Return Of The Telegram Boy circa 1962
Sunday mornings of my youth flash back
White helmet, yellow gloves, motorbike all red
Delivery for the London Docks pier nine.
Deserted streets, silent, no traffic, nobody.
Pass high brick walls, windows set high,
Filthy dirty glass, the ruins made by bombs
Scar the dockland landscape of Limehouse,
China Town source of much imagination
Deserted on this Sabbath day of rest.
So here I stand, returning to my past
The Rotherhithe steps are all that’s left
With their tiled lavatorial walls
All else is new and vibrant, stunning.
Through Narrow Street to the Isle of Dogs
Unrecognisable, here the Thames becomes transformed
The sun sets on the skyline, the scene majestic
My memories fade in this picture of beauty
Autumnal colours, light the sky I am transformed
Waterfront houses line the farther bank
Whilst here the cycles move with ease
Joggers pant their way along the waters edge,
Lovers sit beneath the giants of glass,
Soft romantic light shines up from the pavement
Wine is sipped, waterbus stir the river
The transformation is for real, Cinderella
You are at the ball and the clock has stopped.
poem by James Tipp
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
The day is dying in a local town
Rose petal pink, orange tingeing into white-grey
the evening twilight fades away,
the soldiers, from general down,
the lawyer, the city lark, accountant, the office clown
are disseappearing into the enclosing dark,
the homeless man, the vagrants sit smoking
in the municipal park,
with a few mucho men joking
in the packed bar, the evening star
glitters her hello, shines down
across the hugely deserted town.
Crème liqueur, dark red wine
are whirling in glasses of lovers,
mistresses, in the hands of men,
some lovely women
and a few local swine
who cavort and dine
and some are cold as cadavers,
intent on getting more
than their money’s worth
from those that they adore
and pour more and more
whiskey and wine.
Tyres burn embers from the road,
light dwindles with the day
traffic lights shine brightly green, amber and red
some drunks, some fighting men goad
each other in the local pub
while prostitutes walk around ready to play
asking, “hey what’s up? ”
ready to take any paying man to bed
to lie any way, even inverted
but most places are totally deserted
except the local houses
where lights gleam, people gather with spouses
caged behind bars, steel palisades with dogs patrolling
with no police cars rolling or anybody strolling.
The skyline dwindles into dark night
and street light after streetlight
appear like cheap cosmetic jewels
with curtains in windows flapping like towels
forgotten on the washing line
and everything declines into rest
while busses, trucks, trains and machines
are doing their best to work on
and everything human disappears and is gone
while unknown lights keep passing by
are passing in the dark sky.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Tiber River
The traffic ran one way
Down the old main drag
As I stood on the bridge of the Tiber River
The traffic ran one way
Down the old main drag
And I gazed at the ruins all scattered ‘round
And there were boards on the windows
Of the musty old houses
And they were ruins, all scattered ‘round
The wind was a-blowing
It was late September
As I stood on the bridge of the Tiber River
The window was a-howling
It was late September
And I gazed at the leaves on the soft, dirty ground
And I cursed on each one
That jumped down off each tree
There were ruins all scattered ‘round
The waves were rolling
If I remember
As I stood on the bridge of the Tiber River
The waves they were rolling
If I remember
And the river’s waters ran ragged and brown
The salt of the ocean
Was in my cuts and my bruises
There were ruins all scattered ‘round
I allow I’ll come back
Sometime in summer
Just to stand on the bridge of the Tiber River
I allow I’ll come back
Some day, and some summer
If I make enough money in town
And I’ll lay down and die
On the soft, dirty ground
With the rest of the ruined old things scattered ‘round
poem by Patrick O'Reilly
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London
London, a silhouette of old and new buildings,
some, still with winding staircases,
dark dismal cellars and dusty attics.
Sky scrapers, office blocks,
chic cottages and town houses
in, tiny, back street lanes
where I seldom wander
The London Eye revolves in the sky line,
spying on us, ogling the City,
that old river Thames,
with its river boats, old ships,
odd ships and the Houses of Parliament,
offices, where we, the peasants
may only look through the glass.
