Born in a high rise, low mind concrete prison.
Delivered gift wrapped to a predestined repetition.
Bars on doors, on windows and wrapped around my mouth.
The loudness of silence.
Unknown entities draped in faded British bulldogs holding pints and childhoods, one in each hand.
The family men gathered whetting their lips with hops, hurt and hate.
Loose Knuckles and loose lips both sink women, I mean ships.
Warm dead paving, a lifetime of chewed up, spat out offerings littering the estate like a Jackson Pollock altar.
Sacred violence.
The bikes piled up on the green, a can in the spokes, a flame, a bike missing, an R.I.P plaque on a wall.
The smell of BBQs, the feel of brick walls baked from sun and slander, the sound of beatings in the distance, the taste of stolen innocence.
Sirens and sadness - a Somers Town soundtrack, 10 blackjacks, a panda pop, and a boy who didn’t make it home. Another child who died alone.
Will I ever be happy here? Free? A story of redemption?
Escape.
Will I make it or just another obituary from the council estate.
Now that this football season is o’er
And the Bulldogs are champions no more
Still give Kirby a raise
And let’s pray for the days
We’ll play ‘Bama and run up the score
In Spring
In spring water troughs
fart all the
musical notes, butterflies go to
Collage school, four-leaf clovers babysit
bulldogs, placemats collect bits of
string to
make balls, lichen await letters from
royalty all over
the world, sticks go for
runs, not to
lose weight, but just for
fun.
Pups followed her home from this place and that.
She had bulldogs, basset hounds, and puppies so fat.
They followed her inside and lay down on her bed.
The mattress was cozy underneath each little head.
Her almost suiters were astounded to see the scene.
They said, “This is ridiculous!” One sounded quite mean.
You do not understand, she said. Here, I am the queen.
And my love for dogs and puppies is immensely keen.
dogs on vacation filling up the beach with warm barks
dobermans, german shepherds, prissy poodles that cause sparks
husky and rottweiler are sharing a purple lounge chair in the sun
excited corgis begin a volley ball game; this is all kinds of fun!
bulldogs and blue heelers, tripping around in the moist sand.
perky dogs with fluffy tails that are wildly frenzied and fanned.
chihuahuas and yorkies and there is a beagle with a howl.
this would not be the place for a kitten or fowl.
let’s vacation on down to the Vermosa beach
and drink some cold water with slight taste of peach
here comes a striped surfboard and a jet ski too
unhappy mailmen fall from the sky, out of the blue
Can you hear the melody the wind breathes
into the branches brown and green and some black
Its like the familiar noise your nose makes
when you have a cold that whistling so faint
The red blue black birds sing along in formation
They are colorful dots in the sky like music notes
that breeze reads and breathes song of life into
The hills have eyes and can read music too
The grass burnt from summer still has dew and weeds
But my favorite is the dance of the leaves floating
falling to their doom to end up in piles
The red ones they are like fire dancing salsa
The brown ones do a hip hop bop
The green ones do an Irish jig
The tan ones have native American steps
The amber ones wave like fanning geisha dancing
In death all leaves turn black dancing jazz
Orange cat purrs chasing leaves
He also runs from the boisterous bulldogs song
Nature provides them a natural coat
And when it is time even the deer welcome it.
October song is a beautiful sing a long, join in.
OCTOBER POETRY CONTEST SPONSOR Regina McIntosh
10/4/2021
When Lady Gaga's French bulldogs
Stoked half-a-million squealing hogs
The canine corps
Knocked on her door
With countless tails like pollywogs . . . .
Planning requires grit and devotion to succeed,
Does triumph make you shiver down your spine?
Propelling, freed
accomplishment
I fought with more pertinacity than bulldogs.
I cannot help but look at the success,
Does insufficiency make you shiver?
Stigma does not end with lateness or quiver.
Would night demise throw by a droop
Of the early morning shimmer?
Dad geese the goal
setting the path
(Fragmented Verse)
02/25/21
All The Little Pieces Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
barnum would have been proud
bulldogs in too twos
embraces for show
disks and dark booths
raw raws
scaffolding on saxophones
Scotland-yards of curtains
damp mermen
virginia sweet william
and dollar bills in
the greatest broken worth
My View
Of The Political Landscape
Tom
7/6/2019
Intolerant political parties,
Are like Bulldogs in a hay barn;
They don’t consume the hay,
But won’t allow the other to eat it either.
They’re tenacious in spirit,
Busy spinning some favorable yarn,
And the party occupying the White House,
Never seems to get a breather.
REFLECTION IMPERFECTION
Harvest moon’s reflection
Exposing earth’s imperfection
NEWBORN INNOCENCE
Innocent newborn arrives
Pray innocence survives
LONELINESS
People all around
My loneliness abounds
OUCH
Loving my bulldogs
Unlike prickly hedgehogs
NIRVANA
Harry and Meghan
In seventh heaven
FLOWERS
Cutting blooming flowers
Only lasting hours
Contest Brian's Choice 5
Sponsor Brian Strand
3rd Place
We played hide and seek
Running around the park.
And a game called british bulldogs,
It really was a lark.
Then there was scrumping apples
And getting chased off by the man.
How we loved knock and run,
Oh, how fast we ran.
Of course there was footie
Sometimes fifteen a side.
On tv we watched the flintstones,
And laughed until we cried.
The sweetshop sold gobstoppers
Or maybe a sherbet dab,
A shiny stick of liquorice
Or an exciting lucky bag.
Our parents couldn't get us in,
How we loved to play.
There just never seemed to be
Enough hours in the day.
But our kids are technophobes,
They think we're dinosaurs.
Scoffing at our 'good old days'
Thinking we were bores.
I despair at the internet,
Technology, at a cost
Children glued to ipads,
A proper childhood lost.
I can imagine in the future
There's a point our kids will reach,
All contact will be online,
They'll have lost the power of speech.
Fresh air, and playing out
Will seem a relic from the past.
I fear there's no going back,
For the techno die is cast.
Entry for It's The End Of The Forms Series - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Broken Wings
5/10/2017
In late on a late night from a long journey,
Barely in the door
She's telling funny stories of her own misfortunes.
A comedy of errors that harried her homewards.
The young woman who will always be our child
Has the lot of us laughing
When we should be asleep
At things that would've driven others
To fury or despair
But those have no hold on her,
Because bulldogs don't give up -
They just hold on.
So now she's holding on again -
A new grownup
In a too grownup world.
Schooltime over;
Lessons now born from living.
- But that's all right,
Because biting down, holding fast
Is what she does -
She's gonna chew this bone too,
The tough white bone of adulthood,
Down to a pile of fine, digestible dust
She'll make it all her own
The while she works it.
On the lush meadow
Serene ostrichs rest
Towering it with vigilance
Rheas they seem from distance
Indulging in sweet silence
Counting evey single chick
Huddled under their wide wings
Abdicating as everyone learns survival
Nurturing them with keenness
Demolishing parental worries
Warning them of stinging wasps
Always looking for new victims
Surrounding them with loud buzzing
Pugnacious and vicious as bulldogs
slayers they surely are
love the S.E.C.
gators,bulldogs and gamecocks
rebels,crimson tide
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