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The piper coming from far away is you
With a whitewash brush for a sporran
Wobbling round you, a kitchen chair
Upside down on your shoulder, your right arm
Pretending to tuck the bag beneath your elbow,
Your pop-eyes and big cheeks nearly bursting
With laughter, but keeping the drone going on
Interminably, between catches of breath.



The whitewash brush. An old blanched skirted thing
On the back of the byre door, biding its time
Until spring airs spelled lime in a work-bucket
And a potstick to mix it in with water.
Those smells brought tears to the eyes, we inhaled
A kind of greeny burning and thought of brimstone.
But the slop of the actual job
Of brushing walls, the watery grey
Being lashed on in broad swatches, then drying out
Whiter and whiter, all that worked like magic.
Where had we come from, what was this kingdom
We knew we'd been restored to? Our shadows
Moved on the wall and a tar border glittered
The full length of the house, a black divide
Like a freshly opened, pungent, reeking trench.



**** at the gable, the dead will congregate.
But separately. The women after dark,
Hunkering there a moment before bedtime,
The only time the soul was let alone,
The only time that face and body calmed
In the eye of heaven.

Buttermilk and *****,
The pantry, the housed beasts, the listening bedroom.
We were all together there in a foretime,
In a knowledge that might not translate beyond
Those wind-heaved midnights we still cannot be sure
Happened or not. It smelled of hill-fort clay
And cattle dung. When the thorn tree was cut down
You broke your arm. I shared the dread
When a strange bird perched for days on the byre roof.



That scene, with Macbeth helpless and desperate
In his nightmare--when he meets the hags agains
And sees the apparitions in the ***--
I felt at home with that one all right. Hearth,
Steam and ululation, the smoky hair
Curtaining a cheek. 'Don't go near bad boys
In that college that you're bound for. Do you hear me?
Do you hear me speaking to you? Don't forget!'
And then the postick quickening the gruel,
The steam crown swirled, everything intimate
And fear-swathed brightening for a moment,
Then going dull and fatal and away.



Grey matter like gruel flecked with blood
In spatters on the whitewash. A clean spot
Where his head had been, other stains subsumed
In the parched wall he leant his back against
That morning like any other morning,
Part-time reservist, toting his lunch-box.
A car came slow down Castle Street, made the halt,
Crossed the Diamond, slowed again and stopped
Level with him, although it was not his lift.
And then he saw an ordinary face
For what it was and a gun in his own face.
His right leg was hooked back, his sole and heel
Against the wall, his right knee propped up steady,
So he never moved, just pushed with all his might
Against himself, then fell past the tarred strip,
Feeding the gutter with his copious blood.

*

My dear brother, you have good stamina.
You stay on where it happens. Your big tractor
Pulls up at the Diamond, you wave at people,
You shout and laugh about the revs, you keep
old roads open by driving on the new ones.
You called the piper's sporrans whitewash brushes
And then dressed up and marched us through the kitchen,
But you cannot make the dead walk or right wrong.
I see you at the end of your tether sometimes,
In the milking parlour, holding yourself up
Between two cows until your turn goes past,
Then coming to in the smell of dung again
And wondering, is this all? As it was
In the beginning, is now and shall be?
Then rubbing your eyes and seeing our old brush
Up on the byre door, and keeping going.
Steven Fried Sep 2013
Symmetry faceless or otherwise
colorful or
drab. Equality is sin
struggle is peace with people
Cynically and worldly impossible
No prejudice, no illness
Well prejudice is illness, and humans are death
The propaganda vaccinations donated by our governments daily, monthly, yearly
Not antiestablishment
anti-chikanery
not anti-symmetric
anti-whitewash
Lora Lee Apr 2016
Here in the desert
it's been raining
on and off
            for days
making the succulents and cacti
glisten with wetness
their thick skin sparkles
and catches nature's ironic eye
flowers and plants shine
so much better in the half-grey
Here in the prehistoric depths
Of rocky whitewash and silt
             flash floods rush through
flushing out all guilt
         And inside
a raging storm commences
and I feel so blessed
to be a part of this celebration
my lungs expanding in my chest
I breathe in deep
that fresh purity of air
let it cleanse right through me
from my toes up to my hair
It rushes in my body
taking no prisoners in its force
flows through every vein
cleansing poisons in its course
its power flows into me
washing out this stubborn pain
Turning the confusion
                     into clarity again
From inside subconscious thoughts
           realization thunders
rinsing from my mind
                 the emotional strain
and replacing it with euphoric wonders
Come, my raging desert tempest
Bathe me
       penetrate me with wet
restore and purify
my being
take over and disinfect
let me feel my own strength
until it pours out from my cells
into the space inside my heart
where love and lust still dwell
My tears mingle with the sweet drops
                as I fling arms open to the sky
releasing strikes of lightening
for every word I cry
as I summon, pray for lightness
mixed with the sturdiness of earth
Let joy rise up and bubble
within my being
as rebirth
I live only here, between your eyes and you,
But I live in your world. What do I do?
--Collect no interest--otherwise what I can;
Above all I am not that staring man.
Logan Robertson May 2018
his
life spent
on misses
dressed in rogue love
dammed
and
love of
****** saw
his eyes of dark
******
he
see-saws
the river
rapid's descent
lost
where
his eyes
wander wide
as the whitewash
laps

Logan Robertson

5/24/2018
Thank you for visiting. This poem is a lantern (1,2,3,4,1) (?). Each makes a statement with double meanings, including the title, with all four tied together. Often I think I lose many readers (see the views) because they don't understand my poetry (story of my life). To July nothing will ever change.
Deb Jones May 2018
I thought I forgave you.
I told you I did.

I meant it at the time.
Or thought I spoke the truth.

How casually you mentioned it
In the dark, drinking a beer.

“Remember when we were kids
You said “That’s how kids are”

“Besides” you said.
“It was only touching”

That continued even when
You were home after boot camp

I felt hot in the dark
I thought I had been stamped

Signed, sealed. Validated.
But it wasn’t enough.

You took something that shaped me.
And made it sound like crumbs.

Casually brushed away.
In an adult voice filled with scorn

Minimized.
Justified?

You were 15.
I was 10

Then I was 14
And you were 19

A beautiful boy- man
Loved and admired by all

I know you tried with our sisters.
They all told you no.

I never thought to say no.
Always pretending I was asleep.

Because of your shame
You hated me. I was a pariah.

You didn’t have the willpower
To stop yourself

See, brother of mine.
See how you shaped me?

Now I am an adult
And one of the hats I wear

Is as a **** Crisis counselor
Holding hands in the Emergency Room

During the **** kit examination

Of girls and women
That were ***** or molested in various ways

Various ways.....
With different words to describe what happened

Even different body parts.
How do we treat a young girl

That doesn’t even know
The word ******?

Who thinks that she was ***** where she pees.

For myself?
I did forgive you.

I put a letter in your coffin
You were Thirty-three
I was Twenty-eight

Faulty pistol, bled out,
Two hour wait for the ambulance.

Your head cradled by a woman
Who soothed and comforted you

Surrounded by our father
And dozens of your friends

I forgave you finally.
Completely.

I never stopped loving you.
Is that worth saying?

