Here it is the mountainside
The moon like surface
Meet your guide
Its uphill from now
Be on your way
The wise pilgrim knows he cannot stay
Be up high, closer to God
The shoes on the other foot
And the horse is shod
First, there was a Tailor
And next came the Priest
But the crucifix jailor
Was not one known least
He was a soldier
A fighter like you
And like you he once was on a mountain too
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
The Rocks have splodges, splotches of black
Moss spotted, lichen baked, the microbe rack
Faces that were once cracked
By the ice and snow
A shattered crown, a humpty dumpty
A Jack on a hill with a crow
And a crowing goes Jack now
His pock-a-dot tied up in a sack
A stick on his shoulder
A whistle on his lips
Hip-hopping over boulder
Tip-toe topping down dips
A slipping on wet stones
The rushing galling river glen
The flushing archipelagos
Of Moss, liverwort and lichen
The saxifrage in Saxon tongues
Lolling, lapping at the fringes
Watercourses bleeding through the rock
Water falling in dark singes
The high table land set in cloud shadows
Laid for a feast of the giant of the mountain
Yet his guest never comes
Never treads foot on steep path
Nor tows his flag pole up
Nor visits with his laugh
This cold place of Ghosts and stages
Actors rehearsing dead plays
Poets reading from never seen before pages
All is secrets up in this plot
All is hand tied
Mouths closed
You get what you’re given
And you’re not given a lot
These are the days on the thunder mountain
Where the crags are the stalls
And they echo their applause
In claps and snaps
And cracks in the atmosphere
In the buzz of the dead listening skies
In the hearts that crack and break up there
On the mountainside of the mountain lair
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
My heart is in the highlands
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Sat on a boulder
With a sac on my shoulder
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Where are you Oh Odin's thunder
With your head up in the clouds
Well isn't it a wonder
Lightning would strike
And you'd be caught under
That bolt from the blue
That has riven this old tree through
And split from its sides its ship-length timbers
Going from the bells
Swinging in the tower
tolling in the wind with all of its power
Where are you now Mr Lightning Bolt?
Impulsivity is your nature
You feel the jolt
The knee jerk reaction
You can feel it in your knees
It will rain tonight
You can hear it in the trees
Get your feet back down to earth
And ground yourself in its dirt
Positive and negative and neutral
All your electrical impulses fuel
This storm, this tension
This heat
Then snap, of course
The live wire sparked
The sky just shorted
And found the easiest possible route
Where are you now the dogs have stopped barking?
Now the moon has stopped arcing.
The lights have stopped lightning.
And the drains have stopped draining.
All the water of the raining
Tell me where are you?
In my love spectroscopy in my love epiphany
Cacophony of kaleidoscopic free verse
Has anything changed?
Is anything worse?
Or are you just,
Down to earth?
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
You know you've got to
Make that will for free
Free that will of yours
It's as easy as 1-2-3
Make that will open some doors
Dill that bill, and kill that fill
Still that Jill
And Gill that mill
Will a pocket, spill a socket
Silly billy pick a pocket
Or three
Make that will for free
Jack and Jill
Ran up the hill
And Will came following after
Jill broke down
And stole Jack's crown
Was then a fool lost to laughter
No one in town saw it coming
They thought they were
The perfect disaster
A storm in a teacup
A Penny farthing rounded up
But too many tandems, and bicycles
Were rejected at that stage
For a bicycle made for two
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
We were holding onto the Cathedral
Like it was some kind of sin
And all the pigeon martyrs
Sent up their prayers on the wing
Coo cooing in tongues with the saint
The Angels could do with a lick of paint
But gossamer trees will shake
In their Spider web chandeliers
And stand like white skeletons remembering
Did the bough break
The baby fall?
Did they lop off a limb
When England's Head of State
Cut off the body of the Church
Like a hand of an octopus
It grew again in its watery garden
And we saw the car crash photos
Of your tumble
From a tight rope of consciousness
Into the dream scape
Where there are no trees, nor obstacles
Just miles of sea in which to swim
No they did not lop off a limb
They freed living being
Halleilulia to that
Amen
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Where are you now the dogs have stopped barking?
Now the moon has stopped arcing.
The lights have stopped lightning.
And the drains have stopped draining.
All the water of the raining
Tell me where are you?
In my love spectroscopy in my love epiphany
Cacophony of kaleidoscopic free verse
Has anything changed?
Is anything worse?
Or are you just,
Down to earth?
