Best Lino Poems
I was four when I partied like it was 1999.
Didn’t know what Y2K meant—
thought it was a new kind of Ribena.
Mom said the world might end,
so we had fish fingers and Angel Delight
like it was our last supper.
She danced in the kitchen—
hip in one hand, remote in the other—
Prince on the telly,
sky outside grey as school uniform.
She said,
“If the world’s going to blow, we might as well boogie.”
So I did—
in jelly sandals,
on sticky lino,
thinking bombs were just what happened in cartoons.
The grown-ups were worried about computers—
I was worried about monsters under the bed.
Same thing, really.
I built bunkers from sofa cushions.
Told my teddies we’d be safe.
Asked Mom if I could stay up ‘til midnight
to see the sky explode.
She let me—
even though it didn’t.
Instead, we counted down
with paper hats, party poppers,
and a bowl of Wotsits big enough
to survive the apocalypse.
Prince said life was a party.
Mom made it gospel—
taught me the sacredness of silliness.
She sang with her eyes closed,
as if she could out-sing war.
As if dancing could un-plug the world’s doom switch.
And maybe it could.
There was a lion in her pocket too—
fierce in her softness,
roaring through a tinny tape deck.
She had a knowing in her sway,
like she understood what purple skies meant
long before I did.
Now I’m older,
and every headline feels like a countdown.
Still, I keep Ribena in the fridge
for emergencies.
Still, I dance—
barefoot on carpet,
arms full of invisible glitter,
like I’m four again
and nothing bad can touch me
while the music plays.
If the world ends again,
I’ll dance.
I’ll think of Mom.
I’ll play that song—
loud enough to shake the windows
and remind the sky
that we were here,
dancing,
as if forever still mattered.
Continuation from previous poem
We reached the footer of a castle steep,
Seven times by walls encircled very tall,
Defended by a river hard to leap.
We overpassed it as hard ground at all;
Through seven doors I entered with these wise:
We reached a fresh green lawn nice to enthrall.
There were people with old and severe eyes
Whose appearance exuded mighty guide:
They seldom spoke, had voices with sweet rise.
We were turned out then walking far outside,
In open terrain, tall and full of light,
Such as the view of all was just implied.
There straight on, staying over the green bright,
The wonderful souls I was clearly shown
That seeing them in me I feel delight.
I saw Elettra with mates not alone,
Hector and Aeneas were there,
Caesar armed, with eyes of rapacious tone.
I saw Camilla and Pantasilea in pair;
On other side I saw the Latin king
With child Lavinia sat on a chair.
Bruto who Tarquinio pushed out bring,
Lucrets, July, Marsia and Cornelia;
And saw Saladin to solitude cling.
After I elevated a bit more my cilia
I saw sat the master and those who know
Philosophers’ memorabilia.
All him admire, just all is honor grow:
I then saw Socratis and Plato here,
Who well closer to him than others stow;
Democritus, whose world is random mere,
Diogenes, Anaxogoras and Thales then
Empedocles, Heraclitus , Zenon were;
And the good collector I saw when
Dioscoris was; and Orpheus I saw,
Tulio, Lino , Seneca moral been;
Euclid geometric, Ptolemy raw,
Hippocrat, Avicen, Galien too,
Averois, who the great comment foresaw.
I cannot fully tell of all just through,
But the full theme is pushing me so long,
That many times my word becomes not true.
The group of six is now of two less strong:
Another way is choosing my guide bright
Out of the quiet air, to trembling wrong.
And I am going where there is no light.
I remember living in one room dingy and dire
with old lino on its rotting wooden floor.
I remember crystallised spit dangling from guard at the fire;
as mother cleaned, he'd only honk the more.
I recall how we went hungry, waiting for the paltry sum
he allowed us for board and keep, the cheap fink,
and how he served apprenticeship to becoming a true bum
by treating as priorities his fags and drink.
I remember all the rows he caused demanding back the cash
which was supposed to feed and clothe his we’ans
I remember every Christmas morn' the gifts received were trash
because he'd pissed the present-money down the drain.