Why does death feel like
We have to whitewash the truth
Alliesaurus Oct 2010
I tried to pray once,
twice, a hundred times.
I was always scared of the person who would answer,
until they started answering.
It was usually my Ciocia, or my Dzia Dzia,
saying, 'hush hush little one",
or "be good to each other".
Most times, when I was lying balled up under the covers,
or hiding in my shower,
trying my hardest not to sob the walls out of existence,
those were the answers to my prayers.
The best advice usually came from myself,
telling me to take my time and be ridiculous,
even if just for the moment.
I didn't think I needed God to tell me that,
when I could tell  that to myself.

I tried to pray once,
twice, a thousand times.
I wasn't sure what to pray about.
I felt weird reliving my day in narrative form,
and I didn't want to ask for favors or forgiveness like Christmas gifts.
I'll find my own good community,
my own piece of mind.

I tried to pray once,
twice, a million times.
Each time, the answers wouldn't come, and I was left worshipping the ground I had walked on 10 minutes before;
the same amount of dried leaves and holey socks littering the crosswalk of my bedroom.

I tried to pray once,
to infinity. To a God without a name, without a face.
It always came back to my Ciocia, though.
Who lives in your white house, your whitewashed walls of glory and redemption?
Inspired by Charles Bukowski:      

"For those who believe in God, most of the big questions are answered. But for those of us who can't readily accept the God formula, the big answers don't remain stone-written. We adjust to new conditions and discoveries. We are pliable. Love need not be a command or faith a dictum. I am my own God. We are here to unlearn the teachings of the church, state, and our educational system. We are here to drink beer. We are here to **** war. We are here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that Death will tremble to take us."

Not finished yet, and always looking for feedback and critique.
Nirali Shah Aug 2014
A quaint little bazaar
In the heart of the town
Tells a story
Of a thousand moments
Dal Bazaar as they call it
Or "Curry Market" for others who don't know.
I have fragments of memorable memories
Deep within my mind
The smell
The intoxicating smell of spices
Blended with the quiescent yet cacophonous lives
Of Merchants and Beggars
Of Buyers and Sellers
Of Bullions and a single calloused rupia
In the hands of the old *****.
The sunlight baking
Bags of turmeric.
Suspending the scent
In the minds of men.

Capering clouds of black and grey
And the sudden squall
Stirring the monotony
Of the customary.
The pirouette of rain
The one that excites the plainest of the plain
Painting the whitewash with shades of grey
The chalky walls
Dust
Moist corriander
And the relief of earth
Conciliating
So rewarding
For the ruins of the bare sun.

This flashback into my soul
Where all my senses seem to be so awake.
The feel of the wooden veranda
Scent so inexpressible
My eyes devouring the sunset
Tasting the heavens
Hearing it all.
Feeling it all.
Oh the plight of poets
The ritual to end a poem.
Painful.
August 16,2014
Randy Mcpeek Aug 2016
The woman I see
I look in the mirror at my reflection, and gaze at the woman looking back.
She has been through so much in her short life, and yet her soul is still intact.
She has known love vast as an ocean, and thought her heart would burst from the joy.
As well as the pain from losing that love, so deep she felt her life was destroyed.
She has seen beauty so vivid and golden that all she could do was stare back in awe.
Along with the ugliness she’d rather forget; it made her curl up in a ball and withdraw.
She’s laughed so hard that her stomach hurt, and it took hours to cease.
Then cried tears that left her heartbroken, and numb, from feeling the bottomless grief.
At times she’s been brave, and overcome doubt, to be stronger than she once was.
That very next breath been afraid to do something, and make an error she couldn’t whitewash.
She’s become quite a woman from living her life, and, she has gained so much intelligence.
Yet she’s also been a fool, and brutally reminded, she still has immense incompetence.
The woman I see looking back from the mirror is true deep down to her soul.
I applaude her and believe that, no matter what happens, she is still more precious than gold.

Randy McPeek
we wuz celebratin
40 years of Hip Hop
at 5 Pointz

dashing tags
reclaiming the
lost land

speaking for a
community of peeps
routed from their
last stand

making statements
about remembering

tellin stories
about ourselves

giving the drab
dead industrial
sarcophagi a
a face lift

freeing the
entombed
mummies
to let em
walk with
the living
again

seein things
in a new light

reciting our
biographies

writing an epic
autobiography

splashed across
3D murals

spoken in the
lexicon of
gobsmack
multicolored
neon graffiti

testifying to
the ages with
our urban
hieroglyphs

the symbols of
life in the hood
may history be our
witness to aromas
rising from cracked
pavements teaming
with bodegas,
public projects and
store front fantasies
played out in all its
grueling detail
on the corner of
walk don’t walk

them snaps
real down home
expressions
of real people

until some
capitalist
*******

his pockets filled
with low interest
money

whitewashed
it away

he thinks he
owns the
5 Pointz

he thinks
he can
erase our
memories
with a gallon of
Sherwin Williams

he thinks
he owns our
perdido
graffito

and is well
in his rights
to launder our  
epiphanies over
with the bland
tag of privilege
he thinks his
dollar bills
can buy

we raised this
place from
the dead

that old warehouse
where men and women
once earned a paycheck
was murdered by
Michael Milken
and his posse of well
heeled predators
busy leveraging
livelihoods by
offshoring them
to Third World
plantations
transforming
the natives into
wage slaves
tagging this
strange alchemy
progress

now this
latest incarnation of
Morley’s Ghost stalking
Bloomberg’s Metropolis
haunts the neighborhoods
with a wrecking ball
of entitlement

razing our hood
to build soulless
high rises where
they'll warehouse
dead people
ginned up
on pilates,
chai tea and
elevating
themselves
through life
scoring the
latest fab
yoga gear
on the
urban outfitters
website

the frackers
are gobbling
the land

strip miners are
gnashing away
at the mountains

now the predators
are eating our art

always famished
never satiated
the beast gnaws
away at its
**** scattering
the bones of
of the living

but this
half assed
midnight
whitewash
will never stand

already images
of the holy ghosts
scrawled onto
the Wailing Walls
of 5 Pointz are
bleeding through
the veneer of a
landlords greed

and as the
future tenants
of the proposed
highrise columbarium
snooze away the night
dreaming of leading roles
in star studded schemes

we’ll be taggin
the streets
reciting our
righteous presence
until our last dying
aerosol breath
escapes our
paint stained
hands

Public Enemy:
Fight the Power

Oakland
11/20/13
jbm
http://nypost.com/2013/11/20/5-pointz-fans-try-to-retag-legendary-graffiti-building/
A L Davies Jul 2012
red tile roof ...
whitewash balcony in romanesque cemicircle ,
fridge full 'f
                        1 litro bottles Alhambra cerveza --
clawfoot tub, coldwater (couture)
$1000/week:
(i could live on that)
lucky strike spirals in spanish summer,
bare feet on the railing upturned to sun beaming on pearly albayzin of granada.
afternoon mojitos with a new woman ev'ry week. (reading magazines)

spend
75 drunk nights ( reading ,   smoking ,   swilling gin )
&
typewriter whirring out pages (underwood airbus laissez-faire)
flamenco on a record player back in the house
one of those spanish girls slipping off a white dress (which falls like a soft breath of cloud down to the ground and sits there
still as death)
as she gets into the jacuzzi.
&
spend
75 high days throwing change into fountains, hand
up skirt of my carmen-du-jour.
climb drydust hills with guinness tallcans in plastic borsa
drinking dark beauties as golden orb hung in clouds keeps on grinning heatwaves.

