HAPPY NEW YEAR – 2018

An early start

I woke early in the morning and nothing could be heard

But as I listened carefully I could hear the singing of a bird

It was the early morning chorus bidding welcome to the day

And listening to its singing that bird was heard to say 

Wake up, wake up everybody the sun is on its way

Daylight will soon be breaking, prepare to meet the day

Don’t lie in bed a’sleepnig, when there is so much to do

Rise early in the morning, take the opportunities life gives to you

They won’t last forever, they will quickly pass away

The time is ripe to take them at the beginning of the day

If you miss these opportunities it could bring sadness to your heart

So take example from the birds and make an early start

RON MARTIN

Read more: http://www.thisisnottingham.co.uk/poems/story-18502990-detail/story.html?oo=10001014#ixzz2OSvWYoWr
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The passing of the year

My glass is filled, my pipe is lit,
     My den is all a cosy glow;
And snug before the fire I sit,
     And wait to feel the old year go.
I dedicate to solemn thought
     Amid my too-unthinking days,
This sober moment, sadly fraught
     With much of blame, with little praise.

Old Year! upon the Stage of Time
     You stand to bow your last adieu;
A moment, and the prompter’s chime
     Will ring the curtain down on you.
Your mien is sad, your step is slow;
     You falter as a Sage in pain;
Yet turn, Old Year, before you go,
     And face your audience again.

That sphinx-like face, remote, austere,
     Let us all read, whate’er the cost:
O Maiden! why that bitter tear?
     Is it for dear one you have lost?
Is it for fond illusion gone?
     For trusted lover proved untrue?
O sweet girl-face, so sad, so wan
     What hath the Old Year meant to you?

And you, O neighbour on my right
     So sleek, so prosperously clad!
What see you in that aged wight
     That makes your smile so gay and glad?
What opportunity unmissed?
     What golden gain, what pride of place?
What splendid hope? O Optimist!
     What read you in that withered face?

And You, deep shrinking in the gloom,
     What find you in that filmy gaze?
What menace of a tragic doom?
     What dark, condemning yesterdays?
What urge to crime, what evil done?
     What cold, confronting shape of fear?
O haggard, haunted, hidden One
     What see you in the dying year?

And so from face to face I flit,
     The countless eyes that stare and stare;
Some are with approbation lit,
     And some are shadowed with despair.
Some show a smile and some a frown;
     Some joy and hope, some pain and woe:
Enough! Oh, ring the curtain down!
     Old weary year! it’s time to go.

My pipe is out, my glass is dry;
     My fire is almost ashes too;
But once again, before you go,
     And I prepare to meet the New:
Old Year! a parting word that’s true,
     For we’ve been comrades, you and I —
I thank God for each day of you;
     There! bless you now! Old Year, good-bye!

By Robert w Service

Luck!

Luck never happens luckily

It has a well-defined itinerary

To reach a target immediately

It may pass by you airily

And if you are a bit lucky

You can grab a puff so quickly

Otherwise, you will lament its fatality

© Chaouki Mkaddem

June 1st, 2013

The Old Huntsman – Sir Arthur Conan Doyle – your favourite poem

There’s a keen and grim old huntsman
On a horse as white as snow;
Sometimes he is very swift
And sometimes he is slow.
But he never is at fault,
For he always hunts at view
And he rides without a halt
After you.

The huntsman’s name is Death,
His horse’s name is Time;
He is coming, he is coming
As I sit and write this rhyme;
He is coming, he is coming,
As you read the rhyme I write;
You can hear the hoofs’ low drumming
Day and night.

You can hear the distant drumming
As the clock goes tick-a-tack,
And the chiming of the hours
Is the music of his pack.
You may hardly note their growling
Underneath the noonday sun,
But at night you hear them howling
As they run.

And they never check or falter
For they never miss their kill;
Seasons change and systems alter,
But the hunt is running still.
Hark! the evening chime is playing,
O’er the long grey town it peals;
Don’t you hear the death-hound baying
At your heels?

Where is there an earth or burrow?
Where a cover left for you?
A year, a week, perhaps to-morrow
Brings the Huntsman’s death halloo!
Day by day he gains upon us,
And the most that we can claim
Is that when the hounds are on us
We die game.

And somewhere dwells the Master,
By whom it was decreed;
He sent the savage huntsman,
He bred the snow-white steed.
These hounds which run for ever,
He set them on your track;
He hears you scream, but never
Calls them back.

He does not heed our suing,
We never see his face;
He hunts to our undoing,
We thank him for the chase.
We thank him and we flatter,
We hope – because we must –
But have we cause? No matter!
Let us trust!

                                       Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
                                     SENT IN BY YOU WHAT'S YOURS

                                                                                                                                         26th. November 2012

I wrote this poem last week after seeing an item on the local news about a soldier who committed suicide. He saw a young girl step onto an I.D.E. whilst carrying her baby brother. The little girl died in his arms. Some months later, suffering from P.T.S.D. he was told by the Army to ” Man Up “. That was two months before his death.

As you can imagine I was inspired to write my poem and it came out very quick and raw. Reading it through I can see that it might upset some people but it was not written to shock only to show that everyone has feelings and sensitivities.

Even the battle-hardened serviceman can be affected by the brutality of war and the terrible things he sees can live with him for ever.

 

AN UPTURNED CHAIR

 

Man up soldier

Don’t you cry

Because you saw 

A baby die

 

Man up soldier

Don’t you moan

Time to show that

You have grown

 

Man up soldier

Yes it’s rough 

Show your buddies

That you’re tough

 

A child stepped on

An I.E.D.

So innocent, she

Did not see

 

You cradled her

And watched her die

And all you do 

Is whinge and cry

 

Now man up soldier

Hear what I say

Leave it here

Just walk away

 

Not long ago

They found him where

He hung above

An upturned chair

 

Don Holmes

THE LONDON TO BRIGHTON CAR RALLY

Don’t dilly- dally We’re off to the rally

To London and Brighton we will go,

The engine’s bright the plugs are clean

It still sounds like an old washing machine

So we are ready?

London to Brighton we will go,

So It’s off down the road

With engine Throbbing

The gears are grinding,

It’s steady as we go

Then the car just stops,

The engines starts steaming

Then the wife starts screaming,

One of the wheels fall off

It was a sorry sight to see,

I get a hammer, and a spanner

To try to fix it on the spot,

Then a man with a van

Said “yes I can”

It was the AA man you see,

So with all bits

He gets it fixed

And down the road we go,

So don’t dilly-dally

We are back in the rally

And to the sea -side we will go

By Thomas Sims