Best Chines Poems
"Damn Bird"
All the King's Corsairs & Grand Sailors them all!
Went to winds in efforts enthralled~
Ken o'lone sailor whot's ayre so then gone~
Nay naught e'er whot's seen any day's dawn~
For once they did'st sail seas then so steep~
Naught o'fear o'anywhot's ayre 'er deep~
& the corsair's king has gone off to sleep~
Arrrrggh...then did'st a'come a'thunder & gale~
Off far away from a distance seen her sail~
Sloop sleek & stealth by her wake~
Hard into harbour fast did she make~
'Round embattlements under cannons hard roar~
O'er her topmast that damned bird did soar~
Eye at meown & hard as cobalt~
As if it all were meveryown fault!~
Now did'st damn bird aloft at me back~
Find in me mainsheet a tad o'such slack~
As to lay 'er booms wind'ard & set all a'back~
A'baft shall we then ride as one with a tide~
Blown 'ard fer lee shore & set to 'er rail~
Damn 'er foine line settles well in tall swell~
Cut now merry little sloop o'er those waves~
Fer damned if ya don't ye be a landsman & knave~
Begone silly bird yer toime 'as run through~
Such glass as ye know 'tis known but by few~
For all such 'as sailed seven seas~
E'er 'er tantrums & fury to please~
For all then they whot's e'er a'sea~
Such sea whot they didst tease~
Nay~Nay~ Off with ye now~
Damned bird 'overin' at me bow!
Ne'er ne'er shall a day be again~
Whot ayre me 'ad call any damn bird me friend~
Feathers whot 'as all they got good~
Better yet whot's ayre them's all but food~
Off'n me rigging damn bird ye drat~
Off'n me spars whot 'ave ye that~
Out from me cabin & away from me bow~
Out or I'll be a'chasin' ye now~
Woe be damn day whot brung such a bird~
Not ne'er o'such 'ad e'er been 'eard~
Chewin' me spars & flailin' me lines~
All round me boat & under me chines~
Where be me wind to blow off this beast~
When does me waves take away this tiny feast~
Send me a monster of feathery touch~
If'n me 'as to be put up with such~
Off damn bird & outta me 'air~
Out with ye now I'll give ye a scare~
Fly like an Eagle so ye say ye do~
Ne'er no Eagle were that which ye knew~
SeaWolf
©
dress-suit occasioned, to the eye perception
toasts and canned laughter,in the name of making out
can i buy you a drink, the prologue of octopused slumber
seated on a cold stool, the troubles of joyful singles
till a shadow pinched me to the site of, a spring lit cheongsam dress
our eyes acquainted by virtue of fate, shaking our balls in a bouncy whirl
drifting to a locality fit for two
wishful inspired ross-colored magic, by dint of a love spell
muffling tunes, a language treasured by hearts unified
like poles oozing, drops of distinct formation
falling in love the chines way
My life goes on and on
without any breaks nor rest
it’s like an icicle that melts
but never goes away.
My life is as perfect as it could be
like a rose to be seen
A garden of such beauty
from the fence to the house
My house is warm as a
fire burning in a forest
Music as Grace to the winds in a meadow
my room is messy as a tornado to a house.
The color of Red rose to blood
Color of the Night Sky to Black Sheets
those are the colors to life
Everyone else is happy with life
while I’m looking at stars in the night
Searching for a friend’s light
which are Galaxies away
Once I find her
She brings me happiness and joy
from her heart that chines at night
My life is as perfect as it could be
As we soar though the Nightless Skies of Day and Night.
He's a disgrace to the Red Duster someone said:
don't say anything or he will slash you, he warned,
puking over you like a sea of spray upon a proud rock
or to stab you with a marlin spike as if splicing a wire
rope: doubting which he would do this was certainly true.
One in four, one in four
Casualty rate, a quarter of all
The seaman hunched over supported by sone under bone,
he was rhythmically sick, wrenching a regular as the waves,
waves, as uniform as a River Dart steamer's pistons in Devon,
as he swayed in the breeze like the British blood Red Duster.
One in four, one in four
Casualty rate, a quarter of all
Until Putin yesterday - until today no British Arctic medal
Britannia just swabbed her salty tears away with ol'
Red Duster anger now being assuaged as 'Justice'
sails into the haven of heaven with Mercantile Men
a decade or so ago yet their families' pride will remember
One in four, one in four
Casualty rate, a quarter of all
Some under the Red Duster were so foreign too
whether Chines or Muslims remember them too
if on the frostbite convoys they sailed too, then medals
for them or their families too defeating the evil of Fascism
One in four, one in four,
Casualty rsate, a quarter of all
Remember, remember this day, twenty-six of February 2013
as 'Justice' had her day in the Court of Humanity for the
One in four, one infour,
Casualty rate, a quarter of all!