I recall one awful night my mother hunting high and low
with a hungry bedraggled child on either hand,
she finally catching that boozy stinker sate in the Dungloe.
How he fumed, outraged that food she dared demand.
I remember his begrudgement of those sparse few days away–
one hour upon the beach or at the fair:
how just when we were relaxing would be dragged from play.
Homeward-bound: him the ‘bookies', us despair.
I remember trudging up to Creggan to the ‘Housing Place'
every week with mother and sister, come rain or hail,
and how that worthless, selfish, monster did not even have the grace
to commend her dedication, instead railed.
I can picture his expression when she got herself a job,
determined not to lose her new clean home.
I remember his wild tantrums when she'd saved up for a hob–
the delivery man was perplexed at oral foam.
I remember those miserable times as if they were today,
how he made odd help with homework living hell–
so that now a friend's assistance, however gracefully
put, grates my tortured psyche so much I cannot tell.
When we started working, my sister dear and I,
it seemed for him a licence to give less.
Many weeks he'd keep house-money and, as the months went by,
we discovered he'd drunk the rent; that was a mess.
So now sot has retired, and it seems his mind has gone–
for he's telling all how great he was those years:
he built house on the prairie. He was such a con:
the only thing he constructed was a legacy of fear.
(Sundays)
Each street sounded of
Lawn mowers, laughter, bicycles and bells
The odd car being revved up
And oh my! The heavenly smells
Each towns aroma was roast beef
Gravy and yorkie puds
When hungry tummies with baited breaths
Sneaked to the shops for sweets and other forbidden goods
Latch dogs roamed free in packs or joined in with us kids
Depositing delights, creating awful smelly skids
Ken Dod and his Diddy men, duster in his hand
'isn't it a nice day!' as he skipped through Diddy land
'eat up all your Brussels now!'
What a ruddy shame
That dog hates them as much as me
Traitor! Should be his name
Sneak off down the brick fields for some fun a fight or swim
Come home filthy and lie
About 'where on earth you've been?'
Four in a bath to stew and wash each others backs
Waters at a shortage now, unlike the dreaded smacks
Off to bed cross Lino floor to reach the bottom bunk
Can't wait to grow up now
And be a rebellious punk
I remember the smell of the polish
The hissing of steam from the pots
The songs on the radio playing
And my nose dripping with snot
Mum would grab me and wipe it
With a dexterity practised before
Leaving my nose like a beacon
Me screeching as I went out the door
My older sisters were singing
As they , the house chores fulfilled
The sun cut a beam through the window
And there on the Lino it spilled
Dust particles in its light they floated
Not seen when its power was gone
Yet they danced to the radio music
As the sun through the window it shone
These days are now but a memory
But oh what a treasure they are
Nothing I have can replace them
Neither jewel nor silver nor car
A sign saying “Mr Elaborate lives here”,
Covered the decrepit wooden door.
It was written in Gothic, on an old piece of black lino,
Ripped up from the floor.
He’d lived there all our lives in that crippled little house with
Black windows, tall steps and grey walls.
Inside he toiled making elaborate things,
Like the dinosaur from balloons sized golf balls.
Its teeth were white, with the deepest blue eyes,and
Grey arms and legs, a spotty sort of back.
Elaborate mechanics made it move,
And you’d swear it saw you as a snack.
Or the elaborate chocolate ice cream making machine,
It made ice cream from thin air.
It worked in the middle of summer without any batteries,
It made ice cream everywhere.
His last elaborate project was some sort of
Whiz bang time travelling piece of machine.
We haven’t heard from him for a week now,
No one knows where he is, he just hasn’t been seen.
A sight that pricks the heart like a pin, deflating it
Happiness gushing out to leave a melancholy horror
Which lingers longer like the blood in the tube
They have wrenched into your tiny vein,
Crude and cruel-looking, too big
As is the white band hung loosely round your wrist.
How did you get here again?
