Berlin rat trap

From posters in back alleys
To crowded torch-lit rallies
His devastating reign
Shook up the world's equator,
No place free of a crater,
No people free of pain.

But now the war was ending
With nothing worth defending
A bunker on the map
Was where he yelled and fumbled
As Berlin burned and crumbled,
A rat caught in a trap.

Yet proud in that confinement
He dwelt on each refinement,
A genocidal plan
Expanding every border,
The only way to order
The destiny of Man.

Soon Russian gunfire crackled,
He vowed to stay unshackled,
A court would not decide
Or judge his lack of valour,
He'd journey to Valhalla
With Eva by his side.

The trigger slowly squeezing,
Was his departure pleasing?
Though nobody can tell
God turned away and shivered,
A bullet was delivered
And then the bastard fell.


©

Hi Mam! I haven't seen you around for ages

So true BB - a lovely ode to the things that count

Welcome to the thread Crosscut I don't think we've had a fishing poem before. The tale made laugh, thanks for posting it

The thread's rocking of late Troy

Ooops! Another Catman.


A terrifying time, Musty........and it seems Germany didn't need Hitler to rise to the top. If we had lost the war, I can't see our enemies helping us to recover. I wonder where we'd be now..........perhaps we're going there anyway and it's just taking longer.

I put this on the UK Authors site on 18-07-2008, without naming any name but about the sad possible prospect of what seems to have befallen our Amy.
It's only that as a fan of her stylish jazzy singing I really hoped she'd recover form the accursed drink/drugs problems that so blighted her career and foreshortened her young life. Condolences to her family and friends.

Poor little drugs girl,
Unable to stop the whirl
Of descent, the rapid hurl
Into a personal hell.
Your mind and body are unwell,
Unless you pull back
Time will surely tell.

I don't like the way the European Union is going Biz. It's naive to think the mistakes of the past can never happen again.

The Mail On Sunday picked up on the point you made in a previous poem Frank. AW was 27 years old when she died, as was Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain and Brian Jones. They're called rock's 27 club. Weird.

Yes Musty again this point is made all over the net & social networks though a club not to join (a media tabloidish term) but a grizzly coincidence where I believe drugs have been the common feature/culprit.

Blue 1.

While creaking through the weakly dirge
dreaming of the weekend surge
of love and hope and warmest feeling.
Far away from dirty dealing.
Make a break through the ceiling.
Starlight bright and so revealing.

The sleeping shaman in my head.
"Knowledge is a moth" he said
and as you twist it deeper goes.
Sticks and stones no match for bows
and ribbons on the daft machine;
feeding from the magazine.

Word is dead where lies reign true.
And when I'm really feeling blue,
I summon all my worldly dreams
and use the tools within my means.

Oh; and thanks for all you did.
I heard you loud and clear amid
the anger of the daily grind.
Earthlings can be so unkind.



My love.

My love is like the green green grass,
the artist in the underpass,
the pavement underneath my feet,
the promise of a special treat.

My alter is the wind of change
and all it takes to rearrange
the outlook to a better place.
The current state is a disgrace.

My passion is for full sensation,
taken with some elevation.
Clinging on through ups and downs.
Happy when the music drowns.

My vision is for all we know
could take place and we could show
them aliens a thing or two.
We'd chuckle that we nearly blew
the planet into smithereens
and nothing came of our dreams.

My word! Is that the time already?
Careful now. You go steady.
One false move and all is lost.
You could not count the full cost.

But here's to a happy ending.
My love to you I'm sending.

Two more fascinating odes Archiver I liked the twist at the end of Blue 1, I got the impression a visiting alien had written the poem from that.

Going to the Dance (For Pauline)

I

Come peer through my looking-glass
At an era soon to pass
For the Gorton working class.

Inside bars the hubbub drones
While hot beams with vivid tones
Sun the well-worn cobblestones.

Twelfth of July '63
There a teenage lass we see,
Pauline Reade, sixteen and free.

'Neath the chimney-gas a pearl,
On the streets where rumours swirl
Pauline seemed a quiet girl.

But all humble pearls must grow,
Knew a dance was on and so
Pleaded with her Mam to go.

Fun the young aren't prone to snub
And it waited at the hub
Of the Railway Social Club.

Yet bright lights can be denied,
One rule to protect and guide
Pauline's mother specified:

Where there's drink there's trouble too,
Told the daughter what to do,
Find a friend to take with you.

Linda though was not allowed,
Nor could Pat jive with the crowd,
Parents then were strict and proud.

Mam's heart wasn't made of stone,
Let her lass go on her own
To the dance, a kindness shown.

Light-blue coat, upon her feet
White shoes and she wore a neat
Pink dress, Pauline looked a treat.

In the mirror one last check,
Then Mam for the quick short trek
Placed a locket round her neck.

Said goodbye and watched her leave,
Love between them I believe
Strengthened on that summer's eve.

With the dance ahead to thrill
Pauline walked along until
Froxmer Street; deserted, still.

II

Through my looking-glass now scan,
See a woman and her man,
'Perfect murder' was their plan.

Rode his motorbike, we are
Due for deeds as black as tar,
She led in a borrowed car.

Teenagers were deemed no threat,
Missed but most police forget,
If you know them better yet.

Froxmer Street was where the sly
Female spider saw the fly,
Here she parked to tell a lie.

No quick grab, no push and shove,
'Pauline can you help us love?
On the moor I lost me glove.'

Ever trusting she jumped in,
Taken for a country spin
Far from dancing, friends and kin.

Pauline smiled and chatted on,
Up the moorland slopes and gone
As the bronze of evening shone.

