"wellingtons" poems
Love, the world
Suddenly turns, turns color. The streetlight
Splits through the rat's tail
Pods of the laburnum at nine in the morning.
It is the Arctic,
This little black
Circle, with its tawn silk grasses - babies hair.
There is a green in the air,
Soft, delectable.
It cushions me lovingly.
I am flushed and warm.
I think I may be enormous,
I am so stupidly happy,
My Wellingtons
Squelching and squelching through the beautiful red.
This is my property.
Two times a day
I pace it, sniffing
The barbarous holly with its viridian
Scallops, pure iron,
And the wall of the odd corpses.
I love them.
I love them like history.
The apples are golden,
Imagine it ----
My seventy trees
Holding their gold-ruddy *****
In a thick gray death-soup,
Their million
Gold leaves metal and breathless.
O love, O celibate.
Nobody but me
Walks the waist high wet.
The irreplaceable
Golds bleed and deepen, the mouths of Thermopylae.
22.9k
Barefoot, blistered and bleeding
She wanders in from the street
People stare, flabbergasted
Very odd, unheard of in fact
She doesn’t know her size
So like Cinderella, she tries them on
Randomly selecting pretty colours
Silvery, glittery heels
She twirls for the mirror
Sales assistant sighs
Wellingtons for the garden
If she had one!
Satin ice skates
She would glide on the icy pond
Pretty sandals
To feel the sand between her toes
Boring, black brogues
Perfect!
With no pennies in her pocket
She wanders back to the street
Barefoot, blistered and bleeding
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 5:59 AM UTC
Mother Nature broke her water
But the baby never came
Our inundated world
Will never be the same
We watched slowly
With a growing sense of impotence
As an elemental army
Took our innocence
Some left their homes and died
In another place
They never did return
To their own space
Politicians waded 'round
In their wellingtons
What nerve they had to even show
Their sorry skeletons
Pontificated platitudes
Filled the element of air
And those who had been flooded
Didn't really care
To hear the sly sermon
Those words were barely heard
Though so well-written
Practised and rehearsed
Mother Nature has retreated now
To her slumber state
One day soon she'll wake again
We do not know the date
Windermere 2016 February 14th
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 4:36 PM UTC
In Venice walking takes on
a whole new meaning:
the abruptness of the right turn,
the obliqueness in the left,
the straight on for a bit,
the step up, the step down,
and that always glance
for the prospect of a view.
Water, suddenly interrupts; the cool,
placid, rolling drunkenly in the canals
green water, where on this November day
there is somewhat more than necessary.
So you climb aboard the passarelle
to take a walk above the acqua alta.
But you have your wellingtons
per fortuna, and are happy
to stand in a flooded passage
to eat that picniced lunch
fresh from the supermercato.
Alas, no seat, no bench to recline on
anywhere, absent from public places,
to ward off I vagabondi.
You stand or move, walk and turn,
then at the lagoon’s edge:
go back and back and back
again - by another way.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 3:11 PM UTC
Boots were all we had in winter,
Wellingtons made of a slice of rubber;
Turned down to show initials,
That bled upon the snow.
Between skin and cold,
Coarse wollen socks,
Sometimes they matched,
They'd criss and cross.
In from the boys' yard,
The slide and frost,
The boots were heaped
In backroom closets.
The sting of chilblains
On sock-soaked feet,
The line of footprints
Led to our seats.
We had one pair at school,
No other cover
Sliding across the oaken floors.
Drying on the radiators,
Our pungent odor,
A synaptic recall,
The unschooled smell
Of winter schoolyards.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 5:01 PM UTC
I woke to a morning that called out in crystals,where mistletoe ice wands would grant me three wishes and wise men were wrapped up in kaftans and turbans.
The clock stuck at five,so the **** came alive and told time from cracked egg shells and church bells were snowed in,no dings and no dongs,the rights and the wrongs of it seem to fit in quite nicely,when at six the wind whips through the streets where I walk,it's like treading in chalk leaving footprints to read,with my toes feeling the way,so glad I wore two pairs of socks and my wellingtons today.
Then at eight there's hot chocolate and a muffin with jam and the work day begins.
No djinns and no genie,just the boss who's a skinflint and a tightfisted meanie
but it all ends at four when home seems to beckon,
I reckon I'll go and make more prints in the snow and maybe call in to see Andy for a pipe and a brandy,then off to feed Joe,(he's my cat dontya know) and then bed with my nightcap,take the bolt off the catflap and dive into a book I was saving for the time before I nap.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 12:59 AM UTC
Wellies
Unfull cups of funny puddlewater
Around the feet and toes of happy children
*****
Stamp
Splish
Splash
What
Fun
A memory of that darling child
Hand around her mother's
Fascinated and absorbed
By those little lakes and worlds
Her little pink coat
And wellies
Keeping her warm as a snug bug.
