Best Cockles Poems
Sand laden waves
Pound rich seaweed crusted rocks
Cockles dig deeper
Once pierced by Cupid's arrow,
love's the only thing you feel.
For hope banishes all pain
to the fringes of real.
As euphoria floods in,
sparks spontaneously start.
And a warm sensation stirs;
in the cockles of your heart.
Forged upon desire's anvil,
fantasies burn hot as coal.
And tides of hope ebb and flow,
in a lonely heart and soul.
Freed by the passage of time;
anxieties drift away.
And though love levies a toll,
lonely hearts willingly pay.
Pie and mash, pie and mash
Loads of nosh for not much cash
Warms yer cockles fills you up
Wash it down with a good strong cup
Pour the Sarsons in the pie
Come on fellah don’t be shy
Loads of liquor, lovely stuff
Us cockney lads can’t get enough
It’s Cockney grub for Cockney boys
Come on people make some noise
Forget about those fancy fings
Pie and mash is fit for Kings
So if you want some grub that’s filling
And only costs a coupla shilling
To the pie shop you must dash
Grab yourself some pie and mash
Kiss me
I’m a sucker
For love
Love that
You express with
Your lips
Lips that
Tell me you care
With smiles
Smiles that
Warm my cockles
And eyes
Eyes that
See into my
Deep thoughts
Thoughts of
How you make me
Feel great
Great when
I am around
You babe
Babe how
Very handsome
You are
Are we
Really falling
In love?
Love, I
Cherish that word
Love you
You who
Make my sun rise
Daily
Daily
Thankful for you
For love
© Connie Marcum Wong
For Richard Lamoureux
Mussetle Train - Poetry Contest
Your eyes light my world
touch the cockles of my heart
pulse me with desire.
Your touch makes me want
like a thirst in a desert
quench me with thy lips.
Your lingering scent
Like a spring scented blossom
draws me closer, awwww.
entry for sentimental synru
Linda-Marie sweetheart of P.S. sponsored
When Humanity Cries
Message in my angry pen
Peeps yearning for release
To scrawl on white walls
Venom from a ‘ball’ sting,
Bane in an irate pen
From a daring ken.
I yearn to hug The Hague
With stumps for hands
Which were both chopped
By some idiotic bandit-
He’s on the Court file
I’ve reason to smile!
I’ll murmur woes of war
Into the cockles of its ear
Cut lips the Cross to kiss
Iron taste of cold metal;
Gone past pain of whips
My lip chopped as chips!
I see with my big Heart
Both eyes all gone blind
The sight is that of greed
Where no Civility thrives-
I presume they are stars
O Gosh! They are scars!
Weaklings trampled dead
Line each side of the road
Suppurating in cold dreams
Power of force flying fast,
Right is not so strong
But the strong or wrong.
Modest message peeping
From shadows called Ink
Yearn to release Graphics
Of Humanity crying;
Where Ghandi stood once
His ideals have no chance.
Formation is taking shape
In battle with poetic force
Frenzy poised to pounce
And denounce decadence.
Mother’s loin was torched
As Hiroshima scorched!
My Anger was aroused;
Like tinned fish so packed
And carted away from Home
To work another’s Farm;
Until I learned to read
I loathed this dread!
We cry, cry beloved groin
When another one dies
“He’s taken, taken by AIDS!”
I mourn, I travail, I wish......
Holding a dead child
I cry hoarse and wild!
I whimper like an orphan
Sucking Pen for a thumb
To draw the bitter Ink
And spit to the paedophiles.
Bereaving children fun
Evading his lewd run.
I smoke and sniff this paper
Scrawled this painful writ
That, perchance, putrid lungs
The message will massage.
I yearn for an injection
And not this rejection!
Where then is my mother?
Ah! A Kitchen Girl.......
Father? A Garden Boy
Boy and Girl at their age...?
Now I sleep not a wink
A wretch on the brink....
