The stream (all workshops)
The Christmas tree's up!
Everyone's feeling jolly
On the door outside
Hangs a wreath made of Holly
The Christmas tree's up!
But there's glass on the floor
The tables turned over
And there's blood on the door
The windows been smashed
the room is a wreck.
And Mum's wearing a collar
that covers her neck
The Christmas tree's up!
We were full of elation
Now just sat on the stairs feeling deflation.
We've just witnessed Santa going off to the station.
In a land far away,
or perhaps, not so far,
a lonely child would play
beneath the Northern Star.
The star would shine up high,
and never leave its place
there in the northern sky,
there in its hallowed space.
The child would long to touch
the lovely, loyal light,
small fingers can't reach much
though try as hard, they might.
The two remained apart,
as ocean is from land,
yet driven from the heart
to fully understand
when held spellbound courtesy grifter
Flim-flam man left lasting emotional whiplash
his derelict perfected artifice
to hijack every last cent
smarted me with indelible smash;
living daylight delivered I kidney you not
envious affliction affecting
last named member and founder of the Byrds
with crosby, stills, young and nash
entire corporeal being turned to hash
condemned state yours truly relegated,
cuz cremation unaffordable, though pulverized
and transformed into powdery ash;
Down Piggly lane I met him and I held his hand real tight.
His name is Jethro Hardaker, he kept me awake all night.
In his sweet smile I am happy, when he kisses me on the lips,
I have racing thoughts, when his fists grip tight on my hips.
“Oh Ma, you should see him, hair black and dark as jet,
And he earns plenty of money, for he’s the farmer’s vet.
Jethro says he wants to take me, to the county fair,
But I haven’t got a dress Ma, please tell me what to wear?”
Oh the pain and pleasure
of the living soul,
the agony or the ecstasy?
It’s our decision,
individually alone to make.
So inconsequentially
which road to take.
The living hell
each breath does make.
Oh fool you, of the fleshy bondage
are you not at all aware,
of the irony of your senseless groping?
The endless pain of love forsaken
the noncommittal chances taken.
On a grand scale of nothing ventured
nothing gained,
From all loves pleasures
hence abstained.
I am the master
of triumphal disaster
I go out for coffee
and return
slapped
I ask
a
question
as
innocent
as
bird
song
and
now
I
am
hiding
behind
my
umbrella
painted
with
roses
roses
not just some
passive prettiness
response
no
this
membraneous
protection
stops
her spittle
dripping
down my cheek
her mouth
hollow with fury
So
clocking up despair
Donna worked for the Dracut Dispatch
I never made the connection then
Then the year of nineteen ninety-four
She was my first foot in published door
There was a call I don’t remember
Around late in the month September
Someone said, so I purchased news then
To see my poem - off to dinner
Now she who knew me was a sinner
I was favored by her that one time
All for a prime rib juicy dinner
My budding writing had found some minds
Donna, oh Donna, lost your honor
But my career had turned it’s corner
ME AND WOODBINE WILLIE
Benefit delays that lasted forever
Causing lifestyles not-too-clever
Welder's gloves on and into the bins
To scoop out the treasure troves within
Shove all the dumpers into a packet
Then into a pocket of my big jacket
And after this hour of going out shelling
Soon my other plans were gelling
ME AND WILLIE WENT DUMPER-DIVING
ME AND WILLIE HAD OUR WAYS OF SURVIVING
PICKING TAB-ENDS OFF THE GROUND
AS SOON AS THERE WERE NO WOMEN AROUND
A pile of baccy on my kitchen table
I’m in need of something miraculous
I’m in search of something more
Lead me through a secret garden
Show me to a secret door
A world awaits on the other side
A place where I can breathe
An escape from this reality
Which only makes me seethe
Always shall I seek escape
Seldom does it serve me
Unlike my costume and my mask
My cloak of invisibility
Stop challenging Africa
Wherever you go we are
We’ve slept on many oceans without a cover
We’ve lived in peril on the sea
We’ve died and buried without a tomb
To remind our children our days
And to celebrate us like heroes.
Stop challenging Africa
We’re born free.
Pages
(c) Neopoet.com. No copyright is claimed by Neopoet to original member content.