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"windsor" poems
It was the time of my Auntie Bee summers    I was small then    She had a parakeet that landed on my head    and a bathtub too    with water so deep!    and legs and claws!    **** thing nearly chased me down the stairs! She lived in slumbery Windsor Locks    where bugs hung-out in the haze    of teenage August    I played in the tall weeds    with a shoeless Italian boy    who ate tomatoes like apples    and cucumbers right off the vine!    He was ***** free and foreign!    We played— reckless, abandoned    behind the gas pump, under the tractor, in the barn       and through the endless fields    I didn’t know....    His name was Tony    I ate pizza with him—the first time At Auntie Bee’s I had to go to bed at eight    but I could watch night flowers    bloom on wallpaper    She came in to say good night    slippered, shadowy, night dress slightly open    and I peeped her *******    like Tony’s cucumbers!    I had never seen my mother’s wonders.... Night spread its wings from the old fan—    a bird of tireless exhaustion    whipped, whipped, whipped to death in its cage    tireless exhaustion    tic-tocking in time to a wind-up clock    stretched out on the whine    of the overland trucks    Route Five through the night of an open window In the grape arbor below— tremulous incessant    crickets    crickets    crickets tremulous incessant—insides of a child    a summer child    not yet ready for the fall of answers Auntie Bee had a daughter—Maureen    I followed her everywhere I could    I was small then--        do anything for a stick of Juicy Fruit I followed Maureen through my dreams    of being sixteen    and woke to Peggy’s “Fever”    while she tied her sneakers    against the mattress by my head I followed Maureen (in my mind)    tanned and bandanned    to work in the fields of shade tobacco    with all those Puerto Rican boys!    She knew where she was going! I was small then ...do anything for a stick of  gum “Mauney! Mauney! Mauney!”    ...through the goldenrod of roadside    through the smell of oil that damped the dust     I followed Maureen’s white shorts    and chestnut hair...to the corner store I followed the way the boys smiled    the way the screen door slammed    on her bright behind    the way her lips taunted and took    the coke-bottle’s green I followed Maureen I swear, I tried for hours to get that right! Must have been Peggy Lee’s “Fever” Maureen ties her sneakers in my face Flaunts her years above my head She has that look— “We kids don’t know nothin” (Little turds” that we be) …followin’ Maureen through the goldenrod of roadside tic-tockin’, beboppin’ “Fever— in the morning Fever all through the night….”
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Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 11:30 PM UTC
I Follow Maureen
It was the time of my Auntie Bee summers    I was small then    She had a parakeet that landed on my head    and a bathtub too    with water so deep!    and legs and claws!    **** thing nearly chased me down the stairs! She lived in slumbery Windsor Locks    where bugs hung-out in the haze    of teenage August    I played in the tall weeds    with a shoeless Italian boy    who ate tomatoes like apples    and cucumbers right off the vine!    He was ***** free and foreign!    We played— reckless, abandoned    behind the gas pump, under the tractor, in the barn       and through the endless fields    I didn’t know....    His name was Tony    I ate pizza with him—the first time At Auntie Bee’s I had to go to bed at eight    but I could watch night flowers    bloom on wallpaper    She came in to say good night    slippered, shadowy, night dress slightly open    and I peeped her *******    like Tony’s cucumbers!    I had never seen my mother’s wonders.... Night spread its wings from the old fan—    a bird of tireless exhaustion    whipped, whipped, whipped to death in its cage    tireless exhaustion    tic-tocking in time to a wind-up clock    stretched out on the whine    of the overland trucks    Route Five through the night of an open window In the grape arbor below— tremulous incessant    crickets    crickets    crickets tremulous incessant—insides of a child    a summer child    not yet ready for the fall of answers Auntie Bee had a daughter—Maureen    I followed her everywhere I could    I was small then--        do anything for a stick of Juicy Fruit I followed Maureen through my dreams    of being sixteen    and woke to Peggy’s “Fever”    while she tied her sneakers    against the mattress by my head I followed Maureen (in my mind)    tanned and bandanned    to work in the fields of shade tobacco    with all those Puerto Rican boys!    She knew where she was going! I was small then ...do anything for a stick of  gum “Mauney! Mauney! Mauney!”    ...through the goldenrod of roadside    through the smell of oil that damped the dust     I followed Maureen’s white shorts    and chestnut hair...to the corner store I followed the way the boys smiled    the way the screen door slammed    on her bright behind    the way her lips taunted and took    the coke-bottle’s green I followed Maureen I swear, I tried for hours to get that right! Must have been Peggy Lee’s “Fever” Maureen ties her sneakers in my face Flaunts her years above my head She has that look— “We kids don’t know nothin” (Little turds” that we be) …followin’ Maureen through the goldenrod of roadside tic-tockin’, beboppin’ “Fever— in the morning Fever all through the night….”