Stamp-Splash-Fun
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 9:56 AM UTC
@ a cristian @ a catholic @ an all round ruddy good athlete. @ herd roast beef @ herd mutton. @ i used to lead the pork and dairy through the fields of cotton. @ wear football socks and wellingtons and fleeces and march to the top of the old south downs. @ make a jump jet from bits of old pieces @ act a goat or a hero or a clown. @ do front flips straight from the backflip @ sing who put the dog with the cat fish @ say ship! Take the P add a T @ break the day with a bowl of muesli. @ play snake if my mate had a phone, but playing with others isnt always better than playing
alone.
@ like films made for kids my age, glamourised ideas of aristocracy and faith. The good will win and the bad will be sad and the age of the raging mad will begin, its a fad! @ wear jean jackets, go to the parties @ have fanta and chocolate log rushing through the arteries. @ chew through books faster than a vulture, faster than the fastest man at the height of zombie culture. @ play football everyday football winter time football, dont need sun. And then we play cricket. 40 legs of cricket. 3 days later im counting up the runs
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 11:44 AM UTC
Adoringly applauding
Arrogant acrobatic aristocratic,
Bourgeois bad-boys.
Braving boredom and bills,
Caught controlling criminal
Circles like a circus.
Daring to do, and to deceive
Desperate damsels in distress,
Each accepting enemies.
Everyone explaining elements
From the final fights
Frought with frustration.
Getting groovy- grown old
Garnering glittering gold.
Holidaying in Getafé,
Holding onto hands of harlots,
Implying impotence and insolence,
Ignorant in their ilk.
Jovially joking,
Jesting about juvenile jealousies;
"I kissed Katie Kurtis"
Knowingly comments one kid.
Left to love and lose,
Like Caesar and his laurels,
Making music and malice,
Manifesting manic malpractices.
Natalie narrates,
"Not now, not ever".
Obvious obstacles avoided,
Objectifying objects that are obsolete.
Praying, pondering over pros,
False prophets photographed as they pose.
Qualifying quangos,
Quantitative quelling of queries,
Raising riots and runctions,
Realising regal and royal remedies,
Celebrating summer solstice,
Solitude is bliss.
Try tampering telephones
To transcribe threat of treason,
Unreal unilateral promises
Unwound by underlying urchins.
Vowing to voice very real values,
Vox pop video views.
Wearing water coloured wellingtons,
Wondering over wax cuneiform works.
Xylophone playing exemplary,
Xavier exists in the imaginary.
Yearly yearning for you,
You're yoked as Gonne with Yeats
(unequally)
Zeroing in on Ritz and Rubble,
Rubble the Zealots want to reign.
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 6:43 PM UTC
it can be a difficulty
with feelings, indications,
suchlike and endlessly.
climbing the gate
was easy, the walk
slipped the slate
higher.
us in wellingtons
and ballet shoes,
decided against
ambition. war time
traps, climbed back
the gate again.
another day will
do for such meanderings.
sbm.
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 10:29 AM UTC
The barrel’s of water in the yard
filled by run-off rain
from corrugated sheds
washes the wellingtons,
the calving jack and
purges pests.
Otherwise, I’d have to waste
a cartridge.
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 2:15 PM UTC
Early September smells
Of the familiar.
Pungent socks on hissing rads;
Cuffed wellingtons
Strewn on cloak-room floors.
Mine have my initials
In bold red letters.
Peanut butter and oranges
Douse the old rooms,
And Quick swirls in fruit jars.
Home for lunch,
Mammy serves plates
Of beans and bread
To the middle of the table,
Where she'll sit, mug in hand,
After whisking us
Out the door.
I knew she sat there,
Thinking of her
Lost children,
Buried for eternity.
Never to revisit.
No desire to.
Her kettle clouds
The kitchen;
From the vapors she heard,
Bye, Mammy.
Tomorrow, the bells
Ring again.
I'll sit with the kettle
And school days' thoughts
And life's lessons
On history
And good-byes.
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 10:17 AM UTC
God it's raining end of summer!
dreary days
the garden not worth longing gaze
dull
grey
wet
maybe i should get a pet?
autumn
leaves
and winter comes
should i get out the wellingtons
Apr 21, 2012
Apr 21, 2012 at 7:26 PM UTC
And what is love? It is a doll dressed up
For idleness to cosset, nurse, and dandle;
A thing of soft misnomers, so divine
That silly youth doth think to make itself
Divine by loving, and so goes on
Yawning and doting a whole summer long,
Till Miss's comb is made a perfect tiara,
And common Wellingtons turn Romeo boots;
Till Cleopatra lives at Number Seven,
And Antony resides in Brunswick Square.