(feelin' like maybe perhaps possibly i be free)
more RAW than R.A.W.
Mark Donnelly Jul 2016
I ride a wave of feeling,
surfing it finding meaning,
where it will take me i am not sure,
it is a feeling after all,
it takes me places good and bad,
to times I wish I had,
sometimes I crash and burn,
others bring a positive turn,
the sharks wait for me to fall,
strongly I push beyond the call,
to the beach I go for the wave takes me,
the whitewash bubbles around me like emotions,
I step to shore where the wave brought me,
here i stand ashore looking whence I came,
how strong I am with no shame.
Sometimes the emotion is so strong it takes you on a ride, other times emotion is slight. Is it like surfing?
Pearson Bolt Sep 2015
they say you'll never forget
where you were on 9/11
i was nine
i sat in the kitchen
and watched the television
play out the violence hour after hour
my child-like mind conflated the Two Towers
in Tolkien's literary fantasy
with these acts of misanthropy  
and i was taught at the dinner table
that very evening
that all of life could be reduced
to capital letters defining a
cosmic struggle of Good vs. Evil

and yet
regardless of their affiliation
on this defunct
political spectrum of
left left
left right left
politicians canonize a legacy of
injustice and oppression and
in order to suppress
democratic expression
they propagate the notion
that dissent is treason

because the wars we wage are blessed
by the sagely insight of rich old men
who sit safely in mansions protected by
picket fences as white as their skin
while they play off our emotions and
turn us into thoughtless sheep
content to stomach the whims of
politicians propagating vengeance

i will speak this out even
when my voice shakes
because i have seen the hypocrisy
of this war on terror
that relies on terror
to cultivate more terrorists
in order to perpetuate the notion
that Orwell posited

war is peace
freedom is slavery
ignorance is bliss
isn't it

in my naïveté
i rejected the reality of
torture and murdered children for
i nursed a secret hope that
despite the pictures and videos
that served as empirical evidence
we were still somehow
the good guys and
they were the bad guys

but Americans rained white
phosphorous on Fallujah
dropped the world's first
and hopefully last
atom bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki
we toppled democratically elected socialists
whose interests betrayed our self-serving agendas
cultivating a policy of extra-judicial assassination
regime change is the name of the game
just ask the CIA
they'd tell you
business is booming but
then they'd have to **** you

so i switched off my TV screen
and picked up books
i read Slaughterhouse-V
and treasured the way Vonnegut
looks at the lives of even
bees and butterflies as valuable
intoning "so it goes"
every time a living thing dies

i read O'Brien's
recollections
of Vietnam
a month later
he said that
like white lies
tall tales and
fishermen’s yarns
every war story
has a bit of truth

and i've seen the proof
in the photographs of
Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo Bay
in the aftermath of drone strikes
that left pieces of kids scattered
across the desert sands of foreign lands

i see the toxic side-effects of
systemic violence in the eyes
of homeless veterans suffering
on the streets with PTSD
a flicker of fear livens a
deadened gaze at the sound of
every backfiring engine
as if they're a thousand miles away
on some distant shore

betrayed by their own
government once again
a Purple Heart is
a death sentence
when there are 22
military suicides a day
thanks for your service
now die in silence

like bad religion the phrase
war crime is rather redundant
and i testify not because i
aim to disrespect the
men and women in uniform
on the contrary

when i say
**** war
it is because i
cherish every brother
and every sister
who has perished in the
churning gears of conflict

they shoved tall tales of hope
for a collegiate education
and far-flung travel
down our throats
just sign here
right along the dotted line

we want you
to march into hellfire
we want you
to send missiles into
tiny huts and villages
tracking cell phone signals
we want you
to sit down
shut up and
just do as you're told

to every fallen human who
has been sent off to fight on
behalf of this
or any other
corrupt nation
i sincerely apologize
for not taking to the streets to protest
a vitriolic ideology

i regret filing my taxes
when 54% or more of our budget goes to
military expenditures so they could
stick an M-16 in your hands
and ship you off to die for abstract
and so often arbitrary phrases like
freedom and justice for all

you were robbed of your liberty
by a capitalist system that seeks profit
like a false prophet for
bank accounts soar in times of war  
and in my apathy i hammered
nails into your coffin

and i pride myself on  
being an anti-militaristic
non-violent anarchist because
i don't hate soldiers
if i did i would remain
silent and apathetic
and let the government
abuse its youth

i celebrate humanity
regardless of ethnicity and creed
which is precisely why i despise
this system that sacrifices
generation after generation for
conquest and imperial notions

pray tell
will we turn from the
error of our ways
wake up from
this terrorist daze
before it's too late
and say

the State can try to
whitewash history but
i refuse to let them
brainwash me
I wrote this poem when a woman walked out of the venue after I read a poem about overthrowing the government. She told me her son was in the military and said he had buddies who died so I could have free speech. I wish she'd stopped so I could've responded to her the way I'd have liked to. Guess this will have to do.
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
Dominoes
tumble sunk
chests respiring

Olas.
Olas.
Olas.


Short boards
spiral; foam
chaoes closing

Olas.
Olas.
Olas.


howls
swell purple;
storm out slowly

Olas.
Olas.
Olas.


Wet suits
pepper
whitewash winter.

*Olas.
Olas.
Olas.
A surf-town in off-season.
Hurble B Burble Apr 2016
White history month.
White lives matter.
The white panthers party for self defense.
Caucasian-American Civil Rights movement.
*******.
White pride.
White conciousness movement.
I could go on, the sad thing is that every one of those sounds offensive. Even to me. I didnt choose the color of my skin.
I inherited my ancestors sins simply because I was born white.
Grew up outside of Detroit every friend I had was a different color than myself. But for some reason any altercation with a person of another color falls back to I must be a racist because I don't agree. I have never judged a person by the color of their skin, I was raised better than that. I trust implicitly, until given reason not to. I do admit to being judgemental, but not once has a slur passed my lips without leaving distaste. So if I may, could you maybe not call me white? I  grew up poor in the ghetto and was beaten and *****. I've payed my dues and so have you.  Let's meet on even ground,  as equal men.  And please don't ever call me white again.
An arguement with a co-worker over how to approach an issue arised and he painted me into a corner by saying I wouldnt wouldn't agree with him because of his race, so yep...
Mellow Ds Feb 2011
Just stay quiet and still, keep your hands on the wheel
She's all ******* in the back just to prove that we still feel
A twisted, little punk all strung out on the junk
She lays like a ventriloquist's dummy, splayed out in the trunk

Just keep breathing baby, it'll be okay tonight
Once her body trembles, we'll all scream in delight
When her tears are spilling, we'll throw our ***** shillings
And celebrate gaily as we cry out in triumph daily,

"Clean streets, sobriety and unconditional artistry from a dog
Under my feet, like a genuinely unforgiving stone from a soft God
Water, be ******. Peace and all prosperity can come eat meat
From my hands. My rough palms tingling from the rain on this sheet.

Blotter, blotter. Let me corrupt your daughter. I know.
She was a soccer champion and now nothing but a ****** lost
Under a half-moon, harvest red, shining oh, so brightly in her head.
My men are out to get my money back but you won't notice the tools that they all lack.

Please go, and whitewash the teeth from the smile in the evergreen
Cheshire lies, untie this knot in my neck on my back, rebuff my sheen
Bumming for a smoke, hoping I will choke on it, *****, comets will rain for the death of beauty tragedy
Like the man before me, I'll be nothing but a veteran lost to prostate

Cancer. Answer me, my love. I'm ******. And it goes and goes and goes and goes and goes.

