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Monthly Archives: August 2012

tears for the world by Malcolm Bradshaw

Nottingham post weekday poems

No more poems Monday to Friday

I feel it is a terrible shame

I have tried to find out

Who at the paper is to blame?

I have sent a few e-mails

As yet, I have had no reply

I just want to know the reason

I just want to know why

I know this poem will not be published

I am sure it will end up in the bin

No more poems during the week

I feel that decision was a little bit thin

All I ask if for an explanation

For all those that have shown concern

To be able to enjoy poems during the week

Then rejoice when they at last return.

Malcolm Bradshaw

600th poem

Who says you can’t have a holiday romance


After bank Holiday

Now deserted are the roads
Where awhile the lovers went;
Vacant are the field-abodes
Where a vivid hour they spent:
Solemn dark
Broods again in lane and park. 

‘Tis no matter where are gone
Those warm lives—to halls, maybe,
Festive, or to lodgings lone:
Of the land their tenancy
Now is o’er;
Earth to earth belongs once more. 

Gone are they as hourly goes
From the sombre fields of space
Our world, with its little glows—
Passion’s ship that has no place,
Leaves no track,
On time’s endless ocean black. 

Elizabeth Daryush

Bank holiday the Miracle man



I took my children to the county fair,
To sample the delights of simple lives.
The sounds and smells of livestock filled the air,
And merry banter of husbands and wives.

Exhibits passed, munching apples we strolled,
Breathing in the burnt crisp October air,
Chanced upon a friend, who pointed and told
Of a miracle-man just over there.

A miracle-man! The children’s eyes glowed.
I confess that mine began to glisten.
As we approached him, our quickstep it slowed
And ears unfurled and began to listen.

“Come one, come all! Gather round, gather round!
Let me make you richer than you can dream.
Hush now, hush now! Folks, please don’t make a sound!
Allow me to tell you about my scheme.

“Something for nothing’s the name of our game,
We use the latest financial magic.
Just give me the spark and I’ll make the flame,
To miss out on this chance would be tragic.

“You lend us your livestock: cows, pigs and sheep.
We package them on to the street known as Wall.
They’ll earn tidy interest for you as you sleep,
And always remain within easy recall.

The farmers applauded as their eyes brightened.
“We get paid for our herds and we don’t have to feed ’em!”
Miracle-man smiled as my stomach tightened.
“You can always call back your swine when you need ’em!”

My friends and neighbours rushed to fetch their herds
And lead them to the miracle man’s camp.
Too busily straining to exchange a few words
As they pushed their cows and swine up the ramp.

The speaker left, his trucks bulging with meat,
Each hoof and mouth checked for impurity.
The farmers were holding a bright pink receipt,
Left by the miracle-man for security.

The winter rolled in and hoar-frost descended,
Each day farmers strode past empty stable,
Felt a regret at the herds they had lended,
The winter is long with no meat on the table.

At last, spring’s green shoots escaped winter’s cold clutch
‘Tis the time that the farmer loves the most.
This year, not least because of the crutch
Of good news from the miracle-man in the post.

When the envelope came, he snatched it with glee,
And called in his wife, two sons, and his daughter.
Then ripped it open, his jaw dropped to see
The miracle-man had sold his whole herd for the slaughter.

by Macro Man 

Nottingham by the sea August 2012

Where is the sea

Bank holiday


Bank holiday, what can I say?
A chance to brush the cobwebs away.

Shake off the work blues and stresses of the week,
We have an extra long weekend and the weather’s not bleak.

Fish out the flippers for a day by the sea,
Clean up the bar-b for a burger or three.

Polish the gate it’s well overdue,
Paint it yellow with dots that are blue.

Get the car washed ‘cos it’s looking quite grubby,
Endulge in a takeaway with an aim to get chubby.

Balance on a washing line while juggling fruit,
Or use a space hopper while playing a flute.

Dress as the grim reaper and knock on peoples doors,
Anything to avoid doing chores.

Spread out the deck chair and worship some sun,
Perhaps do the garden, that’s always fun.

Go catch some rays in minimal clothes,
Use a high factor and don’t burn your nose.

Let down the sun roof and cruise around town,
Or blare out Bob Marley with the car windows down.

Pack your swimmers and sit by the pool,
Remember your shades ‘cos you’ll want to look cool.

Spend time with family or go out on your bike,
Call a few mates and go for a hike.

Repair that fence so the dog can’t escape,
Or dress him in a tu-tu and get it on tape.

Call up your bro, go out for a beer.
An afternoon pub crawl and the good times are here.

Arrange some bowling for if the weather turns bad,
It’s a damn sight better than the week you have had.

But whatever you do, enjoy your break,
‘cos you’ve worked so hard with all give and no take.

I could go on but you get the idea.
Just don’t waste time, the next week is near.

Ian Pointer 

The art of water By Gillian Sims

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Poppy and the mouse


600 not out for Post poet Ron… and there’s plenty more to come

FROM mining and politics to religion and philosophy, there are not many subjects Bulwell poet Ron Martin has not covered when he puts pen to paper.

And on Saturday he saw his 600th poem published in the Nottingham Post.


Prolific:  Ron Martin, 83, of Bulwell has written his 600th poem for the Post.

Prolific: Ron Martin, 83, of Bulwell has written his 600th poem for the Post.

Now aged 83, Mr Martin has been writing poetry for only about 15 years.

