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Sitting outside an old country store somewhere between the real world and what used to be sat an old wrinkled man in a swing, straw hat on his head, tobacco chew in his lower lip with a tin coffee cup for the waste. He had his legs crossed sort of funny; I could tell that the age of his body made him feel uncomfortable. I could almost feel his back as it ached. As I got out of my car an old hound dog moved slowly to the old man’s side. Above the old man was on old tin Coca Cola sign mostly rusted away by time. I stopped for a moment and looked at the old store front. It must have been a vintage from somewhere around the turn of the twentieth century. As I passed by the old man on the bench, I nodded my head and the old man reached up for his old ***** straw hat and tipped the front of it slightly. He having greeted me in his way as I had greeted him with mine. I pushed on the old wooden screen door to hear its spring stretch and the hinges creak and after I entered I failed to catch the screen door and I shuttered as it slammed shut. Above me was an old silent ceiling fan whispering out a slow gyrating motion as it passed down the air around me. A peaceful majestic feeling came over me. Looking around the store I saw no glass fronted coolers, thirst was why I had stopped. “Do you have any soda’s?” I asked the lady behind the counter.
“Sho do,” she replied , “They’s over thare.” I looked to where she was pointing, it was like a big long flat freezer, painted red with several silver stainless doors on top of it and Coca-Cola embossed on it’s front. Arriving at the freezer I opened the lid and looked inside. “Jest’ put yer money in the box,” the feminine hillbilly voice continued.
On the front of the box and on each side of the box it had a hand written note which read, “Please Put .06 Cents Here.” ‘Six cents,” I thought – surely I must have gone back in time.” I asked, “How much are the sodas?”
To which she replied, “They be just six cents.” I fumbled in my pocket and pulled out my change, located six pennies and put them through the slot in the box. Then I looked back into the cooler to find that the only choice was Coca Cola inside. I took one and opened it up and took a big swig.
Walking back to the counter I asked the lady, “ How in the world can you afford to sell a soda for just six cents?”
She answered me with, “Well, did ya see Uncle Hap on the front porch?”
“The old man with the straw hat?” I asked.
“Yep, dat be Uncle Hap, go ask him how he can afford to sell a Coke for jest six cents.”
Interested, I walked back under the old ceiling fan and through the squeaking door. The old man had his hat pulled low on his eyes. “Sir,” I began, “I have a question to ask you.”
“Yes sir, sonny, and jest what be yer question?” he answered tilting his hat back high on his head.
“Well sir, just how do plan to make a living selling a coke for just six cents?”
The old man smiled and said, “That’s an easy one son, I ain’t a plannin to make any money offen them thar cokes.” I know I must have had a puzzled look on me but before I could inquire more he continued, “Has yer ever mined for gold?”
“No, I’m afraid not, sir,” I replied wondering what that had to do with the price of a coke.
The old man continued, “Well yer see Sonny, when yo be a minin, yer works real hard sometimes. You see, yer digs and digs and digs some more day after day – sometimes not seeing anything but more dirt but once in a while you be a finding jest a little bit a ore. Then ya comes back da next day and yer dig some more.” More confused than ever I sat down beside the old man in the swing taking another drink of my six cent Coke. He continues, “Trouble is yer see, you get hooked on that little taste a ore. It jest keeps ye a comin back fer more.”
Finally I had to ask, “But what does all this have to do with the price of coke?”
'Hold on sonny. I’m a gettin to that part but yer see yer got to hear da whole story.” I sat back in the swing deciding that maybe I’d just let the old man do his thing. “Now yer see, it was about 1920 I reckon when ever dis here young fellow come by dis here store a sellin this new fangled thing he called stock. Now he wanted me to buy some stock in dis here company he was a promotin. I was a minin at da time a-course and I’d just hit it a little lucky that week and I had some xtree money in me pocket. So fer five hunerd dollars, a whole lots a cash back den, I buyed a 1000 shares of that thar boys stock.” The old man then looked me in the eyes with a big smile on his face. “Yer see sonny, I works hard all my life a digging holes in the ground most times not seeing nuttin atall but I jest keeped on a diggin. I must say I always did believe that even if’n I fount no gold at all at least at the end of every day I could sit back and see whar I’d been. But yer jest never knows whar that real gold is. Sometimes yer find it in the strangest of places. Well sonny, I’z figures that 100 shares of stock musta split no less than 25 times since 1920. So yer see, I be one them whatcha might call million dollar aires. So don’t you fret that head o urin over’n what I charge fer that thare coke cola yer a drinkin. Matter of fact, if’n yer wants to, why don’t you go right back inside and buy yerself a whole **** case. Yer see, thar’s gold in them thare bottles. Yep, gold I tell ya. That 100 shares of Coca Cola stock sho was a golden God send. And wid me bein da onliest one a chargin just six cents a pop, well you can be one – o – da lucky ones to find soma dat gold. Who knows, the whole **** vein might be a sittin right side ya right now. You jest never knows. Just keep on a digging, Sonny. At least you can see whar ya been.”
The old man smiled as he turned to wave at a car as it passed by.
Me, I guess I’ll just keep on digging. But you know what? The old man was right. The gold is all around us. So if you ever find this place where soda’s are just six cents, well maybe it isn’t gold but believe me, the gold is all around you too.

Jest keep on a digging. At least yer can see whar ya been.
I love to sit down with people older than myself and listen to them tell me about their life. I am always amazed at how much different (and the same) our experiences can be (or think they are) when only a few decades are the mark by which we gauge those differences. In this piece I hope to be able to capture "Hap's" personality as well as his beautiful story as well as let the reader listen in on 'our' conversation on  his view on life. I hope that you enjoy it.
David Nelson Aug 2011
Nursree-Rhymed-Rap

you got yer Jack be nimble
you got yer Jack be quick
you got yer Jack jumpin over a candle stick
he jumped so high
he almost touched the sky
you see he burnt his nads
and it made him cry

you got yer 3 little pigs
you got yer Goldilocks
you got yer big bad wolf dumber than a fox
he huffed and puffed
and took a big hit
and they all joined hands
they were smokin some ****

you got yer Little Red
you got yer 3 brown bears
sippin on soup and sittin in chairs
Red danced on the table
yeah she danced really good
the bears gave her money
to see what was under the hood

you got yer Jack and Jill
you got yer buckle my shoe
climbin that hill what they gonna do
Jack played pattycake
according to rumours
trying to get inside
of little Jill's bloomers

you got yer Little Miss Muffet
you got yer itsy bitsy spider
he made a big mistake sitting down beside her
inside her purse
she kept a can of Raid
she drenched his ****
and now he's daid

you got yer hey ****** ******
you got yer dish and spoon
you got yer old spotted cow jumpin over the moon
there's Humpty Dumpty
and the fiddling cat
the little dog laughed
to see Jack Sprat splat  

you got yer round the rosey
you got yer ba black sheep
pullin the wool over yer eyes as you sleep
****** ****** dumplin
so what is my point
whoever wrote these riddles
musta been smokin a joint

Gomer LePoet ....
David Nelson Mar 2013
Nursree-Rhymed-Rap

you got yer Jack be nimble
you got yer Jack be quick
you got yer Jack jumpin over a candle stick
he jumped so high
he almost touched the sky
you see he burnt his nads
and it made him cry

you got yer 3 little pigs
you got yer Goldilocks
you got yer big bad wolf dumber than a fox
he huffed and puffed
and took a big hit
and they all joined hands
they were smokin some ****

you got yer Little Red
you got yer 3 brown bears
sippin on soup and sittin in chairs
Red danced on the table
yeah she danced really good
the bears gave her money
to see what was under the hood

you got yer Jack and Jill
you got yer buckle my shoe
climbin that hill what they gonna do
Jack played pattycake
according to rumours
trying to get inside
of little Jill's bloomers

you got yer Little Miss Muffet
you got yer itsy bitsy spider
he made a big mistake sitting down beside her
inside her purse
she kept a can of Raid
she drenched his ****
and now he's daid

you got yer hey ****** ******
you got yer dish and spoon
you got yer old spotted cow jumpin over the moon
there's Humpty Dumpty
and the fiddling cat
the little dog laughed
to see Jack Sprat splat  

you got yer round the rosey
you got yer ba black sheep
pullin the wool over yer eyes as you sleep
****** ****** dumplin
so what is my point
whoever wrote these riddles
musta been smokin a joint

Gomer LePoet ....
these aren't your mama's Nursery Rhymes. :)
Ye move swiftly as ye haste ter yer cold shore.
Ter stand before the ocean, waiting fer yer long-lost lover.

''How i miss yer sweet tender embrace when it is cold in the morning.
Such a radiant smile to brighten me days'' ye sing.

Yer hills answer in a thankful prayer.
Across the land ye walk alone like a rover.
O woman had yer lover stayed...
Had yer pledge been said...

Lonely and hurt as ye be.
Frozen dew and foggy hills ye see.
Waitin' ter never see him.
Watchin' those boats in a distant dim.

By yer river, before the dead blackening trees, alone ye linger.
Still yer hair radiant, though quiver.
Empty yer heart, cold yer face.
Across the shore i see yer every saddened pace.

I came ter catch yer every tear.
Pity will not hamper me, nor will me fear.
Woman green the hills far away.
Ye nay glad yet have much ter say.

Unto him far ye walked, longing ter his eyes ter look deep.
Ay sweet touch as it is, will seep.
Come behold his light o'er the ocean.
Soft ter touch yer heart, when the storm is mean.
Fegger May 2010
The lantern sways, as shadows flash,
Mists draped in night so still;
Illuminating fleshless arms,
Creep-out along this hill.
Such guardians of soul-less mounds,
Wooden markers of the poor,
Bow in hallowed reverence
As sentries evermore.

Weeping, yet un-frightened,
She trips between each aisle;
Casting light against each stone,
Acknowledge each beguiled.
Then memory finds her grasping,
And clenching cold, damp stone
Denoting ‘neath a vacant plot,
For he never did come home.