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82
[Being an humble address to Her Majesty's Naval advisers, who sold Nelson's old flagship to the Germans for a thousand pounds.] WHO says the Nation's purse is lean, Who fears for claim or bond or debt, When all the glories that have been Are scheduled as a cash asset? If times are bleak and trade is slack, If coal and cotton fail at last, We've something left to barter yet-- Our glorious past. There's many a crypt in which lies hid The dust of statesman or of king; There's Shakespeare's home to raise a bid, And Milton's house its price would bring. What for the sword that Cromwell drew? What for Prince Edward's coat of mail? What for our Saxon Alfred's tomb? They're all for sale! And stone and marble may be sold Which serve no present daily need; There's Edward's Windsor, labelled old, And Wolsey's palace, guaranteed. St. Clement Danes and fifty fanes, The Tower and the Temple grounds; How much for these? Just price them, please, In British pounds. You hucksters, have you still to learn, The things which money will not buy? Can you not read that, cold and stern As we may be, there still does lie Deep in our hearts a hungry love For what concerns our island story? We sell our work -- perchance our lives, But not our glory. Go barter to the knacker's yard The steed that has outlived its time! Send hungry to the pauper ward The man who served you in his prime! But when you touch the Nation's store, Be broad your mind and tight your grip. Take heed! And bring us back once more Our Nelson's ship. And if no mooring can be found In all our harbours near or far, Then tow the old three-decker round To where the deep-sea soundings are; There, with her pennon flying clear, And with her ensign lashed peak high, Sink her a thousand fathoms sheer. There let her lie!
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3.2k
H.M.S. Foudroyant
[Being an humble address to Her Majesty's Naval advisers, who sold Nelson's old flagship to the Germans for a thousand pounds.] WHO says the Nation's purse is lean, Who fears for claim or bond or debt, When all the glories that have been Are scheduled as a cash asset? If times are bleak and trade is slack, If coal and cotton fail at last, We've something left to barter yet-- Our glorious past. There's many a crypt in which lies hid The dust of statesman or of king; There's Shakespeare's home to raise a bid, And Milton's house its price would bring. What for the sword that Cromwell drew? What for Prince Edward's coat of mail? What for our Saxon Alfred's tomb? They're all for sale! And stone and marble may be sold Which serve no present daily need; There's Edward's Windsor, labelled old, And Wolsey's palace, guaranteed. St. Clement Danes and fifty fanes, The Tower and the Temple grounds; How much for these? Just price them, please, In British pounds. You hucksters, have you still to learn, The things which money will not buy? Can you not read that, cold and stern As we may be, there still does lie Deep in our hearts a hungry love For what concerns our island story? We sell our work -- perchance our lives, But not our glory. Go barter to the knacker's yard The steed that has outlived its time! Send hungry to the pauper ward The man who served you in his prime! But when you touch the Nation's store, Be broad your mind and tight your grip. Take heed! And bring us back once more Our Nelson's ship. And if no mooring can be found In all our harbours near or far, Then tow the old three-decker round To where the deep-sea soundings are; There, with her pennon flying clear, And with her ensign lashed peak high, Sink her a thousand fathoms sheer. There let her lie!
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54
~and for Harlan, who loved this one best~ *"for tandem is the ever-changing, graying color of their fierce attached tenacity" waking/walking in careful pacing regular lock steps, like new cadets, counting cadence, in perfect silent, almost motionless, except for the minuscule quivering of slightly parted moving lips these two elders, still now plebes, freshmen but of a latter, graduated stage, demonstrating robustly the slow shuffle-along, a well practiced dance conjured 'in tandem' her arm, crooked in his, his other hand, in protective custody of a knight's armored chain glove encasing hers, he, shuffling just,   a precise, intended half-a-beat slower lest she ever think that she, ever be a drag upon him hair, his, threaded with daily, new arriving grays, proudly accepted as the privilege of graceful aging hers, disguised with periodic outings, outings for the hidings of life's bookmarks, conceding nothing ever to time's lunatic desire to separate them modest in dress, styling hints of  pasts' elegant, the man's hat defiant, daringly jaunty angled, a small scarf to handbag knotted, matching his Windsor knotted tie the passers-by, all smile,   the signal charm of an end game processional, thinking so sweet, yet mine eyes detect more, something hardy and radical a fierce, fierce fierceness, both fighters in the resistance, armed with tandem tenacity, ground given, but only inches surrendered, wounds resisted by scar skin toughened by the caress of ions bonding under the pressure of atomic level mutuality worn out, well past Purple Hearts, no capitulation feared, to the ever changing, enemies' new disguises, they, a two person platoon, each, having the other's back and I burst into tears on the street, a train of out loud moans, even groans emitted, like a string of perfect pearls breaking, clattering on an asphalt terrain weeping not from visions of the inevitable, sighing not from the certitude of a cycle's uptime ending* but jealous furious by this reminder delightful, angry at myself, for having lost so many wasted years, mine, the loss greatest, for absent was the fierce tenacity of tandem
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Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 8:41 PM UTC
Tandem: The Color of Their Tenacity