Ink tears well in my eyes.
I feel I’ve gone shorter
Rolling down the cheek pad
To leave a letter of pain.
I kneel, my sins to bloat
Till knees bald as a goat!
JM
29th Oct’ 2013
Wee Willie Winkie met up with Tom Sprat
To try to find the crooked cat
They employed the help of three blind mice
But then decided that wasn’t nice
So they left the mice with Ol’ King Cole
Who ate curds and whey out of a bowl
That he took from Miss Muffet when she ran away
From the little spider that ruined her day
They went down Drury Lane where they saw the Red Hen
Being questioned by all the Kings Men
About bells and cockles in neat little rows
And who might have taken the emperors clothes
She quickly blamed the Duke of York
Who supposedly took the knife and fork
Just before the cow jumped over the moon
Which is why the dish ran away with the spoon.
Once I was sand dab small
urchin of the tides
shrieking with the gulls
on my blanket of sand
and head high as the waves
I was playmate to the sea
One and one were we
under the clouds of foam . . .
Sand crabs tickled my toddles
The conch sang hushabies of the surf
The horses of the sea
whinnied the tunes
of my periwinkle dreams . . . . . .
Who sells cockles for my suckle?
Who can cuddle stars to sleep?
What Sandman rock-a-byes yesternight’s cradle?
All the sun long day
I melted from green to gold
holding the hand of the sea
for only a rainbow long
and gathering handfuls of mist
I was Captain of the tides . . .
Dolphins dipped to my horn
The turrets of my castles
trembled the wind
The shrill of my whistle
shivered the still
of the serpent’s lair . . . . . .
Who can ride the ebbless tide?
Who can borrow wings from the wind?
What Sandman can cool the burn of my yearnings?
Each stolen night and day
I streaming down the shore
danced the fire dance
in the tongues
of the leaping waves
Neptune strong
Colossus high
I strode the shallow deep
Buccaneer of the boundless main
Captain Hook
of my mussel fleet . . .
The peaks of my mountains
scraped the clouds
The crash of my drumbeats
thundered the sky
The sting of the salty spray
blurred my lordly eyes
Hickory Dickory heedlessly
I waded the Gulliver shore
While sands of the hourglass trails
trickled forever by . . . . . .
Who can caress the foam?
Who can touch nevermore?
What Sandman can dry the tears of the sea?
– Harley White
I stare blankly ahead of me;
stare into the cracked soul of the being who used to reflect a smile
- the girl I used to love unconditionally.
That love evades me now.
Where has it gone?
I search desperately, but I fear it is lost forever
- lost forever in the turbulent streams of my --self--consciousness;
lost in the dark recesses of my mind,
in the shrunken cockles of my heart.
I fear I may never find it.
But surely nothing is ever truly gone;
surely it is simply hiding from me
- playing a twisted game of hide and seek -
or creeping in the shadows of my despair until it is needed again.
I need it now.
Words cannot express how deeply, how utterly, I want to love that person;
to see something of worth or merit in those dark eyes,
to smile back when those pale contours
find their pride again.
But somehow, I just can't see that face the same way.
All I see are lips chapped from saying "no"
- from constantly repenting sins they will soon commit again and again.
All I see are those blank, empty eyes staring back at me
- the cracked soul within beating herself bloody to be freed.
I wish I could see it - I wish I could set that girl free - but somehow I can't find how.
I want to see it again:
the eyes so full of promise and hope that they blossom,
the smile of a girl who knows the world will keep spinning.
the face of a girl who may be chipping away piece by piece, but is still trying.
But you can't see what just isn't there.
I'd like to think that with enough wishing, that face will return;
that somehow the withering girl - bound by her own will - may find the sun again.
That against all odds, the cracks will begin to fade - the splintered child will heal -
and maybe, eventually, time will turn back and her smile will find its way through the pain.