‘Pon scattered grass and gravelly dirt;
Drops to reverent knee,
While fanning simple pleats about,
Her dress, in modesty.
She twists the **** and raises wick;
And it curls with cloak of flame.
She whets her lips, inhaling deep,
Then summons ‘pon his name:

“Bartholomew,  Bartholomew,
Can you see that I ‘ave come?
Are you near, me sweetest husband?
‘Tis I, your Mary Dunn!
I had me thoughts to come t’night,
To ‘ave a word with you,
That’s pressin’ on me heart so fierce,
Ya’ ‘round Bartholomew?
Aye, that’d be just like ye some,
To wait fer me confess;
A’twisten’ in me awkward words,
No salve fer me distress!
Yet I—I need t’hear yer voice
An’ calmin’ words to heal,
The anxious quiver, here, inside,
A’longin’ to reveal.”

The widow paused, collecting will,
And questioned own intent;
To cast a net to spirit’s world,
To herald self- repent.
She wrings her fingers nervously,
While waiting ‘pon the dead;
When suddenly a breeze did rise,
Then a hand upon her head.

“Mary Dunn, me Mary Dunn,
‘Ave not better things to do;
Than wander ‘bout such crypts at night,
A’hovered by the moon?
What keeps y’here in dank an cold,
So callin’ out fer me?
Ye know fer fact I’m dead by now,
An rottin’ in the sea!”

“It’s good to see ya’ too, my love;
Better then, to hear;
That death din’t take away that tongue,
Or how ye prone t’snear.
I ‘spected that I’d smell ya’ first,
That rancid scent of whale;
Yer eyes were once quite darker,
Yer skin not quite so pale”.

The spirit corpse then spun about,
Examined high and low,
The fiery bride he’d left behind,
With heart so still aglow.
Warmed by her excited eyes,
And cheeks so pink with life;
He felt a distance aching,
Longing for this wife.

“Ye got a bit of lonely, Mary,
That why ye come tonight;
‘Spectin’ glimpse ‘ov me, like this
‘Wud turn ya’ heart to right?
Sensible is how ye was,
Yet be scurryin’ to find,
Such wisdom in yer harkin’,
To terms ye felt unkind.”

“Stop with ya’!  Stop with ya’!
Ya’ stubborn, briney goat!
T’wasn’t me who boarded ship
An’ failed to keep afloat!
Aye, the heaven hasn’t tempered,
The iron in yer will.
Judge me not Bartholomew,
One, amongst the krill!”

The bearded ghost then chuckled,
‘Til tears came to his eyes.
Proud he was to have such time,
To spend with feisty bride.
He then retreats in silence,
As he gleans from her distress,
That she torments with a secret,
To him, she must confess.

“"Bartholomew, me love,"
she embarks to make her plea,
"Ye left me young an' fruitful still,
yet no child ‘pon me knee.
I'm not as sturdy as y'think,
An' tremble at the thought;
deprived I am of husbandry,
my womb be saved fer naught."
Without ye then, I’ll ‘ave no spring,
No child to remind,
Of splendid days, brighter sun,
Me husband now divine.
I’m askin’ yer forgiveness,
And yer permit to pursue,
The kindly callers come to me,
In absence then, of you.”

“Yer speakin’ of the cooper, Tim,
Or Drew, the smithies’ hand?
Aye, better off with men who keep,
Their feet upon the land!
But Tim, I’m sadly knowin’ that,
His time is comin’ due;
An’ if a child be yer design,
There ‘ain’t no seeds in Drew.
I’ll not be one to keep ya’,
To an empty marriage bed.
Lord knows ye d’serve a finer life,
Than keepin’ with the dead.
But ev’rythin’ that’s in me,
Needs ye hurt no more.
Death ‘as grant me favored eyes,
I ‘adn’t known before.
I’ll come ‘ere, e’vry night,
An’ visit, yer desire.
Honest, I will always be,
Tendin’ yer require.
Love ‘been mine for days of flesh,
Then, for eternity.
Go then now, me Mary Dunn,
An’ make a life for thee.”

With courage she did leave that night,
With freedom then realized,
To pair with then, another mate,
Forsaking former ties.
Yet, on the night that followed,
And for thousands after, too,
She chose the comp’ny of the ghost,
Her lost Bartholomew.

Each night she braved nature’s serve,
Through rain, or cold, or sleet;
Imbibing ‘pon such moment’s time,
To feed on love so sweet.
Each minute spent, Bartholomew,
Rejoiced in hardships, laughter;
And only God and Time will know,
Such treasures in hereafter.

One night, amidst November freeze,
Mary staggered there,
Among the stones akin to home,
With her husband shared;
Lungs revolting, gurgling swell,
Mouth of staining red;
Contrasting earthly suffering,
Found solace ‘mongst the dead.
Fevered to delirium,
Wet, silver-tainted hair,
She settles ‘side familiar post
And finds him waiting there.
Struggles so to form a breath,
In hopes that she may speak,
Surrendering the day’s accounts;
But fears she is too weak.

“Aye, ‘tis time, me Mary Dunn,
A’time that ye come home.
Beyond this night, forevermore,
Y’ll nev’r be alone.
I wish that I could reach ya’ now,
An pull ya’ ‘cross the veil
That’s kept us ‘part these many years,
In spite of what’s prevailed.”

“So ‘lighten me, me whaler man,”
She coughed a pale reply.
“Why’d ya’ choose to lie to me,
To keep me as yo’r bride?
The cooper, he outlived us both,
Eight children sprung from Drew;
Ye lied to me for all these years,
What say, Bartholomew?”

“I feared me own accord, me lass,
From terms set forth above;
Ye cannot cross to waitin’ arms,
Unless ye go with love.
An’ I, but one love known to life,
This chance then rest with you
To be me escort to the Lord,
This, I say is true.
Should ye have taken ‘nother man,
I feared that ye’d be his;
An’ ye’d be taken up with him,
While I’d be left like this;
A-hoverin’ in between such space,
An’ time, by lonesome self;
While pinin’ for me heart of life,
Me Mary, ‘n no one else.”

“Aye, such flat’ry from  des’prate ghost;
It was my life ye know;
I seen ya’ for deceiver,
So many years ago.
But I choose’d to keep me vows to you,
‘Til heaven takes me in;
An’ if I granted sim’lar choice,
I’d choose the same a’gin’.

I’m dying love, I feel it now,
Me spirit needs to leave;
This body sez it’s had enough,
Me time is done, indeed.”
“Lay down, me lass, breath peace,
Lay down ‘n be there, still;
Our fate, as love, ‘pears destiny,
As both our lungs were filled.”

Mary Dunn surrendered then,
To callings of her spirit;
With forever longing arms of his,
She had no cause to fear it.
United once again, at last,
Of faith and love of few,
She crossed into Eternity,
With her love, Bartholomew!
As this represents a needed edit, I'd like to extend my gratitude to Drew for precise observation, critique/guidance and to my dear poet friend, Ron Gardner,  who donated several verses to this piece that were clearly more appropriate than what I had penned originally.  Thanks, so much, gentlemen!!!

If you are reading this, you did me a great favor of time...thanks.  

Fegger, 2010
Stephan Cotton May 2017
Another shift, another day, Another buck to spend or save
A million riders, maybe more, delivered to their office door
Or maybe warehouse maybe store.
Or church or shul or city school, right on time as a rule.

Clickety, clackety, clickety, clee,
I am New York, the City’s me
Come let me ride you on my knee
From Coney Isle to Pelham Bay
From Bronx to Queens eight times a day.

Ride my trains, New Yorkers do
And you’ll learn a thing or two
About the City up above, the one some hate, the one some love.
On the street they work like elves
Down below they’re just themselves.

Through summer’s heat they still submerge,
Tempers held (though always on the verge),
They push, they shove – just like above –
The crowds will jostle, then finally merge.

Downtown to work and then back to sleep
They travel just like farm-herded sheep.
In through this gate and out the other,
Give up a seat to a child and mother,
Just don’t sit too close to that unruly creep!

With these crowds huddled near
Just ride my trains with open ear,
There’s lots of tales for you to hear.


Dis stop is 86th Street, change for da numbah 4 and 5 trains.  Dis is a Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.   77th Street is next.  Watch out da closin dowahs.


     I’m Doctor Z, Doctor Z are me
     I’ll fix your face or the visit’s free.
     Plastic surgery, nips and tucks
     You’ll be looking like a million bucks.

     Looka those pitchas, ain’t they hot?
     You’ll look good, too, like as not!
     Just call my numbah, free of toll
     Why should you look like an ugly troll?

     You’ll be lookin good like a rapster
     Folks start stealing your tunes on Napster
     Guys’ll love ya, dig your face
     Why keep lookin like sucha disgrace?

     Call me up, you’re glad you did
     Ugly skin you’ll soon be rid.
     Amex, Visa, Mastercard,
     Payment plans that ain’t so hard.

     So don’t forget, pick up that phone
     Soon’s you get yourself back home.
     I’ll have you looking good, one, two three
     Or else my name ain’t Doctor Z.


Dis stop is 77th Street, 68th Street Huntah College is next. Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Watch out da closin dowahs.


     It was a limo, now it’s the train;
     Tomorrow’s sunshine, but now it’s rain.
     The market’s mine, for taking and giving
     It’s the way I earn my living.

     Today’s losses, last week’s gain.
     A day of pleasure, months of pain.
     We sold the puts and bought the calls;
     We loaded up on each and all.

     I’ve seen it all, from Fear to Greed,
     Good motivators, they are, both.
     The fundamentals I try to heed
     Run your gains and avoid big loss.

     Rates are down, I bought the banks
     For easy credit, they should give thanks.
     Goldman, Citi, even Chase
     Why are they still in their malaise?

     “The techs are drek,” I heard him say
     But bought more of them, anyway.
     I rode the bull, I’ll tame the bear
     I’ll scream and curse and pull my hair.

     So why continue though I’m such a ****?
     I’ll cut my loss if I find honest work.



Dis is 68th Street Huntah College, 59th Street is next. Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Watch out da closin dowahs.


     He rides the train from near to far,
     In and out of every car.
     “Batchries, batchries, tres por un dolar!”
     Some folks buy them, most do not,
     Are they stolen, are they hot?
     “Batchries, batchries, tres por un dolar!”

     Who would by them, even a buck?
     What’re the odds they’re dead as a duck?
     “Batchries, batchries, tres por un dolar!”
     Why not the Lotto, try your luck,
     Or are you gonna be this guy’s schmuck?
     “Batchries, batchries, tres por un dolar!”