Record Breakers.
He is 100 and five spends his time in bed his family
come up to his room and clean him up, he is windy
and it smells like a Chinese egg buried underground
for fifty years. And to think Chines eggs are supposed
to be a delicatessen eaten only by the rich.
He can’t read anymore but like to look at pornographic
pictures which make him cackle as it triggers off
a memory of a distant past.
He was never a paragon of virtue smoked and drank
a brutal criminal who spent much time in prison.
All this is forgotten now his family, although they think
he is disgusting, want him to be in the Guinness book
of records as the longest living man.
Look at the bible
it was written as a rock thrown to the future
in case history repeated itself
and there was yet another religious war
here it is
in our presence
bullets and bombs
and enemies who have no reason to hate
send someone in there with a plan to slide
some signs
to get the women and children out of the arena of death
known as their village
that is under attack by evil
a satanic massacr of men hypnotised by demons
send someone in there
to lead them out
a stage an act a subtle plan of candle in the window
church bells
and bakeries closing for the food for the road
for even jesus fed his followers a crumb a day
dont fall into that trap
plan and plan
history has repeated itself
jesus saw it
threw a rock into the future and is trying to tell us
we have to work together
get the innocent out
turn the war zone nightmare into a ghost town
and lead the refuges of the nightmare somewhere else
was no one listening to the gospel
the chines
the indian
the jewish the german
all the bibles have prophecies to help mankind in the future
right now its english
put your plans in action instead of watching the innocent suffer
where is the love
atree has a price
think of lumber and paper
a bird cost to catch it and put it in a zoo
a human life is priceless
learn from jesus
lead them
like a thief in the night
out of the nightmare
with a subtle plan when history repeats itself
and turn the nightmare to a ghost town
nothing more to fight over
an dthen the next religion can shine
After the Occupational Therapist told me I’d never walk again (see my poem “What She Said”); I was in shock, but my being turned to my ballet days to recall when my legs were strong and I immediately wrote this, while listening to The Butterfly Concerto. It is a poem of my courage.
“THE DANCE OF THE BUTTERFLY”
Oh! How she sparkles through her dance!
Tchaikovsky himself gazes from the stage’s wings
Applauding the height and instants of hesitation
Of her punctuating arabesques. He applauds
With his hands in his pockets, tapping the sides
Of his thighs and a tear of appreciation rises
In his eyes. There can be no doubt she has caught
The audience in her fluttering net, in her crossings
Of the stage so carried by the violin’s sweeps
Of the scales and the flute’s endearing notes
Of imitating a breeze-buoying flight.
But it is the ballerina herself who sets the gold
To crown his composed inspiration as she
Performs a pas de deux with his concerto!
The violin marks each pointe set to her chines.
The orchestra is a narrative riding her eclipses
Of beauty. The timpani exclaims her leaps.
With port de bras, from bow to extending reach,
Her arms become marigold wings...and
Her elan lifts her heart to address the stars.
The young girl, with her head above, yet sunken into,
The soft, cloud-like folds of her pillow, listens
To the riveting Butterfly Concerto sound up
Through the foam of her pillow
(Where her radio will not bother her parents)
...And her shoulders
Slightly rise with each crescendo. She inhales
At the peak of every releve, and, with a lifting of
Arms to barely cross above her head —
In elegant elan — before a rapid circling of the stage.
The music’s tempo mounts to conclusion. She
Takes an instant to feel she is performing her
Best...Surely, oh, surely,
Tchaikovsky, stands rapt
Aside the curtain wings, applauding.
**********************************
by sally Young eslinger 8/25/2020
Thanks be to God!
The moon shone on the water
Dyed ochre by the iron mines.
Centuries of men have toiled
In trenches and in chines.
Carving through the sheer rock face
To tunnel under hills
Canals to link the land of wealth
To the cities of the mills.
Airless channels deep below
While all above is calm
And death could be a breath away
Placed in the way of harm.
Pick and shovel toiled away
Through millstone grit and stone
Canals for coal to fuel the kilns
Firing plates for every home.
And now two hundred years or more
Have passed and times have altered
For Instead of barges lain with coke
Are cruisers strewn with boaters.
The working boats have been replaced
By holidaymakers vessels
And the tunnel stands as testament
To the stone masons true mettle.
A Bus Ride
I took the bus into town today its passengers were
mostly elderly, old women and generally fat as women
of the land tend to be, busy feeding the family they
spend too much time in the kitchen yes, I was the oldest
but would not like to have slept with any of them
and according to their lack of interest in me, it was mutual.
