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I am a weary traveler

an old man, on streets well worn

I often sit watching, as

the spring winds blow

and the young reproductions stroll by

dashing on in futile pursuits

to fulfill the ideals of their father's dreams



they pay no heed to this fossil

the lunatic poet, who awaits

his eternal sleep

he harbors no bitterness, merely

a certain sadness

for these fledglings have lost their paths, their passions



they may shed a tear

when my eulogy is read

and all I ask, they find

their own road

and lay some tulips, gently ‘neath my head

hophead wrote:I am a weary traveler

an old man, on streets well worn

I often sit watching, as

the autumn winds blow

and the young reproductions stroll by

dashing on in futile pursuits

to fulfill the ideals of their fathers dreams



they pay no heed to this fossil

the lunatic poet, who awaits

his eternal sleep

he harbors no bitterness, merely

a certain sadness

for these fledglings have lost their paths, their passions



they may shed a tear

when my eulogy is read

and all I ask, they find

their own road

and lay some tulips, gently ‘neath my head

this should be "father's" or if you have fore of them, "fathers'"

and this below needs rhythm-aid and fast

"and all I ask, they find
their own road"

I also question why you want flowers under your dead-hop-head, why not around your noggin? Apart from anything else, your "'neath" is ugly. Look at the title- yuk. It's as if you can't be bothered to write the proper word: "beneath".

I, for 3, am delighted you contribute your original works here, but you have a way to go before you can call yourself a "lunatic poet". The old joke 'neath this will show you why
"On Yom Kippur, the rabbi stops in the middle of the service, prostrates himself beside the bema, (the platform from which services are conducted) and cries out, "Oh, God. I am not worthy!" Saul Rosenberg, president of the synagogue is so moved by this demonstration of piety that he immediately throws himself to the floor beside the rabbi and cries, "Oh, God! "I am not worthy" Then Chaim Pitkin, a tailor, jumps from his seat, prostrates himself in the aisle and cries, "Oh God! I am not worthy!" Rosenberg nudges the rabbi and whispers, "So now look who thinks he's not worthy."

So now look who thinks he is a lunatic poet.

Well...sorry, this is not about me. It is based on a character that I may or may not use in a story. Although, my love of tulips
and poetry could be considered autobiographical.
Thanks for the critique Fishy.
P.S. I also love ugly!!!

hophead wrote:Well...sorry, this is not about me. It is based on a character that I may or may not use in a story. Although, my love of tulips
and poetry could be considered autobiographical.
Thanks for the critique Fishy.
P.S. I also love ugly!!!

very welcome and good luck

i'm too tired to elaborate, but there are many things i enjoy about this poem.

hophead wrote:lay some tulips, gently ‘neath my head

i loved this poem (despite the missing apostrophe after "fathers" and the word "vagina" being nowhere to be found) right up to the last bit. i kept asking myself why the tulips had to be laid gently, seeing as that dead person's great big swede was going to crush the delicate petals and rip them off their tiny hinges anyway; and what about if tulips are not in season at exactly that time? "the autumn winds blow," you write. call me an amateur botanist if you will, but tulips are not bloody perennials in bloom the entire year, you know. i am aware that the planet earth is currently undergoing extreme climate changes, but not even in amsterdam could one find a tulip in october. i think instead of writing "lay some tulips gently ‘neath my head" this last line should read "lay some bread gently ‘twixt my two lips". well, see what you can do to give this work an air of credibility, and i'll pop back in later to see how you're getting on. off you go now. -g

Hey Geoffrey, I found a pic of when we went together to the Twix Vagina party, and you asked this geezer if you could go twix his 2 lips and he smashed you over the head with a passing cliché. Classic.

Geoffrey wrote:

hophead wrote:lay some tulips, gently ‘neath my head

i loved this poem (despite the missing apostrophe after "fathers" and the word "vagina" being nowhere to be found) right up to the last bit. i kept asking myself why the tulips had to be laid gently, seeing as that dead person's great big swede was going to crush the delicate petals and rip them off their tiny hinges anyway; and what about if tulips are not in season at exactly that time? "the autumn winds blow," you write. call me an amateur botanist if you will, but tulips are not bloody perennials in bloom the entire year, you know. i am aware that the planet earth is currently undergoing extreme climate changes, but not even in amsterdam could one find a tulip in october. i think instead of writing "lay some tulips gently ‘neath my head" this last line should read "lay some bread gently ‘twixt my two lips". well, see what you can do to give this work an air of credibility, and i'll pop back in later to see how you're getting on. off you go now. -g

Haha, a good eye for detail. I changed it to a spring wind. As for the "'neath my head", it is meant as the flowers being used as a pillow...sorry, still no vagina...

and actually springs winds fit better with the feeling of the poem and the strollers, et al

Hophead - thank you for your email asking for help. I have given it the re-write you requested, with much more emphasis on the animal theme you originally had in mind for this piece. I have separately sent you my organ arrangement and look forward to its first exposure in public.

I believe it is perfect so compliments and praise only of course!

LAY SOME HIP-HOPS VIOLENTLY O'ER MY NOGGIN


I am a dreary baffler

a cold man, on shoes well worn

I often shit washing, as

the spring waters blow off

and the Jung reproductions roll by

crashing on few tile two-piece suits

to fulfill the orange-peels of their father's cream



they pay no steed to this Brussels sprout

the tic-tac box, who waits

his eternal steed

he harbors no butterness, merrily

a certain sodness

for these pigeons have lost their baths, their flannel and soap



they may shed a frog

when my horology is clocked

and all I ask, they fried

their own toad

and lay some twix-bars,

gently sheath my thighs

Bravo!!!