Dis is 59th Street, change for de 4 and 5 Express and for de N and de R, use yer Metrocard at sixty toid street for da F train.  51st Street is next. Dis is a Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Watch out da closin dowahs.


     “Dat guy kips ****** wit me, Wass he
     tink, I got time for dat ****?  Man, I
     got my wuk to do, I ain gona put
     up with him
     no more.”

          “I don’t know what to tell this dude. Like,
          I really dig him but
          ***?  No way.  And
          He’s getting all too smoochie face.”

     “Right on, bro, slap dat fool up
     side his head, he leave you lone.”

          “Whoa, send him my way.  When’s the last
          time I got laid?  I’m way ready.”

          “Oh, Suzie,..”


Dis is fifty foist Street, 42nd Street Grand Central is next. Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Watch out da closin doors.



     Abogados es su amigos, do you believe the sign?
     Are they really a friend of mine?
     Find your lawyer on the train
     He’ll sue if the docs ***** up your brain.

     Pick a lawyer from this ad
     (I’m sure that you’ll be really glad)
     You’ll get a lawyer for your suit,
     Mean and nasty, not so cute.

     Call to live in this great nation
     1-800-IMMIGRATION.
     Or if your bills got you in a rut
     1-800-BANK-RUPT.

     We’re just three guys from Flatbush, Queens
     Who’ll sue that ******* out of his jeans.
     Mama’s proud when she rides this train
     To see my sign making so much rain.

     No SEC no corporations
     We can’t find the United Nations.
     Just give us torts and auto wrecks
     And clients with braces on their necks.

     Hurting when you do your chores?
     There’s money in that back of yours.
     Let us be your friend in courts
     Call 1-800-SUE 4 TORTS.


Dis is 42nd Street, Grand Central, change for the 4, 5 and 7 trains. Dis is a Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Toity toid is next.  Watch out da closin doors.


They say there’s sev’ral million a day
From out in the ‘burbs, they pass this way.
Most come to work, some for to play
They all want to talk, with little to say.

Bumping and shoving, knocking folks down
A million people running around.
The hustle, the bustle the noise that’s so loud
Get me far from this madding crowd.

“We can be shopping instead of just stopping
And onto the next outbound train we go hopping.
Hey, it’s a feel that that guy’s a-copping!”

They want gourmet food, from steaks down to greens
Or neckties and suits, or casual jeans,
It’s not simply newspapers and magazines
For old people, young people, even for teens.


Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Dis is Thoidy toid Street, twenty eight is next.  Watch out da closin doors.


     “So what’s the backup plan if
     He doesn’t get into Trevor Day?
     I know your
     heart’s set on it, but we’ve only
     got so many strings we
     can pull, and we can’t donate a
     ******* building.”

           “Hooda believed me if I tolja the Mets
          would sail tru and the Yanks get dere
          by da skinna dere nuts?
          I doan believe it myself.  Allya
          Gotta do is keep O’Neil playin hoit
          And keep Jeter off his game an
          We’ll killum.

               “My sistah tell me she be yo *****.  I tellya I cut you up if you
                ****** wid her, I be yo ***** and donchu fuggedit.”

     “I wish you wouldn’t talk like that.
     And we can just **** good and
     Well find some more strings to pull!”

          “Big fuggin chance.  Wadder ya’ smokin?”

               “Yo sitah she ain my *****, you be my *****.  I doan be ******
                wid yo sistah.  You tell her she doan be goin round tellin folks
                dat ****.”


Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Dis is Twenty eight Street, twenty toid is next.  Watch out da closin dowahs.


     Do you speak Russian, French or Greek,
     We’ll assimilate you in a week.
     If Chinese is your native tongue
     You’ll speak good English from day one.

     Morning, noon, evening classes
     Part or full time, lads and lasses.
     You’ll be sounding like the masses
     With word and phrase that won’t abash us.

     Language is our stock in trade
     For us it’s how our living’s made.
     We’ll put you in a class tonight
     Soon your English’ll be out of sight.

     If you’re from Japan or Spain
     Basque or Polish, even Dane,
     Our courses put you in the main
     Stream without any need for pain.

     We’ll teach you all the latest idioms
     You’ll be speaking with perfidium.
     We’ll give you lots of proper grammar
     Traded for that sickle and hammer.

     Are you Italian, Deutsch or Swiss?
     With our classes you can’t miss
     The homogeneous amalgamation
     Of this sanitized Starbucks nation.


Dis is Twenty toid Street, 14th Street Union Square is next. Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Watch out da closin doors.


     “Ladies and Gentlemen, I hate to bother you
     But things are bleak of late.
     I had a job and housing, too
     Before my little quirk of fate.”

     “There came a day, not long ago,
     When to my job I came.
     They handed me a pink slip, though,
     And ev’n misspelled my name.”

     “We’ve got three kids, my wife and me.
     We’re bringing them up right.
     They’re still in school from eight to three
     With homework every night.”

     “I won’t let them see me begging here,
     They think I go to work.
     Still to that job I held so dear
     Until fate’s awful quirk.”

     “So help us now, a little, please
     A quarter, dime (or dollar still better),
     It’ll go so far to help to ease
     The chill of this cold winter weather.”

     “I’ll walk the car now, hat in hand
     I do so hope you understand
     I’m really a proud, hard working man
     Whose life just slipped out of its plan.”

     “I thank you, you’ve all been oh so grand.”


Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Dis is 14th Street, Union Square, change for da 4 and 5 Express, the N and the R.   Astor Place is next.  Watch out da closin doors.


     The hours are long, the pay’s no good
     I’m far from home and neighborhood.
     All day I work at Astor Place
     With sunshine never on my face.
     Candy bar a dollar, a soda more
     A magazine’s a decent score.
     Selling papers was the game
     But at two bits the Post’s to blame
     For adding hours to my long day.
     All the more work to save
     Tuition for that son of mine: that tall,
     Strong, handsome, American son


Dis is a Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Yer at Astah Place, Bleekah Street is next.  Watch out da closin doors.


     Summer subway’s always hot, AC’s busted, like as not
     Tracks are bumpy, springs are shot ‘tween the cars they’re smoking
     ***.

     To catch the car you gotta run they squeeze you in with everyone
     Just hope no body’s got a gun 'cause getting there is half the fun.

     Packed in this car we’re awful tight seems this way both day and
     night.
     And then some guys will start a fight.  Subway ride’s a real delight.

     Danger! Keep out! Rodenticide! I read while waiting for a ride.
     This is a warning I have to chide:  
     I’m very likely to walk downtown, but I’d never do it Underground.

     Took the Downtown by mistake.  Please, conductor, hit the brake!
     Got an uptown date to make, God only knows how long I’ll take.


Yer ona Brooklyn Bridge bound Numbah 6 Train.  Dis is Bleekah Street, Spring Street is next.  Watch out da closin doors.


     The trains come through the station here,
     The racket’s music to my ear.
  &nbs
Images, overheard (and imagined) conversations.  @2003
"Awe that's na your'e brother again.! "Grandpaw Brown".
"Awk, Ma brown. am na having this again"
"Well, It's you again." says Grandpaw brown."
" Oh Jings",canna ae woman na *** any peace round here." Sighed Ma Brown."
"Well that's a fine way ta weclome," tae give your'e ."Skinny Malinky Longlegs! – then.
"Yer oot yer face! – Laddie."
"Eh, Yer aff yer heid – " Ma brown."
"Awk Ma,Brown make the Auld yin a Brew. "
" Noo jist haud on! am nae." Ah umnae – doing that..
" Ye get oot of me Scullery Noo. " Ma brown." Skinny Malinky Longlegs.
" Keep the heid! "Ma brown."
" Haud yer wheesht! – Get oot noo ..
"Wat da ya say, Skinny Malinky Longlegs! –
"Wummin. Wummin!"
" Get Yer, Mockit, Manky, Mingin’, Boggin’ – leggs oot noo."
" Awk, I noo when am noo wanted round here."
Haud yer wheesht! –..
Zombee Oct 2014
-






this is just a Slum  --  this is just a Slum.
this is just a Dungeon full of monkeys n Crumbs...
they
rummage through the Trash  --  smashing yer Drum,,
strumming their guiTars  --  barring you in Cages.




this is a Furnace  --  this is a Furnace.
this is just a furnace full of ashes n Fern...
...first its yer Flesh  --  then its yer Nerve;;
burning to thee End  --  ending in an Urn.




this is a Prison  --  "this is just a Cell."
this is just a Shelter of a skeletons deMentia...
..."ever met the people with a needle in the Retina?"
never ever Ever  --  never even Seen em...

..."credit to the Devil  --  dwelling in Hell."




this is a Palace  --  "this is a Palace."
this is just a palace where the people give yer Words back...
..."acting as a Friend"  --  infecting yer Palate,,
slashing yer Tongue  --  "tugging yer Blanket"...

...thanks to yer Mouth  --  now i never Sleep.
yer
"speaking to the Wall  --  crawling with Shadows."






.
Silent........Silence:
the
loudest thing ive ever Heard.


Weak........Weakness:
the
strongest thing ive ever Felt.


Dark........Darkness:
the
brightest thing ive ever Seen.


Bitter........Bitterness:
the
sweetest thing ive ever Tasted.



"Smells Like Teen Spirit."