Who knows what grows, who is a bomb and calm as a Hindu cow?
Oxygen gets you high, you accept your fate
It's a good way to die but refrain from the urge to *******
I lie inside my mind ready to try again, depends
On if I come on too strong, it's been so long, so wrong to try and pick up on all these young ones.
It may be over for me but you can live out your life
And become something better than this high-
Way robbery
Of a child. So mild. Urbane."

And as she climbs out and fumbles, her body will crumble
Heels re-slit, we better fix it, get with it, the ball is still inside
Her mouth so she won't cry out so loud, oh why
Must we be doing this? I can't believe we're really going through with it!

My eyes are burning red and I can not help that this is dead
We came this far, don't back out on me now, anyhow the blood's on my hands
I demand answers! Why can't I hold the lantern? The car swerves
So just hold on tight, she'll blend in with the rain and mud tonight.

Don't worry, baby. Just keep driving to safety.
Just take a deep breath and sit still
Just shut up and keep your hands on the wheel
Every day this is how we feel.

And the only difference is I tell you.
(c) Ryan Bowdish 2010-2011
Edward Coles Aug 2014
I have the portable blues;
chained to the screen
or else out on my knees,
looking for that whiskey shot,
or the next new-age way
of getting high.
I tie my shoes,
walk away from the evening news;
an outsider looking in
on the rhythm and blues,
the irregular heartbeat
of looted city streets,
and the army knocking
on every front door.

They're selling Coca Cola
for half the price of running water.
Close the borders,
regulate the ******
and lock up your daughters,
to save the ****** from temptation,
and politicians from scandal.
There are vandals
sending misinformation
to a nation of eaters and sleepers,
fair-weather preachers claiming cures
for cancer, toothache, and weight
gained through the menopause.

Let's whitewash the wall,
whitewash the streets;
dreams of white faces,
white people,
and white snow at Christmas.
You can send laminate cards
of ghost-written love
to every person that you meet.

I take my writing to the coffee shop.
Surrounded by books,
it is the only place left untouched
by the angry mob.
They are looking for that
advertised freedom,
running away in those
brand new sneakers,
popping pills and stealing tablets
to replace their food,
to light up the room,
and heat their child,
still sleeping in the womb.

And then the newspapers come
to doctor a sight,
to write-off rubber bullets
as a pinball machine,
a Whoopee Cushion intervention
against the unwashed masses.
They're growing lazy on benefits,
cutting school,
shooting pool
in broken bars:
the virulent, violent
lower classes.

The church choir pretends to sing,
heads bowed in prayer
for an incoming message,
a silent ring
from their half-stalked lover
who is drinking white wine
in paradise
and rolling the dice
of couch-surfing travel,
leaving a trail of half-written blogs,
and photographs of
every single meal.

I hear you can rent a folk-singer,
string him up
like a marionette,
watch him hang himself
with his guitar strings;
his five-day stubble
and Four Winds rings
ready for auction
at the next B-list convention.
There are black men
on Fox News, smiling, fat,
and drunk on the price
of their suits.

They are blaming colour,
religious fervour, and foreign lands,
for the turning sands
in the timer, as more brothers
slip through society,
crushed by the weight
of ***** and drugs,
and those that follow behind them.
They refuse to bite
the white hand that feeds,
that threatens
to exclude them
from the excursions of oil
and Monsanto seeds.

The summer ended
with Parkinson's and wine,
an ill-timed suicide
of a laughing face
and crinkled eyes.
No tide can be turned,
only bridges burned,
and yet still brothers converge
to sing a verse
of improbable change,
and poetry in silence;
an antelope bounding
across the shooting range,
hopping a fence,
and dodging a bullet,
in the hope of a friend,
a better tomorrow;
a safe place to mend
beyond all of this sorrow.
(Intended to be spoken, rather than read)

c
Cadence Musick May 2013
dusk;
it shrouds the
evening in mist-
a cloaked figure
carrying a message
that will send a mother's
heart rocking.
the smell of eggs
smelling them sunny side up
some comfort in the
familiarity
of a kitchen and a stove
i'll always remember
the moon licked grove
with white rotted
wood being taken back by the earth
and how your eyes lingered there
in ivy and tendrils so green
you looked sad
a rare sadness,
one that comes with great knowing
we never spoke
we never speak
between the long slabs of
concrete that conjoin
the towns we've shut up inside
closing with a dead man's eyes
how did it get this way;
my lungs decayed,
puffing up dust like an ancient tome
Zach Gomes Feb 2010
It’s 30…
it’s 28 degrees outside,
or so says the rust-cased thermometer
on the balcony.

The blizzard we’ve been expecting all week
is a churning grey mist in the distance—
it is easy to see from the balcony
if I look through pine boughs.

The woods expanding below our mountainside balcony
are also home to several swanky condos;
evergreens and birch all down the mountain,
and a dusty snow falling in the valley below.

We are all familiar with the reddened barn
staring at us, perfectly opposite our balcony,
commanding a small field
on the little mountain across the dip of the valley.

But the blizzard is swallowing the neighbor mountain
in its snowy march towards the balcony.
And the lazy, drifting flakes above the pines
are shook into a frenzied dance.

A group of skiers, lost and floundering in the white
near the buildings lodged in the woods below
understand that cold, chaotic feeling I know
as the valley blurs in whitewash.
JJ Hutton May 2011
After murderous fall of moon, after starving cat's croon,
my body remains.

After getaway car turns to rust, after skyscraper scatters as dust,
my body remains.

After milk carton goes missing, after women disposed in kissing,
my body remains.

After the cackling retreat, after the burying buzz of her words on repeat,
my body remains.

After greeting card ages yellow, after whiskey tastes mellow,
my body remains.

After white suburb tastes of ****, after inner-city tastes black death,
my body remains.

After fifth or sixth televised war, after commercial break bore,
my body remains.

After drunken desperation, after belated bedroom exasperation,
my body remains.

After propaganda pill-popping, after church pew splinter sopping,
my body remains.

After farm fields on fire, after ***** clothes hung on wire,
my body remains.

After open casket sorrow, after sympathy borrow,
my body remains.

After winter of extreme tire, after binge and pyre,
my body remains.

After tearing nostalgic shoreline, after parking fine,
my body remains.

After dumbfound pride, after proving my hide,
my body remains--

awaiting a whitewash of hot rain,
awaiting a ***** cradle free of pain,
awaiting a salty crest daydream,
awaiting a snip from the seams and--

