"zimmer" poems
I can’t wait to be a hundred;
turning over the thoughts
and plots, of Caledon
floating on Zimmer inserts
and dusted Florsheims
three steps forward
in a dream woven
summer afternoon
Through the barn doors
and bee keeper flats
assimilating voices
from Sachems
and Forbes
and Hope Healers
coming and going
as the countryman
comes and goes
You can feel it
in a place like this
the 3 in the tree memories
of Allis Chalmers
and combine parts
of Sundrim poppers
and shallow carp fields
of patterned lawsons
and fading caulk
(on the ripped and rolled
frontier seats)
it’s a wishing well
for the peddler
and bold hydrangea...
both peeking their way
through the rusted
grinders wheel
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 11:55 PM UTC
The missus bought a Paperback
...at Val Village, Saturday,
I had a look inside her bag;
....T'was "Fifty Shades of Grey".
Well I just left her to it,
And at ten I went to bed.
An hour later she appeared;
The sight filled me with dread…..
In her left she held a rope;
And in her right a whip!
She threw them down upon the floor,
And then began to strip.
Well fifty years or so ago;
I might have had a peek;
But Mabel hasn't weathered well;
She's eighty four next week!!
Watching Mabel bump and grind;
Could not have been much grimmer.
And things then went from bad to worse;
She toppled off her Zimmer!
She struggled back upon her feet;
A couple minutes later;
She put her teeth back in and said
.....I am the dominater !!
Now if you knew our Mabel,
You'd see just why I spluttered,
I'd spent two months in traction
For the last complaint I'd uttered.
She stood there **** and naked
Bent forward just a bit
I went to hold her, sensual like
and stood on her left ***
Mabel screamed, her teeth shot out;
My god what had I done!?
She moaned and groaned then shouted out:
"Step on the other one"!!
Well readers, I can't tell no more;
About what occurred that day.
Suffice to say my jet black hair,
Turned fifty shades of Grey.
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 8:30 PM UTC
Here I am, leg in plaster
Nurse with a needle, after me
Forgot the brake, can't go faster
Now all I get is woe and misery
CHORUS
I got those wheelchair blues
Suffering those wheelchair blues
Hear my wheelchair blues
I'm singing those wheelchair blues
Rushing to get that elevator again
Going quick and my hands are sore
I'm just too slow, because then
I end up crashing into the closed door
CHORUS
I got those wheelchair blues
Suffering those wheelchair blues
Hear my wheelchair blues
I'm singing those wheelchair blues
Showing off and think I'm clever
Should have taken my painkiller pill
You won't stop and wish I never
My fault for trying to go down hill
CHORUS
I got those wheelchair blues
Suffering those wheelchair blues
Hear my wheelchair blues
I'm singing those wheelchair blues
At last I can get out of the chair
But things will never be the same
Because now it just ain't fair
They've given me a Zimmer Frame
CHORUS
I got those wheelchair blues
Suffering those wheelchair blues
Hear my wheelchair blues
I'm singing those wheelchair blues
I got those wheelchair blues
Suffering those wheelchair blues
Hear my wheelchair blues
I'm singing those wheelchair blues
copyright Chris Smith
Nov 8, 2009
Nov 8, 2009 at 12:16 AM UTC
From the House Of Ali -Najaf to the House Of Hussain-Kerbala,
Swarms of people walk 80kilometres for threes days- united,
The largest peaceful gathering in the world with free services,
An experience like no other.
Blessed are those who walk,
More blessed are those who serve.
No discrimination,
Regardless of sect, profession or social status,
Rich or poor,
Young or old,
Men or women,
In wheel chairs, crutches or with Zimmer frames,
Prams or hand carts,
All march with respect and dignity,
With one thought in mind,
To pay allegiance to Hussain,
Who sacrificed his head for humanity.
Every eye is moist,
Every heart torn in grief,
Chanting"Labbaik Ya Hussain."
With an iron will to complete the walk.
A nation, war-torn, wounded,
Embraces the whole world in the name of Hussain,
The longest dining table,
Where every zuwar is honoured and treated like royalty,
To pay in currency, none,
Only love and kindness and an urge to serve the zuwars.
Along the roadside are set up Mowakebs (tents),
That provide every kind of facilities and amenities ,
Food,beverages medicines,toiletries,
Fresh clothes if need be, shower rooms and toilets,
A massage of your feet,
Services to charge or repair your phone's,zimmer frames or prams,
Anything for the zuwars,
All in the name of the Ahle bayt,
Mohamed,Ali,Fatema,Hassan and Hussain.