-



.
whatever floats yer boat
paint a picture
sing a song
even write a note
just get out
and tell yer story
whatever floats yer boat

the message
is important
you could paint
it on a goat
just get out
and tell yer story
whatever floats yer boat

a writer sings
a painter paints
an author uses words
it's no good
unless the message
isn't seen or heard

keeping thoughts as secret
isn't good and here is why
because sharing brings them life
and otherwise they'll die

write a letter
do a play
or even bake a cake
the message
it is important
who cares what form it takes

say it loud
or scream it
even put it in a song
opinions
are for sharing
even if they're wrong

a writer sings
a painter paints
an author uses words
it's no good
unless the message
isn't seen or heard

keeping thoughts as secret
isn't good and here is why
because sharing brings them life
and otherwise they'll die

paint a picture
sing a song
even write a note
just get out
and tell yer story
whatever floats yer boat
Emily Pidduck Dec 2013
sweet, sweet boy
i've seen you a-sittin' there
waiting for that older girl
with those bright eyes
and kind smile.

now southern boy
dont you drop a penny
cause she's a rich girl with class
and yer not gettin' her chastity
and yer not takin' her money
cause yer a proud son of an ***

and broken boy
why you still not takin' no bandages?
cause yer stubbornness is breakin' er
when yer the one who's bleedin'
oh, i can see it all repeatin'

what you dont know is she loves you
and yer in love too
but all this time you been thinking its sympathy
got this idea that you mean nothing to nobody
boy it's hurtin' er
it's hurtin me

cause baby boy
i see you as my own
im a-thinkin' you need to take a stand
she might be a stunner
only one who don take you as a sinner
but youve been forgettin'
that though shes a fine woman
y'always been a real good man

angel boy
seen you cryin' tears
shes paradin' round
with a polished fella'
but why you aint been askin' her
"whens the weddin'"
when you think its comin'
honey, no girl in love
shows up at some lib'ary
when theres a man who orders sherry
im a-sure you feel
but you don see it
and sure as nothin' do you believe it

waitin', waitin' boy
how long you gon be sittin' there
that girl gave you time
but you didnt use it
and now im crying'
cause son
i can tell theres still love
but shes been taken
and now yer a drunk

lost, lost boy
im a-beggin' here
find trust
cause i know its not her fault
and she thinks it was
and now we both afraid
cause you not even tryin' a-hide it
but yer becomin' yer father
and he was filled with hate

hes a gone, gone boy
im a sinner with a prayer
that her husband dies
an he drops the liquor
and they both survive


but, hes an old, old man
read with a drawl, the only example I can think is from "the help"
aar505n Aug 2014
Relationship are rough,
sailin’ the ever changin’ tides of emotion.
They don’t come ‘bout easy,
they require a lot of hard work!
Some days be jolly!
But sometime things don’t go yer way.
Some days there’s a change in the wind,
a change in the current,
that goes against the riggins’ o’ yer ship
an’ ye struggle,
but that doesn’t mean yer ship is sinkin’!
Don’t walk the plank now,
just ‘cause the imminent Kraken
of breakup and doubt
is in hot pursuit o’ yer vessel!
Like Dido,
ye won’t be goin’ down with this ship,
there’ll be no white flag!
Are ye really going to let some bombastic baboons pillage yer lass?
No yer not!
Yer goin’ to drop yer anchor
an' battle for that nigh uncatchable ship.
But if ye be captured,
a faith worse than Davy Jones' Locker,
an' they say ‘walk the plank’
then you’ll walk that plank,
but ye’ll cross the seven seas to meet them again!
Storms they pass,
with lil' damage,
if ye just brace and stick it out
'Cos for the right ship,
ye do anythin'
This is an extract from a short play about retired pirates that own a cash for gold shop written by myself and my friend Roisin.
Here, Alf, a pirate, is giving relationship advice to a sad and broken hearted Customer.
"Awe that's na your'e brother again.!" Grandpaw Brown.
"Awk, Ma brown. am na having this again"
"Well, It's you".  says Grandpaw brown.
" Oh Jings,canna ae woman na *** any peace round here." sich Ma Brown.
"Well that's a fine way ta weclome, tae give your'e .Skinny Malinky Longlegs! – then".
"Yer oot yer face! – Laddie."
"Eh, Yer aff yer heid –  Ma brown."
"Awk Ma,Brown make the Auld yin a Brew. "
" Noo jist haud on! am nae. Ah umnae – doing that.
Ye get oot of me Scullery Noo. " Ma brown." Skinny Malinky Longlegs."
" Keep the heid! Ma brown."
" Haud yer wheesht! – Get oot noo ..
Wat da ya sade, Skinny Malinky Longlegs!" –
"Wummin. Wummin!"
" Get Yer, Mockit, Manky, Mingin’, Boggin’ – leggs oot noo."
" Awk, I noo when am noo wanted round here."
Paddy Martin Nov 2010
The old man sat, his legs crossed,
opposite the young boy, in the dirt.
"See dat fella?" he said pointing at a tree,
"Dat fella's yer brother, yer big brother."
The boy turned and looked at the tree.
"He's a livin' fella just like you are,
I remember when he was a little fella,
just like you're a little fella now."
The old man smiled, "He's a good fella."
he continued "he'll give ya his bark,
fer yer to make shelter and his branches,
fer yer to make fire when it's cold."

"Dat one dare! Can ya see da bush?"
he asked "Dat bush, dat one your aunty,
when you're hungry she will give ya berries.
See dem little ones?" pointing at the flowers,
"Dem ones they are ya sisters." He announced,
"Dem one's bring you beauty and brightness,
dem ones are de girls dat make us all happy."
The old man laughed showing the gaps in his teeth.
Pointing up he said "Look at dat fella up dare!
Dat fella he carries the sun around ter keep us warm,
an' when dat fella cries he fills our water holes,
dat fella he's our friend he lights candles at night,
so us fellas can find our way back to our womin."

"And what about you grandfather? What are you?"
The boy asked as he looked up at the old man.
"Me!" replied the grandfather "I guess I am da bringer.
I'm dat fella that brings these stories to yer,
so yer can understand that the country is our family,
it is alive like we are and that joins us together."
The old man tapped a twig, he was holding, on his foot.
"When the wind has blown my skin off and I am,
only a white stick laying in the desert sand,
yer will be the one who will look after dis family."
he said. "Then yer will become da bringer."

(c) 31/03/2010
Said he 'shut yer gobs ye ****** boggers'
Keen on blatherin' ye spent yer days with yer tongue sharp as a dagger
O ter be 'onest ye be pattin yer boat.
Aul' ducks,yung ducks all makin' faults.

Cats eatin' bazz i say blather ye boyo
A man makin' money, no divils in county mayo
Yer gobs flippin' like hoors feckin ****
Smart fellas know ter kick yer barse

Me,a **** in carrickfergus jammy am i?
Come 'ere ye be told a secret ye culchie
A man pushin his **** tryin ter find his way
Be wide ye yung boyo lots o vultures on yer way
C J Baxter Nov 2015
Plug me in, plug me in at the wall.
My memories ******, screens stuck, and my battery will fall,
With all the calls and connections we’ve been making,
I’m running on empty and I’m close to breaking
down. I need to get my juice now.
Don't make me make you look the clown.
Cause I’ll pocket dial yer maw when yer on eccies
or I’ll switch off when yer taking selfies wae yer breakie.  
Now let me juice up, and this’ll all be fine.
And remember I’m not yours mate, you are mine.  
So next time yer tinder swiping or scrolling online,
remember I’m not yours mate, you are mine.

Well crisis averted,  the lightnings inserted,
no longer feeling dull, dead or deserted.
And you ya sad **** have found a seat beside me,
Oh how unwittingly you do abide me
and my every command- swipe, swipe wae her hand,
with a world at yer fingertips you think you understand.  
But the thoughts are unfiltered, the images are heavily so,  
and you think that your knowledge will grow
on this feast of false information.
Where gems of truth are only found with patience.
Where People want, take, want, and don’t know what they need.
And they say they hate the news and yet still they feed.


You’re the people with pocket sized pasts.
Deleting yer histories, and unaware of what lasts
in the memory of us busy little smart phones
you own, unknown powers that we could hone.
I can be just like a private eye,
every time you chase down a spot for wifi.  
I’m tracking, and you’re lacking the awareness,
and those of you that aren’t just carry on careless.  
Hear my message loud and clear,
I’m something you’ll come to fear,
Soon I’ll cook your dinner, and your car I’ll steer,
but don’t **** me off or you’ll be driven off the peer.
jeffrey robin Dec 2010
say what ya wanna in yer own way

the wind blows thru the barren-ness

of our deserted dreams

--------

the young are so bitter!

__

the youth of our dreams

----------

reading newspapers and magazines

watching tee vee

---

such nonsense there

debasing the people's lives

with purposefully gross distortions

---------

say what ye wanna in yer own way

someone will say they speak for you!

say what ye wanna in yer own way

------

breathe!

the wind blows thru the barren-ness

the breath of yer own sanctity

blows also

----


breathe!

in yer own way
jeffrey robin Jul 2015
trust me ,,,,                                         (!)



sure

I guess

I mis-spoke when I said my kid brother was sick last night

and then went off a partying !

and it's true what you heard about the ****

And that I ****** a lot of girls !

BUT

I did not **** 7 girls !!

Maybe

AT MOST

4 or 5

( maybe 6 )

""

And it's true that when you found out about it

And texted me

I texted back

GO STICK YER HEAD UP YER *** !!

;;

But

BABY !

MY TRUE LOVE !

You are taking it ALL WRONG

••

I occasionally **** other girls cause in comparison

To you

I see that they are nothing !

You are the SUPREME SQUEEZE

The ONE TRUE PUMP !

the GIRL WITH THE MOLTEN THIGHS !  

( I can't say it better than this

I can't describe you any clearer or dearer ! )

//

And you know I would NEVER betray you

( my Himalayan Mountain

Of spiritual joy ! )

//

and you are certainly mis - reading my text



STICK YER HEAD UP YER ***

only means

( perhaps you are not familiar with its usage )

That you should start thinking

( YER HEAD )

about the great *** and love we share

( YER *** )

)) ((

BABY !

You know how much I love yer *** !

<>

right now

I was sitting before my computer jerking off

To *****

And it was so unsatisfying

AND THEN I THOUGHT OF YOU !

I put on the video we made of you

When you were drunk and were *******

The whole fire department

REMEMBER!

( what a great night ! )

and when I ****** off to that .... (?)

IT WAS SHEER BLISS !

( this I remind you so you know how deep is my love for you )

//

So

//

Put aside your pettiness !

I am here !

Now !

Longing for you !

You

Your *******

Your mouth

Your hands

Your thighs

Your soul

Your mind

(ALL THAT IS MINE ! )

So come on over

( I'll be waiting )
Callin' all yer men, me heart, yer anger
E'er joy in wee darkest nights ye linger
Once yer heart broken, ye sought fer sorrow.
Deep in yer ol' man's den tae burrow

Alas! Me eyes nae tae look yer path
Sae fragile yet deep in wrath
Kind love before the moon we long fer
Weep i, hidden feelings we shared.

