"wolverhampton" poems
Into reading, a lot
probably introverted
weird is good in my book
I am serious like that...
Cook like crazy
Pen in hand is how I function
The University of Wolverhampton builds artists
some fix broken bones, mend hearts, build technology from scratch
I speak truths in worded lines at night when the world is an endless sea of tranquillity
life is exhausting
everyday is leg day when you are running away from things that keep you awake at night.
some call them problems. we all have them, you are not alone.
take a break, smile it is ok if your body is not what God's are made of. food nourishes. give your heart What it needs, be compassionate, be human, smile more...
A smile just makes life a little easier, doesn't it?
If you can't on your own, wine does the trick too
Let's paint a new story together.. music in the air. Lips, they speak truth to existence and kiss body parts... they tell us, "we can" ... and then, "we believe" ...
It starts with a "hi, hello, how are you?" ... see you on the other side where people are REAL! ... it is true, uncommon valor was a common virtue in the good old days. Not so much, today.
Sincerely,
Zuri
Jun 19, 2020
Jun 19, 2020 at 3:52 AM UTC
He had got on the train at New Street,
Found an empty carriage spare,
And settled down with the paper
With not one to disturb him there,
But the train pulled in at Sandwell
And the carriage door slid wide,
And in there walked a pair of heels
With a dimple and hips beside.
She sat on the seat across from him
And laid her bag on the seat,
Kicked her shoes on the floor, so he
Could see her pretty feet,
He tried to look at his paper but
The print got up and walked,
Up from her ankles to her calfs
And he found it hard to talk.
‘How do you do,’ was banal but
That’s all that came to mind,
She briefly looked from her knitting, and
He thought that her eyes were kind,
But never a word would pass those lips
She had the slightest pout,
And her needles clicked to the railway clack
As his mouth was drying out.
He’d bought some fruit in the Bullring
So he thought he’d have some there,
And at different times he offered her
An apple, peach or a pear,
But she shook her head so slightly and
Politely, in disdain,
As if the thought of a stranger’s fruit
From a man in a suit, might stain.
The train chuffed on through Wolverhampton
While he drank a Coke,
He knew that his time was limited
For she’d get off at Stoke,
He offered to put the window down
But she said it blew her hair,
Then he offered his name as Paul, but she
Was not inclined to share.
She crossed her legs and she hitched her skirt
Just slightly above her knees,
While his eyes looked up to the luggage rack,
Was this some sort of tease?
Her knitting needles were clicking away
Was she knitting some sort of sack?
It seemed like she was racing the train
Ahead of its clickety-clack.
The train went racing to Stafford,
In and out, but it passed so fast,
He said, ‘We’re almost at Stoke, that’s where
We’ll both get out, I guess?
There’s quite a nice little café
Down by the station in the square,
I’d like to buy you a coffee, if you want
I’ll shout you there.’
She stopped, and packed up her knitting
Tucked it carefully in her bag,
And said, ‘You must be Australian,
And coming here, so sad.
I’ve never been ‘shouted’ a drink before
But I think you’re rather nice,
I’ll let you know that you’re past first base
On your way to Paradise!’
David Lewis Paget
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 1:17 AM UTC
Yesterday and today and again tomorrow
Regrets build up from day to day
To the last moment of my waning life
And all my yesterdays have guided me
Towards my longed for death, so **** you, brief candle.
Life's just a passing sideshow, poor interval
To fill in the time between TV shows and football -
So pass another beer - life's just a ragged tail
Wagged by an idiot, it's **** and *** and ***** -
And then there's **** all left.
Know you whichever tempestuous idiot declar'd
O wonder how many goodly creatures are there here
And how beautious whining mankind be?
O brave new ******* pointless world
That has such people in't or some such futility
Needeth yet her brains examining forsooth
And has ne'er seen Wolverhampton ill-lit by moonlight.
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 4:12 PM UTC
Poem Number Three from Edna's alter ego, Count ORLOK
O how the lust for virgins' blood rages through my veins,
My thirst for the wondrous elixir of human gore is all-engulfing!
I rise at dusk from my noisome grave, drooling with anticipation
And I soar upwards into the night sky like a bat out of Hell
(which is what I am, so it's no ******* exaggeration is it?).
I go to search out new victims in a new place as my old haunts
Are rather depleted following my ravages on their inhabitants,
But the foul miasma emanating from Wolverhampton's suburbs
Is enough to make me throw up last night's supper on my tuxedo,
And it totally kills my ******* appetite stone ******* dead.
With a shrieked *"The West Midlands Conurbation ***** big time!"*
I fly off in disgust, a steam of diarrheoa trailing after me,
Like brown stardust.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 10:34 AM UTC
This is the next train and I thought the announcer said, to Dartmoor,
but apparently not because it's only going to Stanmore.
Doors closing and I'm closed in
and yet
always supposing I'm not.
Nike from Wolverhampton Wanderers is sat next to me sporting his tribal signs.
On the other side of me, a lady,
elegant, composed like a well written missive.
And the young man down the carriage wearing what looks like a skull cap, he looks like a cool chap.
My eyes do the dodgems watching these underground attractions
which seems fair enough to me.
trying to unpick the strands with my cotton wool hands takes time
and time's not on my side.
(It probably plays for Wolverhampton Wanderers )
Jun 13, 2019
Jun 13, 2019 at 10:00 AM UTC