Maybe it's time to renew your poetic license?

The Reach of Speech By Me

…we note the first word….and the last…aghast. A thousand yaps are worth one pic…we love to squawk.
At first we imitate adult’s …baby talk….later please them with a word…of our own.

Never taught to listen…ever. For now, our words do not…fall on deaf ears…this will go on for years.
Until one day we speak alone…in company with other’s words…mixing as one…noise. Boys will be noise.

…at last we find a can of ‘word polish’….and apply with a tongue…liberally. Vocally…we are “there”.
Soon, we are skilled at speech…eager to talk…to teach …the world’s masses…gathered in classes.

Until comes old age…the last stage of …speech…. no longer within reach.
One day…what we have to say becomes….irrelevant to the world’s ear. Sad, but true…they do not want to hear me squawk…baby talk.
 

Last edited:
The Marital Bed.

For Gawds sake move over and let me get in
Its not very warm and my nightie’s quite thin
Panting and pushing to get him over the line
I only want half the bed the part I call mine.

I’m just dozing off to sleep when my calves go in a clamp
I jump out very quickly because I have the ruddy cramp
I can hear my other half snoring well in the ‘land of nod’
While I’m limping up and down thinking ‘you are a lucky sod’.

The cramp is slowly subsiding so I try my luck once again
More pushing shoving and heaving he really is a pain.
I close my eyes and let my mind drift like a rowing boat
When suddenly I’m choking with an elbow in my throat.

After being rudely awakened I settle down once more
Oh strewth! its started up again that never ending snore.
I bury my head in the pillow with the cover over my head
I’ve had this nightly torture since the first day that we wed.

I give him a dig to make him stop and turn the other way
Oh blow me down! here we go! he’s taken the whole duvet.
I pull it back with very much force, I have to be quite tough
So he turns over with it and puts his knees right up my duff.

I settle down once more to sleep the rest of the night through
When suddenly the bedclothes go back he has to visit the loo.
I turn to look at the clock, the hands say half past three
“Oh Lord!” I pray “let me get some rest, please be good to me”.

My other half gets back into bed shaking me back to life
I think I deserve a medal for being an understanding wife.
I hear the clock chime four o’clock I guess God never heard
I may as well get out of bed and do yesterdays crossword


Copyright © - Maisie Walker 2001 - All rights reserved
 
Remember Our Innocence

(Reflection on WW1)​

Eagerly they accepted the King’s shilling,​

Fresh-faced youths responded to the call.​

Most caught up in fervent patriotic naivety,​

Keenly anticipating a glorious adventure. ​

Soon nationalistic fantasy confronted grim reality,​

Youthful idealism was swiftly obliterated​

Amidst a Hellorama of mud, screams and gore.​

Those long dead boys call to the living,​

When our war is a dusty recollection​

Our motives misrepresented and misunderstood,​

Please Remember Our Innocence.​

RJG​
​
 

The Migraine

Flashing lights announce the pain
Please, God, no…not this again
Throbbing veins beat in my head
shaking body feels like lead

tears now slowly start to roll
each slow movement takes its toll
darkened room begins to spin
Why did this cursed hell begin

pills refuse to make it quit
nothing pulls me from this pit
only time will make it fade
wasted day is what I paid
Titus 12
 
Headin' In​
​
​
Some fellers favor sunup
just before their day begins,
while others favor eve'nin
when their day is at an end.

But this old cowboy's dif'rent
it's the way I've always been,
cause the time that gets me smilin'
is the time for headin' in.

With a day of work behind me
and before the sunset ends,
it's a quiet and peaceful feelin'
on the trail while headin' in.

There's a breeze that often comes up
as a warm, southwestern wind,
and a glow across the prairie
as I'm slowly headin' in.

Above a hawk is wheelin'
swoopin' down then up again,
as if he wants one final look
'fore he too is headin' in.

My saddle pal don't say much
but he tells me with a grin,
he feels about the same as me
with our ponies headin' in.

Someday this'll all be over
just the prairie, grass and wind,
I hope He'll let me pass this way
when it's time for headin' in.

