The Ol' College Try

Well since GW#1 and Simon are now officially 'the shit' when it comes to poetry, I thought I'd give it the ol' college try and put up some of my own. You know, to boost my posts number. So here you go.

Come now, Johnny, don't you love your mother?
Won't you love her cares for you
and the pot roast potatoes hot chicken soup when you feel bad
Do you feel bad, Johnny?
What's she done to you? Think of what she's done for you.
Warm blankets in bed cool breeze big fire in the dead of winter
(she'll be dead by winter) and the kisses of spring
when she washed the dirt from behind your ears
and scrubbed with the washcloth
until your skin was pink in the washtub
and when the soap was in your eyes, didn't she hold in your tears
with the warmth of her shoulder and the cool of her touch
now you're cool to the touch but she loves you so much
oh, Johnny, look at you now, Johnny,
half-blown spent in the dirt of the fields
your eyes can't hardly see and your lips won't close
(when she fished you out from the pool and held your lips open
and gave you life for the second time in her life)
and your vision is fine, but your eyes can't see, Johnny,
why can't you see, Johnny, don't you know your mother?

Come in, come in,
we've all missed you so...
is it wet out? You look
so chill,
so cool,
grab a towel and dry your
eyes.
And we'll dance through the green twilight
until the moon rises
and saps away our strength
that one hideous last time.

Down the street to the corner
turn left at the house
turned dead and white-silent by years and the rain
Where Saint Peter once sat,
his head on his hand
when the ugly tears rolled and the lonely men cackled
with glee in the rain
but the bloodstains washed out
... don't they always?
... through the rosegarden windows
of dust in the air
And see the poor beggar
with rust on his shoes
whose eyes are too blind
and life is too short
to see Saint Peter dead in the rain.

They stick softly to your slight wet boots
while the wind rustles the feathers of the trees
and you look to the air and the birds and the sky
and you wish that the rains would come
instead of sitting slowly and patiently on the edge
of the world and the edge of your mind
which is already tired and weary from the early morning ringing
of the demon box kept on your oak table
cut down from the trees in the woods outside
where the birds once sang
and the sunshine came
through the December leaves
that now stick softly to your boots.

I think I'm gonna cry.

ummmmm, yeah, me too, i think

cheers

Yeah, me three.

I especially liked the last one, Gerald.

Wow...


Cheers,

GeeDub#1
<nothing else to add...>

The last one... Nice. End of the world?

Nice. Very nice.

I liked them. I'm just blanket posting.

What?

Your last poem. What's it about? Is it something like a prophecy?

More like a travesty!


































I'm joking, OK? I'm joking!

Gee Doc, if you hadn't said so... I wouldn't have know!