~and for Harlan, who loved this one best~ *"for tandem is the ever-changing, graying color of their fierce attached tenacity" waking/walking in careful pacing regular lock steps, like new cadets, counting cadence, in perfect silent, almost motionless, except for the minuscule quivering of slightly parted moving lips these two elders, still now plebes, freshmen but of a latter, graduated stage, demonstrating robustly the slow shuffle-along, a well practiced dance conjured 'in tandem' her arm, crooked in his, his other hand, in protective custody of a knight's armored chain glove encasing hers, he, shuffling just,   a precise, intended half-a-beat slower lest she ever think that she, ever be a drag upon him hair, his, threaded with daily, new arriving grays, proudly accepted as the privilege of graceful aging hers, disguised with periodic outings, outings for the hidings of life's bookmarks, conceding nothing ever to time's lunatic desire to separate them modest in dress, styling hints of  pasts' elegant, the man's hat defiant, daringly jaunty angled, a small scarf to handbag knotted, matching his Windsor knotted tie the passers-by, all smile,   the signal charm of an end game processional, thinking so sweet, yet mine eyes detect more, something hardy and radical a fierce, fierce fierceness, both fighters in the resistance, armed with tandem tenacity, ground given, but only inches surrendered, wounds resisted by scar skin toughened by the caress of ions bonding under the pressure of atomic level mutuality worn out, well past Purple Hearts, no capitulation feared, to the ever changing, enemies' new disguises, they, a two person platoon, each, having the other's back and I burst into tears on the street, a train of out loud moans, even groans emitted, like a string of perfect pearls breaking, clattering on an asphalt terrain weeping not from visions of the inevitable, sighing not from the certitude of a cycle's uptime ending* but jealous furious by this reminder delightful, angry at myself, for having lost so many wasted years, mine, the loss greatest, for absent was the fierce tenacity of tandem
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85
C'EST PRESQU'AU BOUT DU MONDE..." ( IT WAS ALMOST TO THE END OF THE WORLD ) She believed that deep deep inside her the flame of a femme fatale burned brightly. Could imagine herself stepping out of some classic Film Noir. Cultivated herself to look like Marie Windsor opposite the dangerously gorgeous John Garfield. But her life it seemed had her stepping into an Edward Hopper. The isolation and the paint still wet. The lonely lady glimpsed in an hotel window from a passing train autumnal rain. Still she acted always as if she was in her own movie l walking around her tiny flat naked except for red stilettos red earrings...red lipstick. Making up her own snappy lines to some imaginary leading man. "Are you decent?" "Yes"" "But you're....you're naked!" "You only asked if I was decent!" The mirror laughed catching the reflection of who she could have been given half the chance. She never stood a chance. She threw a cigarette up in the air caught it between her lips her one and only party trick. Lit or unlit. Searching for middle C on a battered piano her mind off key abandoning it the piano's yellow smile. She watched the sunlight carve a block of time out of the dividing wall. fading the wallpaper roses. The bed that was always empty...always unmade. She danced to Weill's Youkali Tango. Put it on again...again. Scratching an already scratched record. The needle gathering fluff. The porcelain milkmaid...dust. She disliked the way sweat gathered under her ******* They were always a little too large. Hated men staring so hard. Ahhhh the faded romance a sunset heart attack. Couldn't have wrote herself a better script. Staggering in her dance gasping that all too unsubstantial air as if trying to catch time the presentpastfuture falling out of her hand. The wooden acorn of the tattered blind tapping against the ***** window pane. Neon going green. Then red. Now blue. And then green again.
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Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 3:16 PM UTC
"C'EST PRESQU'AU BOUT DU MONDE..."( IT WAS ALMOST TO THE END OF THE WORLD )
C'EST PRESQU'AU BOUT DU MONDE..." ( IT WAS ALMOST TO THE END OF THE WORLD ) She believed that deep deep inside her the flame of a femme fatale burned brightly. Could imagine herself stepping out of some classic Film Noir. Cultivated herself to look like Marie Windsor opposite the dangerously gorgeous John Garfield. But her life it seemed had her stepping into an Edward Hopper. The isolation and the paint still wet. The lonely lady glimpsed in an hotel window from a passing train autumnal rain. Still she acted always as if she was in her own movie l walking around her tiny flat naked except for red stilettos red earrings...red lipstick. Making up her own snappy lines to some imaginary leading man. "Are you decent?" "Yes"" "But you're....you're naked!" "You only asked if I was decent!" The mirror laughed catching the reflection of who she could have been given half the chance. She never stood a chance. She threw a cigarette up in the air caught it between her lips her one and only party trick. Lit or unlit. Searching for middle C on a battered piano her mind off key abandoning it the piano's yellow smile. She watched the sunlight carve a block of time out of the dividing wall. fading the wallpaper roses. The bed that was always empty...always unmade. She danced to Weill's Youkali Tango. Put it on again...again. Scratching an already scratched record. The needle gathering fluff. The porcelain milkmaid...dust. She disliked the way sweat gathered under her ******* They were always a little too large. Hated men staring so hard. Ahhhh the faded romance a sunset heart attack. Couldn't have wrote herself a better script. Staggering in her dance gasping that all too unsubstantial air as if trying to catch time the presentpastfuture falling out of her hand. The wooden acorn of the tattered blind tapping against the ***** window pane. Neon going green. Then red. Now blue. And then green again.
