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.
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
6th Nov 2018 11:35pm
6th Nov 2018 11:35pm
The War Hero, The Forgotten
Was he cold as life left?
The blanket was scant
drawn as it was
to the knee.
The window was open,
to let in South’s breath.
They are all here:
the Forgotten:
the war hero,
his mind in the Spitfire,
raking fire up the line,
teeth set in a blazing low run.
And our man,
propped for visitors
when he wished only to die.
All he had was thought;
the pastures of spring,
the arc of his existence;
what they might say
when his window closed.
The blanket was scant
drawn as it was
to the knee.
The window was open,
to let in South’s breath.
They are all here:
the Forgotten:
the war hero,
his mind in the Spitfire,
raking fire up the line,
teeth set in a blazing low run.
And our man,
propped for visitors
when he wished only to die.
All he had was thought;
the pastures of spring,
the arc of his existence;
what they might say
when his window closed.
#loneliness
372 reads
4 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
6th Nov 2018 3:24am
6th Nov 2018 3:24am
I Tried To Catch Her Eye
The train makes her hair quiver.
The fields, through the window,
are blurry green, slides studded with stock.
She has a calico shoulder bag. It looks like books;
spines sticking out
The fields give way to houses; squat blobs
and grey roofs and old cars dying on their backs.
I tried to catch her eye.
She turns away.
The station buildings hunch over the platform’s endless grey.
She turns and the sun makes diamonds in her hair.
The train never stops.
It rolls through the night, my sleep, my...
The fields, through the window,
are blurry green, slides studded with stock.
She has a calico shoulder bag. It looks like books;
spines sticking out
The fields give way to houses; squat blobs
and grey roofs and old cars dying on their backs.
I tried to catch her eye.
She turns away.
The station buildings hunch over the platform’s endless grey.
She turns and the sun makes diamonds in her hair.
The train never stops.
It rolls through the night, my sleep, my...
#love
420 reads
2 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
5th Nov 2018 10:13pm
5th Nov 2018 10:13pm
A Good bastard
One man has a burnt face and a weeping eye.
Another is lame with a stiff back.
They are out in the cold washing cars.
They do this every Saturday to a servicemen's club open.
It is no bonanza:
they might make $100.
They have a routine -
one wets the cars,
the more able wash.
They use sponges and buckets.
There is no pressure washer.
They use frail arms and crook backs.
I know because I sit in my car.
I kid myself I am helping.
I pay double the asking price.
The man with the burnt face always doffs his hat.
Last...
Another is lame with a stiff back.
They are out in the cold washing cars.
They do this every Saturday to a servicemen's club open.
It is no bonanza:
they might make $100.
They have a routine -
one wets the cars,
the more able wash.
They use sponges and buckets.
There is no pressure washer.
They use frail arms and crook backs.
I know because I sit in my car.
I kid myself I am helping.
I pay double the asking price.
The man with the burnt face always doffs his hat.
Last...
#freedom
456 reads
2 Comments
EROTIC POEM
Published
4th Nov 2018 7:36pm
4th Nov 2018 7:36pm
Hunger Or Sex
You want me
to feed your hunger.
Is it sex?
Or words?
I may not do both.
I fancy you want something pithy:
a sharp intrusion,
a twitchy verb.
Perhaps you’d rather a pale adjective?
Something limp and lost.
Or something from Ted Hughes,
a guttural rush; life from the serpent’s eye.
Or do you want this, this frame,
this spent mind, slavering over your form,
clutching at your inner self?
I never know.
I don’t think you do either.
We lie here
aroused and not.
We are waiting,
exhausted
...
to feed your hunger.
Is it sex?
Or words?
I may not do both.
I fancy you want something pithy:
a sharp intrusion,
a twitchy verb.
Perhaps you’d rather a pale adjective?
Something limp and lost.
Or something from Ted Hughes,
a guttural rush; life from the serpent’s eye.
Or do you want this, this frame,
this spent mind, slavering over your form,
clutching at your inner self?
I never know.
I don’t think you do either.
We lie here
aroused and not.
We are waiting,
exhausted
...
#lover
1042 reads
3 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
3rd Nov 2018 00:13am
3rd Nov 2018 00:13am
When The Time Is Close
When her time was near,
she took her hands from beneath the covers.
Look, she said. Look at these.
They were pale pink and skeletal.
Let me go, she said, and the pain stole across her face.
This is the challenge.
At the end.
You want to go because the pain is too fierce.
But you are afraid to let go.
We do not know what faces us.
A light?
Purgatory, where we are cast in to fire,
or denied the love of God.
Some say there is nothing.
This woman knew.
She wanted to go.
Not to leave us but to rejoin another.
And...
she took her hands from beneath the covers.
Look, she said. Look at these.
They were pale pink and skeletal.
Let me go, she said, and the pain stole across her face.
This is the challenge.
At the end.
You want to go because the pain is too fierce.
But you are afraid to let go.
We do not know what faces us.
A light?
Purgatory, where we are cast in to fire,
or denied the love of God.
Some say there is nothing.
This woman knew.
She wanted to go.
Not to leave us but to rejoin another.
And...
#spiritual
677 reads
7 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
2nd Nov 2018 3:12am
2nd Nov 2018 3:12am
The Gnawing Sea
This is a rough place where shacks die in the sun and wind and a slack-water river struggles to the sea.
Posts (leaning drunk) once held little piers for anglers who tried for trout and salmon and mullet and now they hold nothing and aim at a sullen sky.
This, once, was a place where dreams were built in bright cottages and games were played on big lawns.
Then the river fell sluggish and a shingle bar formed to steady the sea and life and fun was blown out by easterly and westerly.
The people moved away to leave forlorn wind-swept houses and summer-brown lawns. The...
Posts (leaning drunk) once held little piers for anglers who tried for trout and salmon and mullet and now they hold nothing and aim at a sullen sky.
This, once, was a place where dreams were built in bright cottages and games were played on big lawns.
Then the river fell sluggish and a shingle bar formed to steady the sea and life and fun was blown out by easterly and westerly.
The people moved away to leave forlorn wind-swept houses and summer-brown lawns. The...
#water
526 reads
9 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by oldgolfer