What Hussain and his followers were denied is served with outstretched arms,
The aftermath of Kerbala was more tragic and callous,
The tears of Binte Zainab that retold the tragedy again and again,
Has born fruits,
The zuwars multiply in numbers
every year,
The rewards greater.
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 12:22 PM UTC
right now i'm thinking
about angry older gals
at the supermarket,
i'm thinking: shave the bush,
start a razor "wildfire"...
let's see your neck and your
chin, shave off that beard...
the crazy much older than
your supermarket attendees
are dropping the word
viking while you shop
for whiskey, onions and
tomatoes,
even the security guard is
looking at you funny...
your excuse of:
i became bored of shaving
is not going to work
on these women,
in their late 50s,
making all the talk the talk
and the talk being
small talk and
trebling in: i really just came
in here for a purchase,
i don't have the ***** to
do the small talk...
of course that's always besides
the point...
viking?!
how about a
zimmer frame?
god, small talk kills me,
i don't know how to make a chair out
of it to sit on for much longer than
feel comfortable longer
than 5 minutes on it...
and there's always one of these women
in the supermarket,
she just knows small-talk -
kleinsprechen...
while i know the großsprechen -
alternatively: stille (silence);
but she just insists upon
her solipsisms,
and she does so perfectly,
she talks, and even manages to reply
for me...
at least a monologue of
a madman is less claustrophobic
when you spot a solipsistic woman in
her antics,
at least the madman in his
monologue feeds you not claustrophobia...
given he's so self-engrossed in
imaginative cursor workings...
a madman's monologue never
morphs into a solipsistic claustrophobia
intimidation, notably within the guise
of women...
i'd prefer a madman oblivious to
me in his externalised monologue,
than a woman in a supermarket,
oblivious to her solipsistic take on dialogue
intimidation by restraining the other
in a pseudo-claustrophobia;
that famous echo chamber...
please, throw me into the cushioned
room with a madman, i'd rather hear
his monologue,
than her attempt at
a dialogue in a supermarket!
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 10:33 PM UTC
What do you see, people, what do you see?
What are you thinking, when you look at me?
Do you see a grouchy old man, reading my book?
Lonely on the doorstep, drinking my beer.
Is that what you're thinking, is that what you see?
Then open your eyes; you're not looking at me.
I'll tell you who I am as I sit here so still!
At 20 I have wings for feet and fly like a bird
At 30 my dreams of love,
Bound to each other with ties that should last.
At 50 I contemplate the future alone.
At 60 I think of the years, the loves I have known,
A life that passed me by.
What do you see when
I struggle on my zimmer frame
To buy my Bulmers ?
So you see a body broken,
A man of poor character.
Well let me tell you this,
Inside this lumbered body, lives a young mans heart,
And now and again my battered heart swells.
I remember the pleasure and the pain,
I think of the years all too few – gone too fast,
And accept the stark fact that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people, open and see,
Not a sad old man, LOOK CLOSER, SEE ME
A man of memories and dreams,
A Life story to tell.
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 2:41 PM UTC
Fly so fast the years they do
and my mind is not as once it was,
forgetting things such as dates and names
and going round as though I´m lost,
in every room I stop and wonder
why did I come in here,
what is it, that I´m looking for,
not a clue I fear.
Have you seen my reading glasses
Yes! she says, you´ve got them on your head,
and what about my car keys
I´ve looked everywhere, including in the shed,
and when I bend, why is it
that I always grunt and groan,
and my back today, is not the best of backs
I am so racked with aches and pains.
My eyesight´s not as sharp these days
and my hearing, Sorry, what d´you say,
no longer do I walk upright
and my thinning hair is turning grey,
but although the body´s ageing
and the memory´s fading fast,
my brain still thinks I´m eighteen
and I can do things, as I did in the past.
So I´m off to run a marathon
and the channel I shall swim
and when I get home from clubbing
I´ll be heading for the gym,
I´ve parked my zimmer in the corner
and my pillows I have plumped,
the douvet I have pulled up tight
as I start to snore and dream, and trump.