As a child I truly believed
that one day, I'd go into every building,
curiosity my forte, but of course,
there are too many, mostly private,
barred from my prying eyes,
except for some Castles, the Palace,
the Tower and its dungeons.
These are the buildings of London,
with its art galleries, theatres,
churches and museums.
No doubt some are haunted,
their ghosts still walking
within their walls,
at dusk, when shadows fall.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Walls
Walls of stone and walls of brick,
Some walls thin and some walls thick,
Walls so high and walls so low,
Walls to hide and walls to show.
Walls quite short and walls quite tall,
Some walls, last well, some walls fall,
Walls for comfort, walls of hate,
Walls for security, walls ornate.
Some as a barricade, some to support,
Walls of wood and walls of iron wrought,
Walls as a barrier, walls to enclose,
Some are to sit on, some to lean and doze.
Walls we build ourselves, these aren't good,
Walls for privacy, walls that have stood,
So many years through weather foul or fine,
Walls, that are yours, walls that are mine.
Brick by brick they are built to last,
Whether built now or in the past,
They shelter us from so many things,
And shield us from whatever this life brings.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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By Blackfriars Bridge
It is such a lovely day and the sun is shining.
Outside the nearby pub, there are people dining.
A street performer dances with a crystal ball.
Directly opposite me, is the dome of St Paul's.
Along the pebbled shore, a few stragglers stroll.
Somewhere in the distance, a church bell tolls.
At the river, people contentedly stand and stare.
The soft, summer breeze gently ruffles my hair.
The Millennium Bridge shines silver in the sun.
I pass by some joggers, who are out for their run.
People take pictures with their mobile phones.
Along the river, a pair of ducks happily roam.
Of people walking along, there is a constant flow.
Planes high up in the sky head towards Heathrow.
A flock of seagulls swoop around above my head,
As they search for food along the Thames riverbed.
The sun is reflected upon the river, as a silvery path.
Along the riverbank, crowds of people chat and laugh.
Tourists mill around outside Shakespeare's Globe.
An Afro-Caribbean wears a brightly coloured robe.
From the nearby pier, pleasure boats come and go.
By the river's edge, there is a man playing a piano.
With the warm sun upon me, I could stay all day,
And it takes some effort to finally pull myself away.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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I saw you walking around
I saw you walking around
in Tuscan streets
between yellow painted villas
on roads of cobbled stone.
The sky was light blue
the Mediterranean a darker hue
and all the places
had red tiled roofs
and some balconies
cordoned off by black iron rails.
Somehow your soul
was lost in Italy
while you walked
through fields of purple lavender
smiling lovely and being high
on the sweet perfume.
At dusk the light shone bright yellow
from windows all over
and a little later
we drank sweet red wine
at a café
and borrowing a guitar
you singed along
with the performers in the street
and I know it’s great to dream
about life in romantic places everywhere
but I am here and drink my tea
and write these lines down.
poem by Gert Strydom
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As Time Unfurls
along the pavement's edge
tracking the sun
holding on to preconceptions
of bathing in the pool of light
there between the chemist's and the charity-shop
and exotiques come down to drink
display their true colours
make music for the dancing-girls
and as time unfurls
wonder what has changed
not the slate grey rooves
or the red brick walls
and when the rain came
only those sheltering beneath sodden umbrellas
outside the street cafe
paused and glanced back
as they slowly moved away
poem by STEPHEN BRIAN Brady
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Cul de sac
At the parking
of the Ok-bazaar / Shoprite in Springs
a one-way street runs out
straight into a traffic light
that cuts a T
into two directions.
This morning the traffic light
is blocked
by a crowd of rioters
that comes from the right side,
from where I want to go.
The police block the road
to the left with a car
and some policemen walk along
with the uprising.
There’s a foreman, instigator
or head man
walking in front
and he hops up and down
and shouts something to me
and he comes straight in my direction
and it looks as if the devil is in him
with a crowd
of revolting barbarians following him.