That is ok; they are good at putting flowers on graves.
I was not buying much just wanted to get out of the house
I will be moving there it`s good to know where the cheapest
lunch cafes are situated, that`s where the Portuguese
bank staff and workers go both groups are equally bad paid.
Going home three hours later the same women on board they
were animated had bought skirts, blouses, and shoes at
the Chines shop less than half the price of ordinary shops
theirs had been a good day.
Crabby morning
He looked down into the toilet bowl
had shat and flushed, 80-year-old going to waste
down a drain and into the sea.
70 years ago when he lived on a farm human and
Animal waste was used as a fertiliser the waste had
been useful potatoes grew big as did cabbages.
He had read the Chines collected stuff dried it and
Made it into powder and sold for strawberry farmers.
He had a shower and shaved, used proper blades
no electric shaver for him, he hadn`t drunk coffee
yet and was cranky.
The days of thunder sometimes i wonder, is life going to take me under, the thunder brangs the rain full of drastic pain, for a plastic brain, my head feels empty to simply apply my mind with emotions to follow my heart with devotion. My life in motion where it can't stop i listen to hip hop to get drunk and then flop the music in life stops, only to be alert this guy is a jerk, he's rich with perks his old lady always flirt, to tell him that his feelings gone get hurt, was her love well worth it. The days of thunder can speak chines only to speak to me, how would it be, if my destiny was dead, took to shots to the head now he's in jail, oh well he was too drunk to spell his name his mind of flames can't be tamed he is looking for fame, his life in pain to drank some liquor to figure his way out of debt, he always made bets, i am surprised he's not dead yet. No need to sweat, we got what's next a ship full cash just crashed on a jet, lets catch a ride to go to the crash site, the night is our night, to make things right so we can afford the night life, that comes with a price not nothing nice, aii the time to be in a fight for the light of the night. The days of thunder when it always storm the night is early i am just getting warm, here comes the storm blowing through the door give me a couple of shots with a lot of beer, everybody cheers, as they feel out of their chairs, no one cares only to stare a beautiful woman to spare, i am up in the sky playing with thunder, this drank is going to take me under the moon, i am going to pass out soon, like a flat balloon. The days of thunder as i am getting old, as time pass by the party days i sold.
A Picture 1960
In the sepia light, a thin man, dressed in a generous grey suit,
stands reading titles outside a bookshop, in a London street.
A woman, in a long black dress, white blues and flat, sensible shoes,
walks up and taps him on his shoulder.
They briefly kiss walk off I wondered if they were long time married
or discreet English lovers on their lunch break.
I took a picture of them walking down a tired street went
into a Chines, so I knew they were minion on a lunch break.
A pity really they were important people writing in a ledger
they were the middle classes of their days, respectable.
They took years writing data we find in seconds on google
but when the internet fails we have to start history from 1950.
The gush
The moon is full not completely round
but elongated and so near I can almost touch it.
A pity the moon only reflects the sun
it diminishes it somehow.
The Chines planted apple trees at the back
of the moon
if they bear fruit, it will be bitter and never harvested
it will cost too much to pick them.
The apples will fall by themselves
down to earth like bitter tears
this should teach us not to tamper with nature
it will take 154 years before a moon like this reappears
Food Revolution in England
That was what a middle-class paper wrote
and it could not be more wrong.
To eat this esoteric food, you need a thick wallet.
most people in England are poor and since
the food industry has taken over
People, eat pizza, fish and chips and occasionally a Chines meal of chicken and rice.
They have unlearned how to cook a nourishing simple meal.
Yes, we need a deep social revolution.
The paper in question “the Guardian” appear not to notice
the rampant poverty we live in,
Instead, they talk about luxury restaurants where you need a workman´s wage to enter.
To write this article is fraudulent, pandering to the haves
and poking their noses at the hungry in the street.
The water well
There is near the houses a deep well
you can´t stick a bucket on a rope many ropes are needed.
They used to hire a man usually the village idiot
to spend his life hauling up buckets of water.
Villagers believed the water came from the Yanjing river
A man who had gone to school disagreed; it is a deep
underground river, he said. For this, he was disliked.
One day he fell down the well, but since it was not
manmade and smooth a big stone sticking out saved him
from falling all the way down.
Broke his leg in the fall, he did.
With a dangling leg he had to claw himself up, however
they gave him water to drink, his struggle made him thirsty.
When he got out, he spoke a strange language
the villagers, thought was Chines, it never struck them
he was stark raving mad.
Now, an electric pump was installed, they saw him limping
out of the village talking gibberish.