Jun 12, 2018
Jun 12, 2018 at 3:51 PM UTC
All the world's a *********
And all the lads and ladettes mere defecators,
Gratifying oozing exits and entrances;
And one man perforce enacts too many roles,
His acts being seven deaths. D'abord, the baby,
******** and ******* on his mummy's frock.
Then, the errant truant with his rucksack
And pock-marked wanker's face, creeping like death
Foul-trouser'dly to school. Next a teenager,
Panting like mad dog, with an oozing pustule
Dripping oe'r his girlfriend's pubics. Then a hoodie,
Full of strange oaths, and dressed up like a freak,
Lacking in honour, decency, and up for aggro,
Seeking the respect of loathsome peers
Even on the street corner. And then the adult
With bulging beer belly, and ample burgers stuff'd,
With eyes dulled by unfulfilled promises,
Mortgaged to the hilt, and indebted to Visa,
And so he wastes his life. The sixth age dawns
Before he knows it, bald futility,
With ****** in pocket, five quid a pill,
His youthful hopes well fuck'd, the world too much
For his ignorance, and his vain butch rantings
Reverting soon to teenage curses, coughs
And tobacco'd wheezings. Last we see him,
Ending a pointless and useless existence,
Clutching to his piss-stained Zimmer frame,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans pension fund.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 4:54 PM UTC
Ich ging durch den beschmutzten bevölkerten Korridor mit den Reben, die drinnen und draußen wuchsen, entlang und ich sah in jeder Tür mein Spiegelbild, während ich vorüberging. Ich wohnte genau zum Zimmer – nicht einhundertfünfzig Zentimeter weg; die Entfernung war fast nicht größer, als ich war, und nicht alter. Ich erläuterte meine Angst vor dem Dunkel mit einem Frösteln. Meine Zähne klapperten und klingelnden Münzen, die in meiner Tasche blieben, schrien in meinem Ohr gewohnte Lieder.
Eine Tür öffnete und einen Moment lang hörten wir das Weltall. Wir allesamt waren in dem Korridor. Ein krystallener Stab wie einer, den Leute in der Versuchsansalt oder in der Kneipe benützten, zerbrach. Der Stabinhalt floß in die Hand des Mannes, der sein Zimmer verließ, eine silberne Flüssigkeit. Das Echo des Wortes „Quecksilber“ klang in dem Korridor.
Jedes Zimmer ist gleichbedeutend wie das Letztere, aber es ist auch unterschiedlich. Jedes beinhaltet grenzenlos Fähigkeiten, und unterschiedliche Chemikalien, unterschiedliche Chemie, und unterschiedliche Emotionen.
Ängstlich öffnete ich meine Tür und trat in einen millionsten Anteil von mir selber und ich war ich selber. Symphonien flossen von meinem Kopf weiter, und von den Symphonien kamen fliegende Fische.
Es war nicht wichtig, dass andere Menschen ähnliche Zimmer wie mein Zimmer hatten; es war nur wichtig, dass ihre Zimmer verschieden waren. Ihre Zimmer waren Käfige, genau wie ihre Herzen und auch ihre Hände. Der Mann im Korridor, der hirschartige Augen hatte, blies das flüssige Metall, das seine Hand fasste weg. Die Flüssigkeit wurde Staub und glitt zu mir wie Backpulver oder Schnee im Schneesturm. Ich konnte alles hören und ich musste mich von dem Weiß, das der Staub brachte, trennen. Ich hasste den öden Morgen, den das hervorbrachte.
Ich wollte meine Tür öffnen und wollte den silbernweißen Straub vorzeigen, dass ich auch Sachen in der Luft erschaffen konnte. Ich wollte, aber ich konnte nicht. Ich konnte Sachen in der Luft meines Zimmers erschaffen, aber nicht im Korridor. Man braucht Ressourcen, um etwas zu ändern oder zu formen. Ich besaß Keine.
Die Welt schüchterte die Leute ein, die Verstand hatten.
Oct 15, 2010
Oct 15, 2010 at 1:28 PM UTC
Her name was Elsie
she came from Chelsea
with a Zimmer walking aid
she would dance when she was paid
clicking teeth and hips
pouting her dry lips
and she would shake her bingo wings
and her saggy ****** rings
the O A P's would cheer
for this geriatric dear
Trying to touch her wrinkled ***
with their free bus pass
At the Darby... Darby and Joan Club.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 8:37 PM UTC
We like to dance
Feet moving in a trance
Transition to a different stance
All of us jump and prance
We get in a groove
People’s rhythmic motion is smooth
The head banging is proof
Dancer’s enjoying the beat and *****
With Deejay YouTube on rotation
Music revives the good sensation
As boys and girls pair up to charleston
The vibe is lively in Camden
Everyone is revelling
In the style of crip walking
Zimmer frames towards the ceiling
As the old start break dancing
Jun 11, 2016
Jun 11, 2016 at 10:59 AM UTC
(a poem I wrote for Auntie Annie’s funeral).
Well you’ve all taken your time… while I’ve been waiting here.
