Precise Limestone Report – Promote Yourself

 

There is some research that has to be done.

I need a precise limestone report. One

that encompasses all the studies yet

carried out. And what I want you to get

from the limestone quarry near the town’s port

is a piece of rare rock for my report.

 

Take the road from this laboratory

that winds down to the large limestone quarry.

There are far fields beyond the massive gate

which will lead you to calcium carbonate.

For across the patches exists a land

where towers of precious resources stand.

 

Listen carefully, because today you

have a very important job to do.

Precisely report whenever you feel;

There is a man whose stone you have to steal

from an office which, when left all alone,

Will signal you to plunder his limestone.

 

Falter not; just maintain those steady feet.

Before you realise, it will be complete.

Enter the center kept away from guests.

Low. At the far end of the hallway rests

a room; you may not want to pick the lock,

But I need that sedimentary rock.

For in the corner room marked ‘303’,

You’ll find the chemist’s CaCO₃.    

by Shubham Goenka  

 

Shubham Goenka   There is some research that has to be done. I need a precise limestone report. One that encompasses all the studies yet carried out. And what I want you to get from the limestone quarry near the town

See How You Create Liars and Crooks

 

He’s become a wardrobe full of cloaks

Like a lizard with different looks

To please your tastes, selfish folks

You drove him to pretend and coax

And custom-make a vesture of hoax

To fit the characters in your own books

 

© Chaouki M’kaddem

February 19th, 2014

A New Broom

 

Two brooms where wed
And when “I do’s” were said
The lady broom disclosed
The reason for her clothes
Of generous flatter
And the fact of the matter.
A little broom was on its way
Oh what a happy day
But he was not so happy
With expecting a little chappie
This just wasn’t fair
As he hadn’t swept with her

Paul Curtis

Diary of a Church Mouse – Famous Poet

 Here among long-discarded cassocks,
Damp stools, and half-split open hassocks,
Here where the vicar never looks
I nibble through old service books.
Lean and alone I spend my days
Behind this Church of England baize.
I share my dark forgotten room
With two oil-lamps and half a broom.
The cleaner never bothers me,
So here I eat my frugal tea.
My bread is sawdust mixed with straw;
My jam is polish for the floor.
Christmas and Easter may be feasts
For congregations and for priests,
And so may Whitsun. All the same,
They do not fill my meagre frame.
For me the only feast at all
Is Autumn's Harvest Festival,
When I can satisfy my want
With ears of corn around the font.
I climb the eagle's brazen head
To burrow through a loaf of bread.
I scramble up the pulpit stair
And gnaw the marrows hanging there.
It is enjoyable to taste
These items ere they go to waste,
But how annoying when one finds
That other mice with pagan minds
Come into church my food to share
Who have no proper business there.
Two field mice who have no desire
To be baptized, invade the choir.
A large and most unfriendly rat
Comes in to see what we are at.
He says he thinks there is no God
And yet he comes ... it's rather odd.
This year he stole a sheaf of wheat
(It screened our special preacher's seat),
And prosperous mice from fields away
Come in to hear our organ play,
And under cover of its notes
Ate through the altar's sheaf of oats.
A Low Church mouse, who thinks that I
Am too papistical, and High,
Yet somehow doesn't think it wrong
To munch through Harvest Evensong,
While I, who starve the whole year through,
Must share my food with rodents who
Except at this time of the year
Not once inside the church appear.
Within the human world I know
Such goings-on could not be so,
For human beings only do
What their religion tells them to.
They read the Bible every day
And always, night and morning, pray,
And just like me, the good church mouse,
Worship each week in God's own house,
But all the same it's strange to me
How very full the church can be
With people I don't see at all
Except at Harvest Festival.

Written by: John Betjeman

My Amazing 4

My babies are beautiful in every way
They keep me on my toes 24 hours a day,
A new experience we share day to day
At night awake wide eyed I lay
A smile on my face those memories,

                              Not a soul could take away

A great school report,
The mummy’s day card with their own thought,
Their first nursery rhymes we taught,
Those colds we’ve nursed that they’ve caught
The cute first shoes we bought,

I’m the luckiest lady right here,
A smile upon my face from ear to ear
They’re my babies my pride and joy,
They’re my life my first born, a beautiful baby boy
Now a mum to four I want to squeeze them all so tight,
Love them and treasure them with all my might
A mummy, I love my job and God not even you can rob.

Gemma Cutforth

NOTTINGHAM POET

 

A mountain to climb

 

The first time something is done we may regard it as spectacular,

We can appreciate the effort, the dedication and the stress,

But soon the deed becomes quite common place and banal,

As it is repeated it impacts upon us less and less.

 

For many years man had tried to climb Mount Everest,

And then one day there was a photograph for all the world to see,

Edmond Hillary and Sherpa Tensing standing on the summit,

They had ensured that their names would go down in history.

 

Once man had reached the summit of that mountain,

Once it had been shown that man could ascend its height,

It seemed that the task was not so difficult,

And today people standing on the summit is a common sight.

 

The same is true about many of man’s achievements,

Once achieved they became easier to repeat,

But it is the name of the first who is remembered,

Theirs is the record which goes on the record sheet.

 

Down the ages there have been those seeking to be first,

To achieve something which has never been done before,

Many, many people have failed in their efforts,

But their efforts have inspired others to try even more.

 

Man had dreamt of travelling into space,

No on ever really thought it could be a reality,

But in the last century these dreams were fulfilled,

When man harnessed the power of rocketry.

 

Today man travels into space with regularity,

It still fills people’s mind with fascination,

Now we are told that in the future many men will go,

And that in the future space will be a holiday destination.

 

What mountain is it that you would like to climb,

What is it that you are hoping to achieve,

Is it something which has never been done before,

Or something in which you fervently believe.

 

It may well be that you will never fulfil this ambition,

But failure should not fill you with despair,

If you have done your best you can feel satisfied,

Knowing that to be the first to achieve something is very rare.

Ron Martin