© Rod Nichols, All rights reserved

​
 
Kidspoem/Bairnsang

it wis January
and a gey driech day
the first day Ah went to the school
so my Mum happed me up in ma
good navy-blue napp coat wi the rid tartan hood
birled a scarf aroon ma neck
pu'ed oan ma pixie an' my pawkies
it wis that bitter
said noo ye'll no starve
gie'd me a wee kiss and a kid-oan skelp oan the bum
and sent me aff across the playground
tae the place A'd learn to say
it was January
and a really dismal day
the first day I went to school
so my mother wrapped me up in my
best nay-blue top coat with the red tartan hood,
twirled a scarf around my neck,
pulled on my bobble-hat and mittens
it was so bitterly cold
said now you won't freeze to death
gave me a little kiss and a pretend slap on the bottom
and sent me off across the playground
to the place I'd learn to forget to say
it wis January
and a gey driech day
the first day Ah went to the school
so my Mum happed me up in ma
good navy-blue napp coat wi the rid tartan hood,
birled a scarf aroon ma neck,
pu'ed oan ma pixie and' ma pawkies
it wis that bitter.

Oh saying it was one thing
But when it came to writing it
In black and white
The way it had to be said
Was as if you were posh, grown-up, male, English and dead.

Liz Lochhead
 
I couldn't get a poetic license...applied but was turned down...so can't renew:D

But I can bake a cake from scratch. Does that count for anything? Anything at all?
 
GeorgiaXplant said:
I couldn't get a poetic license...applied but was turned down...so can't renew:D

But I can bake a cake from scratch. Does that count for anything? Anything at all?
Click to expand...

It counts for everything!!

[h=1]How to Bake a Cake From Scratch[/h][h=2]By Lisa Nohealani Morton[/h]1 February 2010
First, create a universe. It needn't be
infinite; you only have to ensure that you'll have
enough space to work in.
The noise will settle down to a background hum after the first few microseconds.

You will need:

1 planet
1 medium-sized sun
4.5 billion years
A standing mixer

Preheat the oven to 350.
In a superheated ball of gas, fuse hydrogen for heat and light.
Stir in carbon, hydrogen, oxygen and nitrogen in your preferred configurations.
Season to taste with trace elements.
Mix well, striking occasionally with lightning.

Once you've got evolution started,
don't worry about the mess; these things have a way of self-limiting.
Grease an 11"x9" pan. Avoid large asteroid strikes if possible, but remember:
mass extinctions are an inevitable part of the process.

Pour the batter into the pan as evenly as you can. By now,
your planet should have evolved intelligent life.
This is a good time to send out your invitations,
unless they are bad conversationalists.

Bake for 30 minutes, or until a knife inserted into the middle
comes out clean. Serve with a glass of wine,
so you can toast the first clumsy ships
sparking off into the cosmos.

Copyright © 2010 Lisa Nohealani Morton​
 
FINNIGIN TO FLANNIGAN

by Strickland Gillilan

Superintindint waz Flannigan;
Boss av the siction wuz Finnigin;
Whiniver the kyars got offen th' track
An' muddled up things t' th' divil an' back
Finnigin writ it to Flannigan,
Afther the wrick wuz all on agin:
That is, this Finnigin
Repoorted to Flannigan.

Whin Finnigin furst writ to Flannigan,
He writ tin pages-did Finnigin.
An' he tould jist how the smash occurred;
Full minny a tajus, blunderin' wurrd
Did Finnigin write to Flannigan
Afther the cars had gone on agin.
That's th' way Finnigin
Repoorted to Flannigan.

Now Flannigan knowed more than Finnigin-
He'd more idjucation-had Flannigan;
An' it wore 'm clane an' complately out
To tell what Finnigin writ about
In his writin' to Muster Flannigan.
So he writed this here: Masther Finnigin:
Don't do sich a sin agin;
Make 'em brief, Finnigin!"

Whin Finnigin got this from Flannigan,
He blushed rosy rid-did Finnigin;
An' he said: "I'll gamble a whole month's pa-ay
That it'll be minny an' minny a da-ay
Befoore Sup'rintindint-that's Flannigan-
Gits a whack at that very same sin agin.
From Finnigin to Flannigan
Repoorts won't be so long agin."

Wan da-ay on the siction av Finnigin,
On the road sup'rintinded be Flannigan,
A rail give way on a bit av a curve
An' some kyars went off as they made th' shwerrve.
"there's nobody hurted," sez Finnigin,
"But repoorts must be made to Flannigan,"
An' he winked at Mike Corrigan,
As married a Finnigin.

He wuz shantyin' thin, wuz Finnigin,
As minny a railroader's been agin,
An' his shmoky ol' lamp wuz burnin' bright
In Finnigin's shanty all that night-
Bilin' down his repoort was Finnigin
An' he writed this here: "Muster Flannigan:
Off agin, on agin,
Gone agin.-Finnigin."

