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Monthly Archives: June 2013

Father’s day

My Chocolate cream cake

It was once I had devoured

My chocolate cream cake

I stared at the crumbs

That I’d left upon on my plate

I began to think of all

The poor people

Who couldn’t eat

This chocolate cream treat

If all of those crumbs

That I’d left on my plate

Were the poor people

Who had seen me

Would I have ever eaten

My chocolate cream cake

Gillian Sims

June 17th celebrate Fathers Day with Poetreecreations

50 Reasons Not To Date A Poet



It may sound romantic, but in search of that elusive metaphor, poets can be somewhat  “eccentric.”

  1. If you date a poet everyone will think you are the jerk they are writing about.
  2. You will be the jerk they are writing about.
  3. They have an unnatural affection for book stores and office supply stores.
  4. They have deep conversations with Animals, Clouds, and Grecian Urns.
  5. Excessive use of  “poetry hands.”
  6. Excessive abuse of  “poetic licence.”
  7. Excessive use of  “melancholy.”
  8. Excessive use of  “dramatic emphasis.”
  9. They collect obscure words that have not been in circulation for at least 100 years or more.
  10. They insert these antediluvian words into conversations just to rebel.
  11. They think children’s books are sublime.
  12. They refuse to care where the remote is.
  13. All of their furniture are positioned around windows, for them to stare out for hours at a time.
  14. Your parents will think they are possessed.
  15. They are possessed.
  16. You…

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My Parcel


I’ve got a parcel to send

I’ts coming apart at the end

I’ve got no string

My sellotape is running out

So what can I do?

I have no glue

But I’ve still got a parcel

To send to you

So off to the shop I will go

To buy some sellotape string, or glue

Because I have a parcel

To send to you

A parcel sent with love

Put together with

Sellotape string and glue

Thomas Sims


I saw an old man down in the market
I thought he look terribly depressed
He had tears rolling down from his eyes
I wondered what these tears expressed
I said “What’s the matter old fellow
Surely your life can’t be that bad
It upsets me to see you crying
Please tell me why you are so sad”
He said “I am eighty two years of age
My wife has just turned thirty eight
She makes love to me every night of my life
I’m sure that many would envy my fate”
“She does all of the washing and cleaning
She is also a very good cook
She never asks me for any money
I know that I have had my share of luck”
I said “I cannot understand your depression
You’ve had your share of the blessing that life can give
Please tell me what is the cause of your upset?”
He said “I can’t remember where it is that I live”
By Ron Martin



Most grass-roots are driving us into the blue

With no maps, no compass or even a clue

They prevent us to distinguish differences in hue

And advocate no common principles but bestrew

All over the scene to make it impossible to construe

Only chaos, melancholy, and insecurity that ensue


Some of them adopted philistinism to spoil the view

And deify who is rogue and enemy of virtue

Others resorted to worship memories and an old statue

All sycophants are busy seeking personal issue

While sagacious people are wandering in their own avenue

So, who will come to our rescue?  Patriots will do.


© Chaouki M’kaddem

April 9th, 2012


YOUR FAVOURITE POEMThe Love-Song of J. Alfred Prufrock –

ts elliott

Let us go then, you and I, 
When the evening is spread out against the sky 
Like a patient etherized upon a table; 
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, 
The muttering retreats 
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels 
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: 
Streets that follow like a tedious argument 
Of insidious intent 
To lead you to an overwhelming question. . .                               
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?” 
Let us go and make our visit. 

  In the room the women come and go 
Talking of Michelangelo. 

  The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes 
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes 
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening 
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, 
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, 
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,                               
And seeing that it was a soft October night 
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. 

  And indeed there will be time 
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, 
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; 
There will be time, there will be time 
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; 
There will be time to murder and create, 
And time for all the works and days of hands 
That lift and drop a question on your plate;                                 
Time for you and time for me, 
And time yet for a hundred indecisions 
And for a hundred visions and revisions 
Before the taking of a toast and tea. 

  In the room the women come and go 
Talking of Michelangelo. 

  And indeed there will be time 
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?” 
Time to turn back and descend the stair, 
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—                               
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”] 
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, 
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin— 
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”] 
Do I dare 
Disturb the universe? 
In a minute there is time 
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. 