sweet release.
- From Anna and the Symphony
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
no matter what pronoun use is in place, there won’t be time
to decipher it as personal or impersonal, subjective or objective,
singular or plural... to write a book of philosophy pulsating
existentialism:
i miss the rugby world cup, i miss it,
the gay referee too,
i miss the hugging and blood mushroom sprouting
from the cartilage of smeared sneeze and sniff to a hark
of semolina saliva in the up-shoot...
i miss it in the scrum... away from
the balancing mary antoinette and ballerinas,
modern lawful facade: he anchored me! gone sail the titanic!
he anchored me! foul! see? precisely! a guillotine on the ready
for those insured legs of footballers...
i miss the rugby... i fancied playing it once in school...
we had p.e. (jerseys) on the reverse with a yellow stripe
going across all maroon... football was favoured...
even though i got the ball and walked 1/4 of the field in that sloth
of being fat... why do people always have such negative memories of youth,
esp. in school?! i don’t know... all i know...
when i walked for a bottle of brown whiskers tonight,
the streets of essex were filled with that fabled smog of 19th century london,
it wasn’t guy fawkes' night but the night bling bling was out...
the firework smog settled into the streets and i started gesticulating
‘trouble breathing! trouble breathing!’ using sign language...
i couldn't translate gasping into an onomatopoeia,
let alone sign-language... mime mime mime!
3 words: film... beginning with seismic shifts... severn!
it’s an american holiday for god’s sake
(the slavs are sombre remembering the day
with virgo mort of mexico... you’re out partying
******* and ******* on graves)... have some decency to be
remotely commonwealth in attitude... like australia!
i wished they won, 2nd half, 21 to 3 i thought they were whitewash flushed...
then they bounced back to 21 - 17... then the drop goal from carter...
ah it was a knockout...
never mind the mary antoinettes and ballerinas of football...
i said it once... i’ll say it again: ref! oink ref! police officer!
you missed a spot, this tile will not have anyone slipping!
it’s how you get a working man’s sport audience impassioned...
no middle-class sensibility in a sport...
make him give a wrong decision many a times...
and you’ll get the pub rumble...
not time-out... no: let’s see it on the BIG screen...
get the referee on the side of the masses and get them impassioned
through his bad decision / multitasking... i was imagining
a big mac / watching nickers being slingshot onto the pitch...
get the referee behind the crowd and orientate them
with william wallace at stirling crying - war war woad! tadpole ooh! tattoo! blue 28! blue... grr!
in rugby you’ll just get as much passion as a workable middle-class
english marriage... oops **** daisy loot the loo (with stressor r missing trill missing h):
bloom!
and your uncle was nicknamed ***** harry?
was he ginger and donned a beard?
must be royalty.
ah man, i miss the connectivity of rugby,
where everyone's making a sandwich... with football
you just get the replica of english sociological etiquette...
saying hello 5 metres apart...
so no french chequers kissing on the cheek
to feed intimacy? problem sorted...
let me just get my umbrella... seeing the teardrops
of feminism shower me under a roof salivating from the chandelier.
Zachary May 2014
They told me to watch out for
Boys with owl eyes
And downy hair

They told me to watch out for
Boys who refused no
Who ripped girls
And boys
To shreds and discard them
Like rag dolls

They didn't warn me
What to do
When the one I loved-
The one I created a solar system for-

What to do
When they walked away

What to do
When the black hole
Pranced back into their life

They didn't warn me
About boys with soft hands
And words like venom
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LCgcgOAgq9w

-

The name is George Washington, but its the general to you,
or you could call me president one, not three or two,
and you probably heard a lot of silly stories about me,
but let me lay it down how raw it really used to be

I got a hemp operation back at the plantation
selling the stickiest **** around the new nation
so come run and find me if you wanna get high
***' honestly I got the bombest I cannot tell a lie

Pick it dry, of course I'm gonna try
bag it up and brick it and then just let them buy it
and if the Brits wanna come take a piece of the cut,
I'll raise a whole ******' army let em see whats what.

The kings like "yo I gotta get payed"
I'm like "tough ***** 'cause y'alls a whole ocean away
and you can try send some ships to come and make me pay up
but that's an awful long way just to **** deeze nuts.
You get my ******' message son?"
Take it, Thomas Jefferson


Sell drugs, run guns,
nail ***** and **** the law. (**** the law!)
We're Founding Fathers; we're Rushmore ****
and we were all high as *****.
The Declaration of Independence
I wrote so high I'm surprised it makes sense
but we find these truths to be self-evident:
it goes puff puff pass and next round you get skipped.


Abe Lincoln; I know what y'all thinkin':
Greatest president ever, I'll have what he's drinkin'
Ah-ha, yeah, well see, that's where you'd be wrong
'cause if you wanna chill with me you'd better go and grab that ****
or an apple or that can, see you do not understand
faded 24/7 'cause that's just the way I am.
I can see you're having a little trouble believing me
but check this letter I wrote it down, recorded in history, ahem:

"Two of my favorite things are sitting on my porch
and smoking a pipe of that sweet Hemp," of course
that's a quite that I wrote when I was still in office
but enough of that, I am too high, I have to back up off this.

Where is my horse, I think I need to go and ride him home
I was supposed to leave about four score and twenty rips ago;
you see my hat? I like it, I kinda think it looks like a stove.
Scratch it; pass it one more time and let me hit it for the road.


Sell drugs, run guns,
nail ***** and **** the law. (**** the law!)
We're Founding Fathers; we're Rushmore ****
and we were all high as *****.
And don't let 'em try and tell you we grew it just for rope
you can check what we wrote down in our harvest notes:
we separated seeds that we found more potent,
in layman's terms we were in to getting bent.


Smokin' out the Continental Congress,
everybody's ******* be like all up on us.
Patrick Henry's in the corner, lookin' pretty spent
Ben Franklin got so high he forgot to be President.

Your girl just said she never had it hit so good,
smoked so many trees my ******' teeth turned wood
and if they make a monument to me when I die
it'll be a giant abstract Joint up in the sky, ha ha!

But, you know they're gunna whitewash me;
make up some corny **** about me choppin' cherry trees.
It's hard to control a people if their Founder's a ****
so they'll just teach that I was all prayers, puppies and hugs.

But, that just ain't the way it was
we set this whole place up with a hell of a buzz;
so next time they try and to tell you that this stuff is wrong,
look at a dollar, light a blunt, ******' sing my song:


Sell drugs, run guns,
nail ***** and **** the law. (**** the law!)
We're Founding Fathers; we're Rushmore ****
and we were all high as *****.
The Declaration of Independence
I wrote so high I'm surprised it makes sense
but we find these truths to be self-evident:
it goes puff puff pass and next round you get skipped.

We're the Founders, and we found this
and we found this on Cannabis.
We're the Founders, and we found this
and we found this on Cannabis.

Mount Rushmore Crew;
A stone monument to some monumental stoners; a-ha-ha!
G. Washington, T. Jefferson, and A. Lincoln
and **** that other guy; Calvin Coolidge?
Whoever the ****...
We history.
Tupelo Dec 2014
This is simple,
plain and washed,
Sunlight spotlights,
your body among the sheets,
As I lay in shadows,
Waiting for the rain,
Lulled by the sounds,
Of it's gentle symphony
Alex Clarke Jul 2014
When I think of you now,
I think of you in abstract.
You are not scratched into my skin,
vivid and ******.
You are vague,
a crude outline
on a crumpled sketch.
There will come a time
when I will struggle to recall
the way
you rolled your cigarette,
you mixed your drink,
you said my name
like a liturgy
and a damnation,
all at once.
As we hold our tongues in our heads, like nuclear threats, we are sure that those three words, that simple three word voice command, will be the end of us both, in a beautiful bloodbath, *** like war.

Two entities struggling for power and satisfaction, an atomic blast that is sounded with a sigh and an arch. The aftermath, sheer destruction, nothing anymore dominant than the next, everything melting into itself and one another. An overwhelming lump of calm and submission.

A skirmish for primitive power and oneself. The treaty of two bodies, silent, secretly sweet, and sullen. A whitewash of disdain where passion had just been.

