Last Edited Poems (1,141)

She flew her glider off the Blorenge*
For she had a bird-like skill;-
And the flimsy craft was orange;-
('Twas launched from that mighty hill).

It took a long walk to arrange;-
This courageous act of will;-
To first mount this rill (or range);-
(The braveness does impress me still).

Her name was Angela (or 'Ange');-
She lived down by the old stone mill;-
Her surname could be "Gorringe"?**
Yes, I think that fits the bill!


© lovecanbereal
All rights reserved

Like a Navigator, using maps of old,
I now consult my list for one more story,
Which I bring to you; (If I may be so bold);
As it yields to become Poetic Glory;
Which may skew the facts; - and yet it must be told,
By myself (now somewhat old and hoary);
Now reconstructed from the "mists of time"-
As I settle to the rhythm of my rhyme.

So locked down from Covid, in old Sydney,
I watch the news in intermittent bursts;
Feeling now, I well could lose a kidney;
Or catch the Delta Strain (which could be worse).
Nonetheless, I must write on, and give thee;
A true account of my 'lover's curse';-
And like the night-time rain, which falls relucent;
I write now of my life without inducement.

I drank the years away, let me tell you,
Time vanished in solution down the drain;
And yet I have the wit to now renew,
My memories, and half-forgotten pain;
Therefore, before, this rhyme now goes askew,
I will write down my story bold and plain;-
Concerning of a girl in Quaker's Hill*-
An encounter that was an act of will.

Does anyone remember Lavalife?
The lonely heart's club, using just the phone?
And if you do, you may have met your "wife"**
(Though not for me 'cos I am still alone).
Not that I was looking for such a strife;
But like the "poor stray" I need a loving home;-
I've swum in murky depths - yet they're pellucid;
And no one knows where they may find their cupid.

And yet the introduction service worked;
It worked a charm (as it was meant to do);
For as a lover, none of this I shirked,
Because ev'ry woman's diff'rent - so would you?
And so I put on my very best shirt,
(Having now a destination's rendezvous);
Her name was Anne **- she met me at the station;
Close to paddocks, (as the suburb was then).

The year two thousand and three, (maybe four),
My list is incomplete, and not conclusive;
At any rate 'twas Anne, she opened her car door;
We introduced ourselves, which was conducive,
To further happenstance (and maybe more);
The conversation did not feel intrusive;
And pretty soon we're both at her abode -
(I would have gone there sooner, had I know'd).

Anne and I were sitting tete a tete;
But not for long - soon we're on the sofa;
Another glass of wine to feel replete;
And quite soon after both of us in bed were;
Then making love betwixt the clean white sheets;
During which (and something like a gopher);
I went beneath to taste that furry heaven;
Which beats hands down the taste of bread unleaven!

Thus, the lovemaking, it did continue;
As rolling overhead a thunderstorm;
Pelted raindrops down the bedroom window;-
While lightning forked in phosphorescent form;
It gave me recourse to remain "in venue";
My prospects of leaving were now forlorn;
Now her on top, she tosses her long mane;
And where I was, I wished there to remain.

Her body womanly, her skin quite alabaster;
As I watched the ecstasy upon her face;
And her reasons, I never thought to ask her;
We're happy, private, and not in disgrace.
It transpired that her husband left her;
When he found a younger girl to take her place;-
T'was that (and maybe her diabetes);
The rogue was gone - with no need for entreaties.

As all good things, they must come to an end;
(I was happy, and so was she, in fact);
And of this tale, I do not recommend,
Superficial judgment - I don't retract,
A single word I've said, (or verse I blend);
So, you've had another anecdote, I'm back!
The CS poet, they call lovecanbereal;
Whose verse, and meter have a silky feel.



© lovecanbereal
All rights reserved

To feel too much is surely a tragedy;-
To feel not at all is a monstrosity.

Poets are sensitive, (this is a fact);
And that's a statement I won't retract.

So when you click, to read words deferred;
Some previous suffering may have occurred.

It's in the nature of Man, to make his art;-
And in most cases, it's from the heart.

We make our art to tell you something;-
There are times It'll strike as lightning.

So read words here with perception;
Feel the poet's skill and direction.

Thus poets must write to cure past ills;
We swim in words like fish have gills.

And words retained cause indigestion;
So write them down - (just a suggestion).

Some must pray, and some must grovel;-
And some must write in verse forms novel.

For me, I don't believe in much;-
(Though I have the poetic touch).

Metempsychosis of the poet's soul?
(Well, it may at least be possible).

Reincarnation? - mere poets as mystics?
Through the agencies of Quantum Physics?

And if it is true there's nothing after,
Then I will have the final laugh here.

Is Reality as deep as we imagine?
Or is Nature just a fractal pattern?