  For I have known them all already, known them all; 
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,                       
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; 
I know the voices dying with a dying fall 
Beneath the music from a farther room. 
  So how should I presume? 

  And I have known the eyes already, known them all— 
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, 
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, 
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, 
Then how should I begin 
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?                    
  And how should I presume? 

  And I have known the arms already, known them all— 
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare 
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!] 
Is it perfume from a dress 
That makes me so digress? 
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl. 
  And should I then presume? 
  And how should I begin?
        .     .     .     .     .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets              
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes 
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . . 

I should have been a pair of ragged claws 
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
        .     .     .     .     .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! 
Smoothed by long fingers, 
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers, 
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. 
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, 
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?                  
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, 
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter, 
I am no prophet–and here’s no great matter; 
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, 
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, 
And in short, I was afraid. 

  And would it have been worth it, after all, 
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, 
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, 
Would it have been worth while,                                             
To have bitten off the matter with a smile, 
To have squeezed the universe into a ball 
To roll it toward some overwhelming question, 
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead, 
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all” 
If one, settling a pillow by her head, 
  Should say, “That is not what I meant at all. 
  That is not it, at all.” 

  And would it have been worth it, after all, 
Would it have been worth while,                                           
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, 
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor— 
And this, and so much more?— 
It is impossible to say just what I mean! 
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: 
Would it have been worth while 
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, 
And turning toward the window, should say: 
  “That is not it at all, 
  That is not what I meant, at all.”                                          
        .     .     .     .     .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; 
Am an attendant lord, one that will do 
To swell a progress, start a scene or two 
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, 
Deferential, glad to be of use, 
Politic, cautious, and meticulous; 
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; 
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous— 
Almost, at times, the Fool. 

  I grow old . . . I grow old . . .                                              
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. 

  Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? 
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. 
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. 

  I do not think they will sing to me. 

  I have seen them riding seaward on the waves 
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back 
When the wind blows the water white and black. 

  We have lingered in the chambers of the sea 
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown               
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

By T.S. Eliot


Set me free in the ocean

The Sherwood Foresters

They wore their badge in honour when they went out to war
But it is something that soon they no longer can display
The fact that the name of the Sherwood Foresters is to disappear
Has been greeted by Nottinghamshire folk with dismay
How can this proud name and its years of service
In fighting to preserve our country’s liberty
Be sacrificed on the altar of expediency
Pretending this will lead to greater efficiency
We know that the real reason is the economic situation
And that the value of tradition is set at nought
When we realise how taxes are being squandered
It makes us wonder if we value for what they fought
They gave their lives to preserve the English way of life
Our traditions and our pride in our nationality
But one by one they are gradually disappearing
As our lives become surrounded by banality
The time has come for us to make a stand
To fight for the traditions that we should treasure
To show our pride and gratitude for those who died
And to ensure the name of the Sherwood Foresters lives on forever
By Ron Martin


These city pigeons

Strolling around our feet

As though we are St Francis,

Sticking out their necks

Intent on fossicking,

We envy their waddling nonchalance

As we with trepidation tread

Past chewing gum and litter

On streets unpaved with gold

By Ron Gardner 2011

Foot prints in the sand

My head is spinning

The world seems surreal,

I can’t explain it

It’s just how I feel, 

For every footprint

Left in the sand,

For every person

Walking hand in hand,

I feel their love

But is it true,

Do their feelings run deep

Like mine do for you?

Do they smile, just because,

Will it be forever

Like it is for us?

I sometimes sit and wonder why

Why do you love me,

Why do you try?

I know we will last

I know our love is pure,

We will never be

A lost print on the shore.

By Abbe Cutforth

Came & went

Ashley Anonymous


An orange sun sets in the sky, trees whisper in the wind, mocking birds mock disater, as the sky is turning dim. The clouds are continuously rolling, like the dark waves beneath them, turning and rippling, pulling deeper in.  The storm has came, the storm has went, dark skies, and heavy winds, the clouds open up to a brightly lit sky, and reminds me that life is full of surprise.