Nobody is going to drill me
with bags of rubbish
and tree branches
or throw pieces of glass
in front of my tyres
and the light is red
and the rioters are half mad
and my motorbike has a lot of power
and its boss cannot wait.
The policeman says stop
but can hardly
look out for himself
and what about me?
I drive past
going straight for the leader
and give a lot of gas,
my motorbike
can cut fine corners,
although it’s past the back
of a police car.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Sunday Morning
Sunday morning silence, curtain stay closed late
No one thinks of kitchens mornings in a filthy state
Dishes cups and beer stains, ashtrays on the floor
Sunday morning papers are left outside the front door
Sunday school and sunday roast
Sunday papers sunday post
Sunday morning sunday rest
Sunday sermon sunday best
(sunday, bloody sunday rest)
Glass of fizzy water helps to start the day
Sit and listen to sunday silence, problems fade away
Sunday cars and drivers break the morning air
Uncollected milk outside reveals theres no one there
Sunday school and sunday roast
Sunday papers sunday post
Sunday morning sunday rest
Sunday sermon sunday best
Sunday school and sunday roast
Sunday papers sunday post
Sunday morning sunday rest
Sunday sermon sunday best
Bathrobes hang in waiting, windows steaming up
Somewhere in the sink downstairs lies an unwashed cup
Tea and toast for breakfast clear away the plates
Wash-up prepare for cooking sunday lunch awaits
Sunday lunch awaits
Sunday lunch awaits
song performed by by Madness
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Life will live and love will win
The sunrise above the curtains shines through the window
lighting up the darkness and chasing away the demons to
the back of your mind, let the light shine bright as it glistens
on the streets as the colours grow, showing the wonder of
what the darkness hides, just another day and another world
that shines so bright, another animal in the vast sunlight waiting
for the darkness to come, the light heats up the streets as the
colours shine out of the ground, delicate and soft with the world
below and above never ending, the myths of the future misting
the past into a bright blur that swirls in the back of your mind,
the soft colours come forward as the harsh we forgive and
forget, with a light that shines never ending swirls, as it moves
through the sky, as the light goes by, causing the life to move in
never ending circles, the light burning and swirling never touching,
glimpse of faith to the light, all until the darkness takes over once
again, and we all lie in wait for the light.
poem by HannahJane Brazier
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Have Mercy!
Have Mercy!
with final thoughts
i walk these streets,
past vacant buildings hallowed.
in silent mourning,
my heartbeat joining,
the concrete scarred by living.
passing strangers hurrying,
as if they had a life to return to.
while the shouts and cursing of working men,
rings inside the empty walls!
past tenemant buildings,
and unemployed stoops,
and eyes staring from windows.
dogs too hungry to bark,
squad cars passing slow,
tis the funeral of poverty.
while meth lab food stamp children,
sharpen knives against the curb.
and everything's grey, even the sounds,
the air is drunk with anger.
i caught a ride
with a trucker wired,
who mumbled slamming gears.
out into the country
once green and rich...
now brown and deserted.
fields not worked,
farm's foreclosed,
houses left to ghosts and memories.
tractors rusting in the sun,
the air is drunk with anger.
back into town,
past libraries closed,
and churches that ache with empty.
i can hear the sound
of the distant bells...
be it freedom or infinity.
past hospitals full,
and graveyards that move
with shadows in the night.
back to the small room
where i cant sleep...
where god weeps in the stillness.
