April 13, 2005

  • "Take these chairs from my eyes, and let me see." : (The blind) Ray Charles.



    the windows of this house are painted

    with the memories of many years.



    only i can see them,

    only i, the blind man

    can see the memories

    that the windows hold

    or the lies that was told.



    but i like to think that there's more love

    than hate

    etched up on the glass.



    yes, a circus of thoughts are on my windows

    of everything ever done

    within these walls.



    and only i can see the windows,

    only i, who can not see the doors.



    i with the empty chairs

    that sit upon my eyes

    and will not let me see.



    (that is why i use this name.)



    but at least, thanks to lawrence;

    i have no chains around my heart

    to stop it breathing out love.



    ---

    The Poet known as "Empty Chairs"


    -----

     


    they say that i must have a feel

    for poetry,

    for i write them down in braille.



    it must be strange to some of you

    to read my poetry on a computer,

    something which i have never viewed.



    i hope it means my poems are better

    when read aloud, but i doubt it.



    i have not the musical voice

    to hear the cadences



    my partner will be tapping this now

    onto my web-site and blog

    i won't want to fall out with him



    or he might end this poem with

    "dominic is a shit"



    (PS. He said he has began writing out my poems with no capital letters, if so, he is a jerk!)



    ---

    The Poet known as "Empty Chairs"




    --------

    This is a hard personea to do, I am not blind and I have never had a gay experience, but I seemed to have put them together here. Does it work? Any blind/and or gay people out there, I would really love to know, by eMail or comment. I can be discrete if you want!

    The Clowne.

     

    Link to well...check it PLEASE! For_Terry

April 9, 2005

  • "Empty Chairs", poems 66-74.



    woke up to chew

    an indigestion tablet,

    and found myself laughing

    at your fingers

    writing on my hand.



    ---



    one good thing

    about being blind,

    i can hold

    my gay lover's arm

    in the street!



    ---



    to the edge of the light,

    and beyond:

    my blind love for you

    has it's own eyes.



    ---



    feeling the silk of the water

    as i swim

    into your unseen arms.



    ---



    waking up

    to hear your heart pounding

    next to mine

    and your sleeping arm

    on my back.



    ---



    waiting for you at the door

    and tasting a snow-flake

    on my tongue.



    i smile, and move outside



    and i hear you squashing

    up the drive.



    ---



    i loved you

    from the first time you spoke

    and woke up

    my silence.



    ---



    i'm playing my poems back

    on my tape-recorder,



    were you laughing then

    or are you laughing now?



    ---

    The Poet known as "Empty Chairs"

     

     


    Lord Pineapple Next...



    --------------


    I nodded and held my beer,

    It had been a warm evening

    But now it was getting chilly

    And drops of rain flew in the wind.



    "I know what I am" I said,

    Half in bitterness, half in the knowledge

    It will always be thus.



    I could not help it,

    I remember my father hitting me

    All those years ago

    For being mildly autistic,

    For fearing the unknown

    For easily getting lost

    And panicking.



    "I'm sorry" I said,

    As she left her lemonade.

    We shook hands

    When once we kissed.



    It had never went further

    Than a kiss.

    I knew it would not.



    I watched her go,

    The tears in my eyes matching

    The tears in the rain.



    It was a long walk home,

    I did once think of throwing myself

    Into the river.



    But what did I expect?

    Romance?



    Between a woman who had everything

    And a poet who had nothing?



    I picked up a dream somewhere

    But it wasn't my dream,



    It belonged to the silence.


    ---

    Lord Pineapple


     


    On the Three_Headed_Sarahs is more info on the Sarahs' farewell party plus "The best of The Sarahs'" including a real filthy piece of prose!

     

    The_Clowne_from_Clown  new! Nostalgia time! about rugby, being a war-correspondent and why my mortality does not frighten me. Read it, it's better than my poetry!

     

    Beautiful and sad poetry from a broken hearted genius, for that is what she is, I set my reputation  that dancing_pen will one day be a famous American poet. Buy her books at   http://www.lulu.com/dancing_pen

     

    There's my latest book "Bubble & Squeak" of course, but such is the post I haven't had my copies yet, though American buyers have!

April 5, 2005

  • At the death of the Pope

    I gave a service

    For the catholics of this small town,

    Inviting over

    A retired priest.



    For God is God

    In all our eyes

    And sod what anyone else thinks.



    ---

    Reverend Tobias Trontby †


    -----


    Time to eat my cucumber sandwiches

    On the top of Mam Tor.



    This is a beautiful place

    When the sun is shining.