*** like War
Anger is an Aphrodisiac
Hate is fuel for Passion
Love is and Instigator

We couldn't hate enough to love.
Cordelia L Jul 2014
Every little detail tormented her mind as she gazed upon the objects infront of her. She sighed softly and looked backup. How she wished her mind was like the white wash of the wood above her. Her eyes crawled back to her screen as her fingers scrolled down each and every name.

The same thing was in her mind. As she went through those files . Only one thing was true. She was all that she could have..but now what she has is nothing. Her eyes gently closes as her eyelashes touched her cheek.
But nevertheless she was looking at the whitewashed ceiling above
Joseph Valle Mar 2013
You pace in circles.
I speak in smoke rings,
an occasional finger-snapped heart,
a masted boat if I could.
Away away to ocean
in long-legged strides.
Waves crash against the sides,
left, front, and right,
in ripe blueberries and whitewash.

Come to the cabin,
a tail of breadcrumbs,
keep your socks striped,
pinks and purples.
A David Austin rose, or three.
I'm not cohesive either.
Flaunt the ship's wheel,
solid oak, dark, mesmerizing,
nearly your eyes now.
Let gray skies form clouds,
don't pray for better weather.
The rain grumbles hunger,
veiled moonlight stretches its arms
down to slatted deck,
spraying it in gangtag graffiti.

Stay here, circles more on the floor.
Your hips, footprints up your toes
from a whiskered mouse with dusted nose.
He's escaped and curled up
the nook of your ankle.
Eighteen knots tangle your hair.
Call the winds to come in storms,
they'll surely lead the way.
Ashley Chapman Jun 2019
We start in Greek Street.
Not any old night,
But the end of an age,
A grand finale;
Last orders,
Before the corporate boyz move in,
To whitewash the Coach & Horses,
Where inky Boho Jeffrey Bernard drank …
Gary Dunnington, the actor, and his mates are out.

Meanwhile, a mom runs her hands,
Though my strands.
Tell me everything, she enthuses,
About your hair.
But there’s nothing to say:
I barely wash it,
Never brush it,
And only finger combe it.
But she carries on in my locks,
Then to dinner with her bloke

We head for 57, Trisha's,
A lively basement heaven,
In energy, in noise, in smoke.
I chat with Mark on a stool.
Got his heart broke:
It’s hard
When love ***** up,
To sever those traumatic bonds,
Thick as pillar posts,
Goodbye, the cocktail of toxicity,
That had you on a high for months,
The ***, the texts, the tenderness,
Ahhh, ****, the love.

Kass, a boxer musician, comes
And shakes our hands.
He’s in Armani,
And says,
His eyes dark little pressed raisins,
He prefers a poet over a bruiser.
I don’t fight no more,
If I did,
I’d **** ‘em, so I don’t bother.

In the corner,
Two girls with dreamy eyes:
I read ‘em love poems.

Then Jessica Appleby pops her head round the door.
We hug and then swap tales:
I’m all messed up, I tell her.
What not her, the one you wrote that poem for.
My man, she confides.
All crazy passion and wild *** for two months,
Then nothing.
Just fizzled out like it was never meant to be.

She exits.

You alright Gary?
Yeah, you?
Fine.
I don’t buy him a beer,
A bottle of Peroni is £5.
No, it’s £3, he says, if you pay cash.
Okay, I head for the bar.
Three times I explain it’s £3 cash to the barman.
Who told you that?
Gary.
Well, tell Gary, if he doesn’t shut the **** up,
He’ll be paying a fiver next time, too.

A young American artist, Kirsty, starts talking to me.
She’s trying to get ahead in art,
And says, that when she was a kid,
On a black Tuscany night filled with stars,
She walked out onto a stone balustrade balcony,
And knew in that moment,
She was no longer her mom and dad,
But herself, Kirsty.

The boxer musician shoves a tall fellow hard against a wall,
The altercation,
Is over before it starts.

Kass gives me a wolfish smile.
Mark buys me a drink.
Kirsty slips off to the toilet.
Mark goes home.
The corner girls have long since gone.

Everyone is cleared from the yard,
Just Gary and I linger with a feisty young bar lady,
Serving the Bohos of Soho.

Drinking in their pathos,
Exhaling in the shadows,
Mingling in their juices.
As my ****** up heart, beats,
With the Bohos of Soho.
Ahhh, the Bohos of Soho keep many hours.
The Bohos of Soho,
The Bohos of Soho,
The Bohos of Soho,
Have many lives,
The Bohos of Soho are a good seed.
You and I,
Out in Soho,
For last orders.
unnamed Dec 2012
My sweet Austin Texas ecstasy, my beloved Guadalupe you
gem of the desert. Your family’s a basket-a-bigots but
******* they drink for miles and how near they are to my
heart. This heat’s a drug I swear it. Let's swim in that hole
in the bedrock between two rivers. That'd be nice: me and
you and mobs of Westlake High sophomores with their
blue-raspberry bikinis, a hundred Teen Vogue magazine
covers lined up on the grass like a set of bad church pews.
Imagine that whitewash of a crowd, you and me so alone in
that big static it's better than private. Let’s punch brick, peel
back our knuckles and watch’em clot in the sun. **** gauze,
we’re goin’ to a punk show. I’m puttin’ on short sleeves,
goin’ on parade, gunna flaunt my cigarette burns like a Cadillac:
I want those dorks at the Mohawk to look and love me like
they love gore. I’m gettin’ my black-eye ribbon tonight.
We’re in the Chaos in Tejas show, darlin’, put on Crazy Spirit
and bring your 2x4: skinheads ain’t jumpin’ themselves.
Let's get medicated, hunny, let's get saved. I love watching
Austin bleed out into the sand every dusk. Love the musicians
sailing out grimy and frothing over what night brings:
what a big sky, Texas, you're almost better in the day all
parched ground and azure azure. I love the glass on the high
buildings here, they’re like mirrors. This is God’s powder room.
This is where God sees himself drugged up and beaming in a
beautiful powder room. This is where God goes to remember
youth. I love how youth hasn’t gotten you yet. That unassailable
capacity for charity, that surging belief in belief shouting out
through your temples, I can’t stand how you make me sick of
making myself sick. You slapped the ******* outta me so quick
I’ve never seen grace move that fast. I thought you'd knock the
grapefruit polish right off your nails you hit me so good.
What a sight you are, kid, so proper and fit, Christ, you could
be therapy: so brunette-in-the-Fall, so full-lipped,
unabashed and Aristotelian, frayed like anything but ****
well stitched, impeccable at the seams.
After Matthew Dickman
Kyle Kulseth Feb 2015
City limit space expands,
it's threaded through with veins--
grey-black dendritic strands
                                     span
                        across this moldy brain
of a city.
Our rotting nights spray hits around
           the places players play.
The impulses will whitewash all complaints
'til the glaring day.

I wanna spit-shine every storm drain,
stain the cracked sidewalks in white,
take this town to Sunday morning Mass,
though she was born for Friday nights.

We're gonna trickle past addresses
                                                   now,
Electroshock through habit streets
these crosswalks sneer with snide expression.
Mildewed thoughts we'll hardly think.
A conversation you're repressing
I'm smoothing out my wrinkled brow
Another weekend's blurred out
blank confession
melts off the tips of tongues,
          I can taste it now.

Circulation space expands,
we're threaded through with veins--
this bio-asphalt plan
                           spans
              all through this molded frame
of a body.
But rotten thoughts, like ships aground,
                   teach sailors how to pray
when impulses have buried all complaints
'neath the foaming spray.