But in that time he has not only seen hundreds published in the Post, he has also had 15 books published, with the proceeds – about £3,000 – going to Nottinghamshire Royal Society for the Blind.

With a scientific background and a life that revolved around the mining industry, Mr Martin never thought of himself as a poet.

“English was not really one of my strongest subjects but I developed a flair to write poetry,” he said.

“I don’t spend a lot of time writing poetry. It comes to me when I’m thinking and all of a sudden I jump up and write the poem.

“Sometimes it just takes minutes. People think I spend hours or days on them but I don’t.”

Mr Martin, of Chilwell Court in Bulwell, added: “I don’t write frivolous poems. I write poems with a message. I think of the message and then I write the poem to fit in with what I want to say.”

He has not only been published in the UK but also America and was recently invited to join the International Society of Poets in the US.

But he was worried he might not be able to make it to the annual meetings in Washington, so turned down the invitation.

Mr Martin, who was at school during the Second World War, went on to study at Nottingham Technical College before working as a scientific technical officer for the National Coal Board.

He had various other roles in the industry including surface manager at Kirkby and Cotgrave collieries and taking on responsibility for training and recruitment in later years.

“I wrote one poem about the demise of the coal industry that points out why the mining industry closed down,” he said. “It’s nothing to do with politics – it’s to do with the fact people have stopped burning coal.”

His poem, shown on this page, talks about how diesel engines took over coal-fired engines on the trains, how gas fires replaced coal burning boilers and other changes that took place.

With hundreds of poems under his belt, Mr Martin has no plans to stop yet.

“I’ll carry on writing them,” he said.


Checkout Ron and more top east midland

poets on this site


Shift Shove and push

I am in a rush,

The bus, tram, and trains are full

I am not feeling lonely

There’s standing room only,

Shift Shove or push

I am going to be late for an important date

It’s a job interview for me,

So it’s shift, Shove, or push

Can you please move out of my way

I must get there today

by Thomas Sims

Now that you have left me

Now that you have left me
I think of you each day
I am so lost and lonely
Since you passed away
The sun has lost its warmth
The songbirds lost their song
The flowers have lost their beauty
Now my love you have gone
I have cried all my tears of sadness
My heart has broken too
The ache is now unbearable
I just don’t know what to do
My faith has been severely tested
I feel so frustrated and angry inside
Nothing seems to console me
Since the tragic day you died
My child, grieving for a loved one
That’s when your mind is healing
Emotions you experience are natural
And everything else you’re feeling
You will feel the warmth of the sun
You will see the beauty in the flowers
Remember you are truly blessed
For all the memories you have are ours

By Malcolm Bradshaw

The Wheel

It started right here, we didn’t think it was real
In 6400 BC man invented the wheel.
In 1839 the bicycle arrived
Experimental two-wheeled vehicles,
To be powered by human legs.
It had two wheels,
One at the back and one at the front
Then the French and the English
Built a bicycle just like this one
In 1493 that Leonardo De Vinci designed.
The bike had now arrived,
It was the only way to travel
Now there was Henry Ford
Who was working for Edison Illuminating Company,
When Ford saw the light.
So instead of a bicycle he built a car.
He called it the model A. Ford,
Then he added a T. which became the famous
Model T. Ford nicknamed the flivver.
850 Dollars to buy
So with the invention of the wheel,
The bike and the car,
Came the opportunity to travel afar.

By Thomas Sims

Bonnie Lass

Bonnie Lass
The Triumph Bonneville T120
Was a bonnie lass.
She was not built in Scotland,
She was built to last and she was extremely fast.
She could turn a young man’s head
With her streamlined body shape.

The boss Edward Turner chose this brilliant name
That will always be remembered
Because a man called Johnny Allen
Rode the T120,
In 1956
One hot sunny day,
On the Bonneville salt flats Utah in the USA.
In 2001 a new Bonnie was born,
The new T120 with its mighty 790cc engine.
This was what all the motorcyclists were waiting for.

By Thomas Sims

To The Ugly Bride-To-Be

You are beautiful,
The old men find you irresistible.
The men, well dressed,
Leg crossed,
Sitting in their shops,
Whistling as you take stops.
You catwalk,
The pussy cat never again walk.
Guys watching, your hips twisting,
East to west.
Who will woo you first?

I adore you,
But give me all fortunes, I will refuse you.
Painting hands and lips are your morning duty,
Abuse words only you know, yet you claim beauty.
You are so caring,
Little needs of your youngers are frustrating.
You detest men with leg-edes-benz,
And even toy with those with Mercedes-Benz,
Robbing them mercilessly.
Making men meditate meaninglessly.

As the clock ticks,
So, does the page of the day flicks.
People are not getting younger,
Everyone and so should you have got wiser.
Be respectful and obedient.
Love your man and learn to be patient.
Be caring in all situation,
And never give your man examination.
Behaviour, if you ask me
Is beauty, beautiful bride-to-be.


Toheeb Tiamiyu

Flying Merkel


Merkel Was No Ordinary Turtle
Merkel was not a turtle
With her bright orange paint
All she had was an engine
And a loop for a frame
No brakes to stop her
As she flew down the track
At 74 miles per hour
Wow that was fast,
Sadly in 1915 the Merkel flew no more
Because production came to an end.merk
It was then the motorcycle enthusiast
Lost a very good friend.
A tribute to Joe Merkel
motorcycle pioneer

By Thomas Sims

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