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
while I was still young
I loved the truth and the gun
And all the youth poured
Out
Like gushing juice
From Over Niagra
Niagra, viagra
I have some vision of Las Vegas
And the nights are gone
But spent in Wild passion with you
Except
I was someone else
And perhaps
That dream is a book upon your shelf
But one day, some day
We have to live without
The confines of the pages
And book spine
I gave away in a glance
All the sea shells of youth
That yet lie washing up
In the tide
I give you these cockel shells
nautiless, to listen into
And what you hear are echoes
of a sea I once swam in
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
At last it came that I saw the light
The frazzled one of dawn
Too many nights of being alive
But at least I have been born
And seeing you
I brushed my hair
My fingers like electric eels there
Carried your thoughts and dreams
Into my consciousness salmon swimming stream
I fished for you
Down the years
And thought I caught you
Between the ears
Hearing me
But when I heard you
And your poetry
I had to leave
abandon
All the false dreams of youth
And ill pursuit
For you write a line
And it's not cute
It's searing and real
And it shows how you feel
I lay down my pen
And rest my case
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
The X-ray machine was broken
They scanned his body
But nobody had spoken
And no one saw the flash
But they suspect the skeleton stole the negative
Someone saw a whitebone stuck out
Leaving the door
The heel bone
Somehow the machine jammed
And his bones got left on the photograph
The man stepped out - the flesh man part
And said - I feel weak at the knees
Then he collapsed into a heap of skin and muscle
That will take some explaining
Thought the radiographer
Call in the cleaner she will have to hustle
Then the matron who was keeping an eye on the place
Peered around the corner
And saw the skeleton
wandering down the corridor
Looking a bit sheepish
It's the first time they've let him out,
Observed one old patient from his bed
Looks a bit unsteady on his feet - said another woman
Sure they should have given him a frame at least
Come on on young fellow
And a buxom dinner lady guided the skeleton
Into the canteen, would you look at you
There's not an ounce of meat on you
Lets get you well fed
You look like you need a good dinner
Meanwhile back in the X-ray Department
The Radiographer said to the cleaner
"Put that man on ice!"
Right away Dr, which ice might that be?
Don't you dr me, I'm not your medicine woman
I'm a physicist I work with the real, the here and now
Time and matter, and right now Time matters!
Is it of an essence Doctor?
Yes shirely, it surely is, if we don't cryogenically freeze
This man's vital organs, muscle and skin tones
There will be nothing but mush left
To reattach to his bones
To the emergency heart transplant room now
And talk to the surgeon
They surely must have a theatrical solution
So they rushed the man's remains
In the cleaners mop bucket
All along the corridors of power
up until well they thought
Fuck it!
Let's go in here - the ice room
And this was the winter palace where
They hung up the skins of those patients
Unfortunate enough to have missed their insides
And also the insides which were missing their skins
Eyeball missing their lids
And even some frozen parents who were missing their kids
And were put on ice until their kidnapped children
Had again been tracked down
The British government believe it stopped them worrying so much
Which of course it did
And so they hung up this man in there to freeze dry
Right now that's done and dusted let's track down his old bones
They must be walking around somewhere!?
Another nurse comes out Doctor, doctor!
Don't call me that I'm a radiographer, call me Mrs X
Alright Mrs X, well Mr Ray has gone missing from your department
Oh no, not another one!
Who on earth turned that X-ray machine back on?
I told them it was faulty, I told them it was flawed
But would they fix it would they ever?
They told me I was bored
And had too much time doing nothing in the day
Just twiddling my poor thumbs
Waiting for an X-ray
Well it came
Like bolt from the blue end of the spectrum
Like lightening from the Gods, in Ultraviolet detection
It was Infra-dig and Infra-red and they might have called it a day
But instead they called me Doris X and my machine Mr Ray
It should have been Mr Ree you see they say, because noone 'ere knows how it works
But I do you see I got a degree
In Nuclear Magnetoscopy - I can spin the particles
And weave them waves and caused a knitting thread
To ball up inside your head
I can Tell an MMR machine from a catscan
And I can PET a man and call him a dog
I can read your palms like I read your bones
You it's all written in the stars
and in the sticks and stones
So it doesn't matter what you call it
Just as long as you say
I am Mrs X and I'm married to Mr Ray
There can only be one explanation for why it did go wrong
And that must have been when that Mrs Jones brought in his little son
And he didn't want to have the X-ray unless he had his Ted
So he brought poor Ted in there with him
And poor Ted wasn't hidden behind any lead
So I think he got a blast full-force of a dose of ray
And now he is X-ray-ted and he has been on his way
I saw him fly down the corridor,
Surely more super than any Teddy before
this Super ted
Clapping hands and smiling to all the patients poor
Oh surely this must be the reason
Why Mr Ray has lost Mojo for sure
We must find and trap this Superteddy
Before he does unknown damage
Oh come my little pretty -
Do you mean me Dr?
