Submissions by oldgolfer
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
I've been writing poetry for about four years, and prefer poems about people and places more than feelings.
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
10th May 2019 2:46am
10th May 2019 2:46am
A Flower Out of Season
We waited for the winter;
drove an axe to wood’s heart,
scrubbed the lichen off a southern wall
An azalea holds a tiny yellow head high,
just as in spring;
a tomato, still, is trying to ripen,
potatoes, straggly now
hold up a green flag
One day soon we will sense the change -
a calm, a coolness
Then the black cloud will unroll from the south
What hope then, for a flower out of season?
drove an axe to wood’s heart,
scrubbed the lichen off a southern wall
An azalea holds a tiny yellow head high,
just as in spring;
a tomato, still, is trying to ripen,
potatoes, straggly now
hold up a green flag
One day soon we will sense the change -
a calm, a coolness
Then the black cloud will unroll from the south
What hope then, for a flower out of season?
#nature
289 reads
2 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
9th May 2019 1:38am
9th May 2019 1:38am
Harbour's Roll
Streets of stone and slap of sea,
rising prow, deep dip of oar
The harbour is waking, rolling
A fine fog slides up Tyne and Tees
Call at the inn, the beer's dark and deep,
the streets shiny slick
The step's hollow is hobnail ground
A hand-cart rattles, a boy calls
Sails fill, ropes flick
Step lively, men
We sail at noon
rising prow, deep dip of oar
The harbour is waking, rolling
A fine fog slides up Tyne and Tees
Call at the inn, the beer's dark and deep,
the streets shiny slick
The step's hollow is hobnail ground
A hand-cart rattles, a boy calls
Sails fill, ropes flick
Step lively, men
We sail at noon
#sea
352 reads
3 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
7th May 2019 5:26am
7th May 2019 5:26am
Mr Elling's High Note
Mr Elling's suit
seems right;
an elegance
It fits his
sweet rising notes
He is from Chicago
but does need
steel at his hip
His voice
is lethal
Each note
a threat
to your view
that the last
was the best;
each song
a waltz,
an emotion
Sometimes,
it is almost
too much
Then it is
seems right;
an elegance
It fits his
sweet rising notes
He is from Chicago
but does need
steel at his hip
His voice
is lethal
Each note
a threat
to your view
that the last
was the best;
each song
a waltz,
an emotion
Sometimes,
it is almost
too much
Then it is
#inspirational
#admiration
367 reads
1 Comment
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
6th May 2019 11:18pm
6th May 2019 11:18pm
An Old Man's Weather
The old man’s flat check cap
did little to hide life’s creases
He spoke of the weather,
how it stole life from crops,
broke a man’s spirit
He knelt in the grey soil,
pulled at it with bent hands
The dirt blew away
It’s a right bugger, he said
He pointed to a scarf of cloud
hugging the hills
A good sign for rain , he said
That, and an aching knee
did little to hide life’s creases
He spoke of the weather,
how it stole life from crops,
broke a man’s spirit
He knelt in the grey soil,
pulled at it with bent hands
The dirt blew away
It’s a right bugger, he said
He pointed to a scarf of cloud
hugging the hills
A good sign for rain , he said
That, and an aching knee
#rain
337 reads
3 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
20th Nov 2018 11:54pm
20th Nov 2018 11:54pm
Some Days It Is Too Much
Sometimes, it is too much.
Why is that I didn’t cry
when my parents were lowered into the ground,
but the smallest thing, now, makes me weep?
Why is it, when I close my eyes,
I am urged forward, drawn
to another place?
I am worried where that place might be.
There is floating, then a sense of being lifted.
Forward.
To a new place.
The only way out is force of will.
Some mornings,
I want only to cry –
Until it is all gone.
All the stuff I can’t explain.
The stuff that sits on your soul. ...
Why is that I didn’t cry
when my parents were lowered into the ground,
but the smallest thing, now, makes me weep?
Why is it, when I close my eyes,
I am urged forward, drawn
to another place?
I am worried where that place might be.
There is floating, then a sense of being lifted.
Forward.
To a new place.
The only way out is force of will.
Some mornings,
I want only to cry –
Until it is all gone.
All the stuff I can’t explain.
The stuff that sits on your soul. ...
#grief
345 reads
6 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
19th Nov 2018 9:54pm
19th Nov 2018 9:54pm
She Leaves Her Boots At The Door
There she is now, out in the cold.
Her old coat buttoned to the chin,
sinewy hand on the metal pail.
The weight draws her to the left.
It is though she has always walked that way.
Her hands are large and leathered.
Work fit, they say in these parts.
You have to be up early to beat her to graft.
She carries the pig swill;
grain for all her chickens.
Everything has a purpose, a reason.
Her boots suck in the dark ground.
There is no sun here; just drudge’s shadow.
Her face is locked in resignation.
This is her, beyond her...
Her old coat buttoned to the chin,
sinewy hand on the metal pail.
The weight draws her to the left.
It is though she has always walked that way.
Her hands are large and leathered.
Work fit, they say in these parts.
You have to be up early to beat her to graft.
She carries the pig swill;
grain for all her chickens.
Everything has a purpose, a reason.
Her boots suck in the dark ground.
There is no sun here; just drudge’s shadow.
Her face is locked in resignation.
This is her, beyond her...
#LifeStruggles
326 reads
0 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
13th Nov 2018 10:08pm
13th Nov 2018 10:08pm
One Of Those Days
Some days it’s toast and jam,
cream on the porridge.