Back home there was great concern,
Nerves began to shred and churn
When Pauline did not return.

She learned strangers were unsafe
But fear drained their every faith,
Was she hurt like some small waif?

Sharing that night's dread design
While the clock crawled slow past nine
On to ten without a sign.

Mam and Dad and brother Paul
Scoured the streets from wall to wall
But to no avail at all.

III

Looking-glass I turn away,
How can any poet weigh
Families who grieve each day?

Sad at what the answer gave,
More than twenty years to save
Pauline from her shallow grave.

Though I never once met you,
Pretty girl these words are true;
Your cruel loss I'll always rue.

Heartbreak is a final glance,
Yet where fields and fun entrance
Pauline and the angels dance.


©

What a spine chilling story, Musty. I had a feeling you were working on a mini-epic. Was your inspiration the moors murder?

I have to say, we were well warned not to get into a stranger's car, though the assumption was it would be a man.

On one occasion though my friend and I did get into a strange man's car to escape hailstones the size of golf balls. Fortunately he was a kindly gentleman and stayed parked by our bicycles until the danger had passed.

That archiver's a tease isn't he

Thanks Biz The poem took a long time to write but I was pleased with the end result.

Pauline Reade was the first known victim of the Moors Murderers and the details I've included such as dates, addresses and friends' names are all accurate. I sometimes wonder if such terrible acts are worthy of a poem at all, but the whole thing is devoted to Pauline, whose life was cut so tragically short like four others were. In my mind too was Keith Bennett, who remains buried somewhere on the moors. I was very disappointed when the police stopped their search for him.

Archiver's a dude

There have probably been many other premature music deaths at different ages Frank, but the 27 list contains some of rock's biggest ever stars. Hence the notoriety of '27'.

athlete's ode

Fools at our Olympic arena
Have failed us, with records to smash
The ground has been sold
Like medals of gold
To West Ham United for cash.


©

I'm sure your poem would be a great solace to Pauline's loving family.


That's interesting. I think at the moment I may be avoiding the news because I do find the cares of the world a tremendous burden.

Brian Cox
thinks outside the box
Cunning like a fox
with the physique of an ox
and flicking his auburn locks
he attracts women in flocks
(and a few men too).

For science on the box
even Mr Spock's
nowhere near Brian Cox.

Splat.
Accidentally trod on a Kiwi fruit.
Now only five left in the packet, for me to eat.

Musty - Going to the Dance (For Pauline), a tragic tale sensitively told and I appreciated only seeing through your looking-glass...



Thanks both.


Waves.

Looking down from point libration,
quantatuned for excitation,
ready for the giant leap.

So many memories to keep
me going through the longest night.
My report says - you're alright.

Sure; you got hard times ahead,
but when you're thinking clear instead
of fighting for your mother's pride:
Good times well within your stride.

I'll miss you. Like a man at sea,
misses more than sanity,
while knowing now what must be done.
Seriously, it was fun.

Countdown clicked in. Not long now.
Lastly, if you would allow;
I couldn't leave not saying Hi.
Dear FMs of digital spy.

This really is a comfy 'chair'
fragrant hissing fills the 'air'
and if you look up and you see
a tiny little spark. That's me.

I hope so Biz

I haven't seen any of Brian Cox's shows Spiney but you've got me interested now

Thanks Archiver Waves is fascinating. Quantatuned - what a word! I really hope I'm wrong but I detected a farewell to DS in it.

Thanks. More a farewell to the alien perspective, which I feel I've overused recently. So you're stuck with me I'm afraid.

I will be trying to keep my feet more firmly on the ground, though it's difficult sometimes. Even if I stopped posting, I can't imagine ever not wanting to read this thread, at least. It's high on my list of very good things I've found...

Confessions of a biscuit addict

My strange way of behaving
I've tried to put in rhyme,
You see I've got a craving
For biscuits all the time.

There's no help or directives
To save me from their force,
It started with digestives,
The chocolate ones of course.

Nobody ever pities
The biscuit user's plight,
I'd blame it on McVities
But what they push tastes right.

So strong is the addiction
It fills my nightly dreams
Where I'm hooked on the fiction
And drown in custard creams.

Of late I'm only jolly
At supermarkets while
I grip an empty trolley
To charge the biscuit aisle.

I speed past all old codgers
Which must on their wicks,
Then load up Jammie Dodgers,
Each packet holds a fix.

I went to Doctor Proctor,
Said he 'Don't harm yourself,
I'll call a special doctor
That tackles mental health.'

The shrink told me to cut down
But soon I chose to stray,
My mind went into shutdown
And HobNobs won the day.

The peckish urge malingers,
I need to get some in
For just two rich tea fingers
Are left inside the tin.

I'm running out of biscuits,
Cold turkey's coming through,
I guess I'll have to kiss bits,
The crumbs will have to do.


©

I hope you don't leave outer space forever my friend, as I enjoy your sci-fi poetry I'm glad you enjoy it here - so do I

What a waste of good food spiney. Do watch what you're doing.


What a relief when I read your reply to Musty. I thought from this that you were about to sit in a gas filled room and light a match.


Aww! This is really cruel you know......chocolate digestives yum. I used to love those pink wafers you get in tins of biscuits..............and...........and........

I remember those Biz, I used to love them too

I made an omission in the biscuit poem - Which must on their wicks. How did I leave 'get' out? I checked for mistakes at least three times

I did notice that, but it was too late. It's so easy to read what we thought we'd written. We've all done it...........or at least I have.

...........Here, have a chocolate digestive.