    "'lo Wevvie Tooobee!" shouts a tiny girl

    As her parents come over to chat.



    Half of Shawthwaite comes up here,

    It's our local park,

    In spite of the long steep climb to the summit.



    From here one can see miles

    Including the whole of the small town.



    God could not have brought me to teach His word

    In a more beautiful place.



    ---

    The Reverend Tobias Trontby †

     


    TEXT 196:


    i wrote inside Steve Martin's car "i love you Steve". I don't, can't stand the man, he appeared as the spider in the series the spider and the fly about a fly being caught by a spider and having to "spin" (no i am not making this up) a story that would make the spider allow the fly to go. anyway i sat through one such programme where the actual ghost of jack benny came arm in arm with a younger whatshername, the one in that film about, about you know, about love inside a toilet bowl, remember she was brush, forgot who played the crap, might have been john wayne, i know betty gable anyway Steve was the second actor to play this part, the first one was that one in the movie where the two candy-bars in the shop had a wager which one would be brought first, and was the winner, well loser for instead of being eaten by a pretty woman was eaten by a dog when a child scared of the candy bar saying "please give me to your mummy" threw it down and it was ate by this dirty great dog of no pedigree played by that woman who was in the film about two walking sticks in a hat stand in a dinner for some scottish highland games held in a hall in ohio to save money, there were all those ghastly mock-scottish accents even worse than that actor who played james bond, not sean but that big fat girl of eleven who ate up the villians in one meal, the film was called "you are only eaten once" anyway Steve Martin tried to sue me but when he found out i was a lamppost on the Old Kent Road, outside a hajal chippy that used to be the left breast of that woman who played a pencil next to the actor who played an eraser who had rubbed off that actor who was a plastic flower in the film held inside a mail box on 51st street, Steve gave up and told the story to the spider who ate him



    serve the bugger right I say.



    ---

    Horace Smith Esq wrote for the ff % 243  website after eating some of that wonderfully druggie leaf from the planet ff % 103.


    ___________

     


    It was the first time the sun had shone for days,

    we should have in reality, been happy.



    Msr's Derevox's son was working in the fields,

    when they led him away.

    He was fourteen.



    They don't do it because they see us as a threat,

    they do it for a bit of fun.

    They just fancied shooting a boy in the head,

    a boy who had never touched a gun.



    The last time they came they raped a young mother,

    ten of them, one after another.

    She hung herself in disgrace.



    Not that they would have cared.

    After all, we are just savages to them...



    The Germen men

    of the Master Race.



    ---

    Jacques du Lumière


     

    -------------

    On the Three_Headed_Sarahs next will be more info on the Sarahs' farewell party plus "The best of The Sarahs'"

     

    The_Clowne_from_Clown this blog and next, Nostalgia time!

     

    Beautiful and sad poetry from a broken hearted genius, for that is what she is, I set my reputation  that dancing_pen will one day be a famous American poet. Buy her books at   http://www.lulu.com/dancing_pen

     

    ps I wrote the four pieces straight out of my head in one hour, correcting only 4 typos and adding a period!

April 1, 2005

  • Why are there not more poems about the home

    About doing all those things that need doing?

    Cooking, washing dishes, changing nappies,

    Picking up toys...



    Why are there not more poems about such things,

    Things that all us women and mothers do

    Day after day, unloved, unthanked...

    And when at last the children are asleep

    And the house is as tidy as it will ever be

    We sit in front of the telly only to hear

    "I've been working my ass off all day,

    Not lazing about the house like you!"



    Perhaps if there were more domestic poems

    Men will learn to understand

    How we waste our lives and brains

    Whilst they are laughing and flirting at work.



    But then it is all too dull for poetry,

    Emptying potties, washing clothes.

    There is only a certain amount one can write

    About hoovering a carpet to a child crying,

    Or cooking chips when a mini-man fight is going on.



    Perhaps that is why there are no poems about the home,

    Women do not want to be reminded that

    They are slaves to be lied to and sometimes whacked

    By men who rule the fucking world!



    So our dreary days go unrecorded

    As we wind our weary ways

    Through the country churchyard of our lives...



    I can write no more, someone is pulling at me

    And wanting a drink.



    ---

    Tiffy Witherington

     

     

     


    Feeling F***** In The "Dog & Duck"

    ---

    Another cold wet day,

    Just what I need with my own cold.

    I wrap up warm

    But still shiver

    Still feel like crap

    Which reminded me I needed another...



    Reluctenly, I put my coat on

    (I wish I had a toilet in my car!)