I wanna shade out every bruise now,
paint the dumpsters all in gold.
Missoula, listen: You're a lady.
I don't give a **** what you've been told.

A moldy brain dreams slattern makeup
for a prizefight town each night
so let's take up every artist's brush,
paint shadows on these barroom eyes.

We're gonna flow right through these boule-
                                                          ­          vards.
Electroshock through habit streets.
These dim lit yards and spoiled thoughts
are hyphens placed between each week.
A conversation you're repressing,
I'm smoothing out my wrinkled brow.
Our city's made-up face is running
off the tips of winter and I taste it now.
Among black butterflies
goes a dark-haired girl
next to a white serpent
of mist.

Earth of light,
sky of earth.


She is chained to the tremor
of a never arriving rhythm;
she has a heart of silver
and a dagger in her right hand.

Where are you going, siguiriya,
with such a headless rhythm?
What moon'll gather up your pain
of whitewash and oleander?

*Earth of light,
sky of earth.
brooke Dec 2013
I let you too
far in and like
a brisk wind you
threw                  my                     doors
open and whistled
through the kitchen
nestledbetweenthe
crackswithyourdirty
self and skittered beneath
the dishwasher, in the corners
under doors, but I'm sweeping
you out because I want none of
you beneath my fingernails
none of you locked in the
cuticles of my hair, I will
whitewash the walls of
my heart if I have
to.
(c) Brooke Otto 2013
she brought colour to my dull life
made vivid my muted hues
cast the dark places bright
love makes light
illuminating my way through
now her colours have faded
pastels where once there were primes
where my longing eyes see our iridescence
she sees the cold ashes of her fire
if my lost burning soul could reignite it
Id make tinder of my broken heart
but the only hope that I have for the love I once had
is that she makes a fresh start
if you love something set it free
5
Running in epileptic circles
my dreams that can't even escape
these malemetal mindtraps
securely locking up the bodies of the
evildoers happening to catch my soul
between the stainlesssteel and whitewash
and scratchy blankets on my cheek
my eyes sticking, body convulsing
and the Watchers! I can't take it
I feel my sanity quickly fleeing the beady
unblinking soulless inhumanity
black warts on the ceiling
I frantically count relying on obsessive compulsions
to sleep. I sleep out of the sour sweat of fear
but sleep only leads me to
running in epileptic circles

It was all taken
bare. that's how I was
naked labrat surrounded by
murderers
leaking sanity nastily
from artificial orifices
All the world part of perpetual seizures
running in epileptic circles
Marshal Gebbie Jun 2018
Steven my boy,

We coasted into a medieval pub in the middle of nowhere in wildest Devon to encounter the place in uproarious bedlam. A dozen country madams had been imbibing in the pre wedding wine and were in great form roaring with laughter and bursting out of their lacy cotton frocks. Bunting adorned the pub, Union Jack was aflutter everywhere and a full size cut out of HM the Queen welcomed visitors into the front door. Cucumber sandwiches and a heady fruit punch were available to all and sundry and the din was absolutely riotous……THE ROYAL WEDDING WAS UNDERWAY ON THE GIANT TV ON THE BAR WALL….and we were joining in the mood of things by sinking a bevy of Bushmills Irish whiskies neat!

Now…. this is a major event in the UK.

Everybody loves Prince Harry, he is the terrible tearaway of the Royal family, he has been caught ******* sheila’s in all sorts of weird circumstance. Now the dear boy is to be married to a beauty from the USA….besotted he is with her, fair dripping with love and adoration…..and the whole country loves little Megan Markle for making him so.

The British are famous for their pageantry and pomp….everything is timed to the second and must be absolutely….just so. Well….Nobody told the most Reverend Michael Curry this…. and he launched into the most wonderful full spirited Halleluiah sermon about the joyous “Wonder of Love”. He went on and on for a full 14 minutes, and as he proceeded on, the British stiff upper lips became more and more rigidly uncomfortable with this radical departure from protocol. Her Majesty the Queen stood aghast and locked her beady blue eyes in a riveting, steely glare, directed furiously at the good Reverend….to no avail, on he went with his magic sermon to a beautiful rousing ******….and an absolute stony silence in the cavernous interior of that vaulting, magnificent cathedral. Prince Harry and his lovely bride, (whose wedding the day was all about), were delighted with Curry’s performance….as was Prince William, heir to the Throne, who wore a fascinating **** eating grin all over his face for the entire performance.

Says a lot, my friend, about the refreshing values of tomorrows Royalty.

We rolled out of that country pub three parts cut to the wind, dunno how we made it to our next destination, but we had one hellava good time at that Royal Wedding!

The weft and the weave of our appreciation fluctuated wildly with each day of travel through this magnificent and ancient land, Great Britain.

There was soft brilliant summer air which hovered over the undulating green patchwork of the Cotswolds whilst we dined on delicious roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, from an elevated position in a medieval country inn..... So magnificent as to make you want to weep with the beauty of it all….and the quaint thatched farmhouse with the second story multi paned windows, which I understood, had been there, in that spot, since the twelfth century. Our accommodation, sleeping beneath oaken beams within thick stone walls, once a pen for swine, now a domiciled overnight bed and pillow of luxury with white cotton sheets for weary Kiwi travellers.

The sadness of the Cornish west coast, which bore testimony to tragedy for the hard working tin miners of the 1800s. A sharp decrease in the international tin price in 1911 destituted whole populations who walked away from their life’s work and fled to the New World in search of the promise of a future. Forlorn brick ruins adorned stark rocky outcrops right along the coastline and inland for miles. Lonely brick chimneys silhouetted against sharp vertical cliffs and the ever crashing crescendo of the pounding waves of the cold Atlantic ocean.

No parking in Padstow….absolutely NIL! You parked your car miles away in the designated carpark at an overnight cost….and with your bags in tow, you walked to your digs. Now known as Padstein, this beautiful place is now populated with eight Rick Stein restaurants and shops dotted here and there.

We had a huge feed of piping hot fish and chips together with handles of cold ale down at his harbour side fish and chip restaurant near the wharfs…place was packed with people, you had to queue at the door for a table, no reservations accepted….Just great!

Clovelly was different, almost precipitous. This ancient fishing village plummeted down impossibly steep cliffs….a very rough, winding cobbled stone walkway, which must have taken years to build by hand, the only way down to the huge rock breakwater which harboured the fishing boats Against the Atlantic storms. And in a quaint little cottagey place, perched on the edge of a cliff, we had yet another beautiful Devonshire tea in delicate, white China cups...with tasty hot scones, piles of strawberry jam and a huge *** of thick clotted cream…Yum! Too ****** steep to struggle back up the hill so we spent ten quid and rode all the way up the switch back beneath the olive canvass canopy of an old Land Rover…..money well spent!

Creaking floorboards and near vertical, winding staircases and massive rock walls seemed to be common characteristics of all the lovely old lodging houses we were accommodated in. Sarah, our lovely daughter in law, arranged an excellent itinerary for us to travel around the SW coast staying in the most picturesque of places which seeped with antiquity and character. We zooped around the narrow lanes, between the hedgerows in our sharp little VW golf hire car And, with Sarah at the helm, we never got lost or missed a beat…..Fantastic effort, thank you so much Sarah and Solomon on behalf of your grateful In laws, Janet and Marshal, who loved every single moment of it all!

Memories of a lifetime.

Wanted to tell the world about your excitement, Janet, on visiting Stoke on Trent.