I’m about to trip the light fantastic in all this sparkly gear.
And, because the aches and pains have gone, I’m about to strut my stuff.
I’m dressed in Rose Organza with feathers and pink fluff.
I’m surprised at how well I feel settling into this ‘other’ side.
I’m sure I’ll calm down after some frivolity, then take things in my stride.
For now though the spirit is upbeat testing my wings; making appearances near & far.
First though, a dance contest, tonight at Bridlington Spa!
Yes, I’ll be tripping the light fantastic… I’ve two partners in the wings.
Both husbands in smart tuxedos, brushing up their moves and things.
And I’m hoping we’ll cut a dash on that shimmering stairway to heaven…
Well, Wally was probably a six point five. And *** (my first love)… A SEVEN!
But seriously…my body had reached the bitter end and my memory was little better.
Who was who - and what was what - was touch and go, and… let a
ninety two year old tell you with chair, zimmer frame or stick…
that the thought of stepping comfortably - toward that light… FANTASTIC!
… and even more seriously…
I’ll look out for all you kids… with a word or voice on the wind as it whistles through the trees.
Catch a glimpse in a crowd… “Was that?” NEVER?!. But It might be just my scent on the breeze.
But for us to be in touch again, however brief, we must be ready and enthusiastic.
I’ll prompt you to think of me as I trip toward that light… FANTASTIC!
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 5:10 AM UTC
I have always dreamed and hoped for a Princess,
a princess so priceless not worthless,
Someone magnetic not robotic
Someone with a gigantic and elastic figure,
So I can be less dramatic,
and be more romantic,
As I take her to Atlantic,
With my loyalty,
Someone I can wake up to with my poetic poem,
Placing her head on my chest,
Reciting a magnificent poem,
deep down from my heart,
As the melody of my voice ,
trigger through her veins,
Making it sweet and sour
to the beat of her soul,
As it sails,
Feeding her with some chicken alfredo,
to prove to her am not a ******
As we Sip together from a jug full of gip juice,
I may not be Rod Zimmer,
But I will take you to Zimmerberg
As we linger away in my hummer ,
Sooner, all through the whole summer,
As the sun rises,
u put on your giant over sized sweater,
While I pull off my tuxedos,
Putting on my tommy Hilfiger Boxer,
Holding hands,
On one lane,
making each steps count ,
As the memory stays,
having a sunset walk on the beach,
Gazing deep down at the sparkle
in your liquid blue eyes,
As it radiates to my soul,
You can't deny,
My smile warms your heart,
Under your sponge bob cover,
We are two heart beating on one rhythm,
Let my rhymes be your wine ,
as u read every line ,
always get high,
relent on my lines at bedtime
cause they wil never decline.
As they will always fill the unspoken words that
were never said within time.
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 5:30 AM UTC
Die Tuer ist geoeffnet und leer
Im Zimmer liegt Kopf um Kopf
Und Dunkelheit ueberall
Im Tiefsten, am tiefsten
Der Herzschlag, ich
Schlug, der Schlag
Durch die Tuer
Doch die Tuer ist schon geoeffnet
Und leer
[The Open Heart
The door is opened and empty
in the room lies head upon head
and darkness all around
in the deepest, most deeply
the heartbeat, I
beat, the beat
through the door
of course the door is already opened
and empty]
Feb 10, 2011
Feb 10, 2011 at 10:24 PM UTC
Figure this may help someone today. One never knows.
Have you ever felt lost
Unsure of where to turn
Wondering which bridge to cross
And which one to burn
Pondering every decision
Like it may be your last
The inner turmoil leaving
All emotions on blast
Becoming our own enemy
We turn them inward
Swallowing it all down
We become quite disturbed
Here comes the doubt
Bringing us to our knees
Begging for someone
to hear our silent pleas
Begging in silence
As we watch the world turn
It is for one person to hear us
Our savior for which we yearn
Yet they never come
We find our own strengths
Realizing nothing more than
ourselves testing us at length
So we stand up and rise above
Ready to fight another day
Ready to cross the bridge
Or burn it either way
That first step we smile
Our journey has begun
To find ourselves in chaos
We will no longer run
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 3:37 PM UTC
Waltzing Matilda
But not so ****** easy
In a Zimmer frame
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 7:29 AM UTC
The waiting room is full of 'dope'
zimmer frames filled with no hope and
I am on the slide.