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82
Let me introduce myself, I’m Paul B. P to the A to the U to the L to the B. You say Paul, I say B. You say Paul, I say… I used to teach English, try to inspire. Least you can say is, I was a trier. Love this rapping: it gets my feet tapping, Even though I ought to be napping. I write poems like a word ejector, Keep away you Grammar Inspector! Jay-Z writes in iambic pentameters, Making out he’s got no parameters. Honey G just copies off him, Oh my God she really is dim. Does her rap like Barbara Windsor, Do you remember Needles and Pins-ah? Me I’m copying off them both, Though it’s only for a laugh. Whoops a daisy that don’t quite rhyme, Another case of Butters Rhyme Crime. Rap is ******* I often say, Though it rhymes the poetic way. That leaves me with one thing to say: You say Paul, I say… Paul Butters © PB 17\10\2016.
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Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 12:57 PM UTC
Paul B
We are the terraced women piled row on row on the sagging, slipping hillsides of our lives. We tug reluctant children up slanting streets the push chair wheels wedging in the ruts breathless and bad tempered we shift the Tesco carrier bags from hand to hand and stop to watch the town The hill tops creep away like children playing games our other children shriek against the school yard rails ‘there’s Mandy’s mum, John’s mum, Dave’s mum, Kate’s mum, Ceri’s mother, Tracey’s mummy’ we wave with hands scarred by groceries and too much washing up catching echoes as we pass of old wild games after lunch, more bread and butter, tea we dress in blue and white and pink and white checked overalls and do the house and scrub the porch and sweep the street and clean all the little terraces up and down and up and down and up and down the hill later, before the end-of-school bell rings all the babies are asleep Mandy’s mum joins Ceri’s mum across the street running to avoid the rain and Dave’s mum and John’s mum – the others too – stop for tea and briefly we are wild women girls with secrets, travellers, engineers, courtesans, and stars of fiction, films plotting our escape like jail birds terraced, tescoed prisoners rising from the household dust like heroines. Pennyanne Windsor, from Poetry 1900-2000 One hundred poets from Wales
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Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 4:27 AM UTC
"Heroines"
Sitting in white shirt (Loosened yuppie Windsor knot) Armchair laughing Having realized the grand joke of life Satisfied little Sanskrit honey Is it a bohdi tree or burning bush (When really are one and same) Don't think too hard Suburban white boy dreams of trap houses With tie over shoulder As the tv says it prevents ***** on tie Little air planes Round and white Hard pressed (to explain) Make one fly at high speed Get it? (never mind inside joke laughing) Talks like a gang banger Can't take it seriously Little big boy equals not shook Drinking rot gut tallboys Days after and minutes away Zehaf-Bibeau war memorial Winchester repeater in hand Supposed ideological threat needed Expand the police state
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Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 2:00 AM UTC
Loosened Yuppie Tie
The news will say we're suffering from excess immigration That a rampant hoard of foreigners has fallen on our nation But truthfully, there hasn't been a native Briton here Since people dressed in mammoth skin and hunted with a spear Our language is a mixture of a dozen different tongues We munch our way through poppadoms, fajitas and fu-yungs When cheering at a football match, we're infamously vocal Our teams may be the finest but the players won’t be local Genetically, a Briton is a multi-cultured stew With Romans, Saxons, Vikings and the Celts, to name a few Our national drink is Indian, the Germans make our beer The TV comes from China and the table from IKEA Potatoes from America and onions grown in Spain A multitude of British things arrive by boat and plane The rain that falls upon our hills has blown from over seas And with it come migrating birds to nest in British trees The Royal Windsor family have Greek and German genes So think about just what it is that being British means We're stronger with our differences, the best of humankind Our nation, not an island but a common state of mind
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Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 4:13 PM UTC
My Great Britain
Today a baby boy was born The future heir to the British throne Remember July 22nd was the date Proud parents William & Kate Every child born today will receive a Silver Penny A collectors item, for so many First we watched William & Kate marry He has a really cool Uncle in Prince Harry I bet he will show him some tricks A bouncing baby boy 8lb 6, A baby, a toddler, then into a little nipper Look after him Auntie Pippa. We will watch him grow up and ready to take his place The news confirmed on the easel at Buckingham Palace Well done to Kate Middleton To us a Prince, to you a son. Prince Charles is your Grandad The Paparazzi will go mad One day old and already on Twitter trending Who will help, with the Royal winding William & Kate must be so happy One hopes One's been practicing changing a ***** Born in St Mary's, Lindo Wing A child that will be our future King Everyone is so happy for them Born on a Monday 4.24pm You're Great GrandMother is called Her Majesty the Queen We'll watch him grow into a teen For Prince Phillip four male generations Now the country starts with the celebrations The new addition to the Royal Family The future of the British Monarchy The Windsor family and the family of Middleton A boy to bring them so much fun Proud watching down over all times will be his Nanna Brought up in the memory of Princess Diana The name now we have to all guess For now we call him His Royal Highness For the country this brings so much joy A beautiful, bouncing Royal Baby Boy