Yes of course I mean you Shirely,
And don't call me Doctor!
I am Mrs X, with my mean and perhaps dualistic X-ray machine Mr Ray
I won't let them take you away from me my love
It is lucky you are mobile on four wheels
We can just disguise you as a trolley and wheel you out of here
Shirely you can be the dead body ok!
Anything you say Doctor, I can do a good impersonation of a corpse
Of course you can Shirely of course you can!
Right next stop the morgue and from there to the outside car park where we will load
Mr Ray into my van.
Super-ted you won't escape my clutches now ah haha ha ha ...ha!
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
The con climbed over the wall
He scaled the razors and barbs
And miraculously those little sabours
Left his flesh unharmed
The he ran with the spirit of a rabbit
Darting the spot lighted eye
The search the perimeter horizon
He was determined that he would not die
Next after swimming the short moat
He found himself in the cemetry
At least when they measured his pulse
They'd note no unusual telemetry
So not to be down beat, he let his heart and feet
Rest a while
And the hint of a smile
Began to creep across his face
This graveyard was a god send, the peace and quiet
Ensured he'd be undisturbed for at least another few hours
Except then he remember, tomorrow was the Day of the dead
There would be women bearing flowers
And men bowing their heads
At least for now he could rest in peace
Or at least that's what the tombstones said
He was overcome by tiredness and drifted into sleep
The veil of the other world opened up
And in his dreams he could peep
He saw the ghosts of his loved ones
Uncles aunts and cousins
And then he noticed something stirring in the bushes
But he was paralysed by sleep's soft bosoms
Suddenly a twig snapped
And he was jolted awake
Wide-eyed and blinking
He surveyed his surroundings
and it was all he could do to stop thinking:
Someone is watching me!
..Or something...
Nothing moved, and the night was still
But then a scurry a movement quick as a flash behind a grave stone
And then again it popped out two furry ears
And his nerves were allayed
Just a rabbit he softly spoke
And all tension left him as he got the joke
The lucky rabbit's foot, he remembered in his pocket
And rubbed it for good luck
Somebody up there must still love me
But as he looked up searching the night sky
Through the branches of the lime tree
He seemed to see two green jewels starring back at him
Unlike any stars he'd witnessed before
Then the realization dawned
Oh God a figure in the branches above
But it was too late
It, whatever 'it' was
Had swooped down upon him
And its superhuman strength had wrestled Joseph to the ground
It seemed a swirl
It was over in a flash
The creature had sunk its long fangs
Into his neck and was drinking his blood
Joseph began to feel weak
As his strength was leaving him
But it was beyond him to speak
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
I think we're turning German
In our cars, in our cars
Shaped like pandas and podgy rabbits
We race around like contented Chinese men
We have the veneer of China,
You are what you consume
After all in the technology, the
blatant and obvious over consumerism
Because what else is there to do in a vacuous life
But grow fat
Body building
And mechanizing ourselves
Just the rich grow richer
The poor stay where they are
Watching the fat cats driving their cars
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Walking to Wedmore on a Sunny
Sunday morning
And the path is like a limosine that just runs on
And the river's like a swimmer's scene which lies in blatant sun
And the blackthorn flower, white as any nun
And Hawthorn stands in towers of the Chaffinch song
As primrose's sun's powers pray to all
And ferns are like the hallowed specks that drip and drop
I'm walking into Wedmore on a beautiful sunny morn
This is how the song goes, the song goes on and on, the song goes on and on
The fields lay so beautiful around the lightning swan
And the sun goes climbing skyward as the song is sung
Walking into Wedmore the sun shines on and on
Beautiful sunny flowers on the road to marathon
And it keeps on going on
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
West of the Mississippi
"historians sometimes define the American West as lands west of the 98th meridian or 98° west longitude," and that other definitions of the region "include all lands west of the Mississippi or Missouri rivers
On Mars the say the
boosterism
sobriquet
noun [ C ] formal (also soubriquet)
UK /ˈsəʊ.brɪ.keɪ/ US /ˈsoʊ.brə.keɪ/
a name given to someone or something that is not their or its real or official name:
These charms have earned the television show's host the sobriquet "the thinking woman's heartthrob".
Synonyms
moniker humorousnickname
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/United_States_Postal_Service
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/General_Land_Office
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Quincy_Adams
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Westward_Expansion_Trails
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Jesup
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jefferson_Davis
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Jacob_Astor
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_C._Fr%C3%A9mont
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Green_River_(Colorado_River_tributary)
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/South_Pass_(Wyoming)
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mountain_man
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jedediah_Smith
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Texas_Jack_Omohundro
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hugh_Glass
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
interpellation
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.