This town is famous the world over for it’s pottery. The pottery industry has flourished here since the middle ages and this is evidenced by the antiquity of the kilns and huge brick chimneys littered around the ancient factories. Stoke on Trent is an industrial town and it’s narrow, winding streets and congested run down buildings bear testimony to past good times and bad.

We visited “Burleigh”.

Darling Janet has collected Burleigh pottery for as long as I have known her, that is almost 40 years. She loves Burleigh and uses it as a showcase for the décor of our home.

When Janet first walked into the ancient wooden portals of the Burleigh show room she floated around on a cloud of wonder, she made darting little runs to each new discovery, making ooh’s and aah’s, eyes shining brightly….. I trailed quietly some distance behind, being very aware that I must not in any way imperil this particular precious bubble.

We amassed a beautiful collection of plates, dishes, bowls and jugs for purchase and retired to the pottery’s canal side bistro,( to come back to earth), and enjoy a ploughman’s lunch and a *** of hot English breakfast tea.

We returned to Stoke on Trent later in the trip for another bash at Burleigh and some other beautiful pottery makers wares…..Our suit cases were well filled with fragile treasures for the trip home to NZ…..and darling Janet had realised one of her dearest life’s ambitions fulfilled.

One of the great things about Britain was the British people, we found them willing to go out of their way to be helpful to a fault…… and, with the exception of BMW people, we found them all to be great drivers. The little hedgerow, single lane, winding roads that connect all rural areas, would be a perpetual source of carnage were it not for the fact that British drivers are largely courteous and reserved in their driving.

We hired a spacious ,powerful Nissan in Dover and acquired a friend, an invaluable friend actually, her name was “Tripsy” at least that’s what we called her. Tripsy guided us around all the byways and highways of Britain, we couldn’t have done without her. I had a few heated discussions with her, I admit….much to Janet’s great hilarity…but Tripsy won out every time and I quickly learned to keep my big mouth shut.

By pure accident we ended up in Cumbria, up north of the Roman city of York….at a little place in the dales called “Middleton on Teesdale”….an absolutely beautiful place snuggled deep in the valleys beneath the huge, heather clad uplands. Here we scored the last available bed in town at a gem of a hotel called the “Brunswick”. Being a Bank Holiday weekend everything, everywhere was booked out. The Brunswick surpassed ordinary comfort…it was superlative, so much so that, in an itinerary pushed for time….we stayed TWO nights and took the opportunity to scout around the surrounding, beautiful countryside. In fact we skirted right out to the western coastline and as far north as the Scottish border. Middleton on Teesdale provided us with that late holiday siesta break that we so desperately needed at that time…an exhausting business on a couple of old Kiwis, this holiday stuff!

One of the great priorities on getting back to London was to shop at “Liberty”. Great joy was had selecting some ornate upholstering material from the huge range of superb cloth available in Liberty’s speciality range.

The whole organisation of Liberty’s huge store and the magnificent quality of goods offered was quite daunting. Janet & I spent quite some time in that magnificent place…..and Janet has a plan to select a stylish period chair when we get back to NZ and create a masterpiece by covering it with the ***** bought from Liberty.

In York, beautiful ancient, York. A garrison town for the Romans, walled and once defended against the marauding Picts and Scots…is now preserved as a delightful and functional, modern city whilst retaining the grandeur, majesty and presence of its magnificent past.

Whilst exploring in York, Janet and I found ourselves mixing with the multitude in the narrow medieval streets paved with ancient rock cobbles and lined with beautifully preserved Tudor structures resplendent in whitewash panel and weathered, black timber brace. With dusk falling, we were drawn to wild violins and the sound of stamping feet….an emanation from within the doors of an old, burgundy coloured pub…. “The Three Legged Mare”.

Fortified, with a glass of Bushmills in hand, we joined the multitude of stomping, singing people. Rousing to the percussion of the Irish drum, the wild violin and the deep resonance of the cello, guitars and accordion…..The beautiful sound of tenor voices harmonising to the magic of a lilting Irish lament.

We stayed there for an hour or two, enchanted by the spontaneity of it all, the sheer native talent of the expatriates celebrating their heritage and their culture in what was really, a beautiful evening of colour, music and Ireland.

Onward, across the moors, we revelled in the great outcrops of metamorphic rock, the expanses of flat heather covering the tops which would, in the chill of Autumn, become a spectacular swath of vivid mauve floral carpet. On these lonely tracts of narrow road, winding through the washes and the escarpments, the motorbike boys wheeled by us in screaming pursuit of each other, beautiful machines heeling over at impossible angles on the corners, seemingly suicidal yet careening on at breakneck pace, laughing the danger off with the utter abandon of the creed of the road warrior. Descending in to the rolling hills of the cultivated land, the latticework of, old as Methuselah, massive dry built stone fences patterning the contours in a checker board of ancient pastoral order. The glorious soft greens of early summer deciduous forest, the yellow fields of mustard flower moving in the breeze and above, the bluest of skies with contrails of ever present high flung jets winging to distant places.

Britain has a flavour. Antiquity is evidenced everywhere, there is a sense of old, restrained pride. A richness of spirit and a depth of character right throughout the populace. Britain has confidence in itself, its future, its continuity. The people are pleasant, resilient and thoroughly likeable. They laugh a lot and are very easy to admire.

With its culture, its wonderful history, its great Monarchy and its haunting, ever present beauty, everywhere you care to look….The Britain of today is, indeed, a class act.

We both loved it here Steven…and we will return.

M.

Hamilton, New Zealand

21 June 2018
Dedicated with love to my two comrades in arms and poets supreme.....Victoria and Martin.
You were just as I imagined you would be.
M.
Timmy Shanti Jun 2012
I can’t stand winter.
Well, she can’t stand me either -
We both wait for spring.

The sight is painful -
Tired of everything white around.
Let spring come and dye!

Sun’s melting snow, and
I’m distracted by it all:
Drop filled with beauty.

Does anyone else see
What I see? Or are they too
Selfish to look?..

Poor things! Life passes,
Time won’t wait for them... But I’m
For spring still waiting.

What can I do
To make her come much sooner
Or it’s my fate?

But light gives hope - as well
As love - that not much time
Is left. Still waiting...

Don’t you complain and
Let the freshness free your mind -
Breathe deeply with winter.

Those who like winter
Are away, walking. Busy streets -
There is no place.

I got out, too -
I have no choice. But quickly
Go back home - to warmth.

When winter hands over the
Rights to spring there will be no one
Happier than me.

Slept awfully last night -
Some constant noise outside.
Wouldn’t even care in spring.

Not only me who’s waiting...
Oak wants to talk and maple craves to listen
About those days that passed.

O Spring! Do come and
Turn the whitewash into colour!
Until then, I’ll be hurt.

Wakes up a bird and
Goes to wake a friend. To sing
A lovely song.

Suddenly and unnoticed
Comes my beloved.
Can’t help myself...
Mahima Gupta Jan 2014
You've been wondering that you've got
No tiny false extraction point
A deluded perception of reality
Blood flowing round the corner of the streets

There's a creeping centralisation of power
And a hoarse whisper in your ears
It's time for your magnanimous self
To let the ego drain away

A thousand battles and memoirs
Those anecdotes you never read
They're the fables of your life
Hinging upon a soft limerick

And now when you try to
Juxtapose those thoughts in your mind
The imbecile beings around
Whitewash your victory and demise.

— The End —