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Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 11:04 AM UTC
A Royal Baby
Today a baby boy was born The future heir to the British throne Remember July 22nd was the date Proud parents William & Kate Every child born today will receive a Silver Penny A collectors item, for so many First we watched William & Kate marry He has a really cool Uncle in Prince Harry I bet he will show him some tricks A bouncing baby boy 8lb 6, A baby, a toddler, then into a little nipper Look after him Auntie Pippa. We will watch him grow up and ready to take his place The news confirmed on the easel at Buckingham Palace Well done to Kate Middleton To us a Prince, to you a son. Prince Charles is your Grandad The Paparazzi will go mad One day old and already on Twitter trending Who will help, with the Royal winding William & Kate must be so happy One hopes One's been practicing changing a ***** Born in St Mary's, Lindo Wing A child that will be our future King Everyone is so happy for them Born on a Monday 4.24pm You're Great GrandMother is called Her Majesty the Queen We'll watch him grow into a teen For Prince Phillip four male generations Now the country starts with the celebrations The new addition to the Royal Family The future of the British Monarchy The Windsor family and the family of Middleton A boy to bring them so much fun Proud watching down over all times will be his Nanna Brought up in the memory of Princess Diana The name now we have to all guess For now we call him His Royal Highness For the country this brings so much joy A beautiful, bouncing Royal Baby Boy
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40
Windsor, and kite seats – I see that we are snowed in to the sky clouds have come half-removing themselves to be just oxygen orbs, little pods of white. So much like an eye without a pupil, or a tulip budding wide. She is beautiful but sad, salty sad inhaling it as a fume the smoke that does not disintegrate giving her cancer of the brain. These sails flap like torn skin, pale and cleaned of the internal things. Clouds feel that champagne-bottle way – fizz hopping from their stomachs and spread her melancholy east, then west. We give it to you, gentleman, with these outstretched ***** for hugs infect you and cough on the ones we love. But you are not yet stuck – barren, frozen, these skypanes in ivory unlock their mouths for weather to swallow and only get the sad, salty sadness, white winters infected by dirt. Clouds told they can fly, but it still hurts.
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Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 10:41 AM UTC
sadder than the sky
Take a group of chimpanzees used to swinging through the trees, and sit them down at keyboards in a row; lots of paper, lots of ink, lots and lots of time, I think, and what the theory says I’m sure you know. Yes, along with all the junk, all the gibberish and bunk, somewhere there’d be the full works of the Bard: As You Like It, Cymbeline, Richards 2 and 3, the Dream, though Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, might be hard. But I’m sure the little blighters would get on fine with *Titus Andronicus*, The Taming of the Shrew, The Moor of Venice (that’s Othello), the other Merchant fellow, and Antony and Cleopatra too. The Winter’s Tale would hold no terrors, nor The Comedy of Errors, and Verona’s Gentlemen would turn out right; Love’s Labour might be Lost, or it might be Tempest-tossed, but All’s Well That Ends Well, even on Twelfth Night. Lear, King John, and Much Ado, Henry 4, parts 1 and 2, Henry 5, and 6 (in three parts), Henry 8, Troilus, Timon, Measure for Measure, Pericles (a neglected treasure) and how Romeo and Juliet met their fate; all the Sonnets, and the **** of Lucrece* (typed by an ape!) and if they worked for ever and a day they could fit in Julius Caesar, that Coriolanus geezer, the Wives of Windsor, and the Scottish play. I grew more and more excited – even thought I might be knighted if I could be the one to make it work. But to realise my dream I had to try a pilot scheme, to prove I wasn’t just a reckless berk. I bought one chimp from the zoo - didn't have the cash for two - and gave him a typewriter, just to try for a short while. Well, a fortnight was the time-scale that I thought right. You see, I’m quite an optimistic guy. Now everyone who heard of my project said, “Absurd!” when I told them of my striking new departure. “Get a chimpanzee to type the works of Shakespeare? Oh, what tripe!” Still … he did produce the works of Jeffrey Archer.
