Cowgirl. (a poem, by me)

I had a friend,

Her name was Sally.

All problems she would mend,

Without a ‘warry’,

They were never mechanical,

But mainly emotional,

And sometimes Botanical ;

She sounded a cockney girl,

Though born in devon,

She thought she’d give rhymes a whirl,

Before she reached heaven -

She got two things from watching Eastenders,

Not just the accent of hers,

I doubt the soap makes many love makers,

But she turns a roar to a purr.

How I miss my good friend Sally,

She told me good stories about her barn,

Cow girl was my good friend Sally,

Her nick name that rose from the farm;

She told me though of the large family she had,

In such a confined space,

She never even saw of her dad,

He was the landlords taste.

We swiftly changed the topic of speech,

She often had problems at barn,

We’d laugh with the pigs that oink and screech,

We pray the landlord don’t harm -

We gossiped and gossiped,

I always had news to tell,

She said ‘Please do stop it,’

As she heard sounds of a bell;

She always dreamed of getting married,

Not in a church - of course,

In her dreams that she’d be carried,

Where the brides maid was a horse,

She’d apologise after

For letting me astray,

Fields filled with laughter,

We spend time this way.

She dreamed of getting with characters on the television,

Though her friends thought she was sick,

We always shared secrets and had fun,

Though we feared the length left on times wick.

I used to laugh at the great things she said,

And how she will marry Elvis,

I never reminded her that he’s dead,

For I dare not spoil the flow.

Just like her land lord did one night.

Sally was old and was no use to him,

He decided one cold night,

Her produce was sour and her body too slim,

Some drugs will make her right.

He is a sick and twisted man,

I miss my best friend so,

I think good memories whenever I can,

But they always seem to go. I miss my cow girl.

- by Cameron Williamson.

Another Poem

I felt like writing another poem, but unfortunately something I feel strongly about is something which will make others feel strongly against me.

Got me?

Have I lost you?

Well I have written this poem, but it is about a past experience and how I felt at the time, I am not trying to offend anyone.

Got that settled? Good.

:)

Here is my poem about a barbecue. 

I stand in the smoke that flows from the burning wood,

Beautiful, twisting,

The wood drowning in the flames,

Being licked by the tongue of satan, 

I never thought satan could be so seductive,

The black wood glows from the inside,

Red, like the pits of hell,

Although they said hell would be painful and ugly.

This is the most beautiful thing ever,

I get enticed by the dancing fire in the grill,

The red hot grill.

Chicken corpses slapped on like food.

Ribs of an animal I could never recognise.

The beautiful smell of burning wood turned evil.

Maybe this is hell,

We just haven’t learned it yet.

The flesh burns in the red,

A different shade to the liquid dripping from the body.

After satan licks the chicken body, they eat it,

I hear his laughs in the crack of the wood.

Laughing like children, they find this fun,

Until like chickens, in hell they burn.

I turn away disgusted by the stench.

My family, with the bodies of what once lived in their mouths.

Satan tries to lure me in, but I pull away to look at the beauty of the sky,

White fluffy clouds float all across to the distance, 

Butterflies and bees dance in the air with joy,

Nothing to worry about in their short lasting lives, 

I look across the fields of luscious green,

Green grass, some filled with the purple of lavender,

Or the golden of wheat, or the whiteness of sheep,

I see the sheep, beautiful 

Sheep. 

Their lambs lost.

I have them found,

Purified by satan,

For not even a pound.

I am not a religious man, and I believe my family are safe,

Safe from the devil in the grill,

Grilling the flesh of what once lived. 

And they are my family, I wish them well,

But I know extremists that will only see them;

Laughing like children, they find this fun,

Until like chickens, in hell they burn.

Anarchist poems

My friend brought in Rise Against's new album today (bloody amazing) and it reminded me of the inner anarchist inside of me - then Ben gave me a little speech on they aren't anarchists, they are modern day heroes. I wouldn't go that far, but it gave me inspiration. There is also a quote in the album cover, which I can't remember, but it was to do with... okay I can't explain it so I'll just find it, copy and paste it. . .

                                          . . . okay I cant find it anywhere, but it was a good quote.

Anyway, it got me thinking and blah blah blah long story short, I wrote this poem about chickens.

My family, close until death, 

Which is not for long, 

I never felt the heat of their breath, 

Or even their morning song,

I doubt my father is alive,

I know my mother is dead,

I do not know how we survive,

When all I see is red,

We are huddled, drowning in heat,

My hunger overpowers me,

I wish sweat dripped down my feathered meat,

But now I’ll die painfully, 

Our fatty foods are always on supply, 

But I cannot reach it,

I try and flutter my wings and cry,

Whilst my broken legs lie in shit,

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,

A wing for a wing, 

A foot for a foot,

I feel my sanity fly away,

I feel jealous of my mind,

I don’t know why I am this way,

I feel my leg bones grind,

Men start to come in, taking us away,

Beating us with sticks,

But my mind goes astray,

I no longer hear our clicks,

Clicks of my family around me,

I think I’ll die before the men come,

But I doubt I want to see,

What those nasty men have done,

Now every seed I’ve eaten, every egg I have laid,

My life means nothing compared to what these men get paid. 