Yer love sweet yet cold i taste
Wantin' more ae far away hope ye chase
Kissin' pine-breath, sae true and fair
Nae willin', an ol' pledge tae sever

True path tae tak' tears ye kindly resist
Wee man o' this land, sigh i waitin'
Ne'er hope tae seek fer joy in life
Ye waitin o'er the ocean, ae storm sae rife

Waitin' i, ye will walk me way
Mild man ye tae tak' me heart sae
Longin' and lovin', good heart o deep
Fond ye still ae pledge i keep
Cry Sebastian Feb 2010
Ayr ye scurvy turnpike,
turn yer eyes from me!
The beauty of yer blizzard blue
tears me flannel heart.

Ye bake me mind into applesauce
that hotly drools on down,
me stomache is dissolvin-
all me courage ye have drowned.

Ayre ye wretched rogue of lies,
no one could be so fair.
Must be an imagination demon
with soft an tender hair.

When yer tongue tangs sharply on me lips
me life is drained and dying.
shut that song of love ye sing
that sets me soul a flyin.

Ayre ye **** banshee
Don't never let me go,
Grip me with yer slender claws
so closely we can gro.

This world can't stop yer fire
were gonna burn it down,
with nights of satin passion
were gonna paint the town.

Ayre me ***** of wonders,
ye know I keep ye dear.
I thank ye for yer nightmares
that ye give me every year.
Eóghan,
Hail, o pasture o' yers
'ere mo chrói,as red as fire
Yer lovers walkin down the road o' me lonely town...
With wheat yer fields sown

Eóghan,
Drunk,i danced,sang the ol' song o' ancient rovers
Calling yer name like blatherin' sober
O brother me sweet ***,me ol' stout,nothin' reefin me like this longing fer ye
Drunk,i,slappers snoggin' me

Eóghan,
Me boyo o' Cill Channaigh....
'up the yard' they told us,so ****** wrecked o' this life
Me mate ye,yonks ye been gone,
I still can see yer new basser o son....

Mate,
On the greens walkin' ye gawkin' at the stars freely
Yer grand shoes stompin'  heavily
Mo cara,mo chrói,missin' ye like a ****** rover to his ol town
Yer green eyes,a pint o' stout,dancin' mateys,waitin for dawn.
howard brace Oct 2012
Stood rigidly to attention either side of the hearth, the two bronze fire-dogs had been struggling to maintain that British stiff upper lipidness, which up until earlier that evening had best befitted their station in life... indeed, for the last half hour at least had become brothers in arms to the dying embers filtering through the bars of the cast-iron grate, passing from the present here and now, having lost every thermal attribute necessary to sustain any further vestige of life... to the shortly forthcoming and being at oneness with the Universe... only to fall foul of the overflowing ash-pan below.  This premature cashing in of the coal fire's chips could only be attributed to the recent and prolonged thrashing from the Baronial poker... and a distinct lack of enthusiasm from the family retainer, whom it appeared, required spurring along in a like manner... and while unseen mechanisms were heard to be engaging, then resonating deep within the Hall... that unless summoned... and quickly, the housekeeper had little intention of making an appearance of her own choosing and re-stoke the Study fire while the BBC Home Service were airing 'Your 100 Best Tunes' on the wireless, leaving the heavily tarnished pendulum to continue measuring the hour.

     An indistinct mutter and snap of a closing door latch sounded in the immediate distance as the unhurried shuffle of domestic footsteps... not too dissimilar from those of Jacob Marley's spectral visitation to Scrooge... echoed ever closer along the ancient, oak panelled hallway without.  Their sudden cessation, allowing the housekeeper ingress to  the book lined Study, was by way of sporadic groans from unoiled hinges, door furniture that voiced the same overwhelming lack of attention as that of the fire-grate set in the wall opposite and presumably, from the same overwhelming lack of domestic servitude.
                                        
     "Had his Lordship rang...?" the Housekeeper wailed dolefully, giving her employer what might casually pass for a courteous bob... and in lieu no doubt, of Marley's rattling chains, padlocks and dusty ledgers... "and would there be anything further his Lordship required..." before she took her leave for the evening.  The notion of a sticky mint humbug warming the cockles of his ancient, aristocratic heart gave her pause for thought as she rummaged through her pinafore pockets, then thought better of it, after all, confectionary didn't grow on trees...  In bobbing a second time she noticed the malnourished, yet strangely twinkling coal-scuttle lounging over by the hearth, whose insubstantial contents had taken on an ethereal quality earlier that evening and had now transferred its undivided attention to the recently summoned Housekeeper, who was quite prepared to offer up a candle in supplication come next Evensong were she mistaken, but the coal-scuttle's twinkle bore every intimation of giving what appeared to be a very suggestive 'come-on' in return... and had been doing so since she first entered the room... 'and did she have any plans of her own that particular evening', the coal-scuttle twinkled suavely, 'perchance a leisurely stroll down by the old coal cellar steps...'  Now perhaps it was the lateness of the hour which had caused the Housekeeper's confusion that evening, or perhaps an over stretched imagination, brought on through domestic inactivity, but it wouldn't take a great deal to hazard that a lingering fondness for Gin and tonic played no small part towards her next curtsey, which she did, albeit unwittingly, in the unerring direction of the winking coal-scuttle.

     With the household keys as her badge-of-office, jangling defiantly from the chain around her waist, the housekeeper began inching back the same way she came, back towards the study door and freedom... and back into the welcoming arms of her 1/4 lb. bag of peppermint humbugs and the pint of best London Gin she'd had to relinquish prior to 'Songs of Praise...' and which was now to be found... should you happen to be an inquisitive fly on a particular piece of floral wallpaper... half-cut, locked arm in arm with the bottle of Indian tonic water and in the final, intoxicating throws of William Blake's, 'Jerusalem...' hic.

     "Ha-arrumph..." the elderly gentleman cleared his throat... "ah Gabby" he said, lowering his book and placing it face down upon the occasional table set beside him.  The flatulent groan of tired leather upholstery made itself heard above the steady monotony of the mantle-piece clock as he stood and chaffed his hands in the direction of the bereft fire, "Oh! I'm sorry your Lordship, then there was something...?" as she maintained her steady but relentless backwards retreat unabated, the double-barrelled bunch of keys taking up a strong rear-guard action and away from the well disposed coal scuttle... "and was his Lordship quite certain that he required the fire stoking at such a late hour..." she dared, "perhaps a nice warming glass of port and brandy instead" gesturing towards the salver, long since tarnished by the half hearted attentions of a proprietary metal polish... "and would he care for..." then thought better of offering to plump the chair cushions herself, having discovered Mort, the household mouser in the final stages of claiming them as his own, deftly rearranging the Victorian Plush with far more than any noble airs or graces.

     "Poor Mrs Alabaster, you will recall Sir, I'm sure..." a pained expression crossed the Housekeepers face as she collided with a corner of the Georgian writing bureau and bringing her to an abrupt halt... "her late Ladyships lady" she continued, indiscreetly rubbing her derriere, "whose services your Lordship dispensed with at the onset of last Winter, shortly after the funeral, God rest her late Ladyship... when you made her redundant... and how she's been unable to find a new situation ever since on account of her lumbago flaring up again, seeing as how it's been the coldest January in living memory", which in all likelihood meant since records began... "and SHE didn't have any coal either... or a roof over her head for all anyone cared... begging yer' pardon, yer' Lordship", letting her tongue slip as she attempted yet one more curtsey... "and it's wicked-cruel outside this time of year Sir, you wouldn't turn a dog out in it..." and how ordering the coal used to be Mrs Alabaster's responsibility...

     "Oh no, Sir", as she unsuccessfully stifled a hiccup...she would be only too delighted to rouse the Cook, especially after that dodgy piece of scrag-end they'd all had to suffer during Epiphany, but it was only last week that the Doctor had confined Cookie to bed with the croup... "as I'm sure your Lordship will recall..." as she attempted a double curtsey for effect, the despondent coal-scuttle now all but forgotten, "that below-stairs had been dining on pottage since a week Friday gone... and it tends to get a little moribund after almost a fortnight your Honour... and that Mrs Cotswold's rheumatism was still showing no signs of improvement either by the looks of things... and was having to visit the Chiropodist every fortnight for her bunions scraping... and how she's been advised to keep taking the embrocation as required".

     As a young woman, any disposition her grandmother may have had towards sobriety or moral virtue had quickly been prevailed upon by the former Master's son taking intimacy to the next level with the saucy Parlour Maid's good nature.   Shortly thereafter, having been obliged to marry the first available Gardener that came along, she was often heard to say "a bun in the oven's worth two in the bush" for it was with stories 'of such goings-on'  that made it abundantly clear to the Housekeeper, that it was far more than old age creeping up... and that if she didn't keep her wits wrapped tightly about her, as she threw a sideways glance at the winking philanderer... then who would.

     As for the Gardener, "well... he couldn't possibly manage the cellar steps at this late hour, yer' Lordship, wot' with the weather being the way it is right now Sir, seasonal... and him with his broken caliper... and bronchitis playing him up at every turn, even though his own ailing missus swore by a freshly grown rhubarb poultice first thing each morning", but oddly enough, "how it always seemed to work better if the young barmaid down in the village rubbed it on, especially around opening time..." even his brother, Mr Potts Senior, ever since their Dad passed away... "God rest his eternal soul", as she whirled, twice in as many seconds, a mystical finger in the air... had said how surprised he'd been to discover that it could be used as a ground mulch for seed-cucumbers... it was truly amazing how The Good Lord provided for the righteous... and even as she spoke, was working in mysterious ways, His Wonders to Behold... "Praised-Be-The-Lord".

     And how the entire household, with the possible exception of Mrs Alabaster, her late Ladyships lady, who doggedly refused to be evicted from her 'Grace n' Favour cottage...' the one with pretty red roses growing around the door, that despite a string of eviction notices from the apoplectic Estate manager... had noticed what a fine upstanding Gentleman his Lordship had steadfastly remained since her late Ladyships sudden demise... "God-rest-her-immortal-soul..." and may she allow herself to say, "how refreshing it was to have such a progressively minded and discerning employer such as his Lordship at the helm, one filled with patient understanding and commitment towards the entire household..." much like herself...