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Poem: I Used to Write You Poems

The Black Lantern


I used to write you poems
But now there are no words
No praises shall I sing to you
No rhymes about you heard
I used to tell of your beauty
And the heaven in your eyes
Now I will say nothing
My emotions, I’ve disguised
All the sweetest words you’ve heard
I shall not speak them again
The tender feelings I expressed
Was in a time so far back when
The kindest things that I had said
I meant them as so true
Every heartfelt word I wrote
Each was inspired by you
But now the words I longed to speak
They do not reach your ears
The time now gone for our happiness
The time now gone with tears
I used to write you poems
That’s what my words were for
But now I write of other things
Since you don’t read them anymore

©2013 James Takeo

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Better Days


I think of the times in which we live
All the conveniences we have in our day
And maybe I get too thoughtful of things
Remembering how we did things the old way.

How many can say they took fresh cream
Shaken in a jar to race to make fresh butter
Children laughing at each other without fear
No thoughts of hitting or injuring each other.

Times when families had a set schedule to eat
Sitting around a table together with friends
Sharing thoughts of the day or discussing issues
Not demanding new electronics or contact lens.

Driving across country to see family or friend
No worry that we don’t have GPS or each a cell
We didn’t have to stay online through each mile
It wasn’t something to tweat to the world as well.

It wasn’t a time when everything needed a plug
We weren’t too busy to take entertainment outside
Simple pleasures of life with a blanket and ball
Playing catch or everyone having a bike to ride.

Today we are so busy with all the things we have
Always busy working, connected, on the Go Go Go
We make more and spend more and worry about things
But take a moment, what do we really have to show.

Broken or distant families are the standard today
Too many things, we need a computer to keep track
Maybe just that occasional thought of better days
I know it’s too late, there is no way to go back.

  Charles Townsend

Tears for the world


I cry for the world in turmoil

I cry for the world in pain

I cry for the lost and lonely

Who cry in the wilderness in vane?