America, America...
the air is drunk with anger!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Mexican Wine
He was killed by a celular phone explosion
They scattered his ashes across the ocean
The water was used to make baby loation
The wheels of promotion, were set into motion
But the sun still shines in the summer time
I'll be yours if you'll be mine
I tried to change, but I changed my mind
I think I'll have another glass of Mexican Wine
She lived alone in a small apartment
Across the street from the health department
She left her pills in the glove compartment
That was the afternoon her heart went
And the sun still shines in the summer time
I'll be yours if you'll be mine
I tried to change, but I changed my mind
I think I'll have another glass of Mexican Wine
I think I'll have another glass of Mexican Wine
I used to fly for United Airlines
Then i got fired for reading High Times
My license expired in almost no time
Now I'm retired and I think that's fine
Because the sun still shines in the summer time
I'll be yours if you'll be mine
I tried to change, but I changed my mind
I think I'll have another glass of Mexican Wine
Because the sun still shines in the summer time
I'll be yours if you'll be mine
I tried to change, but I changed my mind
I think I'll have another glass of Mexican Wine
I think I'll have another glass of Mexican Wine
Wont you have another glass of Mexican Wine?
song performed by by Fountains Of Wayne
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Glass Theme (live 10-04-99)
shattering fast
i'm glass, i'm glass
i'm shattering fast
i'm glass, i'm glass
i'm shattering, shattering
glass, glass, glass
i'm shattering fast
i'm glass, i'm glass
i've got a lot of tears
in a blood-stained jar
it's been a real long time
since i walked the fine line
you put up the walls
you put up the walls
hold all my calls
i'll be by the pool
won't you please
worship me
won't you love
what i adore
all alone
in my soul
i betrayed
rock and roll
rock and roll
rock and roll
rock and roll
rock and roll
everybody knows i'm last, i'm last
and everybody knows i'm fast, i'm fast
i'm shattering, shattering
glass, glass, glass
i'm shattering fast
i'm glass, i'm glass
you put up the walls
hold all my calls
'cause i'll be by the pool
playing with my guns
'cause there's nowhere to run
'cause i'm the one you love now
staying after school
breaking all your rules
shattering fast
shattering glass
shattering glass
i'm shattering glass
song performed by by Smashing Pumpkins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Under the Waterfall
'Whenever I plunge my arm, like this,
In a basin of water, I never miss
The sweet sharp sense of a fugitive day
Fetched back from its thickening shroud of gray.
Hence the only prime
And real love-rhyme
That I know by heart,
And that leaves no smart,
Is the purl of a little valley fall
About three spans wide and two spans tall
Over a table of solid rock,
And into a scoop of the self-same block;
The purl of a runlet that never ceases
In stir of kingdoms, in wars, in peaces;
With a hollow boiling voice it speaks
And has spoken since hills were turfless peaks.'
'And why gives this the only prime
Idea to you of a real love-rhyme?
And why does plunging your arm in a bowl
Full of spring water, bring throbs to your soul?'
'Well, under the fall, in a crease of the stone,
Though precisely where none ever has known,
Jammed darkly, nothing to show how prized,
And by now with its smoothness opalized,
Is a grinking glass:
For, down that pass
My lover and I
Walked under a sky
Of blue with a leaf-wove awning of green,
In the burn of August, to paint the scene,
And we placed our basket of fruit and wine
By the runlet's rim, where we sat to dine;
And when we had drunk from the glass together,
Arched by the oak-copse from the weather,
I held the vessel to rinse in the fall,
Where it slipped, and it sank, and was past recall,
Though we stooped and plumbed the little abyss
With long bared arms. There the glass still is.
And, as said, if I thrust my arm below
Cold water in a basin or bowl, a throe
From the past awakens a sense of that time,
And the glass we used, and the cascade's rhyme.
The basin seems the pool, and its edge
The hard smooth face of the brook-side ledge,
And the leafy pattern of china-ware
The hanging plants that were bathing there.
'By night, by day, when it shines or lours,
There lies intact that chalice of ours,
And its presence adds to the rhyme of love
Persistently sung by the fall above.
No lip has touched it since his and mine
In turns therefrom sipped lovers' wine.'
poem by Thomas Hardy
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Thames! Beautiful Thames!
Thames! Beautiful Thames!