I'd like to think that miracles are a stones-throw away - that all you need is a little bit of pixie dust.
I'd like to believe that love does conquer all - much as the world would like to prove otherwise.
I'd like to believe that, beneath the face of a girl with only bad days left, there hides another girl.
I'd like to believe that inside those soulless eyes,
buried deep within a chasm of depression,
hiding, timid, in the shadows,
there lies another face:
A face that, maybe,
I can love
- or at least smile back at in the mirror.
Pressure all around us governing nature
low means a good chance of violent storms.
Gales blowing the waves into enormous crests
that rush smashing at cliff and the beach.
High signifies good weather and sunshine
that warms our heart cockles with smiles.
Bringing life to our lovely landscape
coating all in a rainbow of gorgeous colour.
In between all can be calm, but take your brolly
least you get drenched in a sudden down pour.
One minute sweating pulling off layers of clothing
the next you are shivering and reaching for a sweater.
Yet it is this very pressure that makes our world
the most beautiful one known in our universe.
From space we show up as a blue world of water
if in a plane mainly a green place with patches.
Vibrant bands of yellow, reds, purples and violets
fill in the patchwork quilts. If we ever lost pressure
our world would completely change maybe even becoming
barren. So I say long, long live pressure even when low.
At Rotterdam in Netherlands
I made plenty of window friends
I could reach out to them
whenever I missed my own
friends and near ones back home.
The window facing the South unfolded
the beautiful, enchanting river Masse.
Its simmering and quivering depths reflected
the multitudenal colours of historic city it nurses.
The bright sunny days with clear blue skies
Were often dotted with jets with gaseous, white, long tails
Criss crossing randomly in all directions
expressing the vastness of freedom and joy.
The golden setting sun
sprinkled the mature shades of
orange and red and yellow
in the reflective silver flows of the Masse,
slowly admitting its failure
to defreeze the lakes and snows around
and to warm up the cockles
of the easterlies which travel
far from Russia on a typical winter day,
before being engulfed by
dark and grey clouds at the horizon
like a surrendering fugitive.
The act of humbleness of the mighty sun
the only energy source of our universe
betrayed the celeberative mood of the city lights
which danced proudly on the flowing waters of Masse at night.
The frame of the window facing the North
helped me rendezvous with few more friends
the historic church there
stood in its monolithic glory
kissing the sky with its long Needle thin tower
its clock religiously reminding us
of the duties that we had to perform,
could not be missed by anyone.
Looking down at the street below
the empty red and yellow trams of RET
curled in sleepily into their shelter
at Strissenburgdwarsstrat
for a well deserved rest
after having served the varied commuters
of the city of Rotterdam.
Not too far in the distance
beyond the red brick and brown brick roofs
and amongst bare trees
I could also spot a wind mill,
its huge wings rotating leisurely
ever challenging the winds to come faster.
From either of the windows
I could let my imagination fly
and accompany the lovely
seabirds to limitless ends
the greyish white winged beauties
were enticed closer to me
when I opened the window panes
with crumbs of bread for them,
thrilling me with their aerobics.
When I came back home from there,
and met my native friends again
I started to miss all these new friends of Rotterdam.
RET: Rotterdam Electric Tram (Rotterdamse Elektrische Tram)
Ah, Winter. You grip tight with your icy fingers
casting the world in throes of frost and snow.
Reluctantly with infinite slowness you let go,
your job now done, hibernation is now over.
With joy, Spring rushes in warming the lands.
All around us are the signs of the new life
with tender buds that slowly unfurl their leaves
bringing a flood of hues of emerald and jades.
Appearing now the bulbs of spring flowers
gay daffodils wave in the gentle breezes.
Whilst the borders now are draped in colour
of other early flowers with roses still to come.
So to Winter we abide adieu with smiles
and let Spring warm the cockles of our hearts.
Birds singing with delight as they busily
collect twigs, new life now in abundance bounds.
