Do any of you write poetry?

GRANDMA ROCKS

This grandma rocks:
House in the country but still a science geek
with the books and streaming documentaries.
Yet also keeps play-doh, paper and crayons
to occupy little hands that visit.
Her dogs and cats kid friendly companions.

This grandma rocks:
Smiling as the kid waters wildflowers
or talks to dragonflies, trees and flowers.
After all, he comes by that honestly,
his pagan Grandma does it too.
And at night she points out planets amongst stars.

This grandma rocks:
She blogs and throws herself down
both fun and research rabbit holes online.
She splits firewood and dances around the house.
Lift her headphones from her ears
and you‘re as likely to hear Pink as the Stones.

Hell, yeah…this grandma rocks.

©efbarmore 7/19/15
 

Alligatorob said:
Probably, though I am not sure what a numpty is. I suspect Shakespeare wasn't one...
Click to expand...
The "Brownlee" brothers used the word, or rather Alistair the eldest did to describe his brother Jonny when he'd used to wrong tactics in a world championship "Triathlon" event, (the two of them having dominated the sport around the time of the London Olympics in 2012).

So "numpty" means someone who isn't acting in a very bright or intelligent way, (or has no idea how to do something like write poetry!). :whistle::sneaky::sneaky::sneaky::rolleyes:
 
charry said:
Dementia

Sit for a while and close your eyes
Maybe think of days gone by
When you shared your lives together
Some days you’d laugh or cry
But today things have changed a little
Dementia has entered your lives
A condition alien to you both
Where anger and worry thrives
But try if you will to face those Demons
Who seem to have taken control
Of a loved one very close to you
Though no change in their heart and soul
For nobody knows what is there in their mind
Their feelings they find hard to explain
So how can you help them to cope with life
Many ideas go round in your brain
Patience and understanding takes a key role
Compassion can also play a part
As sympathy solves very little
But love returned straight from the heart
A fond caress when passing the chair
And many a warm comforting embrace
The tell-tale sign of acceptance
The welcoming smile on their face
Words like these are written for comfort
To those who constantly care
To demonstrate fully the answer
Those loved ones are definitely still here.
Click to expand...
Wow! You captured the essence of dementia and all its little details! Loved it!
 
​
As Christmas is around the corner, I thought I'd share a poem I wrote couple years ago and never shared. This one is supposed to look like a bass (when I copied and pasted, it didn't look quite like that.) It was inspired by my experience playing at a Christmas concert.


The stage

is ready.

The stands and chairs

sit in their places.

Black trees, black bushes,

sprout from the stage.

Long black robes,

Black ties, white shirts

Everyone sits

Rustling

papers.

Rumblings

Bass lady.

Quiet.

Lights.

Sweat on brow. A cough.

Another cough. The principal violinist arrives.

She bows and the audience claps. She lifts her violin and

looks at the oboist, nose upturned. Cacophony. The string players

tune their instruments. The violinists place their violins under their arms.

Lights out. The audience in black, clothed in secrecy. The conductor arrives,

elegantly dressed and groomed. The audience claps. Everyone on stage rises

except the bass lady. She’s already standing. The conductor bows to the audience,

his face glows from the stage lights. He turns and faces the orchestra. Everyone

sits back down, except the bass lady. He taps the stand with his bow and lifts his

arms. A stream of red streaks flash on stage. The orchestra members throw on

funny hats that were hiding underneath their seats. Red Santa-Clause hats.

Green Christmas tree hats. Red hats with silver bells. Simple Antlers

on heads. Upside-down Santa-Clause-in-Chimney hats.

Everyone laughs. The conductor waves his arms. The music

rushes in as Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer flies by. I’m Dreaming

of a White Christmas, just like the ones I used to know. Carol of the Bells,

Christmas is here, to young and old. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. Hang

a shining star upon the highest bough. People sing along. Warmth creeps up the legs, up

the spine, up the heart. Intermission. The auditorium empties. Shuffling of feet fade from the

stage. The stage empties. Quiet once more. The bell rings loudly. Shuffling of feet back on

stage. Rustling papers. Tuning of instruments. Christmas songs sprout their wings once more.