Thames River arises at Gloucestershire,
flows thro' London, the capital of U.K;
Thames River is tidal in London
With a rise and fall of 7 meters,
The river is fed by more than 20 tributaries;
The Thames River which flows alongside
several other towns and cities -
Oxford, Reading, Henley-on-Thames,
Windsor, Kingston upon Thames and Richmond -
is beautiful;
Thames River has a total length of 215 mile,
River banks on either side are beautiful,
Pavement strolling stretch on either side
is beautiful;
Boats sailing in Thames river are beautiful,
Young women who sail in the boats are beautiful,
White swan pairs' which swim in the river are beautiful;
Watching swans from the bridge,
- which spans Reading and Caversham -
somersaulting to catch the fish
is still more exciting and beautiful!
Thames! Beautiful Thames!
poem by V.K. Kanniappan
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Elegy For Poe With The Music Of A Carnival Inside It
There is this sunny place where I imagine him.
A park on a hill whose grass wants to turn
Into dust, & would do so if it weren't
For the rain, & the fact that it is only grass
That keeps the park from flowing downhill past
Its trees & past the slender figures in the statues.
Their stone blends in with the sky when the sky
Is overcast. The stone is a kind of rain,
And half the soldiers trapped inside the stone
Are dead. The others have deserted, & run home.
At this time in the morning, half sun, half mist,
There are usually three or four guys sprawled
Alone on benches facing away from one another.
If they're awake, they look as if they haven't slept.
If they're asleep, they look as if they may not wake....
I only imagine it as a sunny place. If they're
Awake, they gaze off as if onto a distant landscape,
Not at the warehouses & the freeway the hill overlooks,
Not onto Jefferson Avenue where, later, they'll try
To score a little infinity wrapped up in tinfoil,
Or a flake of heaven tied up in a plastic bag
And small as their lives are now, but at a city
That is not the real city gradually appearing
As the mist evaporates, For in the real city,
One was kicked in the ribs by a night watchman
Until he couldn't move. Another was
A small time dealer until he lost his nerve,
And would have then become a car thief, if only
The car had started. And the last failed to appear,
Not only for a court date, but for life itself.
In these ways, they are like Poe if Poe had lived
Beyond composing anything, & had been kicked to death
And then dismembered in this park, his limbs
Thrown as far away from what was left of him
As they could be thrown. And they are not like Poe.
The three of them stare off at a city that is there
In the distance, where they are loved for no
Clear reason, a city they walk toward when
They are themselves again, a city
That vanishes each morning in the pale light.
Poe would have admired them, & pitied them.
For Poe detested both the real city with its traffic
Crawling over the bridges, & the city that vanishes.
~ ~ ~
In autumn the rain slants & flesh turns white.
The tents go up again on the edge of town, &,
In the carny's spiel, everyone gets lost,
And Poe, dismembered, becomes no more than the moral
In the story of his life, the cautionary tale
No better than the sideshow where the boy
With sow's hoofs instead of hands, taps the glass—
Some passing entertainment for the masses.
In the carny's spiel, everyone lost comes
Back again. Even Poe comes back to see
Himself, disfigured, in another. That is what
He's doing here, longing to mingle, invisibly,
With the others on the crowded midway as they lick
Their cotton candy, & stare expressionlessly
At one another. He wants to see the woman
Who has fins instead of arms, & the man without
A mouth. He wants to see the boy behind glass
And his own clear reflection in the glass.
The carnival's so close, only a few blocks,
That he can hear the intermittent off key music
Wheezing faintly out of the merry-go-round....
It might as well be music from the moon.
The traffic never lets him cross. The weeks pass,
And then the months, & then the years with their wars
And the marquees going blank above the streets
Because no one comes anymore. And the crowd,
Filing into the little tent, watches suspiciously,
For the crowd believes in nothing now but disbelief.
And therefore, at the intersection of radiance
And death, the intersection of the real city
And the one that vanishes, Poe is pausing
In the midst of traffic, one city inside the other.
The rain slants. The flesh is a white dust.