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Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 3:55 PM UTC
Testing a Theory
Take a group of chimpanzees used to swinging through the trees, and sit them down at keyboards in a row; lots of paper, lots of ink, lots and lots of time, I think, and what the theory says I’m sure you know. Yes, along with all the junk, all the gibberish and bunk, somewhere there’d be the full works of the Bard: As You Like It, Cymbeline, Richards 2 and 3, the Dream, though Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, might be hard. But I’m sure the little blighters would get on fine with *Titus Andronicus*, The Taming of the Shrew, The Moor of Venice (that’s Othello), the other Merchant fellow, and Antony and Cleopatra too. The Winter’s Tale would hold no terrors, nor The Comedy of Errors, and Verona’s Gentlemen would turn out right; Love’s Labour might be Lost, or it might be Tempest-tossed, but All’s Well That Ends Well, even on Twelfth Night. Lear, King John, and Much Ado, Henry 4, parts 1 and 2, Henry 5, and 6 (in three parts), Henry 8, Troilus, Timon, Measure for Measure, Pericles (a neglected treasure) and how Romeo and Juliet met their fate; all the Sonnets, and the **** of Lucrece* (typed by an ape!) and if they worked for ever and a day they could fit in Julius Caesar, that Coriolanus geezer, the Wives of Windsor, and the Scottish play. I grew more and more excited – even thought I might be knighted if I could be the one to make it work. But to realise my dream I had to try a pilot scheme, to prove I wasn’t just a reckless berk. I bought one chimp from the zoo - didn't have the cash for two - and gave him a typewriter, just to try for a short while. Well, a fortnight was the time-scale that I thought right. You see, I’m quite an optimistic guy. Now everyone who heard of my project said, “Absurd!” when I told them of my striking new departure. “Get a chimpanzee to type the works of Shakespeare? Oh, what tripe!” Still … he did produce the works of Jeffrey Archer.
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54
Wake not for the world-heard thunder, Nor the chimes that earthquakes toll; Stars may plot in heaven with planet, Lightning rive the rock of granite, Tempest tread the oakwood under, Fear not you for flesh or soul; Marching, fighting, victory past, Stretch your limbs in peace at last. Stir not for the soldier's drilling, Nor the fever nothing cures; Throb of drum and timbal's rattle Call but men alive to battle, And the fife with death-notes filling Screams for blood--but not for yours. Times enough you bled your best; Sleep on now, and take your rest. Sleep, my lad; the French have landed, London's burning, Windsor's down. Clasp your cloak of earth about you; We must man the ditch without you, March unled and fight short-handed, Charge to fall and swim to drown. Duty, friendship, bravery o'er, Sleep away, lad; wake no more.
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1.4k
Wake Not for the World-Heard Thunder
Maybe you’ve gone with Moss Bros Or you’ve stuck to trusty M&S But I can point to a surer way to ensure you’re dressed for success * No matter how long you’ve spent Adjusting your silks and laces No matter how hard it was to talk him out of his lairy braces * Whether you selected a Windsor knot Or your favourite velvet bow tie [A bold choice, Toby.] I can share some well-worn wisdom By which you should always abide * I know a dress code tested by time Simple words to which we should hold Simple but essential for all of us here So let’s check we’re all properly clothed * Next time you’re walking down the red carpet And they ask, ‘Who are you wearing?’ There's no need to look for the neckline label Don’t waste your time with checking * Every day you both put on Christ You kit yourselves out with the King Knowing this is all that you’ll need For whatever the day will bring * But like royal robes or battle armour His garments come in layers Put them on in careful sequence Buttoned up with tailored prayers * You begin with feather-lite Compassion Laced with silken Kindness It’s followed by soft Humility A garment that’s forever timeless * You add to this tough Gentleness That’s core to the Saviour’s style With a lining of weighty Patience So you can each stay versatile * You ensure the ensemble’s been well steamed With a fierce, cleansing Forgiveness You set the dial high enough To remove past creases of grievance * Now, some might think this will be enough That that is ample fussing But there’s one remaining layer That you know isn’t worth you rushing * Over each of these rich garments to keep them all in place you put on the strong bond of Love like a long full-body embrace * Then whatever the weather or season on each and every occasion You can both enjoy the Peace of knowing You’ll never need alterations * You may have heard it said And with Thanks we can affirm Some fashions do remain timeless And this one's designed for long term
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Oct 6, 2024
Oct 6, 2024 at 10:24 AM UTC
Fashion Sense
Maybe you’ve gone with Moss Bros Or you’ve stuck to trusty M&S But I can point to a surer way to ensure you’re dressed for success * No matter how long you’ve spent Adjusting your silks and laces No matter how hard it was to talk him out of his lairy braces * Whether you selected a Windsor knot Or your favourite velvet bow tie [A bold choice, Toby.] I can share some well-worn wisdom By which you should always abide * I know a dress code tested by time Simple words to which we should hold Simple but essential for all of us here So let’s check we’re all properly clothed * Next time you’re walking down the red carpet And they ask, ‘Who are you wearing?’ There's no need to look for the neckline label Don’t waste your time with checking * Every day you both put on Christ You kit yourselves out with the King Knowing this is all that you’ll need For whatever the day will bring * But like royal robes or battle armour His garments come in layers Put them on in careful sequence Buttoned up with tailored prayers * You begin with feather-lite Compassion Laced with silken Kindness It’s followed by soft Humility A garment that’s forever timeless * You add to this tough Gentleness That’s core to the Saviour’s style With a lining of weighty Patience So you can each stay versatile * You ensure the ensemble’s been well steamed With a fierce, cleansing Forgiveness You set the dial high enough To remove past creases of grievance * Now, some might think this will be enough That that is ample fussing But there’s one remaining layer That you know isn’t worth you rushing * Over each of these rich garments to keep them all in place you put on the strong bond of Love like a long full-body embrace * Then whatever the weather or season on each and every occasion You can both enjoy the Peace of knowing You’ll never need alterations * You may have heard it said And with Thanks we can affirm Some fashions do remain timeless And this one's designed for long term
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70
I wanted so deeply, truly, without words, a tune, a lyric, or a song, to be, oh my dearest love, to be, your national anthem, to represent you, my golden note in the sky, flying past birds circling our skies, the stars, and stripes, the colours, to be, everything that represented, my commitment, love, loyalty, the unspoken, patriotic, musical composition gluing us together, devoted I fell, oh my dearest love, we were the one, placed ring, do you remember my dear, my great grandmothers ring, the purple stone, and how the emerald would, grace my hand, a signature of love, eternal blessings, the vastness of, Great Windsor Park, all those lengthy trails, deer hiding, behind the lens camera clicking, as we waltzed down, our imagined up isle, who needs a church, when we have, horses that gallop, our capes we are red ruby slippers, clicked, we are the two princesses, without our, frog kissed prince we have changed the ending, curtailed the tale, we have used our, unstoppable love, to make our own, day dream (nightmare) a true, match made in heaven, to only, end in, hell, cursed by the power, of the malevolent, wicked witch, of the west. © Sia Jane
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Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 7:05 PM UTC
A Cursed Love
They’re going to **** you she said. They are coming at dawn. You best dress to impress, she said with a yawn And who was I, to deny those who know better, who am I to fetter. So the windsor, choked high, She rolled her eyes, those colors don’t match, a disappointed sigh, I can’t be caught dead, in such retched attire, but a man such as I can't afford better, so we sat for a while, until the light bathed my face, I couldn’t smile, wouldn’t die in style.
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Jul 24, 2012
Jul 24, 2012 at 10:32 PM UTC
Priorities
Tuck into your suit and power. Stand tall amongst dwarves. The ditsy mistress polishes the pleather Fake sheen, fake **** Fake smiles, fake gits. Cheesy grins all round, Lap up that cheeky cheddar cheese. Now onto desert.
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Jul 11, 2020
Jul 11, 2020 at 8:13 AM UTC
Windsor knot
hear your name one more time drive it home let the messages play turn it up let them scream cause it's not in me totally starving take it all stuff my face pass out on the floor i'll leave i miss you i love you where are you? do you miss me? do you love me? hear your name one more time drive it home
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Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 1:41 AM UTC
windsor 90's
Arrested. A Windsor knot binds my fickle neck to my dour shoulders. Plastic ties elegant wrists in pair. One question: Head up or down? I lied. Another question. Atop a question. Am I headed up or down? Give me redemption or else, how can I ignore it? One bedroom. An eager clock, minutes from my set, or expected The End, happily leaves me to my routine. One question: Head up or down? I lied. Another question. Atop a question. Am I headed up or down? Give me freedom or else, how can I ignore it? Can I really be who I want? Can I really be what I mean? Will I ever solidify? Will I ever come to? And who will come? (. . .)
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Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 11:12 PM UTC
Atop A Question
Spyer and Windsor Often stayed late. Out on the dance floor enjoying their date. Their love was their secret concealed for some years From nosy co-workers and curious ears. No ring could she give To her love of all time, Same *** love was condemned in Societies mind. For richer, for poorer, for better or worse. Four decades they waited, their vows to say first. Then Death intervened and put them apart. Windsor barely survived What they call “Broken Heart” Now her day in court beckons The Judgment day nears. Were their vows a true marriage, or not what it appears? Will she owe Estate Tax- Some three hundred grand- Because she wed a woman Instead of a man?
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Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 5:41 PM UTC
Diamond Heart
Seafoam green out of the corner of my eye with a windsor knot, sleeping in the window seat, on the windowsill perched like a crow waiting on the spoils of a burger and fries. Stupid whiskey flask follows me from town to town in my breast pocket navy blue with a 40-R in the hemline to let me know the mediocre, average life I should’ve traced along the stencil of… a greywash and black existence. Several openings in the vent by the window ran up my face in a reversal of every law Newton ever jotted on parchment paper and sealed with gravity and a drop of wax. He must’ve wondered about regular things often. Like emotion. He must’ve had it figured out. He must cook one hell of an Alfredo and win a lot of chess matches to tackle something like gravity.