© lovecanbereal
All rights reserved

Be real is back in full poetic mode,
(And resolves to write a stanza per day)*,
Now off the drink, his verse is no more slow'd,
By hangovers, (which caused him much dismay);-
A poetic castle - his fair abode,
(And he wouldn't have it any other way);
So get ready, now, for another spiel;-
From the CS poet called lovecanbereal.

That's, to say, (of course), me, myself, and I;
It's why I voice my verse in the first person,
So you can have confessional poetry;
(Yes, indeed, that's what I voice my verse in);
As memories are drawn from my mind's eye;
And I'll not let the alcoholic curse win;
I now address the world and my fine nation;-
With verses that are fit for publication.

I've lived a life that I don't regret;
Does anyone read poetry today?
To write this down, before I just forget;
Another soul that dies and fades away;
For modern times you must have a vignette;
Readers wouldn't have it another way;
Attention span is short now - like our dreams;-
Getting shorter, all the time - or so it seems.

I would that I could write here with more space;
Although I must abbreviate my verse;
Maintaining rhyme, integrity, and grace;
Is brevity a modern poet's curse?
The outline of my story, I must trace;
To tell the truth for better, or for worse;
That's if I - (your poet and narrator);-
Can remember all that happened then, and later.

And just what is it, I will write of next?
Well, subjects - they are many - and incredible;
When I was young, I was quite highly sexed;
(Although I am now, these days, more cerebral);
And at peace with myself - no longer vexed;
By the things on this earth labeled 'terrible';
By being happy with what one does have;-
I'll never be, no more, just passion's slave.

Casting off the chains - alcohol and dr*gs;
And ev'ry morning, now, my mind does thank me;
Before, I'd down the glass to lees and dregs;
John Barleycorn would sneak up then and tank me;
Then crawling on the floor, passed out on rugs;
Before the morning's black coffee would crank me;
To a new day's destruction overwrought;-
If I had money, then alcohol I bought.

The anecdotes will still flow from my pen;-
My indiscretions make compelling muse;
Back and forwards in time 'tween now and then;
For I've gone and lit the poetic fuse;
Improvements in perception of my ken;
Makes for verse that no reader can refuse;
I'll tell of instances of impropriety;-
Now crystallized in mem'ry, by sobriety.

So Bereal's been sober, now, for a year;
Never will he waver, or relapse;
Not touching whisky, wine, or a beer;
That brought him close, to a state of collapse;
His mind works best without boozes' veneer;
In a heatwave, he may have an ale, perhaps;
But only for emergency hydration;-
Of fluids, lost by heat, in this hot nation!**



© lovecanbereal
All rights reserved

I stand at North Head*, and the sea,
Spreads its arms, in most joyous blue,
Horizon's edge; - infinity,

Now drops away before my view,
As I extend my gaze beyond,
To imagine a clear purview;-

Of dreams in magic fractal frond,
Distant white caps, sapphire blue sea;-
Far from this land that is my bond;

As I find an epiphany,
In Nature's rills of seamless waves,
That seem to dance there just for me,

And this is what my spirit craves,
Cyan water, powder-blue sky;-
Where some have gone to watery graves,

And, we will never know just why;-
They sing now in the restless deep,
A siren's song, a plaintive cry,

The endless waves sing them to sleep,
In Old Poseidon's seething chains,
Don't think of them - for them, don't weep,

For they leave no Earthly remains,
Their spark of life, back to Nature,
And echoed in the waves' refrains,

The Sun wheels in a sky of azure,
Beneath my feet are craggy cliffs,
Waves burst in each rocky fissure,

Of ancient sandstone monoliths;-
I love my life - for I choose life,
And not the cruel sea's endless drifts,

Although I've had my share of strife;-
For me - I never will cave in,
And though this world has troubles rife;-
Pessimism will never win.



© lovecanbereal
All rights reserved

The arctic tern wheels the sky;
All the lonely Summer through;
Sailing on the sleety wind;-
And most accurate his view.

In fields of desolation;
Of white and polar caps,
Seals lie lazy on the rocks,
And whales beneath, perhaps.

Though lonely is the tern;
The world grows ever warmer,
As meridians he turns,
Habitat grows ever smaller.

Yes, lonely is the tern;
Skwarking cranneries on cliffs,
Cruising on the eddies;
Thermals now the tern uplifts.

Looking at the wide blue ocean;
And with that bird's eye view,
He cares not for Man's commotion;
Just his ever-clear purview.

Alas! the graceful tern;
Who lives upon the wing;
Would wish for her return;
To write just one more thing.

Before the tern must face his long migration;-
To Southern parts across an endless sea;-
So she flies in my imagination;-
Safe travels;- seagull - wherever you may be.