    I have to do some shopping,

    And later on,

    I'll have to open the pub

    Even if I'm not behind the bar.



    I am about to go out

    When Susan comes,

    She is the wife of the landlord

    Of "The Fat Owl Of The Remove"

    She says she will do my shopping for me,



    I thank her quicky

    And just make the loo!



    ---

    Tiffy Witherington.





    note: "The Fat Owl Of The Remove" is Billy Bunter. (Link)

     

     

     


    is...

     


    I Think I Will Marry A Dog. ( A REAL one!)

    ------------------------------------



    I think I will marry a dog

    next time.

    A dog will not threaten me

    or abuse me.

    A dog does what it is told.

    It gives love

    as it takes love.



    A dog will come out with me

    and not stare at the curves

    of teenage girls.



    A dog will just lay at my feet

    and love me for my kindness to it.

    Love me

    for 12 years or more

    without any form of sex.



    Yes, I think I will marry a dog

    next time.



    Please make it legal.



    ---

    Tiffy Witherington.


    ______________

     

      WordFaery 's site is at
    http://www.cafepress.com/StripedSocks Her CD to follow

     

    And my fan-blog is at For_Terry !

     

    Next blog I'll advertise the beautiful poems of dancing_pen  and her books.

     

     

    On the Three_Headed_Sarahs  site is a controversal poem by Sophie Morgan, showing not the dark side of her, but the dark side of childhood on a rough out-of-control estate.

     

    Nostalgia time at the The_Clowne_from_Clown ranch

March 29, 2005

  • She used to be my friend,

    Now she crosses the street when she sees me

    She will not speak to me

    And I don't know why.



    Won't she tell me what I said wrong?

    Mummy says some people are like that

    But I still feel hurt.



    ---

    Sophie Lucy Morgan (aged 10)


    -----------

     


    Tyler said:

    "I've got a lot of ghosts inside me

    and they tell me to tell you

    that if you tease me, they will

    make your life hell when you die!"



    We teased him more after that

    'specially after miss had said

    it was the most ridiculous thing

    she had ever heard.



    But I did tell Tyler

    he would make a great poet!



    ---

    Sophie Lucy Morgan (Aged 10)

    ---------

     


    I dug up an old penny in the garden.

    Grandad said "it's nowt worth much".

    But it had a kings head on it.

    I looked the date up

    King Edward the Seventh.



    I had to clean the penny up to see it.

    It may be "nowt worth much"

    But it means a lot to me

    Having found it in my garden.



    ---

    Sophie Lucy Morgan (aged 10)

     




    Visit: Three_Headed_Sarahs site and say goodbye to them and watch their sons start a new religion!



    The_Clowne_from_Clown has visited Bleinheim Palace Park, Where Winston Churchill lived and Roosevelt stayed.

March 25, 2005

  • Link to my NEW book http://www.cafepress.com/assortedfruits


    And from the book: two poems.


    "Raga Kalvati"

    ________________________________

    night-gat swim, the oil-sea

    i dream     i dream

    of the moon shadow

    of a silver shimmer

    singing, singing,

    i dream     i dream

    of the black salt raga

    humming, humming,

    the planet heart ever combing the waves

    starspeck marine of lost souls

    crying, crying,

    i dream     i dream

    of the drut teental salavia water

    my hot fireskin in coolness

    floating, floating,

    song cradling an alap of sky

    in cloud baked stars

    i dream     i dream

    the tala of my icebreath

    will end the sorrow of blackfig purple

    greeting, greeting,

    the ocean without the crunching

    sound of killing tanks

    grinding, grinding,

    the sand-dune drink of dust

    i dream     i dream

    of a land with a god of many hopes

    leading the white rhino to the pastures

    where blood does not drip

    its child-death laughter

    sobbing, sobbing,

    i dream     i dream

    and the fishy depths surround me forever

    singing, singing,

    the moonglow ripples of the hot night

    i dream     i dream

    of the raga kalavati

    sung at my uniting of my soul with water

    longing, longing,

    to take my immortal spores across the sea

    and leave man alone to fight in my name.

    ---

    Lord Pineapple

     

    -------------

     


    "I rediscovered the unworn world" (Patrick Kavanagh)



    Come easy to this unworn world,

    where life and death go un-treated;

    but where there is still the freshness,

    where there is still the unstale'd.



    It was never easy to see the world as new

    when one is their-self crusting old,

    when one has drank the wine of it's soul

    and ate the plants of it's dying light.