Today is not like that.
It is one of those days:
the butter is too hard to scrape;
there is a funny light;
you fall over the dog.
It is a day when you age:
a weariness sits on your soul.
So here we are, barely 10
and I’m drowning in self-pity
and the cloud will not lift.
There is nothing else for it:
I’m going to go outside and shout -
Get fucked all you fuckin’ fuckers
cream on the porridge.
Today is not like that.
It is one of those days:
the butter is too hard to scrape;
there is a funny light;
you fall over the dog.
It is a day when you age:
a weariness sits on your soul.
So here we are, barely 10
and I’m drowning in self-pity
and the cloud will not lift.
There is nothing else for it:
I’m going to go outside and shout -
Get fucked all you fuckin’ fuckers
#anger
#frustration
#despair
#disappointment
#emptiness
372 reads
5 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
12th Nov 2018 9:45pm
12th Nov 2018 9:45pm
Thunder On The Line
He works alone now,
hands puffed and slow.
He stands rod-stiff,
trousers buckling at the hem.
He is at the carriage,
unlocking its secrets.
It is old as he
and out of service.
Here, they judge him well;
he lent a hand when no-one would.
His pals were there, too -
and just as age-worn.
This is their life now:
fixing the track, polishing the brass.
They love steam’s power,
to hear thunder on the line.
hands puffed and slow.
He stands rod-stiff,
trousers buckling at the hem.
He is at the carriage,
unlocking its secrets.
It is old as he
and out of service.
Here, they judge him well;
he lent a hand when no-one would.
His pals were there, too -
and just as age-worn.
This is their life now:
fixing the track, polishing the brass.
They love steam’s power,
to hear thunder on the line.
#passion
341 reads
2 Comments
DRUGS POEM
Published
12th Nov 2018 4:10am
12th Nov 2018 4:10am
A Febrile Mind
Shaking hands
won’t tell a febrile mind
that enough is enough.
So load up for old time’s sake.
Join me is a session
where I laugh.
Cry.
Carouse.
Careen.
Isn’t it sad
when one is never enough;
when 10 is just the beginning,
when the means justifies the end.
There is always an excuse
for another round.
You remember the times
you fell – well.
You saw the scars,
felt the convulsion.
Knew the wallet was empty.
The heart barren.
All that is left is
good intentions.
You know the...
won’t tell a febrile mind
that enough is enough.
So load up for old time’s sake.
Join me is a session
where I laugh.
Cry.
Carouse.
Careen.
Isn’t it sad
when one is never enough;
when 10 is just the beginning,
when the means justifies the end.
There is always an excuse
for another round.
You remember the times
you fell – well.
You saw the scars,
felt the convulsion.
Knew the wallet was empty.
The heart barren.
All that is left is
good intentions.
You know the...
#addiction
625 reads
3 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
11th Nov 2018 10:17pm
11th Nov 2018 10:17pm
A Port Calls
The town here has its back to the sea.
Giant red-brick walls rise as ramparts,
yet the cliffs nearby are crumbling clay.
A walkway darts at angles.
Seamen walk here, and hookers,
and those whose joy is swell and salt.
Along the quay stood the arcade.
Its shiny machines had steel balls
that danced and clanged
and all for a penny.
The business names on the walls
have faded; so too the businesses.
Port towns have their own charms,
and it is nothing to do with commerce.
Giant red-brick walls rise as ramparts,
yet the cliffs nearby are crumbling clay.
A walkway darts at angles.
Seamen walk here, and hookers,
and those whose joy is swell and salt.
Along the quay stood the arcade.
Its shiny machines had steel balls
that danced and clanged
and all for a penny.
The business names on the walls
have faded; so too the businesses.
Port towns have their own charms,
and it is nothing to do with commerce.
#sea
334 reads
0 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
11th Nov 2018 8:03pm
11th Nov 2018 8:03pm
A New Day
A sun of flaming red
aches for day,
slides up to blind
the weary travellers;
they do not see
the unfolding mist
hide the nakedness
of bony-black trees;
missed the slinking moon,
dusty light's first
swooning touch.
aches for day,
slides up to blind
the weary travellers;
they do not see
the unfolding mist
hide the nakedness
of bony-black trees;
missed the slinking moon,
dusty light's first
swooning touch.
#nature
382 reads
0 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
8th Nov 2018 1:41am
8th Nov 2018 1:41am
An Old Man Settles In
The cottage stands alone.
Its veranda posts are askew,
the hand-swan walls buckled.
At its heart is a coal-range.
Its wooden floor is shiny with wear.
At night the old farmer comes in alone.
He lights the range with sticks and his gut with liquor.
Sometimes there is more of the latter.
He flings open the range door and eases his feet in.
There is no food.
No music.
No wife.
As the heat trickles out, he listens to the night:
the wind in the grass, the swoop of a bird.
Sometimes, the scratch of a possum.
He hears his...
Its veranda posts are askew,
the hand-swan walls buckled.
At its heart is a coal-range.
Its wooden floor is shiny with wear.
At night the old farmer comes in alone.
He lights the range with sticks and his gut with liquor.
Sometimes there is more of the latter.
He flings open the range door and eases his feet in.
There is no food.
No music.
No wife.
As the heat trickles out, he listens to the night:
the wind in the grass, the swoop of a bird.
Sometimes, the scratch of a possum.
He hears his...
#freedom
362 reads
4 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by oldgolfer