Soon fledglings flee the safety of nest
and pretty butterflies flit around flowers.
Winter now fades away in our memories
with open arms Spring herself we embrace.
not for contest just an example of what I am looking for
I can remember the woman wrapped in a black shawl against the wind
Her face wrinkled with age and sorrow
Her bag of cockles held firm – a supper for the family coldly waiting
Hard poverty her story and her plight
We called her ‘Maggie Shawlie’ and thought her strange
She was just part of the story of our town
We did not greet her nor she us – her dignity
Her stance kept her strong – as she gazed at our shop-bought socks
And healthy faces - our assumption of a life she could never have.
She lived in a tiny cottage off just the main street – a hovel
If the truth be known. Her husband died ten years after they were married.
Maggie was left to cope all on her own – grief and sadness
Overtook her - but she was stalwart – all joy gone –
She was determined to survive
I Do Not Know The Secret...,
Asper Art Of Writing Acclaimed Poem...
Not purposeful intent,
when tasking self (Das Scribe)
a nondescript member of
*****sapiens village people tribe
metaphorical spear in hand ready
to unbridal strong arm as vibe
resoundingly resonates, sans
(crackles, snaps, and pops)
optimal instant to expunge bribe
bing fountainhead of creativity
oft times screed or futile diatribe
no matter smug satisfaction appeased
as mental delectation on par with eclair
for taste buds, a reward dare,
I acknowledge mine appealing talent
(undoubtedly a slightly biased opinion)
with fast break for game of Solitaire,
or sink concentration matte tear
real awaiting with bated breath
comments, feedback, input...usually fair
to middling acceptable,
though frequent occasions blare
ring liberal dollop of adulation,
warms hearty cockles of this hermit
comfortably numb in his lair
which decency, humility, modesty...
of mine to avoid trumpeting pomposity
as if yours truly snooty billionaire
keeps in check (ma mate)
cognitive firmae tubby beware
boot up pawn occasion, the errant knight
within me finds ego expanding square
lee out beyond outer limits
of the twilight zone, where
entire cerebral cranium
shatters temple mount scare
ring eureka temporarily
finding me unaware,
viz blinding, deafening, and
obliterating brainstorm spate bare
lee delivering tummy any appreciable,
pronounceable, noticeable... impact
relishing this devil may care
state of being if only...threadbare
tenuous consciousness endured
sustaining oblivious blissfulness
absentmindedness forever delivering cheer
full countenance of mine finding me
unafraid of Virginia Woolf, a bugbear,
and/or he who dons most powerful paw
he can render complex edifice
of democracy to disappear
thus...after shaking wordy playwear
an early plug to vote November 2020
due to here
about nine months and one year.
Over the horizon,
on distant shores
lies my message in a bottle
cast askew on the beach
with other remnant memories
and hopes in tatters scattered
strewn among the drift wood debris
dead soldier memories lying face down
castaway sailor survivor sobs long gone,
in the debris fields of dead memories, silent
On distant shores
turtles hatch
alligators bask in the sun
seagulls argue and caw
fishermen love just being there
stranded cockles ooze under for cover
waves surge up and run out
tides rise and ebb
surfers smile, turn and head back out
ghosts of lovers walk the beach hand in hand
cries of kids playing echo in the splash and hiss of waves
kites ply the skies
pearly shells beckon beach-combers
cuttlefish and seahorse skeletons stark white
buried in the flotsam and jetsam
wood debris worn smooth and bleached
smelly old seaweed dried-out leathery
action aplenty, memorabilia.
On distant shores
the hiss and roar of waves
the glare of the sun
the coming and going of the sand
moved in drifts by wind and wave
drowns out all the memories
cast ashore as debris and litter
on a graveyard shore
where fresh footprints are washed away
where lingering wanderers
see, feel, touch and taste in the moment
but where no one hears
the stories locked away
in the debris fields of dead memories, silent.