I try to give you a hug, but am too conscious of your arm,
Not wanting to knock the needle
Scratching at the surface of what went wrong,
Gazing at the scuffed lino when I can't quite manage
To look into your sad beautiful eyes.
You shouldn't be here, in this sterile room
And the too-big bed, clothes neatly folded inside carrier bags
Packed with compensatory guilt and recognition
Of the fact that it is too late.
You are probably more intelligent than the nurses,
But are reduced to this tiny vulnerable being,
Picking at the stitches on Mr. Ted, your ever-faithful ally.
I feel like crying, though I'm the one who has it easy -
The thought of you here alone with that awful thing
Stuck into your arm, framed by pointy elbows.
I want to explain how much I love you, but all
Words fail - I think the words ran out a long time ago;
You have heard it before, though I still want to talk for hours.
A sad scene: two girls bought together by the very thing
That is tearing them apart.
A flea in a bag is not akin to a farmers market on a window sill but wide angled mirrors breathe many a basket bomb into a woven template if a footstool. Perching by a bathroom crevasse one ponders the many insecurities of a passing flying snail. For to shell is not to show. And shelter is decorated in a mindfully placed swirl. Bracket not a bucket. And brake no gear. It is an impossible wonder of a mile long coin that enters the golden highway at a junction aforementioned in a style magazine. Oh fabulous the floors will be nice and clean today for the mops are arriving in great multitude on many landing strips of lino,carpet, and laminate flooring too. A pretty cat sighs. For intrusive interrupted snoozing is not pleasant for a snoring meow. But mowing an eleven acre lawn is best performed with a five centimetre pair of scissors. Hahahahah silvery shrouds seeking secrecy hahahahaha moon painted boil xxxxx fastidiousness Z
I reminisce I miss
winter mornings waking up;
ice on windows
inside;
creating patterns;
ferns and trees
freshly etched works of art
on panes of glass.
The vapor of my breathing
showing in the cold air.
Reaching out,
touching curtains;
the room so cold, so damp,
that they were frozen;
like cardboard replicas of curtains.
A desperate dash
Down a dark, cold corridor
to the bathroom:
bare feet against the frigid lino floor
bracing; as my bottom lands
on ice-cold plastic seat.
Later, the morning ritual;
the lighting of the lonely fire that heats the home.
Rolled up newspaper kindling
striving to spark life
into resisting lumps
of damp black rock.
Briefly, the fire would roar,
only to subside;
and roar, subside, and roar again,
then; signs of life;
flames licking at the edges of the coal,
taking hold;
allowing gradual warmth
to permeate at least one room
of our damp, desolate house.
A gust of wind
down the chimney
fills the room with acrid smoke
competing
with mother's first cigarette of the day.
Do
I reminisce I miss?
I REMINISCE I MISS Poetry Contest, placed 2nd
Sponsored by: James Edward Lee Sr.
Date wrote: 10-04-2021
Despite my complaints there was some merit
In being sent away to my uncles farm
Summers of drudgery, begun with play
First night the pungent grass under the due
Excited me. A clean day to explore!
The cattle, oldest friends from last summer
Swank and Shep who still obeyed our commands!
Might we see the Apaches in the hills?
Weeks passed in the kitchen, the clock ticking
Uncle puffed his pipe and I paced the floor
I sang, ‘I wanna go home’. Uncle smiled
‘Their two hardy chaps’, the neighbour would say
‘And tomorrow we’ll be thinning turnips’
Uncle laughed as he spat on the lino.
Fido
I took Fido out for a walk
I knew that the neighbours would talk
His ears stood up proud
His breathing was loud
And his teeth were like big lumps of chalk
I bought Fido only last week
From a bloke I met down by the creek
Although he's quite massive
He’s ever so passive
And even with cats he’s quite meek
I tied him up outside a shop
He got in a bit of a strop
He pulled on his rope
The shop couldn’t cope
And collapsed on an off duty cop
I walked Fido down past the school
Why are kids always so cruel
One dunderhead chided
‘That thing should be rided’
You can’t educate a damned fool
We called on the mother in law
He piddled all over her floor
She mopped up her Lino
Said, ‘There’s one thing I know,
A dairy cow couldn’t pee more.’