I cry for those that are grieving

For all the tears they have cried

For all the emotions they experience

For the confusion deep down inside


I cry when nature is abused

By mans obsession for wealth

Stripping the world of its minerals

Interfering with this planets health


We are destroying our environment

Many more species are now extinct

It is time we changed our attitudes

In the way we all act and think


We have all been given a beautiful jewel

That is spinning around in space

It is everyone’s responsibility on earth

To make this planet a better place


Malcolm Bradshaw

1958 Rolls Royce Honeymoon express

 1958 Rolls Royce Honeymoon express

A million pound spare

there’s a silver cloud out there

Classic Rolls Royce Drop head Coupé

The 1958 Honeymoon express

It’s one of the best,

There’s only two out there

One for you, and one for me

And all you would need is a £1million quid

With it’s electric bonnet

You can have a Gin and Tonic,

Drinks cabinet supplied

This Roller’s got Cadillac vertical tail fins

That look like aeroplane wings,

And Red leather seats

42.000 mile’s on the clock

Hydraulic top it’s got the lot,

So off to Monaco and auction we go

The Honeymoon Express Million pound show

Thomas Sims


Chassis No.
Available Upon Request
To be auctioned on
Saturday, May 12, 2012
178 bhp, 4,887cc F-head six-cylinder engine, two SU carburettors, four-speed Hydra-Matic automatic transmission, independent front suspension with coil springs and wishbones, semi-elliptic rear springs with electrically controlled shock absorbers, power-assisted steering, and power-assisted hydraulic front and hydro-mechanical rear drum brakes. Wheelbase: 3,124 mm (123″)• One of the rarest and most important post-war, coach built Rolls-Royces in existence
• Sensational original “finned” Freestone & Webb two-seater coachwork with disappearing top
• Christened the “Honeymoon Express” by design journalists at the Earl’s Court Show
• An unrepeatable opportunity; one of only two such Rolls-Royces built
• Only 42,070 original miles after three decades of single ownershipAside from its breathtaking presentation, the Rolls-Royce we have the pleasure of offering here is exceptionally rare, as one of only one percent of all Silver Clouds to carry truly bespoke coachwork. The body was produced by the highly respected firm of Freestone & Webb and is one of just three with this radically-designed drophead coupé style, two produced for the Cloud I and a third on a Bentley S1 chassis. The firm was a design leader throughout its existence and is especially revered for its creations from the 1920s and 1930s, winning a Gold Medal in the Private Coachbuilders competition an astounding nine years in a row. Their workmanship on this particular chassis, SGE270, is second to none.The first owner of SGE270 was Arnold Moreton of Manchester, England. A high-ranking Freemason; in 1976, Moreton was installed as Supreme Ruler, Intendent Ruler of the Lancashire Province Western Division and later became Deputy Grand Supreme Ruler, a position he held until his death in 1982. The rolling chassis was delivered to Freestone & Webb in London on 11 March 1958, and Moreton took delivery of the completed car on 16 June. Compared to the more typical four-seater drophead coupés, the Freestone & Webb “Honeymoon Express” truly represented out-of-the-box design. Whilst most mid-1950s Rolls-Royces had graceful, gently rounded side panels, the body sides of this car featured concave coves that stretched from stem to stern, with rear wings that feature aggressive vertical tail fins. Designed for only two passengers, the bucket front seats had a pair of fold-down armrests with adjustable seat backs. This limited seating capacity, which along with the ample boot, lent itself to the “Honeymoon Express” moniker, a name that stuck after design journalists first saw this style début at the Freestone & Webb stand at the Earl’s Court Show.Finished in two-tone Lugano blue with Silver Chalice coves, chassis SGE270 possesses every convenience. Each door features a round pull-out ashtray. Another smoker’s tray slides out from under the original radio. A pair of cocktail cabinets flanks the rear storage area and each contains a cocktail shaker and four crystal whiskey tumblers. A tilt-up vanity mirror is fitted to the left-side cubby box door, and a pair of gallery posts front the driver’s side open cubby box, perhaps to prevent contents from slipping out on brisk acceleration. Power-assisted steering, along with power windows, was also rare for the time and fitted car radios were not common. This car retains its original Radiomobile “His Master’s Voice” medium- and long-wave radio with power antenna. The spacious luggage compartment is fitted with scarlet wool carpet and leather binding, and an extensive hand tool tray is tucked below the floor. All original road tools and the jack and inspection torch remain in place. Moreton also ordered a unique pair of gauges: an outside temperature thermometer and an altimeter. A tachometer is paired with the speedometer, which was rarely specified for the Silver Cloud.The scarlet red Connolly leather interior and matching red carpets are fitted with British Wilton wool broadloom. Burled Circassian walnut veneers define the fascia, trim and window sills. Luxury aside, the most fascinating feature on this car is the hydraulic top. Metal flaps on either side “pop” open, along with the rear cover, and allow for the top to effortlessly rise. When lowered, the navy blue canvas power top disappears below the belt line, completely hidden under the electrically operated metal cover. With the top down, rear vision for the driver is completely unobstructed, unlike many European convertibles whose tops retreat to a rather bulky position under the canvas cover.One must consider this Rolls-Royce then, in the context of its contemporaries. From the fins and coves of the bodywork to the extraordinary interior and upholstery, such design was not only daring in its day but unlike anything the average British motorist would have ever seen before.Extensive records and original Rolls-Royce, Freestone & Webb and H. R. Owen chassis cards confirm this car’s provenance, as well as the presence from new of every single option. This unique car, like its siblings, is featured in archival publications, including Lawrence Dalton’s Rolls-Royce: The Elegance Continues, Graham Robson’s The Rolls-Royce and Bentley: Coachbuilt Models 1945–1985, Volume 2 and Rolls-Royce Owners’ Club, Inc., publication, The Flying Lady, issue 1964/5.

Bespoke motorcars like this one are valued like fine art, antiques and other rare commodities and will always be treasured. One of only two Rolls-Royce Silver Clouds produced with this exceptional drophead coupé body design, chassis SGE270 still carries its original engine, stamped SE385, with only 42,070 miles and even its original British registration plate, AM2375. This example has been in single ownership since it was brought to the United States when its first owner died in 1982. It has been meticulously maintained and offers many more years of enjoyment and appreciation for its next owner. Its place in Rolls-Royce history is assured, and its significance to enthusiasts is impossible to overstate, as this may very well be a once in a lifetime opportunity to acquire the Honeymoon Express.

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