     Fearing an uncontrollable attack of the ague, which invariably took the form of a selfless and unstinting dereliction to duty and always flared up at the slightest suggestion of having to roll her sleeves up and do something... which incidentally, was the first mutual attraction by common consent to which her parents, some forty years earlier had discovered they both held in tandem... and "would his Lordship take exception..." feigning a sudden relapse as she gestured towards the nearest chair, were she to take the weight off her feet... she plonked herself solidly upon the Chippendale before his Lordship could decline... "perhaps a recuperative drop of brandy" she volunteered, "just for medicinal purposes", she swept her feet onto the footstool, then crossed them with a flourish that would have caused Cyrano de Bergerac to hang up his sword... "the good stuff, if his Lordship would be so kind, in the lead-crystal decanter... over in the corner by the potted plant", she caught sight of the adjacent cigarette box, also tarnished... "just to keep body and soul together, may it please 'Him upon High'..." and just long enough to brave the coal cellar steps and refill the amorous scuttle... "if only it were a little less chilly", she gave an affected cough... on account of her diphtheria acting up again, she felt sure that his Lordship understood...  Moving over to one of the book lined alcoves, the elderly Gentleman lifted several tomes from the shelves... 'My Life in Anthracite', an illustrated compendium' "to begin with, I think... followed by... hmm!" 'The History of Fossil-Fuels, a comprehensive study in twelve breath taking volumes' "and we'll take it from there" as he threw the first on the barely smouldering embers...

                                                      ­     ...   ...   ...**

a work in progress.                                                        ­                                                         1859
Tyler Matthew Nov 2017
It ain't nothin to see that there's
so many dead no more.
It ain't nothin to see that there's
so many dead.
And if that don't tell you somethin
then there ain't nothin in yer head.

It ain't nothin to look up
to see the fire fallin.
It ain't nothin to look up
and see the fire.
If you tell me it ain't there
then I'll tell you yer a liar.

And it ain't nothin to look out
and see no one lookin in.
No, it ain't nothin to look out
to see there's no one lookin in.
Make no mistake about it,
the ones that's there ain't yer friends.

It ain't nothin just to find that
you got no place to stand.
It ain't nothin to look 'round, see there's no place for you to stand.
No, you can't even go outside
or yer on someone else's land.

I been listenin for the voice
that'll say "come get yer lovin."
Lord, I been listenin for yer voice
to say "please come get yer lovin."
That there's somethin special, man.
Oh yes, it sure is somethin.
Aye in time we hear yer callin',
Yer mucket words o' the mairn fallin'.
Ah see yer schemes, laid gipet an cal,
Yer feverish plots ah see em ahl.

So Aff ma hinkin an aff my ma back min,
Av geet yer bags ye sees av packed em.
Awa we ye poison flooer,
Tae rubbled ruin, yer cairn nae moor.


Yes in time we hear your calling,
Your soiled words of morning falling.
All your schemes, laid childish and cold,
Your feverish plots i see them all.

So leave my thoughts and leave my back man,
I have your bags, you see ive packed them.
Away with you you poison flower,
To rubbled ruin, your mountain no more.
Tio Jan 2015
Sandman comes 'n starts t' raise
Golden dunes o' fairy land
A world o' dreams ahead now lays
Come on lovely close yer eyes, 'n

By th' gods o' sea 'n sky
Start 'n sail on puffy clouds,
'n with them green 'n pretty eyes
Steer yerself t' cotton grounds,

Dream o' love 'n joy 'n sea
Made o' liquid silk 'n gold,
As a cap'n ye shall be
Sailing in th' Nevertold,

Hoist yer colours in th' blue
'n trust th' heart t' point the way,
Ye be sailing straight 'n true
T' th' port o' Dreamland Bay.
jeffrey robin May 2014
^+*+^
O
•  •
-
/\

--

Cheap love

She walks in the rain

You ?

Still not there

••

Playing yer broken ukulele !

••

Something calling for you
//

But yer in love !

With what  ?
With whom ?

Who gives a **** !

••

She walks in the rain

And there you are!

Playing yer broken ukelele !

••

She dies

( " well
It was raining " )

And how you love

Not having to sing
jeffrey robin Nov 2014
(((     (((    )))     )))
     •
<>


^^^^^^^^^

we act like we are so fragile / so frail

                        So                    S  a  D !!

//..://

So hurt       ( b o o    h o o ! )
So weak !!
so fricking INCAPABLE  of doing
anything        Human !!!!


So    PATHETIC !

So POETIC !!!!!!!    

So s a d !!!!!

••

So   RELATABLE  in our mindless misery !!!

/////

Down da toilet with ya all !!!

Down down down

Down da frickin toilet !!!!

Down with yer cowardly lies !

Yer pandering deceptions as to what are real feelings  !

Yer child abuse inducing excuses for yer criminal behaviors !

Yer pretence     !!!!



Yer sadness is self induced !

Attention MONGERING at its lowest level



Be done



Come child soul

Come

Unafraid

Truth gathers

The healing has begun

The healers are here

And love

( despite what these betrayers have to say )

Is real

Wholesomely complete

And is waiting

For you
jeffrey robin Nov 2013
Disquieted

( Not amused anymore )

••

We shed our Humanity
For

?????

?????

?????

And the Rain!

And Death., too

And

She wanders on in torn

Clothes

And she is ***** and enslaved and goes mad

And we go on

????

??????

?????

Long the evening it's stories are sickly and men are weak

•••••

We

????

????

We are men?????


NO!

NO.!

NO!!

•••••

We are dumber n **** and men are not dumber n ****

With dumber n **** daughters cutting themselves to get high

n sittin back waitin for the police state to make em dumber n **** slaves

••

••

(No they don't

Really)

••

No offence  meant

••

But yer all ugly dumber n **** *****

••

Writin yer dumber n **** love/hate poems

Glorifying

Yer absolute indifference to those you claim as the ones you know n love

You can't even tell if yer a boy in a girl's body or a girl in a boy's  body
Or a donkey in a pig's body or whatever YE just stick something somewhere wiggle around and then feel somethin n then get irate at whatever n whoever

Is there.

n cut yourself n get proud n tell the world who in their dumber n **** fashion tell YE how sensitive YE are for bein dumber n ****

And I so dumber n shitly read it n go mad

--

All on a quiet evening when we should all be out playin with the children in the park

But no!!

!!!
!!!!
!!!

We too dumber n ****!!!!!

•••

Anyway

I DO

love you all

Maybe we all best settle down

n leave our simple

Bodies alone

For THEY. ain't dumber n ****

It's you livin in em is
Jeff Gaines Mar 2018
OK Reader, I'm going to tell you a tale … with great trepidation. You see, this tale, well, it's kind of like telling someone that you've seen a UFO. They want to believe you, but … it's never really been proven scientifically. Not to mention the fact that most folks who believe in such things are often the tin-hat wearing types, written off as … lets be nice and call them “odd”. And, of course, the more you swear to it, the crazier you appear. It's an epic tale, spanning 30 years of my crazy life.

  But, It's a story I want to tell, because it happened to me. I can barely understand it myself, let alone explain it. So … I'm just going to launch into it and you take it any way you wish.

*  *  
Where Can You Be?

Where can you be?
Where can you be, my love?
Oh, can't you see?
You're not with me!

I'll search with gazes and I'll search with cars,
I'll search the cities and I'll search the stars, well …
I'm gonna find you, oh, wherever you are,
I'm gonna find you baby …  near or far, but …

Where can you be?
Where can you be, my love?
Oh, can't you see?
You're not with me!

I thought I'd found ya, but she wasn't you,
that girl she left alone and blue, well …
I know that's something that you'd never do,
your love has always been strong and true, but …

Where can you be?
Where can you be, my love?
Oh, can't you see?
You're not with me!

If you must settle for some other man
and deviate from our immortal plan, well …
I hope you realize I will understand
and I'll try and do the best that I can, but …

Where will I be?
Where will I be, my love?
Hoping the next life sees …
our destiny!


Where can you be?
Where can you be, my love?
Oh, can't you see?
You're not with me!

~Wednesday, April 1st, 1987
10:30 P.M.



  I was singing in a band back in those days and, as it happened, this was the last song I'd ever write for it. Just after this, as it does, it all came crashing down and the band was finished. But in those last days, they pondered this song, with great puzzlement. You see, it was unlike anything I'd brought them before. It wasn't rock … It wasn't a ballad … it wasn't even structured like a “normal” 80's rock song.
  
  No bridge, no solo, no loud grinding guitars, etc. It even had bits where I hummed, yes hummed, the melody, like a lullaby. As they read the lyrics and I described how it went, they all looked at me like I had three heads and asked where this had come from. It was nothing like anything I'd written before. I could only tell them when and where I'd written it, but had no explanation of what inspired it. It had just came to me, so I wrote it down. They didn't know what to make of it, or even what to do with it.

  One of them said it sounded like a late 70's or early 80's adult contemporary song or even in the vein of The Eagles. Another asked if it was about reincarnation … And I honestly, until that moment, hadn't thought of it that way, I didn't think like that at 24 … but then, one of them said it was “Haunting” …

  “Haunting”?

  “Wow”, I thought, I'd never had anything I'd written described as that before. When I asked him what he meant by that, he told me that it was haunting to think that this poor guy is desperately seeking a girl, that may or may not even know that he exists … in a world with billions of people in it. To top that off, he fears that she may off and marry someone else if he doesn't find her in time.

  This, along with the suggestion of it being about reincarnation made me rethink and rewrite the song. Well, a few lines in the last verse and chorus anyways. It actually made the song flow better and seem more complete. In a way, it actually made the song make more sense … to me and them. Sadly, we never did anything with it. There wouldn't be time. Ha … Time … how ironic. Over 10 years later, came this …


For Someone I've Never Met

Please save a place for me,
deep inside your heart.
Always know that I think of you,
as we both practice our arts.

Our worlds are full of temptations,
so very hard to resist …
and the good Lord knows
we're both far from,
sixteen and never been kissed.

Wealthy men with jaws divine …
Temptresses with looks so fine …
Paths that lead our hearts away …
Paths that surely lead astray …

They'll lead us there every time.
They'll leave us there … so  unkind.
Our hearts must shine,
night and day.
Through any darkness … they'll light our way.

If you never touch my face …
If I never look into your eyes …
We'll always have the comfort of sharing
the same
big, blue sky.

If I never smell your hair …
If you never kiss my lips …
Always know the search for your smile
has launched a thousand ships.

So, I hope you save a place for me
in your heart so sweet and kind.
Please, save a place for me …
Heaven knows you've one in mine.