I left feeling guilty of course
Saying Fido was full of remorse
‘Fido!’ She said,
‘You’ve been misled,’
And, ‘That’s a strange name for a horse.’
Ben,our springer,brown & white
Was our teen-daughter's delight;
Bred by the famous Shand-Kydd
Causing us to part with fifty quid.
He soon grew,chewing lino & chairs
Forever racing up our stairs;
We'd no idea what he would become
This stress-filled harum-scarum.
A sporting dog,much too inbred
So to the vet,our footsteps led;
A day so filled with tears,
Engraved upon all our yesteryears.
Ben,our springer,brown & white
Was our teen-daughter's delight;
Bred by the famous Shand-Kydd
Causing us to part with fifty quid.
He soon grew,chewing lino & chairs
Forever racing up our stairs;
We'd no idea what he would become
This stress-filled harum-scarum.
A sporting dog,much too inbred
So to the vet,our footsteps led;
A day so filled with tears,
Engraved upon all our yesteryears.
Soon, we were given Bess
Collie-cross,black & white,no less;
Perfect in temperament,ready to please
Walking her,my mind at ease.
Each night to her bean bag she crept
In the kitchen , cosy,she slept;
Welcomed all with wagging tail
Without faults,she could not fail.
A pet no one would ever trade
Her memory now in cross-stitch made;
Loyalty of the lasting,loving kind
No replacement,were we to find.
A pet no one would ever trade
Her memory now in cross-stitch made;
Loyalty of the lasting,loving kind
No replacement,were we to find.
My painting of these two characters who will foever
live in our family's heart can be seen at my retospectives link
http://poiema2.blogspot.com/ AFTER GEORGE
Dino walks on the lino with a cat for a hat
A collar for colour and leash for pastiche
With a tale in his tail as he jiggles and wiggles
The flag half white with delight and bright as the light
Green shadows for meadows and jolly as jelly
The grand creature roars extra on demand as a feature
‘I am the Lord in the fort and mojo of play dough
Patrician magician and seal your appeal
Applause from my paws will guard in the land of the bard’
Dino looks like a rhino or bear in despair
A clown with a crown or ovoid on steroids
Mussel with tussles or dragon that fell of the waggon
‘When I’m older and bolder my fire won’t tire
Blow fumes in my plumes and breathe off at ease
Enlarge small into tall protect Daddy from baddies’
‘The rhyme is past bedtime one last lullaby sweetie pie
Happy dreams no monster screams rest snug little slug’
‘Love you Daddy Paddy let’s have dinosaur scales for breakfast in Wales’
16th June 2019
(The Welsh Flag is a red dragon on a half green and half white background)
Convalesced amongst peaks and valleys,
Verdant and undulating over Afon Ebwy,
I paid my way through the colliery
With but a baker's dozen of years behind me.
Seduced by the hanging-left red scare,
I rejected ancient teachings and scripture
For a life of advocacy, plagued with
This body, my ever-failing vessel.
Conscribed to compulsory service,
My anatomy owned by some Great War,
Though my eyes could not be stilled
And danced their way through court-martial.
My name was tarred with a rebel’s brush,
My voice a stunted stammer in the crowd,
Drowned out by ferocious, roaring, howling
Sounds of male anguish.
“Ess, ess, ess” gave way to smooth sibilance,
And the hum of “muh” became thunderous.
“That is my truth! Now, what is yours?”
Words now etched into history’s pages.
I entered this life mute and timorous;
But I left it an orator for the ages,
My legacy of community care now tarnished
By bad legislation and worker exploitation.
The birthplace of my political opus
Is now nothing more than a building
Of sterile beds, and ghosts of a bright past
Floating aimlessly along lino corridors.
It is not this future that I’d foreseen,
The soul of Park frozen in eternal cold.
Is this what became of my life’s work
When I stuffed their mouths with gold?