Quotes about locket, page 6
Pains of Divorce
His entire life was in his pocket
Starting from his daughters hair locket.
A few pictures of him and his family
Reminding him of how things used to be.
A crumbled up note saying:
Daddy ! I love you - I want you home.
This is where you belong.
The divorce had not gone too well
He had put his family through a living hell.
He felt the pressures getting to him
Of things he did and places he’d been
Of a life that he had been ashamed
He turned to alcohol to ease the pain.
They say with friends he had been
Who Turned to crime and to sin.
they convinced him that
This business was easy prey
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poem by Louis Rams
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Jane and You and the Hollow Tree.
Jane waited for you
by the narrow road
that led to Linch farm
the water tower visible
against the afternoon sky
of pale blue and white
cold clouds
she was dressed
in a grey coat
and her dark hair
was pinned back
with grips
you noticed
blueness
about her lips
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poem by Terry Collett
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Harry
(Humbly dedicated to the last veterans of World War One)
He stares through the window
In wheelchair he knows,
Gabriel is just a pause behind him.
His last duty, to open a door in his mind
Of memories torn from 1917, where he left,
Jack Fred and Bert, Pals forever
A moment singled out from a thousand days of torment
Bully Beef, Baccy and sweet tea in the Morning
A pair of socks from a loved one,
And friendship forged in the baptism of War.
These were his treasures, His only relief
Then the guns of Britannia, manufacturing widows by the gross, as
Gas and Shell screamed for their quota of today’s carcass.
For a moment Harry felt sadness for his foe
Then it was gone
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poem by Steven Cooke
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His Gippsland Girl
Now, money was scarce and work was slack
And love to his heart Crept in,
And he rode away on the Northern track
To war with the world and win;
And he vowed by the locket upon his breast
And its treasure, one red gold curl,
To work with with a will in the fartherest West
For the sake of his Gippsland girl.
The hot wind blows on the dusty plain
And the red sun burns above,
But he sees her face at his side again,
And he strikes each blow for love.
He toils by the light of one far-off star
For the winning of one white pearl,
And the swinging pick and the driving bar
Strike home for the Gippsland girl.
With an aching wrist and a back that's bent,
With salt sweat blinding eyes,
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poem by William Henry Ogilvie
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Marginalia
Sometimes the notes are ferocious,
skirmishes against the author
raging along the borders of every page
in tiny black script.
If I could just get my hands on you,
Kierkegaard, or Conor Cruise O'Brien,
they seem to say,
I would bolt the door and beat some logic into your head.
Other comments are more offhand, dismissive -
'Nonsense.' 'Please! ' 'HA! ! ' -
that kind of thing.
I remember once looking up from my reading,
my thumb as a bookmark,
trying to imagine what the person must look like
why wrote 'Don't be a ninny'
alongside a paragraph in The Life of Emily Dickinson.
Students are more modest
needing to leave only their splayed footprints
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poem by Billy Collins
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My Prisoner
We was in a crump-'ole, 'im and me;
Fightin' wiv our bayonets was we;
Fightin' 'ard as 'ell we was,
Fightin' fierce as fire because
It was 'im or me as must be downed;
'E was twice as big as me;
I was 'arf the weight of 'e;
We was like a terryer and a 'ound.
'Struth! But 'e was sich a 'andsome bloke.
Me, I'm 'andsome as a chunk o' coke.
Did I give it 'im? Not 'arf!
Why, it fairly made me laugh,
'Cos 'is bloomin' bellows wasn't sound.
Couldn't fight for monkey nuts.
Soon I gets 'im in the guts,
There 'e lies a-floppin' on the ground.
In I goes to finish up the job.
Quick 'e throws 'is 'ands above 'is nob;
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poem by Robert William Service
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The Lunger
Jack would laugh an' joke all day;
Never saw a lad so gay;
Singin' like a medder lark,
Loaded to the Plimsoll mark
With God's sunshine was that boy;
Had a strangle-holt on Joy.
Held his head 'way up in air,
Left no callin' cards on Care;
Breezy, buoyant, brave and true;
Sent his sunshine out to you;
Cheerfulest when clouds was black --
Happy Jack! Oh, Happy Jack!
Sittin' in my shack alone
I could hear him in his own,
Singin' far into the night,
Till it didn't seem just right
One man should corral the fun,
Live his life so in the sun;
Didn't seem quite natural
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poem by Robert William Service
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Buried Under An Avalanche Of Tongueless Bells
Buried under an avalanche of tongueless bells,
I want to scream. I'm an oyster shell in the midden
of an archaeological dig. Who shucked my pearls?
Trying to weep my way into singing away the pain.
What happened to the Algonquin village that once stood here?
My skull's an empty locket at the end of the foodchain.
I've given more than the less I had to give in the first place.
What do the takers know about sacrifice?
I'm not a strawdog with a deathmask for a face.
My emotions aren't tinfoil. My tears aren't wax.
I embroider my dreams in blood on a pillowcase
of razorblades. That way they'll last like a dye
that holds fast against fading in the bleaching sunlight.
But my varnish is cracking along the agitated fault lines
of my nerves. My shining freaked with gaps
like the dry creekbed of a splintered mirror.
I'm trying to condition the split ends
of the uprooted lightning I transplanted into an urn
of fertilized starmud with enough death in it
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poem by Patrick White
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Restless With The Dead Tonight
Restless with the dead tonight.
Old friends, the gates to abandoned farms,
the roof collapsed and the wind with access
to all their windows, overgrown roads
going nowhere I can walk with them now.
Blue-green the evening sky, still,
without direction, island clouds, but unmoving.
Sparse beginnings, and sorrow in the seed.
Relying on the stars to do for me
what I can't do for myself. Pull me out
of this black hole I keep slipping in and out of
on the rim of my event horizon, stray photons,
butterflies ducking in and out of the dragon's mouth,
a halo of X-rays looking brutally right through me.
Down to the musical instruments of my bones.
Flutes and drumsticks. But I'm void-bound,
trying to shed my skin like a chronic illusion,
liberate the chains I can feel but can't see,
numbed by having to say no
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poem by Patrick White
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All The Duff And Detritus Of Meaning In My Head
All the duff and detritus of meaning in my head.
Turmoil of celestial sediments in a tormented creekbed
of starmud. Images and symbols, glimpses and insights,
effluvia of indelible impressions that focus
a whole lifetime into a locket of tears, mingling
in the waters of life like the tributary of a deeper feeling
entering my mindstream like a first violin
in a symphony of picture-music conducted
by the silence of owls with blood on their talons
singing Allah hu, Allah hu, Allah hu under their breath
like a Sufi dancing like the axis of a galactic umbrella
at the crossroads of enlightenment and extinction. I don't mean
to be thematic about all this. It's more a synthesis
of happenstantial contradictions and random nuances
in a matrix of suggestive wavelengths having sex
in a lunar snakepit like a triple x porn flick
wasted on a blind prophet who had already seen too much.
The sting of the most beautiful sorrows
ages like wine in the catacombs of your heartwood
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poem by Patrick White
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