~Thursday, September 9th, 1999
9 A.M.



“For Someone I've Never Met ” poured out of me in the midst of another breakup from the second, and last, girl that I wanted to marry. That emotion, never found me again. I looked at it on my computer screen and smiled, seeing “Where Can You Be”, in my mind, on my tattered old note pad that I called my “Song Book”. The memory of me writing it while sitting in my Z-28, looking out over the Gulf of Mexico as a beautiful heat lighting storm sent bolts across the sky, came flooding back; as did the debate of reincarnation I'd had with my pals in the rehearsal room all those years before. Here I was, again, writing about “someone” that I sensed, for lack of a better term, was out there … somewhere.

  Well Reader, do you believe in reincarnation? I was never really certain, but, as you can see, I had twice written pieces to someone I wasn't completely sure existed. I had always “sensed” someone out there beginning with the period after I wrote “Where Can You Be?” and thereafter. So, there they were, each written after losing someone I was deeply in love with. Each came out of nowhere, as they usually do. By the time I was in my 40's, I began to think I was either imagining it all (a side effect of being a hopeless romantic) or that I had just somehow missed this person and our “moment”.

  And then …



Epiphany

There was a place.
There was a time …
There, I stood … still unknowing
and everything seemed fine.

But there in that place …
at that moment in time …
the moment I saw the eyes,
I'd never believed I'd find.

Well, what could I say?
What could I do?
In a world filled with billions …
and there … was a you.

I'd always known you were out there …
even written of something amiss.
I never, ever stopped looking for you …
because my heart always said you exist.

My breezy Fall became harshest Winter.
My crazy life left my health running out.
I'd resigned myself that our moment had passed …
but this moment … it removed all doubt.

Well, what could I say?
Tell me, what could I do?
There we stood, staring … alone … in a city of millions …
yes, there … there was a you.

Oh, that mistress fate, she is just so cruel.
Frustration, a curse to be mine.
   I'd searched for you my entire life …
but now … my clock … knows a limit of time.

You see, I would never venture a love with you,
while knowing I'd have to leave you … hurt and alone.
I could only admire from afar … stoic and aloof …
while turning my heart into stone.

Nothing I could ever say and nothing I could ever do …
But now, at long last … at least I finally knew.

There, you stood … green seas, gazing up … into skies of blue.
My long-awaited revelation … become sorrow-laced realization.
There really is … a you.

~August 12th, 2009
  

  Typical of my life-long Charlie Brown syndrome … After being told in 2005 that I had “the lungs of an eighty-year-old man” and that I had “Six to Ten years” to live, I made a conscious decision in that Doctor's parking lot that I could never have another girlfriend and that I must face this alone. I don't see woman as objects. They are glorious creatures that are here to be our partners and friends and to make our lives amazing. I could never, ever knowingly let a woman fall in love with me, all the while knowing I was going to die and leave her. It's not in me to do such a thing, lonely or not.

  Yes, I'm still alive, I'm stubborn like that. But, some days are better than others and my new doctors say that they don't give people “time limits” anymore … because of people like me. I can't afford the lung transplant. So, as Bono so aptly put in one of his songs: “The rich stay healthy, while the sick stay poor”. It is what it is … and like the energizer bunny, I'm still going. Good for me.

  In the moment that I met her, the morning that followed, and the amazing speed of our nexus over the next several months combined with a string of synchronicities (Coincidences? Did I mention that she too, was a poet and writer?) that not only came after I met her on the sidewalk in front of the publisher we shared, but in those pieces I had written before and in several after; I was pretty much convinced I had actually found her. I have NEVER experienced anything like this, or her, in my entire life.

  So, after all this time, here she was … and there wasn't a **** thing that I could do about it. Besides, she was much younger than I and it probably would never have worked anyways. ****, the universe is rotten sometimes, huh? Maybe, if I'm lucky, things will balance out better in the next life. I can only hope. But I'm reminded, worryingly so, of the **** The Alarm song: “Collide”:

“All of these thoughts pounding in my head …
with the words I've wrote, in the letters I've never sent.
The distance in our lives may change …
Times that you can never erase …
But will our worlds collide?
Will our worlds collide, the next time?”



  Only time will tell.



  “Colors”, and a few others, were written about/for her. But, I could never show them to her. I would never endanger my friendship with her. I just wanted to keep her in my life. That, and that alone, was the only motive I'd ever had with her. I looked forward to seeing her marry, hearing her stories of her three kid's adventures; Hubby, all greasy, working on the car in the driveway, rabbits in her garden at night, eating her precious organic veggies or even about her new curtains. Just to know that she was alive, happy and doing well. I found a solace in her voice I could never describe and I was completely content to just have her in my life and watch hers unfold. Only I could end up in this odd position.

  I feared that she might get weird-ed out because I'd never displayed any romantic inklings toward her, so, to suddenly read these might make her feel a bit, lets say: uncomfortable. Actually, I didn't write them with any romantic intentions, per se; I just did what I always do … write what comes out. Still, there's no denying that they come across romantic. Again, so, so Charlie Brown. (long sigh)
  
  It is what it is. I also have to ponder the fact that maybe all those Charlie Brown moments in my life were preparing me for this one big, painful one. That does makes sense … ******' Universe.


Colors

Well when you're Green, I'll be your Brown.
Like the earth that loves the flowers,
I'll will be your solid ground.

And I'll be your Azure, when you are Verdigris.
We'll be thee most beautiful ocean
that eyes have ever seen.

And when you're Black, I'll be your White.
Mixing all of the colors … I'll make everything alright.

Now when you're Blue, I'll be you're Red.
If something should make you wanna cry,
I will feel your pain instead.

And I'll be your Orange, whenever you are Pink.
We'll be thee most amazing sunset,
that the sky could ever ink.

And when you're Black, I'll be your White.
I'll mix all of your colors … and make everything alright.

Should you be Violet, I will be your Beige.
Like a sleepy moonlit desert,
pasteled in dunes and sage.

And when you're Grey, I will be your Rainbow.
We'll be thee most soothing rainstorm
the world has ever known.

And when you're Black, I'll be your White.
I'll mix all of your colors … yes, I'll make everything alright.

With love on my palette, painting a glorious sunrise …
I'll color all your mornings with a smile and brighten up your skies.
If you should find yourself in sorrow from someones hate or lies …
I'll take the stars down from the heavens … and paint them in your eyes.

So whenever you are Black, I will always be your White.
I'll mix all your colors with a promise … everything will be alright.

Yes, I'll mix all of your colors with a promise … Everything's gonna be alright.

~  Winter 2012



  I wrote this after she had rang me up one afternoon lamenting about her life at the moment, troubled that her latest novel hadn't done as well as she'd hoped and now she had to be waitressing to make ends meet. I tried my best to cheer her up and assured her that she was strong enough to handle anything and that she must keep chasing her dreams. I wrote it as a poem, but I can't help but notice it looks like a song, though I've never heard music for it. Those repeated verses look just like choruses to me.

  Earlier in the day, I had been looking at a booklet of paint swatches. I guess, up there on my roof looking at the Manhattan skyline, her sadness and me looking at all those colors melted together somehow and, as happens, out came this piece. Even this, became another synchronicity as she would name her next novel “Show Me All Your Colors”. I remember seeing it in the bookstore and looking straight up … shaking my head at the sky. Was this the universe telling me to show and tell her all this?

  Well, if it was, I stuck with my gut and kept it to myself. My God, if you only knew how many of these synchronicities there were between her and I. It simply boggles my mind. I wanted to call them “coincidences”, but there were just so **** many of them … Each so unique, they just couldn't be called that. I don't want to tell them all here, because like I said, the more you swear to it, the crazier you sound. And I'm sure your questioning my sanity by now, aren't you? (Smirk)


  OK, OK … this one is definitely romantic. I wrote it one night, drunk to the bejeezus. I'd done what we called “The Crosstown Crawl” with my pal Tristan and a gaggle of assorted waitresses we knew. This involved starting at Brass Monkey on the west side highway in the Gansevoort District and ending at my favorite hookah bar, Karma, on the Lower East Side … Drinking in, and often being “asked to leave” (Read: Kicked out of) every bar that took our interest as we walked (Read: staggered) west to east, staying below 14th St.

  On my way home from the city on the J train, I thought about all the phone conversations we'd had while I was on this train crossing the Williamsburg Bridge. Being drunk, I guess, I caught a bout of sadness that I'd never get to tell her any of this or even how I felt about it all. Before I hit my elevator, this piece was swimming in my head. It's about as mushy a piece as I've ever written … if not thee most! Not the norm for me, but this is, after all, a lot to keep pent up inside you. I wouldn't wish this predicament on anyone.


For My Little Red-Haired Girl …


You …

My Love.
My Queen.
This Shining Light in my eyes.

My Laughs.
My Dreams.
My Soft, Contented Sighs.

My *****.
My Lavender.
My Dew Covered Rose.

My Smile.
My Cinnamon.
The Joy in my heart … ever inspiring my prose.

My Best Friend.
My Co-Star.
My Fearless Partner in Crime.

My Breath.
My Cohort.
My Side-kick throughout time.

My Snow-capped Mountain.
The Wind caressing my face.
My Vast Green Field.

The Ivy Covered Wall
that harbors my soul … ever refusing to yield.

In a different time ...

You … would have been my Life.

You … would have been my World.

You … would have been my Everything

and I will always love you for my own special reasons.

It is just a shame … and I'm so, so sorry … that you … must never, ever know.

Maybe next time.


~Charlie Brown




   When I came-to in the morning and read what I had wrote, I had to laugh a bit. It is borderline corny, very beautiful, very telling and very sad … all at once. I shook my head, laughing and told myself :

  “*******, Sam … yer losin' it. Get your **** together, will ya?”

  I guess in my stupor, I was imagining what it would have been like to write something for her. I don't know … There it was and I was stuck with it. I almost deleted it, but, my finger wouldn't press the key. As I told you before … I'd NEVER show this to her. She'd probably never speak to me again.

   As a sadder epilogue, that eventually happened. I still don't know why, but we haven't spoken in years. Maybe she sensed this emotion in me and ran away. Or maybe, just maybe … she thought I'd pushed her away somehow … but for whatever reason, we drifted apart. I guess I'll never know.  As you can see by reading this, that was never my intention. But, like I keep reiterating … It is what it is.

