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Daily Archives: February 23, 2014

Have A Nice Day – Famous Poets

man drowningxxxxxxxxxxxx

‘Help, help, ‘ said a man. ‘I’m drowning.’
‘Hang on, ‘ said a man from the shore.
‘Help, help, ‘ said the man. ‘I’m not clowning.’
‘Yes, I know, I heard you before.
Be patient dear man who is drowning,
You, see I’ve got a disease.
I’m waiting for a Doctor J. Browning.
So do be patient please.’
‘How long, ‘ said the man who was drowning. ‘Will it take for the Doc to arrive? ‘
‘Not very long, ‘ said the man with the disease. ‘Till then try staying alive.’
‘Very well, ‘ said the man who was drowning. ‘I’ll try and stay afloat.
By reciting the poems of Browning
And other things he wrote.’
‘Help, help, ‘ said the man with the disease, ‘I suddenly feel quite ill.’
‘Keep calm.’ said the man who was drowning, ‘ Breathe deeply and lie quite still.’
‘Oh dear, ‘ said the man with the awful disease. ‘I think I’m going to die.’
‘Farewell, ‘ said the man who was drowning.
Said the man with the disease, ‘goodbye.’
So the man who was drowning, drownded
And the man with the disease past away.
But apart from that,
And a fire in my flat,
It’s been a very nice day.

SPIKE MILLIAGAN

THERE IS A LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL

beam of lightxxxxxxxxxxxx

As I looked into the sky,
I saw a beam of light,
It shone directly over me,
So beautiful and bright,
I looked in amazement,
As the light surveyed the ground,
Sweeping back and forth,
Searching all around.

The light had many colours,
Of reds, blues, and green,
A spectacle of brilliance,
The most beautiful ever seen.
Then from within its beauty,
A symphony of sound was heard,
Filling the air with music,
My very spirit stirred.

A haunting sound of peace,
Filled my heart with love,
Creating an hypnotic trance,
As the light shone from above.
I felt so warm and comfortable,
Bathed in that beautiful light,
Drawn to the end of the tunnel,
To a light that burnt so bright.

At the end of the tunnel,
Was a soul so gentle and meek?
Welcoming a lonely traveller,
Bemused I could not speak.
Welcome to the world of spirit,
This gentle soul he said,
For you have left the material,
Your body on earth is dead.

Now your spirit life is eternal,
And in time will expand and grow,
But now is the time to rest,
To be surrounded by all you know.
Enjoy your life on the material,
Put thoughts of death behind,
Be tolerant with one another,
So all will have peace of mind.

For me my earthly life has ended,
But my loved ones I will be near,
To help in times of torment,
To elevate all fear.
Rest assured my spirits free,
Free from all earthly pain,
So be strengthened in that knowledge
For we all shall meet again.

Malcolm G Bradshaw

The city of Benares

 
 
Where is the City of Benares?
I’ve searched hard to find its location,
I’ve looked at maps and searched the index of my atlas,
Thinking that it might be the capital of a great nation.
India, South America or the Middle East,
Each of these sound likely places for it to be located,
Then suddenly my searching came to an end,
When I discovered it was the name of a ship that was ill fated.
It was sailing in a convoy from England to Canada,
Ninety children were being taken there for the duration of the war,
Their parents had thought this would ensure their safety,
But very soon the ship way lying on the ocean floor.
The ship had been torpedoed by a German U boat,
Eighty three of the children would never be seen again,
Only seven of the ninety children were rescued,
The parents of the eighty three were left to feel the pain.
During the war many of our ships were sunk,
Countless lives were lost in tragedies at sea,
The Ark Royal, The Prince of Wales and the Hood are still remembered,
The names of other ships are lost to our memory.
The City of Benares will always be remembered
By the families of the children who were lost,
But we have to remember all those other ships,
When we calculate how much our freedom really cost.
History tells us of many cities which have been destroyed,
Sodom, Gomorrah and Pompeii are three we might recall,
But for the parents of those eighty three children,
The loss of the City of Benares was the greatest disaster of them all
By Ron Martin

Stealth


Your cold and wet and shiver

As you crawl through the bush

Hungry and confused as you try not to rush

Creep past the gate, don’t set off the light

You’d seal your fate with one mistake and ruin your whole damn night

You’ve worked so hard to cross the yard and now you’re at the door

Reaching for the handle, nerves twitch for sweat to pour

You’ve come so far, at the door, time to take your chance

Slip inside and try to hide from footsteps that advance

With a stumble on the rug, you fall upon your face

With no-one here to help you, you’re flat out like a snake

Feeling like a fool, you give your nose a rub,

You’ve been caught red-handed, sneaking from the pub!

