Gifts for Artists

Lay northern clogs on Lowry's grave,
His art deserves the honour,
For Michelangelo who gave
So much, a stone Madonna,
For Edgar Allen Poe be brave,
At night, place belladonna.

Leave sheets of paper for John Clare
And petals to inspire,
A flame for Blake to help repair
His chariot of fire,
Love letters for Charles Baudelaire
That simmer with desire.

Place absinthe where the sunlight spills
On Vincent who reposes,
For Oscar Wilde arrange new quills
But nothing old of Bosie's,
For William Wordsworth, daffodils,
For Holbein, Tudor roses.

For tombs of artists let us look
And bring them gifts tomorrow,
Leave Betjeman a quaint guidebook,
For Holman Hunt we'll borrow
A Bible and for Rupert Brooke
Some poppies picked in sorrow.


©

Great poem Elyan, it puts across the mechanical orders and actions of warfare really well. I could almost see the sabres shining on the battlefield

I know what you mean Izzy but the poem was still very effective. I read it twice

Yum

The Man Of Stone

A light does listen
to help the lost
as does the man of stone
label the cost
a monument for those who care
left for sweet remembrance
to those who have inuit where

A lovely poem sandy - it reminded me of the stone memorials for those who died in the wars.

Litter Bugs Me

Discarded empty Coke cans glared,
Nobody looked, nobody cared
How chips that someone didn't taste
And cardboard boxes gone to waste
Were ruining a piece of land,
Dropped there by every casual hand.

And on a day when strong winds blew
Lots of the lighter rubbish flew,
It oscillated in the air,
Surrounding meadows got their share,
Meanwhile the piece of land became
An eyesore and a place of shame.

Soon supermarket plastic bags
Joined packets used for crisps and fags,
Then fly-tippers left twenty feet
Of fencing and a three-piece suite,
A mattress full of broken springs
And sundry other useless things.

No leader senses our distress
Or tackles those who make a mess,
No parent teaches children that
Decaying food attracts the rat,
'Keep Britain Tidy' is a sham:
The litterbugs don't give a damn.


©

Nothing ever stays the same..
For me thats how it looks,
Not much time for libraries,
And sitting reading books.

There were the days not long ago,
When things were not invented
We d sit reflect and meditate,
And stories were fermented.

It started with a Postie Postie,
For my sweet valentine,
Then went on to longer pros and verse,
And got better every line.

But then we all got tellys,
And then a mobile phone,
Then we all went viral,
And poetry it was gone.

Maybe we will get it back,
And find our Edgar Poe,
Or maybe our bard Rabbie,
You never really know.

So maybe we should have a try,
And see what in your head,
Write down a few choice meaning words
Cause poetry aint dead.

Like it..

Like it too

That's a great sentence to say out loud

How's that book doing ? Soon be Autumn you know

Thanks, Musty.

I saw a picture of an inuit stone man and noticed how simply they were made.

I like the way you described the coke cans

I understand how annoying litter can be, especially if some people are very tidy, not so difficult to put litter in bins.

Ta BB I've spent the last three months polishing and correcting the material for the book. I'm glad to say there's only one poem left to check and one left to actually finish writing. That's the Charles Manson story - even unfinished it stands at 38 verses

The end of August should see completion, then I'll go to London to stay with my technical assistant, who'll create the actual book. It'll definitely be released before the end of the year

I heartily agree - great poem Calamity

I hate litter Sandy - as you say, it's so easy put rubbish in a bin or just keep it until you see one.

Cerberus, the Hound

Deep down where
The darkest shade is,
In his lair
Employed by Hades,
Cerberus, the hound.

Like Hell's keys,
The fanged mouth gaping,
Sure to seize
The ones escaping,
Cerberus will bound.

Phantoms try
To flee but it's hard
Ghosting by
The Underworld's guard,
Far beneath the ground.

Large and black,
Red-eyed, suspicious,
No wild pack
Is quite as vicious,
Hush, don't make a sound.

On the Styx
I'd rather be dead,
Blood he licks,
The dog of three head,
Cerberus, the hound.


©

Thanks

The boy stood on the burning deck picking his nose like fury
He rolled them up in little balls and flicked them at the jury.

Sorry to lower the tone I was never any good at poetry. At school we were once asked to write a poem about 'my favourite things', mine was rubbish but I remember saying I liked the smell of Nivea Creme.

I do like your poems mr. mustard

Thanks I keep thinking I ought to write another one, a happier, more nature-based one again but I don't quite get around to it. I wrote/typed two lines a few days back but then stopped. Ah well.

Sorry I've thought better of my post but too late to delete it

I wouldn't worry about it at all ! It's right up Mr Mustards street. You just wait , he'll laugh his cap off

Pity you can't remember the one about Nivea Creme

As the day passes,
colours fade, in and out,
the beauty of our surroundings
shone in various ways.

Gently the sun creeps,
up, up, up;
on tip toes like an absent child;
rushing towards the biscuit tin;
when the sky is clear, so it peeks out,
mischeviously, smiling down on the land below,
that which stands proudly out our windows,
shining; bold as brass,
under the bright spotlight of sunshine,
the land outside temptingly beckons.

However,
nothing lasts forever,
the suns bright energy can and does fade,
clouds congregate, rain dives and splashes,
the air is cleared...wind breezes through
but fear not, the sun will come back out,
it always returns, one way or another,
there can be no storms without first the presence
of the mellow, soothing shining sun.

I know there are a lot of people on DS that 'spoil' threads. It was just a bit of fun but later I thought if people on here are serious about their poetry they may not appreciate it

Thank you Dancer - BB's right, we like to have a laff here

The burning deck poems have many variations; I must admit, I didn't know your one