© lovecanbereal
All rights reserved

I sought to find, I sought to find - and found,
Lost innocence, that was newly shattered;-
When, now that I had seen Old Sydney Town,
In her cloak of darkness, nothing mattered.
When all I wanted, was to find my own
Identity; my senses now were scattered,
Into the stars; now down in Old Kings Cross,
(My memory now grows a verdant moss).

So young, (they say), so young for a "street kid",
(Well this is what it makes you - if you stay);
Something to shock the Ego, and the Id;
To shock your very soul into dismay;
Where in this shady place, in corners hid,
Were ev'ry type of vice, and wicked way;
There's things you shouldn't see when your fifteen;-
Things that are a nightmare's waking dream.

So now up gaudy William Street, I walked,
Past glitzy showrooms of luxury cars,
Past girls on corners (before whom I balked);
And by each corner, with their lonely bars;
Past the trannies*, whom their wares they hawked;
(For a Mountains Boy, this may as well be Mars);
Past the Coke Sign**, and into her den of vice;
And anything you want - if you have the price.

Bright lights, big city, (so they say) - it's true;
Many moths to a flame, many moths destroyed;
And once it's seen, there's none forget the view;
(Even if thereafter, they then, the place, avoid).
Here's another street fight, here's another blue;***
And before too long, here's police deploy'd;
A gangster's paradise - men like Neddy Smith;-****
Now all these years later, we have Neddy's myth.

I'm on Darlo Road^, (I'm in the "Cross proper);
Past strip shows, f*ck shows, nightclubs, and such things;
With drug dealers paying off the bent coppers;^^
And all is well, and good - till someone "sings";
Then you'll see "what gives" - when they "come a cropper";^^^
(Their blood on the street - is what this brings);
They're called a "dog"^^^^; and bashed there in the street;
And afterwards; their face is like minced meat!

Still there's virtue, in the worst of us;
When the tattoo'd arms, of some criminal,
Would pull me back from the danger, and the fuss;
Away from things which scarred the mind subliminal;
And swimming in societies' worst pus;
With prostitutes strutting in their clothes minimal;
And most of them off their heads on smack;
Which was guaranteed to keep them coming back.

Though in this place, there was a kind of beauty;
Sometimes mix'd in, with the vice, and dross;
At fifteen, I was innocent, as could be
Expected; when I first saw old Kings Cross;
Still things run deep, and deep runs the cruel sea;
And many things must die, to pay the cost.
Some things, which died, inside me, at this time;
Now form the very subject of this rhyme.

So at fifteen, (and also still a virgin);
A young kid's eyes are opened to the world;
My education, somehow, had to begin;-
And so it did - in this underworld.
Drinking underage - most pubs let me in;
(My young mind swimming in the alcohol);
Of course these places also paid police;-
To operate in this place of vice.

So there you have it all;- "it takes all kinds";
And of this saying's truth - I have no doubt;
At my young age then, I missed the land mines;
By keeping quiet - a whisper was a shout;-
(Or could become one - in some other's mind);
It took so little for a fight to break out;-
Which could then cascade into a mighty brawl;
That was "all in" - a violent free for all.

Now the 'Cross is nothing like it used to be;
(Though some things do not change up there - I'm sure);
And She's expensive - in her gentility;
(No longer will you find the dozy whore).
With a veneer of respectability;-
And a little more regard for the Law;-
Pubs close early - with Lockout Laws in place;^^^^
And less young kids there, getting off their face.



© lovecanbereal
All rights reserved

Lost among the algorithms;
Is some verse profound;
Buried in archival pages;-
That you may not yet have found.

Some profiles deleted;
(By members who have gone);
Now Endlessly repeated;
By the algorithms song.

Hark the unknown Poets!
In this sea of cyberspace;
(The question marks don't show it);
But the words retain their grace.

Much, this verse is excellent;
(Though they have sought not fame);
And some poets, - they don't care;
If they leave behind a name.

Next time, you are stopping by;
Just spare a thought or two;
For those fine unknown Poets;
Who wrote just for me and you.


© lovecanbereal
All rights reserved

Waves of time moving across Space
Memories formed that
Trail behind us like a wake;
The future yet to come;

As glitter stars shine light,
Opon an Immensity;
We cannot comprehend


© lovecanbereal
All rights reserved

The purple petals darken in the gloaming;-
In their flowered elegance, belles' dresses,
Fall in a slowly darkling Summer night;-
To the fecund loamy softness of the earth;
Where the purpleness dissolves into the air;-
And creatures stir.

Soft velvet carpet, clear Summer skies;-
Stars circle above, in the black eternal vault,
Mysterious. A full moon shimmy-shines,
It's radiant silver, to shower the trees.

Sparkle stars, hours pass, soft dawn encroaches;-
Diffuse flower fragrance kisses the sunrise;
Crystal dew drops refracting tiny rainbows;
And soft mist, from the ladies' purple dresses.



© lovecanbereal
All rights reserved