View attachment 7454
 
Screenshot_2013-03-28-18-07-42-1-e1366397690194.png



[FONT=&quot]Mornin' onthe Desert
[/FONT]John R. Nielson.
[FONT=&quot]
Morin' on the desert, and the wind is blowin' free,
And it's ours, jest for the breathin', so let's fill up, you and me.
No more stuffy cities, where you have to pay to breathe,
Where the helpless human creatures move and throng and strive and seethe.

Mornin' on the desert, and the air is like a wine,
And it seems like all creation has been made for me and mine.
No house to stop my vision, save a neighbor's miles away,
And a little 'dobe shanty that belongs to me and May.

Lonesome? Not a minute: Why I've got these mountains here,
That was put here just to please me, with their blush and frown and cheer.
They're waiting when the summer sun gets too sizzlin' hot,
An' we jest go campin' in 'em with a pan and coffee pot.

Mornin' on the desert-- I can smell the sagebrush smoke.
I hate to see it burnin', but the land must sure be broke.
Ain't it jest a pity that wherever man may live,
He tears up so much that's beautiful that the good God has to give?

"Sagebrush ain't so pretty?" Well, all eyes don't see the same,
have you ever seen the moonlight turn it to a silvery flame?
An' that greasewood thicket yonder -- well, it smells jest awful sweet,
When the night wind has been shakin' it -- for its smell is hard to beat.

Lonesome? Well, I guess not! I've been lonesome in a town.
But I sure do love the desert with its stretches wide and brown.
All day through the sagebrush here the wind is blowin' free.
An' it's ours jest for the breathin', so let's fill up, you and me.[/FONT]
 
[FONT=Arial, Helvetica]Ragged Old Flag
(as sung by Johnny Cash)[/FONT]
[FONT=Arial, Helvetica]I walked through a county courthouse square,
On a park bench an old man was sitting there.
I said, "Your old courthouse is kinda run down."
He said, "Naw, it'll do for our little town."
I said, "Your flagpole has leaned a little bit,
And that's a Ragged Old Flag you got hanging on it."

He said, "Have a seat", and I sat down.
"Is this the first time you've been to our little town?"
I said, "I think it is." He said, "I don't like to brag,
But we're kinda proud of that Ragged Old Flag.

"You see, we got a little hole in that flag there
When Washington took it across the Delaware.
And it got powder-burned the night Francis Scott Key
Sat watching it writing 'Oh Say Can You See.'
And it got a bad rip in New Orleans
With Packingham and Jackson tuggin' at its seams.

"And it almost fell at the Alamo
Beside the Texas flag, but she waved on through.
She got cut with a sword at Chancellorsville,
And she got cut again at Shiloh Hill.
There was Robert E. Lee, Beauregard, and Bragg,
And the south wind blew hard on that Ragged Old Flag.

"On Flanders Field in World War I
She got a big hole from a Bertha gun.
She turned blood red in World War II.
She hung limp and low by the time it was through.
She was in Korea and Vietnam.
She went where she was sent by her Uncle Sam.

"She waved from our ships upon the briny foam,
And now they've about quit waving her back here at home.
In her own good land she's been abused--
She's been burned, dishonored, denied, and refused.

"And the government for which she stands
Is scandalized throughout the land.
And she's getting threadbare and wearing thin,
But she's in good shape for the shape she's in.
'Cause she's been through the fire before,
And I believe she can take a whole lot more.

"So we raise her up every morning,
Take her down every night.
We don't let her touch the ground,
And we fold her up right.
On second thought I do like to brag,
'Cause I'm mighty proud of that Ragged Old Flag."
[/FONT]
 
Ominous Quiet Water



Flowing with swift placidity

The surface softly undulating

Stealthily increasing its volume

Slowly but perceptibly the level rises

The darkness hides the imminent danger

Its defences are overwhelmed

The river’s banks breached along its length

Releasing the ominous quiet water.

RJG


 
Enigma
(Reflections on a miscarriage)

Our beings were entwined for such a short time
Your life force soon vaporised into the ether.
The separation caused me physical and emotional trauma,
Memories are prompted by chronologically significant dates,
Sadly, I think of what might have been.
Will our souls be reunited in a celestial hereafter?
Until then your gender and nature will remain an enigma.

RJG
​
 
Warning by Jenny Joseph.

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat that doesn't go, and doesn't suit me,
And I shall spend my pension
on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals,
and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired,
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells,
And run my stick along the public railings,
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people's gardens,
And learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat,
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go,
Or only bread and pickle for a week,
And hoard pens and pencils and beer mats
and things in boxes.
But now we must have clothes that keep us dry,
And pay our rent and not swear in the street,
And set a good example for the children.
We will have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practise a little now?
So people who know me
are not too shocked and surprised,
When suddenly I am old
and start to wear purple!

