Oh, but how do drunk people get home?
I wonder
But…
How do drunk people get home?
My careening well…
Scars and scurf
And a long whole ago
….that pill in the morning in the clinic
that pill…
Hmm…
But how do drunk people get home?
I met the man with the box of frogs and had occasion to ask him
Feeling that the rain would stay off a while
as I sheltered under his hanging umbrella
He was too busy to answer
Much too busy,
The boxing of frogs and the herding of cats
Taking up
Way way too much of his time!
But it’d come to a pretty pass
If the only weavers of dreams left to us
Were to be the joke of the bank
(Their jokes are cruel)
And the many sellers of smoke
They there
Still there
There in the glam of the threadbare glade.
Archive for the ‘poetry, france, burkha’ Category
Morning – By Paul Holland (Again)
Posted in Animals, Art, Poetry, poetry, france, burkha, Scotland, Spain, tagged "Poetry",, Beauty, Birdsong, Ireland, Life, Morning, Nature, Northern Ireland, Outdoors, Poems, Rambling, Spain, Walking, World War 1 on August 5, 2014| 5 Comments »
Bluebell frillary
Shoots of Barley on the hillcrest field
Wet dripping barbed wire
Silver slivers of cold Spring light
Through a disorder of branches
A palette of greens
Smatterings of shade
Brown muddy boots
And from everywhere
Birdsong
Lace Petticoats – By Paul Holland
Posted in Art, poetry, france, burkha, Spain, Writing, tagged "Poetry",, Nature, Poems, Spain, The Seasons, Winter, Writing on March 4, 2013| 12 Comments »
Lace Petticoats
The trees run up
Over the hills here
Sweeping snow
With
The sullied lace petticoats
White
Of hoar breathing
Angels
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