    But I know I have re-discovered you

    whenever I write a poem at all,

    whenever the clouds silk in cold

    or are baked in an oven of suns.



    An unworn world that's still soaks life,

    billions of people each with different eyes

    that look in wonder out of different brains,

    and all using very different words.



    If I wore a crown every day

    I could not have so much power

    as when I touch a silver leaf

    or feel a redbrick factory.



    After all I have suffered in my days

    I still want to rise up again

    out of the ashes of silence,

    to re-discover the unworn world

    in the evening of my dreams,



    ---

    The Poet Known as "Empty Chairs"


    _____________

     

    Link to well...check it PLEASE! For_Terry

  • Link to my NEW book http://www.cafepress.com/assortedfruits


    Link to well...check it PLEASE! For_Terry


     


    I don't believe, but The Rev. Toby does...


     


    "In Memory of You"



    Photographs can freeze beauty

    Be it the smile of a child

    Or the face of one departed

    Be it a building loved, and gone

    Or a place you shall never re-visit.



    Can memory do the same

    I wonder

    As I think of you now

    In heaven waiting for me

    Year after year after year.



    Will you have changed

    From that body you had

    When you last stepped into your car

    To go shopping in Buxton?



    The years may pass

    But my memory of you will not.

    And it is more than a photograph

    It is everything I do and pray for.



    I walk away from your grave,

    Sometimes I wish I did not bury you here

    In my own churchyard...

      At other times I am glad I did

    As I imagine your soul sitting beside me

    Helping me to write the sermons

    You so once loved.



    I keep your picture beside me,

    It's beauty is frozen forever.

    And my desk is stained with my tears

    In memory of you.



    ---

    The Reverend Tobias Trontby †


    -----------

     


    Still the silent voice remains

    For one who does not believe in ghosts,

    For one who does not see behind their hand

    To look at what can not be seen.



    The truth my friend is nothing more

    Than what the mind alone can judge,

    It defies physics, it defies logic,

    It defies all what can be measured.



    Still the silent voice remains

    Silent to all who can but hear it,

    The picture that is not in a frame

    The book with no words.



    We travel long with our eyes shut

    Only seeing what we are told can be seen,

    Never understanding that which

    Can only be seen with closed eyes.



    I can see her ghost beside me now,

    I can hear her whisper her love for me,

    I can also hear the ghost of God

    It too does not understand science.



    Ghost upon ghost upon ghost that leads

    To the finest ghost of them all.

    To Jesus himself that is everywhere,

    A silent voice within us all.



    ---

    The Reverend Tobias Trontby †


    -------------

     


    i may be dying,

    but i am not without hope.



    i do not mean for myself:

    the long nights of my soul

    crying over the empty tundra

    longing again to breathe,

    to touch, to smell...



    no, i have hope for my child.



    the war is over

    and peace is so lovely

    and a wonderful family

    is to look after her.



    a doctor and his wife no less

    to look after the little orphan.



    they are people whose own children

    are nearing adulthood.



    they are people that i know

    will love my child

    and give her the things

    i can not give her,



    like breath, and touch

    and smell...



    ---

    Ingar Gǿrse

     

    As always The_Clowne_from_Clown site does not comment back much, I have no time, but it's here if you want to read the real me.

March 19, 2005

  • Three poets who (perhaps like "Charlie The Copper") that has never made it in my personae stakes, the failures include a pig, a farmer and a teacher, all here, though the teacher's poem is not about teaching.


    Three Poems by Buster The Pig.

    ____________________________

    In the mud

    the piglets play,

    their curly tails

    dance and sway.



    Seven piglets

    in the slops,

    one day they'll be

    sizzleing pork-chops.



    -----------



    Sitting in my sty

    and wondering oh why

    there is no god

    for us poor sods.



    -----------



    Today for food.....grunt

    is mangel-wurzel.....grunt

    can't the farmer.....grunt

    give us something better?.....grunt

    Clarence (me mate).....grunt

    thinks the farmer is.....grunt

    a right stupid.....*unt

     

    (end)

    ---

     







    After Dad's Funeral

    __________________

    "I'll miss him love,

    I've glad I've got you,

    Put kettle on will yer love

    And let's have a brew."



    Aye, we just back from crem,

    Tears an' sobs from Mum an' me;

    An' what's first thing Mother wants?

    Why, a lovely cup o' tea.



    It were always thus round these parts,

    If owt wrong at all, nay stew,

    Just put kettle on stove

    An' t'tea-pot on brew.



    ---

    Minnie Minns.

     

    ---

    Next poem might "give" to the Rev. Toby.