The audience cheers. Flushed faces singing along. Only things missing are Silent Night, eggnog, and mistletoe. The music ends. The conductor bows to the audience and leaves. Clap, clap, clap. One last song. Please. Encore. The conductor lifts his arms once more. Silent Night, Holy Night, all is calm, all is bright. This is what Christmas is about. Flushed tear-stained faces crooning softly along. The music ends. The conductor’s arms come down. Silence

Thunder shakes the auditorium.​
 
See,
palides2021 said:
​
As Christmas is around the corner, I thought I'd share a poem I wrote couple years ago and never shared. This one is supposed to look like a bass (when I copied and pasted, it didn't look quite like that.) It was inspired by my experience playing at a Christmas c
Click to expand...
see, see, the single line, see the single thought, let the mind roll around the words,
now (You have them thinking) the lines together making the whole...
Their alert, so let it end with the single line that makes all the lines join together making the whole
see the thunder in the words

Yes, it does look like a bass
 
Last edited:
To the Weakened souls:

Bring the gods to guard movements of the wept souls.
Do you need the arms of Angels round thee?
Now we hear with pleas of beg, pleas of want, pleas of need.

Mighty arms shall shield, yet with softest wisps of love.
Heed, as tender voices caress thy hear.
Words of love crest o'er thy stead.
Gods attend from Heaven's loft.
from places held for sacred souls.
You need their words to hold to heart.
to cherish as you plan the deeds.

No trembling child shall moan in fear
lest Angels hold thy hand.
Calm the minds of man in rest.
Create the love in hearts to spread o'er man.
Spread the seeds of life again. Love seeds.
and music.
Music turns the seeds to bloom.

Copyright 2021 Cheryl Gaer Barlow
 
Last edited:
palides2021 said:
​
As Christmas is around the corner, I thought I'd share a poem I wrote couple years ago and never shared. This one is supposed to look like a bass (when I copied and pasted, it didn't look quite like that.) It was inspired by my experience playing at a Christmas concert.


The stage

is ready.

The stands and chairs

sit in their places.

Black trees, black bushes,

sprout from the stage.

Long black robes,

Black ties, white shirts

Everyone sits

Rustling

papers.

Rumblings

Bass lady.

Quiet.

Lights.

Sweat on brow. A cough.

Another cough. The principal violinist arrives.

She bows and the audience claps. She lifts her violin and

looks at the oboist, nose upturned. Cacophony. The string players

tune their instruments. The violinists place their violins under their arms.

Lights out. The audience in black, clothed in secrecy. The conductor arrives,

elegantly dressed and groomed. The audience claps. Everyone on stage rises

except the bass lady. She’s already standing. The conductor bows to the audience,

his face glows from the stage lights. He turns and faces the orchestra. Everyone

sits back down, except the bass lady. He taps the stand with his bow and lifts his

arms. A stream of red streaks flash on stage. The orchestra members throw on

funny hats that were hiding underneath their seats. Red Santa-Clause hats.

Green Christmas tree hats. Red hats with silver bells. Simple Antlers

on heads. Upside-down Santa-Clause-in-Chimney hats.

Everyone laughs. The conductor waves his arms. The music

rushes in as Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer flies by. I’m Dreaming

of a White Christmas, just like the ones I used to know. Carol of the Bells,

Christmas is here, to young and old. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. Hang

a shining star upon the highest bough. People sing along. Warmth creeps up the legs, up

the spine, up the heart. Intermission. The auditorium empties. Shuffling of feet fade from the

stage. The stage empties. Quiet once more. The bell rings loudly. Shuffling of feet back on

stage. Rustling papers. Tuning of instruments. Christmas songs sprout their wings once more.

The audience cheers. Flushed faces singing along. Only things missing are Silent Night, eggnog, and mistletoe. The music ends. The conductor bows to the audience and leaves. Clap, clap, clap. One last song. Please. Encore. The conductor lifts his arms once more. Silent Night, Holy Night, all is calm, all is bright. This is what Christmas is about. Flushed tear-stained faces crooning softly along. The music ends. The conductor’s arms come down. Silence

Thunder shakes the auditorium.​
Click to expand...
I was struck by the artistic way this was presented!
 
Thought I would bring this up again because there are
some talented poets and lovely poetry on here.
I don't want them to be buried.
Feel free to add yours!
 