It would be nice.

It would be nice.
One day, in the near future.

Maybe humans will realise, the mess we have made,
Get rid of the cars and run,
Burn the money we have paid,
Let the nature run,
It would be nice.
One day, in the near future.

Humans will be animals, one more,
Using our instinct instead of machine,
Loving our beau’s right down to the core,
Then, for once, we will be finally green,
It would be nice.
One day, in the near future.

Sexuality is sexuality, prefix not needed,
A human will be human,
Cruelty will be treated,
With love for another human,
It would be nice.
One day, in the near future.

If you can read this, you are probably human,
Unless you are highly educated,
If so we shall treat you as human,
Treat you as you deserve to be treated.
It would be nice.
One day, in the near future.

Living beings are living beings, no matter the race, gender or trade,
Maybe everyone else will realise this one day,
At the moment we are alone my friend,
But they will all see,
It would be nice.
One day, in the near future.

Poem

As John was walking along the orange path,
Covered by the golden leaves of the trees,
He hears the children play and laugh,
But he holds back the tears,
‘From what?’ you ask,
‘What makes him cry?
Is it joyous views of the past?
Or does sadness kill his high?’
He is walking back form his past school day,
Letting the wind do the work,
He knew that god would make him pay,
His phone call was just to jerk,
Jerk back his memories of being a rebel,
Not far back, he still is,
He always got himself into trouble,
And now the debt that’s paid is his.
He gets a call, saying his parents are dead,
The reasons are unknown,
He feels the blood rush to his head,
He feels himself unsown,
Its not his parents life he mourns,
But that of his own.

Before his heart began to ache,
After sixteen years of beating,
He was told something he can’t take,
And now he feels like fleeting,
He has to live with his auntie and uncle,
Two he has always feared,
Not because they are old and uncool,
But because- well- it’s weird.
He always felt an uneasy wave of death around them,
His mother said its untrue,
But he remembers the evil stench surrounds them,
He worries that he will be swallowed too.
“Oh how you have grown,” His hairy aunt laughed,
“I remember you were this tall,”
My uncle just looked and coughed,
As she stroked an invisible wall.
“We will take him now,” My small aunt gleamed,
Showing her yellow teeth,
“It shall be easier than it seemed,”
Does she have a heart underneath?
The counsiler left me standing in the door,
Their grins begin to turn,
I wish he could stay five minutes more,
Their anger begins to churn,
“Your hair needs cutting and you need a shave,”
My aunt said pulling my mop,
“You look so untidy, have you come from the grave?”
She hisses beating my top.
“You maybe quite tall, but also quite thin,”
My round uncle phlegm’s at the mouth,
“If we started a fight I would be sure to win,”
Welcome Mr. Scary of Plymouth.
“But, of course, I wouldn’t,”
He begins to confess,
“Mainly because I couldn’t.
Or my life would be a mess,
If it wasn’t for our father up in the sky,
You wouldn’t be here right now,
And neither would I,”
“It simply proves it,
Even gods make mistakes,”
“Your heart is a pit!
Filled with snakes!God never does wrong,
And you should’ve known,
And there is only one!
Now you should be thrown…”

“Now now, dearest,” She says to her spouse,
“This boy is young and stubborn,
And he hasn’t even set foot in our house,
So let him be welcome!
“Okay son, now remember this,
Every story has a moral,
This house is filled with solemnly bliss,
Every story has a moral son, every story has a moral,”
Now, remember that line,
As it will come to importance,
This story is mine,
Just like their heritance.

The dysfunctional family argued a lot,
His hair, his fashion,
His piercings the lot,
His vegan diet wasn’t let off the hook though.
When his foster parents hit him and screamed,
“You listen to the sound of the devil!”
It proved to him it seems,
Their feelings will never be level.
Although he was grounded every night of the week,
He stayed out late, working in jobs getting money,
He thought that his plan was sleek,
But his strict parents didn’t think it was funny.
They picked him up from school,
And watched him in his room,
He felt like a tool,
“I need the bathroom,”
He hoped this would work,
He snuck out of the window,
He ran with a smirk,
They would never know.
Although his belongings are still in his house,
He shall sleep on the streets tonight.
Although he never keeps tiredness out,
He will never stop to fight.

One final day, he goes back to their house,
And collects all of his belongings,
“You are never again leaving this house!”
They scream until his ears ring,
“Well that’s illegal, you see,
You cannot keep me hostage,
Imprisonment will put down on thee,
Can I go now?”
“No!” They cry,
“But I bought my own house, I no longer live here,”
They scream to the sky,
He chuckles as he leaves them there.

Every story has a moral,
This one doesn’t,
But does it need a moral?
Can a poem be a story?
To him it can’t be,
Obviously.