They lied to me,
the ******** said,
'retirement's good,
and you'll have time to tend the flower bed'
but they never told me,that
arthritis and gout would put me out
to grass,
well
they can kiss my ***
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 4:57 AM UTC
Haifische schwammen
Schwammen,
schwärmten
In einem Kreis, und gingen
Durcheinander
Wieder und wieder
Und wider meine Angst
Und meinen Willen.
Plötzlich änderte sich alles
Und ich wusste gar nicht mehr
Wo ich stand.
In Wirklichkeit saß ich,
glitt, trieb ich in der Luft oder
zwischen den Etagen.
In dem Boden bewegte
Mein Körper sich.
Du warst nicht da,
aber sie.
Sie manifestierte sich
Im Zimmer vor mir.
Ihr Geist tanzte
Und füllte mich,
Körperlich
Ein.
So schnelle wie
Sie kam, war sie
Wieder auf Einmal
Weg.
Sie fiel weg.
Ich existierte
Und zitierte
Im Dunkeln.
Er machte die Lichter,
die Sonne,
aus
und die Geister,
ihrer,
kamen und
uns fehlten
Die Worte.
Ich kann es nicht
Beschreiben, aber
Ich verlief mich und
Befand mich in einer
Neuen Welt
Füllend und überlaufend
mit ihrer
Stimme.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 4:40 PM UTC
It's about anatomy.
You might think,
An atom, me?
But that's not what I said.
Astronomy is nothing to do with food
nor gastronomy
stars.
We have. sat together in too many taverns and isms to get tangled up in the anatomical caves and the caverns within 'em.
At sixteen I was rampant and now I'm almost dormant.
A Zimmer frame by any other name
is as heaven knows not only not a rose it's not a babe magnet either.
I am driven by demons that hole up inside me, the joke that they see is me, but there are saints sent to guide me
while the Vatican city sleeps.
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 5:17 PM UTC
Inspired by Time by Hans Zimmer
slogging through the snow
weighed under
the weight of all i know
baggage on my back
in desperate need
of anything but facts
and there she stands
the wind whistling through her hair
and the fingers of her outstretched hands
her face is flushed
but her legs are pale
i must
work harder
work faster
she'll catch cold
in that billowing
pink sundress
unless i run fast
and grab her fully
in my strong embrace
and kiss her sweetly
spreading my warmth
to her numb face
but these bags
won't let me act
or else not fast enough
she collapses
landing rough
on her delicate knees
i can tell
that she needs me
so i cast aside
all on my back
the suitcases
the backpacks
and dufflebags
pounds and pounds
leave my shoulders
and drop
to the white ground
with a quiet, crunchy thump
her face is falling
im growing frantic
taking off everything and anything
that might slow me down
it seems as though the snow is getting deeper
the closer i get to her
she's still falling
as if in slow motion
long curly hair
swirling behind her
like one million crescent moons
im leaping snow drifts now
but i will get to her soon
her face slaps
the ground
and the cry of one billion snowflakes
echos magnified in my ear
i reach her
and turn her over
and see a face
blue and quiet
with frozen tears
stopped halfway down her cheek
and suddenly
mine are flowing free
if only...
if only i had dropped everything sooner
i thought
as this living man
cradled someone
who was not
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 2:24 PM UTC
The last time I saw Fred.....
On his last leg’s
zimmer- framed
& proudly vertical
The fist
of cankered gristle
removed
at a cost
but he
noble soldier
farmer
grand-father
man
was insistent
He would walk
with me
to the toilet
And he did
with dignity
a joke
& splendid bravery
Dec 21, 2011
Dec 21, 2011 at 9:26 AM UTC
The old man, grey, bespectacled, with difficulty, rose from his chair.
If he’d come to plead for mercy, I doubt he’d find it here.
He struggled to stand steady with his Zimmer walking frame
As he gave his testimony we all felt his sense of shame.
“I was there when all this happened; I saw the smoke rise to the sky.
I saw the piles of ashes that were once like you and I.
I counted stolen valuables; Money, watches, gold.
I dared not speak objection. I did as I was told.”
He asked for a glass of water; this much he did receive.
He testified an hour without asking for reprieve.
He spoke about those distant days we see in black and white.
Of a Germany destroyed by debt and burning for a fight.
He then was young and good with numbers
He was the bookkeeper of Auschwitz;
He can’t un-see all he did see.
Although he never shot a girl or stabbed a sleeping child,
He’d tallied up their worldly goods to add them to the pile.
When the Russians over-ran the camp, he and the others fled.
They left behind warehouses full of the possessions of the dead.
The Jury must deliberate about what punishment is due
For this ninety year old **** who kept track of baby shoes.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 8:36 AM UTC