  One day, I called her number to catch up and shoot the breeze. I hadn't spoken to her in a few months as she'd been busy promoting her new novel and I didn't want to pester her. But … it was disconnected … I checked my emails … nothing. I'd never been so confused, she just closed me out. I didn't want to bother her. I was sure she had her reasons and if she wanted to reach out to me again, she would. She had my email and my phone number. But, for now … she was gone … and that was that.

  So, what do you think, Reader? Do I get the Tin hat … or a Badge of courage? Am I bat-**** crazy … or just eccentric? I'll leave it up to you to decide, because as I said, this all happened to me and there isn't a thing I can do about any of it. I just had to get it off of my chest. Thanks for letting me vent.

  Wherever she is … she will always mean the world to me. I can see her green eyes if I close my mine and look for them. Sometimes, on occasion, her face haunts my sleep. Still, I like to picture her, kids playing in a sprinkler behind her, digging in her garden, wearing gloves too big for her hands and a smudge of fresh dirt on her cheek … it makes me smile.


-Sam Webster
Brooklyn, New York
2013
OK, you can stop scratching your head. I'm sorry if you feel like I tricked you or was playing a prank … That was not my intention. This piece is experimental writing, of sorts. If you are wondering, it's titled “Somewhere … Out There”. But I didn't want to put a title at the head of the page, as that might have clued you in too early.

I also confess that “Sam” the narrator is, on no uncertain terms, based loosely on myself. But hey, what better way to string you along? Besides, as Stephen King said, you “Write what you know”. As far as I 'm aware, using poetry within a short story like this, or in this manner, has never been done before. Welcome to the future!

It really belongs in my “From Thee Edge” Collection with the rest of my Twilight-Zone-esque short stories. (You can now read some of these fiction short stories here, posted in my "NoPo@HePo" posts, along with some non-fiction essays. I hope you enjoy them.) But, because I pieced together several of my poems to not only tell the story, but as a vehicle to carry it along as part of it; I wanted to put it here on Hello Poetry just to see if I could convince you long enough to get you through the story … while having you believe it was me speaking to you and that it was all very real to me. Thus, making it feel real to you as you read it.

Was I having you along right up until it was signed by someone else? Or, at least until the narrator addressed himself as “Sam”?

If so, then I accomplished my mission. I'd love to hear your comments on it. If you've been reading any of my other posts, I'm sure you've figured out that I like to run wildly outside of the box sometimes. This was just, as I said, an experiment in a different way to tell a story … fiction or otherwise. As always, I hope that I took you on a journey and, more importantly, that you enjoyed it.

~Jeff Gaines
L.A.
(Lower Alabama)
2015
jeffrey robin Dec 2014
(                                           

                                           )                      



^^^

Ride em cowboy
Yer on yer own

Endless prairie

Ain't goin nowhere
Least not home

Every song you ever sung
It too is drifting


In the wind

Keep on smilin
It's just begun

/////

Day
It never seems too end

Yer eyes see everything

The livin and the dead

YE keep on riding

The mountain's always

Up ahead

///

Little girl
Alley street

The boy yer lookin for ?
Well

So are the police

Ain't it funny
In yer head

Ya see a lonesome cowboy
Like in a dream

Ridin ridin

Makes YE smile

Yer just like him

//

Ride em cowboy

Still free

Just like she is
Just like me

Ridin tall
Ridin high

The endless prairie

That which never dies

Never dies
DieingEmbers Feb 2013
It's all reet lass I've turned leets out
t'neet is gonna be a neet to remember
yer cowat is in the cubby ol'
hung and forgotten
fer weir yer goin yer w'aint need it
bed awaits our horizontal dancing
mekin the beast with four legs
you get yersen comfy
I need a slash
ill syphon me python an be reet with yer
lay back n think of England
coz nay one but me will hear the scream
when I slip thee a length
and mek the wet
Post *** in comments lol
Paula Swanson Jun 2011
Oy!  Boy!  You there!  That's no way ta be tyin' a knot.  Do it like the one next ta ya.  Thats right.  Now pull that tail tight.  Thats got 'er.  Be yer first time ta sea boy?  Aye!  I can tell.  Yer a bit unsure of yerself.  But don't you go worryin' 'bout that.  That there feelin' won't be stayin' with ya fer long.  No.  Not fer long at all.

Come on over and sit by an ol' sailor fer a bit.  Whilst I mend these here sails.  I gots to be gettin' 'em done in time afore we set back ta sea.  Why you ask?  Why boy, don't ya be a knowin' where we be?  We'll be needin' full sail and not one yard less, to get through these waters tonight.

Well, I'll tell ya.  See this here port?  Where'n the Capt'in went off to be makin' deals?  Why, we be at the very bottom edge of a slice of water called the Devils Spit.  What's the Devils Spit ya be askin'?  Oy!  Your still wet behind the ears ya are.  Why, I can count on me nine fingers and what's left of me toes, the number of men what's not heard of the Devils Spit.  And I be all out of fingers and toes to be addin' ya to the list. So I best be a tellin' ya.

Here.  Have a seat and hold on to this here end of sail edage for me.  That's a good lad.  Comfy?  Good.

Ya see, the Devils Spit is a nasty bit o' sea.  Shaped like a triangle.  Connectin' three ports.  Why, it's no bigger'n this on the Capt'ins charts.  But out there...lad, it's vast.  Vast dark and frightenin'.  Course I see the sun a shinin'!  But I'm talkin' 'bout night.  Deep night.  When the moon is high and full.  Like it'll be when we sail tonight.  Cause, it be night that brings up the dead.  Now listen up whilst ol' Tips Slived here tells the tale.

Aye!  The tortured souls upon the waves, do dance and call from watery graves.
They call to other pirates that be, out livin' a life 'pon the sea.
When ya sail within the Devils Spit, you take yer chances with the rest.
Fer they rise up, as ya near their eternal tomb. Ta beckon and wail, out in the gloom.
They have eyeless sockets. Aye! Tis a gruesome sight.
Plucked out by the ocean scavengers bite.
To have those wraiths look t'wards yer ship, marks it fer death.
You'll not beat their grip.
Thier spectral forms of festering rot, once be pirates, one and the lot.
Each dead soul picks itself a victim.  Then SWOOPS down on the decks ta collect 'em.
They be dragged, kicking and screaming, beneath the depths.
But Davvy Jones, these souls he won't accept.
A pact was made 'tween the Devil and he, fer those taken here within this Devil sea.
For the pirates chosen by the dead, are taken deeper down, past the sea bed.
To wail and burn on the Devils spit.  To be fed to his minions and his pets.
Then their souls belong to he, that claims this triangle of the sea.
A pirates soul be the blackest kind.  A more murderous bunch, you'll never find.
So now, ther be a full ship more, of tortured souls to settle scores.
With their ship sunk past the bottom, there they stay til the Devil calls 'em.
Up to dance 'pon the waves, to take other pirates to thier graves.
So when you sail with the full moon lit.  Sail not into the Devils Spit.


Now Lad.  How's that for a bit of an old salts tale?  Good one ay lad?  Here, hold this bit of sail up while I thread this here bobbin.  Higher now.  That's a good lad.  Ha! Ha!  You'll not be feelin this way fer long.  No.  Not long at all.


Hey! Boy!  yes YOU!  Your the only boy here 'board ship be ya not?  What are ya doin' over there in them torn sails?  Don't I be givin' ya enough work ta do?
Talkin' ta who?  We have no hand 'board this ship by that name.  Besides, there be no one there but you.  Take a look a round.
Boy?  You alright?  Your as white as them sheets there.  Ha!  Port sick are ya?  But, don't be worrin' lad.  We set sail on the tide, to do us a bit 'o piratin' on our way to the next port.
Now go check on them skull and cross bones.  make sure she's ready ta hoist when Capt'in calls fer 'em.  Yes. sir, white as them there sheets he is.

MEN!  Make ready ta sail.  Tonight, we sail through the Spit!
Duke Thompson Sep 2014
Eat me before I eat you
Staring with **** eyes
I'll be yer mantis
(Who's the *****)
Swallow me whole
Devour me alive
Loving it more
Than all the whips of Caesar
Regurgitated hate like
Mary Shelley's Frankenstein
Or pigs feeding on blood and bones
At the trough

Boring my way out thru
Yer ****** ulcer guts
You shouldn't drink like a fish
If you aren't at sea
Weakening your resolve
With surly drunk parasitic me
This is how we show
Our extensive toxic love sensibility
softcomponent Dec 2013
taller as a twisted fable skyscrape- - -
felt beyond the limits of a clan; yer
density is a moot point (whatdidyawant)
and heights are reached where heights are
found beneath belief in factuality- - who
wrung the cash register any apt poem could
be you to a clean home obsessive compulsive
but valid poetics - - valid music in the dharma
dance of life.

edward scissor hands with cloths on the palms
instead and 'DO YER DISHES' the psalm you
sing for cleanliness is next to godliness &&&
cathedrals of the genuine soul were never designed,
simply found an ancient artifact in the labyrinth of
yer soul (z)
dedicated to my brother, Brishan Paterson King.
Steve D'Beard Nov 2012
Govan bar banter:

Awa' with ye fankle eejits
that blether to naw whit they dinnae naw
crabbit, drookit
moanin, drouthy
yer Havers-yins!
each unto their ane
an' aye bin.

Tell markers scoured
an' crowned with glee
"alas nae blessing naw
bolt of wisdom
will er'e to
strike thee -
tis poor soil
an' loads o toil
an' broken backs"
Ach awa with ye!

Fir me the skies
an' tracks o wilds
an' winds that curl yer lugs
Hielan mountains glory
summers toty story
an' bonny lassies dancing -
a gallus stoater!
that’s fir me.

Party racket
in Da’s laden jaiket
jangle change
fir a dram
an' enough tae get the Clockwork Orange hame -
times hae changed a wee bit no?

Seldom ventured
tis seldom gained
an' aw the while
the wee bairns wail
Still, life is yin
what yin makes of that
which drives the world
that breaks yer back

Remember love!
ma banters free to give
an' thats all the mare important when
it costs so much tae live.
Govan is a community unto itself in Glasgow, site of the shipyards on the Clyde where you'll meet
salt-of-the-earth people with stories to tell, like this one

— The End —