Gord
2017-10-18 11:50 am
I have concepts for days, Metaphors for four hours, And wordplays for wakes. I'm not bragging, I'm just impaired, Flawed above the mane. Miscarrying paper knowledge, Cutting loves careless arms. She finds herself wanting, Hair flowing, river forming, Learning is her sophism, So she lies until tomorrow, Feigning disinterest ursury, Tales of cursory, courtesy. A verse aloft in the clouds, Sounds out to an empty crowd, Life of deception floundered. World as in twitching flour, Face equal, equivalent arms, She curtsies and bows, turns; Runs away, her face as ours.
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Gord
2017-07-13 01:16 pm
Past tomorrow I see no lecterns. The horse speaks, lack luster, Words worthless, and everyone taking pictures; Girls wet as many pitchers, Barn doors close windowless; Blissful peace again, Silencing planes overhead, Standing tall as clouds, Power small as a child, Foreign tongue, power bottom, University educated, Now you've got 'em. Maybe whispered tomorrow, Today lives in industry, Claws large as the gut, Staged imagery for one; Paper mimicry of a doll, Feigned apathy of a sun;
Gord
2017-04-21 12:00 am
Taste manufactured, Inner eye manic, Skills casual, Desires casual, If employers pass on you, The endless job, application. And the world turns without.
Gord
2016-12-12 12:00 am
Tomorrow is nothing but an intervention, Yesterday holding the true intention. Yet spend to stay powerful at the station, Your people power toward a cowards end, Politically investing on a shorter scale. Marking with pen and paper, clearing chambers, Tomorrow's makeshift inventions tooled on sale. As if someday a unicorn escaped their stable, Marked the day ideally we first fought in anger, Then paid extorted reparations as a gamble.
The Sophist
2016-03-29 12:00 am
A Ballad of the Soft Sophist; When trying to scream, They said 'oh, stop this! Stop the sophist speaking free. Sophist softly speak to me. And make me pay, And teach me duly, And teach me how to write so bluesy!' Sophist took their time instead, Folding shapes from paper heads. Writers spending days in bed; Dazed and gazing at their pens. At night they sleep and then they start again. A ballad often spoke softest; When the sophists screamed, They said 'oh, stop this; Education should be free. Sophist slowly speak to me. In loving way, In budding grace, In virtue is the value based.
The Sophist
2016-03-14 12:00 am
Would it be poetic justice? Would it be just at all? If I saw it in the paper. "Obama killed by drone."
Gord
2015-11-19 12:00 am
Is this love, Alexander? Promptly Cleopatra answers, Dancers kicks, and spins, Treat the story like a stage, Improperly tuned for appraisal. Alas I spend my days, Fighting weary foes in cages. My half heart being only paper, Protected death in glass case. Lament for my love continued, Contained in a brass vase.
Gord
2014-08-26 12:00 am
Let god know I denounced. Have it be first word of mouth. So his command can cast doubt, Provide shelter, sans house. Let angels know I pray ascension, Prithee be the small good remaining, Ironically the faith of god wains, His couch no longer provides training, Only a paper trail of patronizing.
The Sophist
2014-05-26 12:00 am
If you could go back and change your life, You look back on your strife? Would I go back and change mine? I look back and my life is changed daily. For the better? Questionable. I look back at my life deranged gayly. For the most part; Insatiable. Satiated in my adolescence with hot knives hot paperclips unwinded on hot tables while a hot ocean waited for hot iron; Not able. Enough quotes from a world of war to be the next supreme gentleman, I changed my life enough to know that truth is irrevocable, I'd choke a bull for a chance at life less like a festival of Bedouins negligible.