     


    Go to him. Old Mr. Teasdale,

    Go and see him

    Bedridden in his home.



    But do not take gifts with you

    Like flowers or whisky,

    They will only gather dust

    In a corner of his room

    To be pinched perhaps

    By a less than honest helper.



    No, go and see Mr. Teasdale,

    And tell him how Potts fell down a hole

    And found some old copperware.

    Tell him how Alice is no longer

    That naughty spotty schoolgirl

    But has turned into a stunner

    That moves men's heads.



    Tell him all the news of the village,

    The gossip, the fall-outs...

    And he'll smile at you

    Like he rarely smiles today

    And thank you for

    Your wonderful gift from God.

    ---

    Farmer Mott.

     

    --------

    The next site to update? Possb Three_Headed_Sarahs
    Of course, the cricket thing is up. act two has been wrote, but maybe the Sarahs' will try another sport and wrestle with The Undertaker on World Wrestling Entertainment.

     

    Got a lot for the The_Clowne_from_Clown
    site now, but might leave it for the time being, answer some of my comments on this first!

    Terry

March 15, 2005

  • cancer-girl



    the pain is there

    everyday it's there

    eating eating into me

    destroying my body

    and my mind.



    oh little daughter

    how much it hurts me

    to cuddle you,

    to smile at you,

    to write this poem

    upon this page.



    everyday it is there

    it won't go away

    it has no where to go

    but to attack me

    until it has won

    and i am dead.



    if you ever read this poem

    my little one,

    let me remind you

    that the biggest pain of all

    is the pain of knowing

    i will never see you grow up.



    that is the real cancer my child,

    the real pain.



    ---

    Ingar Gǿrse

     

    ---

    (Which I suppose leads neatly to..)

     


    "Four a.m."



    The pain-killer has worn off,

    I make a cup of tea.

    It is just about 4 a.m.

    And on this summer morning

    The first birds start to sing.



    I write my sermon,

    And look up to God in the sky

    For inspiration.



    I drink my tea,

    It has gone cold.

    I sigh,

    There are worse things in this world

    Than a cold cup of tea.



    I hold my back,

    It aches like mad.

    There are worse things in this world

    Than a bad back.



    I have a funeral today

    Of a young mother.

    There are no worse things in this world.



    I make myself another cup of tea.

    I expect this one will also turn cold

    Before I remember to drink it.



    ---

    The Reverend Tobias Trontby †

     

    New entry from the The_Clowne_from_Clown site, but will comment from here for now.

March 12, 2005

  • Blind date. Could it be an unkind fate?



    I wait there trying to look pretty.

    Men pass by, look at me, and pass on

    As if I was a weedy old cow

    In a cattle pen.



    I stand outside

    The posh bar

    Look at all the drinks

    And at all the men.



    He said he'll meet me here,

    He promised.



    I keep looking at the photo

    And at any man carrying flowers.

    I keep looking

    As time alone screws on.



    I could have had two drinks by now

    And a splended meal.



    I began to realise no one is coming,

    That I have been stood up,

    I had guessed after that half-heartily

    Yahoo-messenger message, that mister

    Was not going to master me.



    After a hour of feeling a prune

    I find a quiet pub

    And sit alone and drink

    Like an old bag lady.



    Blind date? Bloody great!



    I look at the wrinkles on my face

    Through my powder-puff mirror,



    And I start to cry.



    ---



    "Good night last night Tiff?"

    "Yeah, he was a splended guy,

    But I am choosy I am afraid."



    The beer tastes bitter,

    I must wash the pipes out.



    At least some old pipes get filled

    With creamy liquid!





    ---

    Tiffy Witherington

     

    ----

     


    "Time to wake up Toby,

    Rise and shine my lucky lad!"



    I curse the new clock I bought,

    The pre-recorded voice is so cheerful.

    Why didn't I stick with a buzzer

    Rather than join the fad?



    I feel a pang of guilt too,

    For the vicar over at Bentley St. Martin's

    Has on his clock

    The Lord Prayer!



    ---



    The Reverend Tobias Trontby.

     

    ---

     


    My sweet tooth

    is so sweet

    that all of the others

    have fallen out

    over the years

    just from eating

    too many sweets.



    ---

    Tiffy Witherington.

     

    ---

     

    to come:

    The_Clowne_from_Clown on Sunday night: "The Clowne in London"  Read about me hoping to meet an xanga person in the flesh, but them not turning up. Read also about St. Patrick's day parade. The site won't get many comments as I refuse to comment using that blog.