Fools! if some passions high have warmed the world,
If queens and soldiers have played deep for hearts,
It is no reason why such agonies
Should be more common than the growth of weeds.
Fools! make me whole again that weighty pearl
The queen of Egypt melted, and I'll say
That ye may love in spite of ****** hats.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 3:40 PM UTC
Boiled down to a puddle of liquids
there's not much to say
except bring your wellingtons
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 2:55 PM UTC
I see her
sitting there
on the gate
at the back
of the two
cottages
she's waiting
patiently
morning sun
on her head
of dark hair
her thin hands
in her lap
I come out
the back door
having had
my breakfast
she climbs down
from the gate
her grey dress
is knee length
she wears black
Wellingtons
with mud stains
been here long?
I ask her
no not long
Jane replies
I rode down
on my bike
glad you're here
I tell her
I was up
at the farm
getting milk
we hold hands
her thin hand
has a chill
about it
I rub it
with my thumb
let's go see
if that old
bullfinch nest
is still there
she suggests
if you like
I reply
(I cannot
imagine
that Lizbeth
would ever
suggest that
she only
suggests
things
******
we walk down
the side lane
by the stream
flowing down
narrowing
as it goes
bullfinches
are so sweet
Jane tells me
as we reach
where the nest
is hidden
in a bush
are there eggs?
I ask her
she looks in
carefully
yes there are
there are 4
she tells me
they're glossy
and light blue
with purplish
markings there
at one end
I watch her
as she leans
in the bush
her dark hair
shoulder length
her slim waist
huggable
mustn't touch
them of course
she informs
or the hen
bird will not
return here
in my mind
I embrace
her body
kiss her neck
feel her near
it's so good
being near
to nature
she suggests
yes it is
the closer
the better
I reply
her image
captured there
in my eye.
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 1:06 PM UTC
There's the moment as your eyelids flicker just before they open
when the strands of last night's dreams are trying hard to close the shoe box
that they hide in during daylight hoping nobody will notice
they're alone.
The steam continues rising from the coffee and the image of a lady in red
wellingtons strolls slowly past the window where you're sitting, but she smiles at someone else who walks a poodle in the morning,
they're alone.
The newspaper gets folded into fifteen squares of nowhere and it's all a bit
depressing so you take the number nineteen
stopping off at Manor house because you know you've gone the wrong way and the old man serving ice cream gives a look that freezes sunshine,
they're alone.
And again the eyelids flutter, waiting for the dream to step outside the shoe box where it's waiting
like a butterfly on acid
and the night blows candy lollipops,
you'll **** on them tomorrow,
you're alone.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 5:09 AM UTC
O for Orange
They were just kids flying their Vickers Wellington bomber
Out from England to bomb The ***
That dastardly enemy who started this war
O for Orange coded machine crewed by our boys
Flying at first in daylight on recon and carrying leaflets
Then bombing **** warships as their civilians are innocent
Just like ours are and the Poles and others
Our Wellingtons being caught out over the water
They fought back well but lost at Heliogoland Bight
Licked into submission by lethal little Messerschmitt 109s
And their destroyer brother Messerschmitt 110s
Their cannons smashing our bombers into the water
And damaging many more which had no armour or protection
Other than rifle calibre machine guns which were close range killers
Just ask the few **** fighters that fell that day
The battle of Heligoland Bight ended the myth once and for all
The bomber will not always get thru by day
Ask the brave crew of O for Orange
Their Wellington bomber lies on the seabed
Along with their remains and legacy
Their loss was the first of many
Which brought along the total unconditional surrender
Of **** Germany ending the Thousand Year *****
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 4:18 PM UTC
There's a city of lavender
Beyond the fields of green
Turning grey with the sky
There's fog
Purple smoke
Everywhere
It surrounds the tall buildings
Hidden in the stormy clouds
Electrifying the sky
Brightening the darkness
A bittersweet drop of rain
Starts to fall
And thousand more droplets
Create tear puddles on the ground
For the children in red wellingtons
To dance around and splash
And for the depressed and alone
To hide their salty tears
Oct 27, 2017
Oct 27, 2017 at 4:53 PM UTC
No more wellingtons,
No more icy things,
No more muddy murk,
No more shivering in the lurk.
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 6:09 AM UTC
The wellingtons stand without feet.
Patiently and willing.
Forward they dont.
Love is kind.
Waiting is not.
Dec 26, 2018
Dec 26, 2018 at 10:56 AM UTC