The cars pass slowly through him, & the boy keeps
Tapping at the glass, unable to tell his story.
poem by Larry Levis
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Glass
shattering fast, i'm glass, i'm glass
i'm shattering fast, i'm glass, i'm glass
i'm shattering, shattering, glass, glass, glass
i'm shattering fast, i'm glass, i'm glass
got a lot of tears
in a blood-stained jar
been a real long time
since i walk the fine line
you set up the walls
you set up the walls
hold all my calls
i'll be by the pool
won't you please
talk to me
won't you love
what i love
all alone
in my soul
i betrayed
my rock and roll
my rock and roll
my rock and roll
my rock and roll
my rock and roll
Shattering fast, i'm glass, i'm glass
I'm shattering, shattering, glass, glass, glass
you set up the walls
hold all my calls
i'll be by the pool
playing with my guns
and there's nowhere to run
i'm the one you love now
staying after school
breaking all the rules
shattering fast
shattering fast
i'm shattering glass
shattering fast, oh
song performed by by Smashing Pumpkins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The River of Me
I launched myself on the river me
Way back when I was two or three
I sailed out through the wall of snow
Beneath the bridge where all kids go
That Cheyenne Bodie was ten feet tall
His voice so deep it filled a hall
And that was who I dreamed I’d be
Until Cochise came on the scene
There was ice on the river and ice on the pond
And the singing nun sang on and on
There were trees on the river bank, cliffs by the sea
And fish galore in the river of me
The fields were full of cows, corn or wheat
The air was thick with bees and heat
The summer lasted all year long
I never knew til it was gone
And then of course came that high school girl
Her glances made my river swirl
More complex than the universe
I never knew what she’d do next
There was light on the river and light on the pond
And the singing nun sang on and on
There were trees on the river bank, cliffs by the sea
And fish galore in the river of me
And up we soared towards the sky
Through songs and dancing by and by
My waterfalls and waves ran high
For just the winking of an eye
And in the distance the quiet sea
was waiting on the river me
And on the banks the weeds grew tall
Where rusting leaves began to fall
Now there’s night on the river and night on the pond
And the singing nun is long since gone
There are trees on the river bank, cliffs by the sea
And memories in the river of me
I launched myself on the river me
Way back when I was two or three
I sailed out through the wall of snow
Beneath the bridge where all kids go
Hospice
She placed it down-
Something you can leave behind she thought but wouldn't say
A green plant in a tub rested next to the bed
A lead laden hand stretched to touch its broken soil
Small thing in the way of things and wondered why.
She thought-
New white walls prepare you best for heaven
While darkness only lingers in the mind
Time the only fight in our possession
Death the only kindness left behind..
She saw-
A fanlight directs the sun across his sad face
The way they said it would the day he came
Hands grasped to find hers beneath the table
And tangled like a vine around the veins
She felt-
A twinge of loneliness that evening in the soft light
Drank a glass of wine alone in bed
Tears filled up her glass in lone procession
Regrets for years when things where never said.
She thought-
New white walls prepare you best for heaven
While darkness only lingers in the mind
Time the only fight in our possession
Death the only kindness left behind.
poem by Alan Halford
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On Lillian Way
night
cold gray against greenish black
street lamp globes against
rectangle buildings
sitting in a parked car
along the deserted alleyways
off santa monica boulevard
car windows fogged
the cold green street lights
filtered through the prism
of a broken windshield
delicate spiderwebs of
white light diffusion
only in L.A.
a prostitute stands
against the bare wall
under a street light
with traffic going by
on the sidewalk
across the street
cocaine sellers asking
“what do you want? ”
“what do you need? ”
beside the building
a bottle and can collector
inspects a long low
excuse for a trash barrel
the prostitute
draws a lot of attention
cars pull to the curb
windows unwind
in the car adjacent
derelicts are fixing dope
shooting up in the
luminous twilight
now the whore has a trick
a car door slams
and tires spin away
much like a river
the wind has stirred up the palm leaves
and palmetto shadows
extra currents for a
3 a.m. late night traffic flow
much like my soft core
more than usually hard core
translucent shadows
on the concave street
vertical street signs
body schisms
poem by Theresa Haffner
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