By Dan Fry

9th competition

The addict

His body frail

His face so pale

His eyes so dim

His legs so thin,

Once flying high

Once in the sky

Once drugs kept him

Once one so thin,

Now he’s greeted by the soil

Now kept in a coffin like a chicken in foil,

Now only tears can be shed

Now only words can be said

Now that he is dead

By Gillian Sims

Mandela

nelson-mandela-death

Honor This Day
Dedicated to the life of Nelson Mandela (1918 – 2013)

When I was a child
I once heard a word
I wondered aloud
For it seemed quite weird
~
A news report suggested
A man had been arrested
~
Far too young to know
My life spent running in the fields
Playing baseball, freely walking
Along open avenues
Without fear
A simple reality
That contained
Certain love
Quiet guidance
Granted peace
~
Far away in a distant world
Untouched by my eyes
My age of living souls
Were being gunned down
Randomly with purpose
A driving brutality
Seemed normal …
To live freely
Without bullets or maim
That’s when I read a magazine
~
Newsweek recognizes
Ten years later
The Sharpeville massacre
Later that year Kent State
A couple of years earlier
A dream shatters … MLK Jr
And then the story about
Emmett Till I discovered
The slaughter of a young boy
One brutal moment after another
~
In 1975, I am a teenager
The war is over
We are protesting nukes
Low-impact en masse hostility
Seemed less effective
Than flowers
Hanging from rifle barrels.
I’m a sophomore now
Skipping school
Looking for a cause
~
A world reaching well past me
Existed on a principle of freedom
~
“Free Mandela”
Soweto uprising
End the strong arm
Of Apartheid
~
There it was
In rainbow colors
I could no longer
Simply run through the fields
Without realizing pain
While across the world
The news read gloomily
Of a distant opinion
His protest screamed agony
We must be educated!
~
In memoriam
I am the privileged one
I have lived to watch a man
Know freedom beyond words.

Dedicated to the life of Nelson Mandela (1918 – 2013)

Thom Amundsen

RAIN

rain UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU

Sheltering in a doorway from

Diagonal machine-gun rain

Bullets that riddled the church;

Hallowed windows remained stained.

A man, revered, spoke of community

Spirit, occasionally in a Latin tongue

I listened via an agnostic ear

Who was I to say he was wrong?

Sitting at the back drying out

With people who queued for wine

And solace, much more else:

Seeking words from that divine.

As wine turned back to holy water

The heavens opened up

I walked amongst the gathered people

And drank from cherished cup.

STEPHEN HOLLOWAY

 

To Autumn

O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stain’d
With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit
Beneath my shady roof; there thou may’st rest,
And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,
And all the daughters of the year shall dance!
Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.

“The narrow bud opens her beauties to
The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins;
Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and
Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve,
Till clust’ring Summer breaks forth into singing,
And feather’d clouds strew flowers round her head.

“The spirits of the air live in the smells
Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round
The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.”
Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat,
Then rose, girded himself, and o’er the bleak
Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.

William Blake (from Poetical Sketches, 1783)

He wanted to write a poem


This horse I thought I’d  ride

Is dead. Why try to flog  it?

Might as well get off the thing.

Don’t think to drag it

To the winning post.

What winning post? There isn’t one.

It’s dead I tell you. Dead.

Always on its last legs it was.

Gasping its demise when first

It dropped into my head.

Carried me nowhere,

Never reached the starting line.

Bury it good and proper I will,

And get a sleeping dog instead.

It might dream something up

Ron Gardner

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