on the voice
Dress it in something more then the sound of its smiling
No one, I stood alone with the breeze kissing my skin and smiled a little
Goodbye… Cheshire cat
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 7:44 PM UTC
Regrets are sad
like a cancer
that won't go away
she said
always there growing
like big black spiders
in my sleep.
The psychiatrist sat
in the chair
by the couch
where she lay.
We all have regrets
he said
part of the human make-up.
But mine are mine
she said
things I've said
or done or not done
or said and I can't
get them out
of my head.
The psychiatrist leaned
forward hands together
bald head lowered
a watch chain looped
from his waistcoat pocket.
What regrets have you?
he said
lifting his big
brown eyes to her
seeing a scenery of thigh
in the spilt of her skirt.
She looked at her feet
the black shoes
I got up the duff
and had the baby
done away with
she said
peering at the scuff marks
on the toes of her shoes.
The psychiatrist
raised his eyes to her head
the way her hair
was parted in the center
brown coloured.
And that is one
of your regrets?
He said
noticing her eyes
staring into space
the narrowness of her face.
Saw this picture
of a baby at the age
mine was when
I had it done
she said
looking at him
seeing his plump features
the lips moving.
Many women
have abortions each year
he said
some have regrets
some do not.
I didn't go see
my mum when she
had cancer
never visited her
and she died
she said.
Why did you
not visit her?
he asked
feeling a mild headache
beginning.
We had a row
about me having
the baby done in
and we didn't talk after
she said.
He nodded grim faced
and silenced
an inner laughter.
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 9:58 AM UTC