Jenny Joseph
 
The National Cowboy Poetry Gathering: "Purt Near!" with Randy Rieman


 
Last edited:
Make Me a Cowboy Again for a Day

​
Backward turn backward oh time with your wheels
Bicycles, wagons, and automobiles
Dress me again in a big Stetson hat
Spurs, flannel shirt and slicker and chaps
Put a six-shooter or two in my hands
Show me a yearlin' to rope and to brand
Out where the sage brush is dusty and gray
Make me a cowboy again for a day.

​
Give me a bronc that knows how to dance
Blue roan in color and wicked of glance
New to the feeling of bridle and bit
Give me a quirt that will sting when it hits
Strap on a blanket behind in a roll
Toss me a lariat dear to my soul
Over the trail let me gallop away
Make me a cowboy again for a day.

Thunder of hoofs on the range as you ride
Hissin' of iron and the sizzlin of hide
The bellow of cattle and the snort of cayuse
Longhorns of Texas as well as the duce
Midnight stampedes and the millin' of herds
Yells of the cowboys too angry for words
Right in the midst of it all I would say
Make me a cowboy again for a day.

Under the star-studded sky so vast
Campfires and coffee and comfort at last
Bacon that sizzles and crisps in the pan
After the roundup smells good to a man
Stories of cowboys and outlaws retold
Over the pipes as the embers grow cold
These are the tunes that old memories play
Make me a cowboy again for a day

​
© from Don Edwards' Saddle Songs—A Cowboy Songbag​
​
 
The Pirate
by Shel Silverstein

Oh the blithery, blathery pirate
(his name I beleive is Claude)
his manner is sullen and irate,
and his humor is sullen and broad

he has often been known to imprison
his friends in the hold dark and dank,
or lash them up high on the mizzen
or force them to stroll down a plank

he will selfishly ask you to dig up
some barrels of ill gotten gold
and if you so much as just hiccup
he'll leave you to fill the hole
he may cast you adrift in a rowboat
(he has no reaction to tears)
or put you ashore without NO boat
on an island and leave you for years

he's a rotter, a wretch, and a sinner,
he's foul as a fellow can be
but if you invite him to dinner
Oh, please sit him next to me!

View attachment 7991
 
Warriors Dance © 2008




I waste no thoughts of love on you
I do not cry in my pain I dance
and for every evil you do me
I hold myself from wishing pain and darkness befall you
I hold my anger
I place my anger in my hands and blow it away
like a dandelion weed
and I dance
I let the dance wash over me
You send me poison
and I dance
I dance an ancient warriors dance
guarding my heart from
bitter darkness
I am relentless
you cannot harm me
because I know
that when the dance is over
a bloom will be found
at the bottom of my pain
a snowy blossom
beautiful
unfolding with new found
light it will
blanket me
and I will have one moment
of perfect joy
so I dance
 
I'm glad I found this thread, I have written lots of poems, sad, funny, you name it. Here is one of my favourites I wrote recently. I have enjoyed reading all the others that have been posted too.

ARE YOU HERE?

Are you here, are you here? he shouted, into the empty night
with worried frown he peered around in the pale moon's light.
And with crackling leaves and branches on the hard frost ground
˜Neath his feet, he listened , to the night owls mournful sound.

Are you there, are you there? he whispered;
Please say you are - and yet
Are you teasing, hiding, still playing hard to get?
And his breath grew raw and ragged as the winterer's wind did moan
And he stood there yearning, hoping - but still he was alone.
And far away in her room, his pampered lover lay
She thought of him there waiting and then of yesterday
Of promises she gave to him and plans that they had made
Of thrilling days that they had spent in that forest glade.
But she was born to luxury and with his love she'd toyed
no scruples and uncaring, his hope she'd now destroyed
You're not here, he whispered and never will you be
And now you'll never know my love what you have done to me.

And so he left their meeting place and walked until the dawn
The river deep it beckoned him his reasoning was torn
He looked around and shouted loud 'I knew she'd not meet me
So now I won't be there for her and never more will be..'
Hardly a ripple showed there on the river's deep dark sheen
Not a trace to show just where his last life's breaths had been
That is except the footprints,there etched upon the snow
That started in the forest's glade with no-where else to go.

PMB (C)
 
Last edited:
You must log in or register to reply here.

Back
Top