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May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 6:42 PM UTC
Lowell, MA.
It is June. Plaridel is in sepia, or leaden – whichever, this is the leitmotif. Soon clouds with jettison a plodding swathe of water. You will wear the petrichor, While a ramshackle of a passing tricycle whelms a throbbing orchestra of junk. Here is the hearth that rears no fire: a mother, children in tow – a troika, on a cart not even close to ease of a hurtling thing. Trees naked in vulnerable green – the verdigris carried by a miniscule Maya. Here comes again, the neighbor peering through the nuisance, is alarmed, eyes like a fugitive, curses my mother – I grab the nearest, sharpest object available that was my own hand. Ingrained deep within, a root – or a stone, among many other stones in me, this salt-well, a savingslight of turning wave that is almost an approximate oceanview in me. Gnarled over the longest time. In here we soothe by gin, passing out in front of our gated homes, singing whatever was available, close to our pitch. Somewhere, Windsor has lost the poem / critiqued by a mirror fecundating a smeared image, a blot. A Rorschach was it, or just a day dazed they did. Somewhere, this is scattered. Uncollected. To make remnants of as evidence, not to investigate if true. The 6th body of this is what I am speaking of in glossolalia. A requiem leaves it stark and cold in this consummate weather. Another piercing salvage of metal cuts the humdrum town and unlike the sturdy mango tree, this is a collective of secret encrypted lasting more than a life. It is June. Plaridel has ripened from the expired summer. Perchance the exquisite promise is sweet, holding all the bitterness together, ready to fall, at last.
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May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 10:22 PM UTC
Plaridel is in sepia, or leaden
It is June. Plaridel is in sepia, or leaden – whichever, this is the leitmotif. Soon clouds with jettison a plodding swathe of water. You will wear the petrichor, While a ramshackle of a passing tricycle whelms a throbbing orchestra of junk. Here is the hearth that rears no fire: a mother, children in tow – a troika, on a cart not even close to ease of a hurtling thing. Trees naked in vulnerable green – the verdigris carried by a miniscule Maya. Here comes again, the neighbor peering through the nuisance, is alarmed, eyes like a fugitive, curses my mother – I grab the nearest, sharpest object available that was my own hand. Ingrained deep within, a root – or a stone, among many other stones in me, this salt-well, a savingslight of turning wave that is almost an approximate oceanview in me. Gnarled over the longest time. In here we soothe by gin, passing out in front of our gated homes, singing whatever was available, close to our pitch. Somewhere, Windsor has lost the poem / critiqued by a mirror fecundating a smeared image, a blot. A Rorschach was it, or just a day dazed they did. Somewhere, this is scattered. Uncollected. To make remnants of as evidence, not to investigate if true. The 6th body of this is what I am speaking of in glossolalia. A requiem leaves it stark and cold in this consummate weather. Another piercing salvage of metal cuts the humdrum town and unlike the sturdy mango tree, this is a collective of secret encrypted lasting more than a life. It is June. Plaridel has ripened from the expired summer. Perchance the exquisite promise is sweet, holding all the bitterness together, ready to fall, at last.
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35
How can I withdraw if I already knew Yet still your Partying Masquerade protect Else file this Conspiracy. Though if true Half the Pie sweet yet my Slice introspect There is no need for your own Lock-and-File Especially when it comes to your Honour That, if Humbled, may these Heads reconcile And gain access to your Bluebird's Favour Which even Windsor, a Prince that he is Taught by the Crown to consider the Queue Of his Level, absorb your Head in this - A Basic Lesson we all must review. Yes, I'll comply. For the Empire's sake To keep the Boys cooked; And Girls at your bake.
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Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 10:47 AM UTC
SONNET TRIBUTE SUNDRY - ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY EIGHT - TOM DALEY
At the rumble of a badger's yawn At the crack of a sparrow's **** At the pang of his weakened bladder That's when he makes his start With the scrape of greying stubble With the shine of derby brogues With a perfect Windsor knot That's how my husband rolls At the slam of the paneled door At the echo of a muttered curse At the march of polished steps It's then that I emerge
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Jul 20, 2019
Jul 20, 2019 at 2:38 PM UTC
Morning
They married in the merry month of May at Windsor Castle  - Hey Noney Ney! So, Meghan and Prince Harry decided not to tarry. Now a baby’s on the way. next Spring - they say.. The Queen’s amused The Duke’s bemused Prince Charles enthused: saying to Duchess Camilla, “A Jolly Good Show! Oh Joy!” Said she: “A girl or boy?” Said HRH "Don't tease.   One or the other - no transgender if you please, nor talk of Succession to threaten my Accession.” TOBIAS
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Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 4:32 AM UTC
Lines on a Royal Babe Expected