untitled poem
by Javascript
The future is lying 6fit beneath me
I have learnt to morn people while they are still
Alive .as dreams fads into the echoes of our nightmare.
But we still clench the hopes of our tomorrow on our fist and now our hands hold nothing but hopeless dreams
As ashes become the reality of our burnt dreams
As we smock away our dreams
Now the stench of the cigarette smile
Chocks our breath away
Leaving everything but burnt dreams behind
You see my reality is a venom whisper
I want to spite out
Before it kills me.
But someone is holding my
Mouth with a clenched fist
This reality is one were you cant pitch
Awake from.
Branded on our skin like a brill text .
I dont speak from the past
I speak from the present tense.
written by Owen thepoet @Javascript thepoet
In England it is almost twelve o'clock
I just saw Santa Claus in his red smock
He left parcels galore
Outside of my front door
Asked him in, but he said his lips were sore.
I could not wait to stop wearing maternity clothes.
I had been pregnant for 9 months I 1971
and then for another 9 months in 1973.
You can hardly imagine how irritating it was
to see the newest fashions for women in 1974
looked like maternity tops!
That is all they sold in the stores.
The exact kind of smock I had been stuck in
for eighteen months!
Creep, oh centipede!
A malady to my cornea.
Like kernels a decoy
In my Eden realm.
I'm infuriate to civility
Just us serenity intervene.
Serendipity smock my bones
In solitude.
Here it is, your servitude
Of search.
Cucking-stools
A ballad, dating from about 1615, called "The Cucking of a Scold", illustrates the punishment inflicted to women whose behavior made them be identified as "a Scold"
Then was the Scold herself,
In a wheelbarrow brought,
Stripped naked to the smock,
As in that case she ought:
Neats tongues about her neck
Were hung in open show;
And thus unto the cucking stool
This famous scold did go
Dunking or Cucking Stools were used for women who “gossiped”
last used in 1809
Stool of Repentance has a long HISTORY!
Will it make a comeback? Bite your tongues
Now feeling under the weather,
Don't you hate these winter chills?
I'm off to see Doctor Doctor,
To get the latest, greatest pills.
I wait for an hour or more,
Then I'm shown to a vacant room.
I hear screams and now I'm left,
With the sense of impending doom.
Another half hour I sit,
When at last, he comes busting in.
He has blood all over his smock,
And wearing a menacing grin.
After checking my height and weight,
A test dummy is what I am.
Why are you sliding on that glove?
I don't need a rectal exam!
So I jumped right off the table,
And flew like a jet out the door.
A close call as I drove away,
But I don't feel sick anymore.
1950’s poodle skirts made a brief come back.
kids in the eighties thought it was funny, a fact.
my own daughter had some scotty dog clothes too
not knowing they were old, thinking they were new.
I half expect those smock tops of the seventies to return.
and the mushroom kitchen appendages – vases for your fern.
nancy sinatra’s white boots have made a resurgence at school.
they are worn by a teacher who clomps around like a mule.
someone said to me last week “Polyester will never return”.
we had to threaten that material, and finally match it to burn.
it will show up one of these days as a trampoline or something.
nothing is ever new, said the fabric-studying-professor king.
HI STORY of a HILL
They grazed their sheep upon my grass*
So many centuries in the past
In feudal times,a monastery of hope
'Til King Henry divorced the Pope
In later times upon my hill*
They set a smock windmill
As Victoria came on her throne
A brewery made this site its own
Later in more social times, a public bath
In which poor folk cleansed at my hearth
The 'sixties brought a different call
Under an impersonal shopping mall
Change continues on,so persistent
But my soil * stays,omniscient
I shall have you richly prepared
For the notorious life of card:
Have you grasp another life hard,
By far tougher than that of bard;
What one does, all the time on guard;
For steady losses: A Retard.
You’ll figure why saints want it barred
Or with a pen for the same starred...
The music one craves for: Hard rock
But while it plays obeying clock.
Timely entry of phoned cops block;
At the closest road mounted block!
You could do with a screening smock;
Black spectacles for eyes that mock.
Your victors plans to slaughter cock
Not where rivals could their guns cock…
Don’t rule out a “Stand in the dock”
And cash there-from don’t goods stock…
Across the sideways, bronze framed hall mirror,
A ribbon of infrared light imprinted itself,
Like a streak of alien sky;
Hours later, it dimmed and blew out, like an ill-furnished house.
Other reflections crawled across like tarantulas...
Somebody's corduroy acorn brown trouser legs and spotless tapshoes;
Somebody's long-lashed, hazel-ringletted doll; it was wearing a lacy, tulip-embroidered smock with frilled edges, and it was napping in a nook.
One day, somebody slipped-up; their teacup, which had a watercolour lily design, ended-up on the mirror:
The owner of reflections fragmented,
Until it was nothing but a set of chess pieces, cluttering a dustpan.
A crescent of sun splintered the window, targeting the shards in the can like yellow rose hued rainbows.
Men remember the wall clock,
When it is time to doors lock
Or after crows of a cock,
Cocks comparing with a clock...
Some remember hung wall clock
To fast turn up in the dock
And show they can't A Court mock...
One would locks be sparing clock,
Who delays sees as some block,
Sure to be trying a sock
After picked sounds of Tick Tock...
One soon hardens like a rock
From oftenest looks at clock
Before slides into one's smock.
The little wooden horse you gave me, when I
came home from hospital.
I watch you through the window, in your smock, planting
a new garden.
It is hot I know, I never tire watching you do some thing
simple like drinking from a glass that was once dark blue now bleached from the sun, into some thing even more Unusual.
You hang the white smock over the small wooden fence, the
dear will come and eat when you have left.
James McLain
Something about paint
I absolutely adore!~feeling more
fluid-thinking when wearing an
old smock, branded with dashes and
blobs, to my mind each
one a stripe of rank with starry
splashes my medals –
like coral reefs
like florescent algae
a new canvas primed, runny
with liquid motion; I thrust
my igniting brush...somewhat
sad when all is dried and
framed; yet the good ones
remain tacky to the touch,
delightfully smeary to
the eye~like the wetted
hands of children, bringing their
innate patterns into active focus --
I think, when it comes to poetry
the ocean will never be entirely
emptied: what mysterious lyrics
lurk in such black, unrhymed depths –
by the magma-vents, like moths
writers are drawn to eerie glows,
shadowy forms~dauntless, ready to
risk even death for fiery licks
and rapturous cuddles....
As a child I would place my closed eyes
in them
while she hummed Gaelic melodies.
Her smock, it was brown
like a butchers apron
but without a speck of blood,
just daubs of fruit dumplings
and the savor of elderberry flowers.
Grandmother had large hands
working hands,
when they closed
it was as if her story book
had closed
at the end of every day,
and that is how she goes away
always very quietly
at the end of every day.
© 2 days ago
The ocelot wound up the clock
It was the fastest now on our block
The minute hand ran, not a walk
I learned this from a magic beanstalk
‘Twas announced also by barnyard cock
The one who lived south of Little Rock
Sheep all around did flock
Terrific place for a savvy pickpock
Wearing a dress with a special smock
She stole everything from the sheep, a walk…
Clock entered the field with a loud tick tock
New race was announced with streak of chalk
I was there also, wearing a frilly frock
Clock took off at the sound of a Glock
Diary took off next, waving her lock
Door joined the race without a knock
They ran toward town of Woodstock
Clock lost a pound and a red sock
Door won the race which was a shock
At the finish line we all did flock.
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