Gaer said:
Thought I would bring this up again because there are
some talented poets and lovely poetry on here.
I don't want them to be buried.
Feel free to add yours!
Click to expand...

I know - I have a thread in Hobbies that kinda faded away due to lack of interest... lol.


Llynn said:
In general, I don't care for poetry. I find most of it forced and too precious. Now on the other hand, a good bawdy limerick is often enjoyable.
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There once was a lady named Alice......
 
A well known comedian in the UK called Frank Skinner was interviewed on the radio yesterday talking about poetry, (he may have released a book or else fronted a tv programme on the subject recently).

A Sir John Betjemin poem was mentioned, (he was a very famous poet in my youth, and once the poet laureate), and in this clip he reads one of them:
 
MG Day 2022.JPG

An Ode to Jessica.
A 1947 MG Y-Type
There was a time when motor cars were serious fun to drive,
back then they didn't have seat belts, which help you stay alive.
They had quirky things like running boards and trafficators too,
those were little semaphore arms that gave the direction true.

Jessica is just like that in two tone fancy colour,
an MG of classic vintage, a real beauty to discover.
There's nothing more that she prefers than to show off in the shining sun,
and be photographed by one and all: She smiles for everyone.

This classic car has survived the years and not been torn asunder,
not for her, the breaker's yard, her body parts to plunder.
Despite her years she's greatly loved, her lines to be admired,
and she can still put on a turn of speed to get the adrenaline fired.

Out on the highway she likes to go and keep up with the traffic.
But serious problems can arise, when all the cars are static.
The water in her engine boils and out the steam comes, hissing.
She doesn't have a temperature fan but it's not exactly missing.

It simply wasn't ever there like modern cars today,
there's so much missing with vintage cars, it's the price you have to pay.
But for all her lack of equipment and of technology,
there's something intangible that this car has, this lovely old MG.

It's that distinct smell of old car, of walnut and of leather,
a fragrance so captivating, it doesn't get much better.
Then there's her style and grace and beauty, and class in overload,
but her greatest asset is the fun you can have that comes by the bucketload.​
 
horseless carriage said:
View attachment 267899

An Ode to Jessica.
A 1947 MG Y-Type
There was a time when motor cars were serious fun to drive,
back then they didn't have seat belts, which help you stay alive.
They had quirky things like running boards and trafficators too,
those were little semaphore arms that gave the direction true.

Jessica is just like that in two tone fancy colour,
an MG of classic vintage, a real beauty to discover.
There's nothing more that she prefers than to show off in the shining sun,
and be photographed by one and all: She smiles for everyone.

This classic car has survived the years and not been torn asunder,
not for her, the breaker's yard, her body parts to plunder.
Despite her years she's greatly loved, her lines to be admired,
and she can still put on a turn of speed to get the adrenaline fired.

Out on the highway she likes to go and keep up with the traffic.
But serious problems can arise, when all the cars are static.
The water in her engine boils and out the steam comes, hissing.
She doesn't have a temperature fan but it's not exactly missing.

It simply wasn't ever there like modern cars today,
there's so much missing with vintage cars, it's the price you have to pay.
But for all her lack of equipment and of technology,
there's something intangible that this car has, this lovely old MG.

It's that distinct smell of old car, of walnut and of leather,
a fragrance so captivating, it doesn't get much better.
Then there's her style and grace and beauty, and class in overload,
but her greatest asset is the fun you can have that comes by the bucketload.​
Click to expand...
What a lovely poem about your "MG classic" Jessica! You covered the senses, providing wonderful imagery, "a fragrance so captivating," "water in her engine boils," "hissing," and "shining sun." You have a sense of the poet in your genes! Well done!
 
Here's a poem I wrote about guacamole...

Guacamole's Rise, Like the Phoenix's Wings

Turning and turning over fields of green,
The ripe avocados cannot hear the farmer.
Mashed and mixed with lime, a symphony,
The taste of guacamole, my palette satiated.

Things fall apart, the center is a pit,
the price of spice is high,
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
A new age is dawning.

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards our plates, empty, in mortal servitude,
having fulfilled the prophesy,
Guacamole, forever mine, forever thine.

The shadows deepen, the chips are low,
But guacamole's rise, like the phoenix's rise,
With every bite, followed by imbibement,
for tomorrow, you will have turned brown.
 

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