Nothing Gained.

I wrote an invisible rhyme one day
and when I read it back
everything it seemed to say
meant absolutely jack.

So I wrote a totally silent song
that no one couldn't hear,
but everyone could hum along
without the mortal fear
that something which they say or sing
could cause undue offence.

That every mortal day may bring
more sitting on the fence.

On top of the pops it played
and soon was number one.
I donated the profit made
to 'Free Speech For No One!'
and everyone who heard it
had to agree.

So excellently worded
and no profanity.
So carefully crafted
and perfectly tuned
they said I was gifted
and could heal any wound.

So they made me dictator
and ruler of all nations.
Called me son of creator
and all of my creations
were immediately lauded
as best since sliced bread.
Oh how they applauded.
It went to my head.

I demanded nothing.

Thanks Biz & Archiver A harrowing topic but one I thought it was worth visiting.

I actually find the rhymes at the end of each line make writing poetry easier. They narrow down your options brilliantly. The reason I find non-rhyming poetry so difficult is because the choice of words available is so vast.


I love the opening verse in this one Archiver I also really like the sense of 'nothingness' that pervades the whole poem. It reminded me greatly of the Gilbert O'Sullivan classic Nothing Rhymed

I'm speechless!

Not really. I think it's very clever.

Thanks Musty and Biz. I couldn't remember Nothing Rhymed, but found I know almost all the words when I played it on YouTube. Brilliant wordsmith that young man.

I lol'd at your speechlessness Biz. A perfect comment.

Thanks for reading Biz.

An amusing fancy Musty. It's not about Prince Charles, right? Thanks for the comment on the If one. The old Kipling cakes line,
Ha ha.

The poem was written by Archiver Frank

the quiet of the railway tracks

The presence of the railway lacks
The city's consternation,
The quiet of the railway tracks
Incites my meditation.

'No Trespassing' a sign declares,
The fence of wire is rusted
Where stone posts do not need repairs
But stand lichen-encrusted.

A train's not due to pass this way
Ever again, allowing
The afternoon to make this day
Another dream for ploughing.

Both left and right I love to peer,
The view is my objective
As both directions disappear
Into the far perspective.

Beyond are trees that contrast well
With what progress created;
A route not used until it fell
Green-mossed, marooned and dated.

Yet here the line helps me relax,
My reverie grows deeper,
The quiet of the railway tracks
Is held between each sleeper.


©

Your inspiration was probably the Brunels there, Musty, but the one you really have to thank for the tranquillity is Dr. Beeching.

Mind you, I suppose whoever set him up for the job is behind it all. I wonder if it would have been more beneficial to all if the whole railway system had been extended rather than depleted.

Aaah! What questions you've raised in my mind. Would it be more comforting perhaps to have the peace broken by the occasional sound to remind us that the heart is still beating?

Loved that you ended the work with the word "sleeper".

I guess the Beeching cuts were deemed necessary by those in power at the time Biz, but it was really sad to lose so many quaint old stations. I think they'd be better places with the odd train stopping there

Hopefully the poem shows how even deserted and unused areas can be seen in a positive light. 'Sleeper' fits in nicely with the dreamy atmosphere - I never realized that till you pointed it out

You're too honest. You should just have let us think it was a stroke of brilliance..........though perhaps it's unconscious brilliance.

Just one of those lucky rhymes I think

I'm liking the political references in the poem as well as a recurring motif of needlessness and nothingness. Well done.

Shades of blue and yellow
That once remained dormant and mellow...
Stormed to power
Without a definite hello;
The public voted, hour by hour
Alas, no majority, so they turned to their political fellows
Or rivals where relations are sour
Talking hour by hour
To come together as shades of blue and yellow
And for what - change?
What change - change means nothing
When our country is in muddied waters
So we'll just let shady drops of blue and yellow
Rain down on our country's mess.

My deep apology to you Musty and Archiver, good sirs both, I'm so sorry to be so careless, must have been the cold, 'twill not be repeated. Frank

You keep yourself warm Frank and worry not of repetition. I took it as a compliment you see.

Blue and yellow drips in muddy water. Great picture there allthingsuk. Sadness and cowardice? I think of toxicity somehow, when I think of yellow and blue. Thanks for the comments on my Nothing Gained. It just seemed to come to me from nowhere really.

I just can not seem to think of politics and of writing poetry at the same time. There's enough ugliness to write about without bringing politics in as well. I seem to recall some of mine mentioning the worker's lot and maybe a couple where religion was the theme, but actual politics, of any colour but green, look too monochromatic and dark to write about.

Places; particularly quiet places, like Musty's railway tracks, or dramatic ones where the poet expresses perhaps only a few moments of time over several pages of inspired writing, and barely touches the surface of what was felt.

And then there's death. That old timer. I know how I look at it (it doesn't bother me that I will die), but it's really quite hard to say, exactly what I think I think. I'll try. The following rhyme is too blatant and trivialising. Must do better. Oh; I lived in Cornwall for a good few years and "My lovely" and "My Handsome" was a nice way some Cornish people had of referring to others...

My lovely.

There's an angle from which you can be coming.
A thought your mind may find stunning.
Simply; ain't it always us?
Death's a painting in the dust.

From external investigation,
life is but an infestation
clinging to some spinning rocks,
wearing designer socks,
looking lots like me and you.
Caring. Sometimes feeling blue.

Where there's life there's always me.
Maybe not exactly,
but near enough to catch my drift.
Life's a temporary gift
and all it takes to almost be
absolutely lovely.

An accurate assessment of the Coalition and the state of the nation Allthings - I liked the way you reduced the different power factions to the colours of their parties.


No problem Frank


I took a positive message from this poem Archiver, I feel life comes out on top of death here despite the temporary sense you give both. 'Painting in the dust' is a great image

I've visited Cornwall a couple of times, it's a fascinating place rich in ancient monuments. 'My lover' was a phrase I commonly heard there

Not too keen on red at the moment either!!


You'll admire my self-control in not saying anything Frank, I'm sure.


So long as it's lovely some of the time, we can consider ourselves fortunate indeed.

Apologies all for the lack of new material from me - life isn't allowing me enough time to write as I'd like of late.

I'm still going through all my poetry from the start with a view to making a file. Works that I don't feel are good enough won't make the cut. Once that's done and the poems are corrected and polished I'll be able to select the first batch I feel are suitable for a stab at publication. But it's a massive job

Blackpool wish

When mist rolls in on Blackpool beach
A cloudy wall shows power,
Although it doesn't tend to reach
The structure of the Tower.

Soon morning comes to drain away
The mist from where it floated,
By noon the heat is sure to stay,
The sun above is bloated.

O donkey ride and sea of blue
In picture postcard heaven,
If only I was little too,
A boy aged six or seven.

Then I'd run on the Golden Mile
And know again the winning
Elation of a Blackpool smile,
A child at the beginning.


©

Your poems are really poems and everyone's poems is really good on this thread and really nice to read. For me, writing poetry is not necessarily my strong point - I'm more into scriptwriting.

Thanks Allthings - and thanks for sending in poetry too, all contributions are welcome

Brrrrr. I wouldn't fancy a donkey ride on Blackpool beach in this weather.