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-05 12:00 am
Reflections on the demise of a Neighbour Everywhere here Is full up with junk That isn't really so. The building of a couple's lifetime. These possessions that are left Are all there is to show. The winged ducks Pots and pans Brooms and mops The crystal decanter with its glasses Projector and screen Slides taken of foreign mountain passes Planes and trains Books on stone polishing, birds, gardening and roses Videos and stills of Formula One heroes Transfixed in winning poses Sewing machine, curtains Cups and saucers Things that should have been handed on To beloved sons and daughters That never materialised. The log box, embellished in brass Figures of snails and owls Made in Caithness Glass Squirrels, dogs and hedgehogs Porcelain men and women Music boxes that play tunes While in the cutlery drawers Fish knives, glass rolling pin Even silver apostle spoons The collection of records, cd's and tapes Recorded by artistes, many long gone A multitude of stereos and tape decks To choose to play them on. Clocks and timers Wallets and watches TV and twin tub Clothes airer and spin dryer Pencils, pens and paper (by the ream) Plastic bags in all sizes Enough for several lifetimes Drills and saws Fishing tackle Fly, sea and coarse Full blown sou'wester sailing suit And around in the garage Long wader boots An iron gate Wrought with his own hand All serve to measure The mark of the man. Dusti Rodes (2004)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-05 12:00 am
A Day in the Life I Morning Up early for a Sunday The clock says eight But even that's late For what we have to do And where we've got to be Breakfast hastily eaten A schedule that has to be beaten The taxi comes just on time The clock strikes the half nine The train will leave at ten So we have to be there then II In a railway waiting room People sitting Waiting for the train Some just there To get out of the rain The sun is starting To shine now Making the outlook Better somehow The fire Glows brightly Offering security In its warmth There must be a hike Somewhere By the amount of people Going there Dressed in their anoraks And their boots A passing express Gives warning toots Waiting for the train To friends Still far to go Before our journey ends Although having already Come this far Still there are miles To be travelled By car Sitting patiently, waiting For the train Marking time To the pouring rain III A ride through the countryside At our destination We are met Commiserations Hoping we did not get Too wet Outside the station They had parked the car Comfortable seats Our journey Not to mar We are off Through the countryside Making quite a pleasant ride Of our quest To the coast Never really deciding Which we prefer the most Ever onwards We are drawn Towards the outskirts Of Eastbourne IV Eastbourne Eating eggs Hard boiled Liver sausage sandwiches Cheese and ham Fried sausages Oranges too What a sight For people to view Throwing stones Into the sea Stopping to watch The tide roll in Then a walk Along the pier Perhaps to stop For a cool glass of beer Buying ornaments Made of glass Playing the games That made us laugh Throwing balls Into walls Listening to the radio In the warm Then on again It was said Towards the crags Of Beachy Head V Beachy Head Climbing up To the Bell Tower Pausing to view A lonely flower The long climb Winding a few The breathlessness Well worth the view On looking out to the sea So calm One could scarce believe It could do so much harm Then suddenly The gunshots Warning us of the coming rain So we quickly make our descent again The rabbit droppings In the tufted grass Is the sight I remember last The gulls wheeling On the wind Showing aerial acrobatics That Man will take A thousand years To conquer VI Newhaven When the tide Is full in It is a facade To walk along The esplanade At Newhaven For the angry waves Batter the man-made wall Persistently trying To make it fall Spraying Unwary travellers With showers of stones And the flying Sea spray That rusts Even the lamp posts Within a month The road to the west This is our quest Pass the ox-bow lake On the river That meanders Through the open fields Filled with Sweet smelling air The road takes us Past the harbour Where, the ' Chichester Star ' Lies anchored there Moored at her rest VII Brighton The Palace Pier On a Sunday Even in March Full of people Having fun Some lie on the beach Catching the sun That hides Behind the clouds Of the rain-filled sky But here we do not stay Perhaps I'll return Some other day The time has come Not to linger Drawn ever onwards By a wandering singer Dressed in sandals And in jeans Singing songs of the Changing scenes Sentiments felt By myself He did quote. He sang, Whilst I wrote VIII Shoreham Dark, dank and dismal Grey and grim Stands the power station The side, the day-tripper Does not see The squalid surroundings Of the industrial side Where the rubber factory Takes the coke works For its bride There, beside a mountain Of metal scrap Stands a fellow In a cloth cap Surrounded by Carcasses of cars Burnt out By long cold fires Wasteland covered With prickly briars Rubble strewn around Sweet papers, magazines Stones cover the ground The road carries on Pass the gasworks To playing fields Where people sit watching Others using their energy To a useless end A steel girdered bridge Spans the road Along by which The river still flowed IX Worthing Having high tea In the lounge Sardines, rolls Tea and toast Watching the sea Leave the coast Playing the pin machines With pennies Reading the paper To find the news Desperately needing To use the loos Off on our trek again Running from the Fast oncoming rain X Half a league ..... Destination somewhere In the west Selsey, probably At the very best Time, like the tide Rolling on Light of day Has nigh nearly gone The lights burning Along the road Turn from the palest pink To shimmering gold Eve draws on Darkness, soon to follow A level-crossing That isn't so level In fact, the road Looks like more of a bevel The road becomes Winding and long Making us remember The young minstrel's song Following the line Of cat's eyes Broken only By the sound of sighs A solitary star Guiding us, as of old The weather becoming Increasingly cold The long boring night Is broken By the bright lights Of the big service station At Crawley Say as they might To me, the most welcoming sight Was that of The Thorns pud At Horley Liquid refreshments For parched dry throats Although there was nowhere To hang our coats Having once Quenched our thirsts The road leads on To Billinghurst Then on down Cowper's Lane Just as it starts Again to rain In the comfortable warmth Of her home We are again Free to roam Tea for three And one for coffee Arguing who'll get to eat The very last toffee Onwards then, Homeward bound The car really seems To leave the ground Till the lights of Croydon Are encountered And as we are at our door " It was fun, we must do it more!" The two of us Climb the stairs Once again To all our cares Very quietly Into bed Nothing more It has all been said. Dusti Rodes (1975)
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