Smilodon

A cat designed for violence
Approaches prey in silence
Amid the forest green,
Two fangs, it never flinches,
Two fangs around ten inches,
A sabre-toothed machine.

And if it makes an error
And mammals flee in terror,
Then human food will do,
No pack ever announces
The moment when it pounces,
Death comes out of the blue.

A fascinating study,
With snouts all red and bloody
The gangs eat and move on,
Cats now are just a sequel
And none of them can equal
The fangs of Smilodon.


©

I misread this as 'I walk through the woods' Sandy Then I saw my mistake and re-read it - a clever play on words I thought

Thanks

Words are funny, words can be misplaced sometimes, left somewhere to be found.

She certainly is and was and will be.

Salute, if you please.

I staggered to the end of the learning process yesterday, can get through it with a few pauses and probably the wrong word here or there.

Wordplay is endless Ronnie Barker was a master at it - four candles


Amazing

Fossil by the Sea

The fossil washed up on the shore,
Its strange appearance there I saw,
Down on the beach
I bent to reach,
Investigate and see.

On close inspection I observed
That old survivor, ridged and curved
And while it gleamed
The relic seemed
To turn a distant key.

When brushed away, the cold wet sand
Revealed the treasure in my hand,
My wonder grew
As seagulls flew,
Sometimes you just feel free.

Time hadn't made the patterns fade,
For pretty little spirals played,
Without a sound
I almost found
The fossil spoke to me

Of unknown eras long ago,
Of ages in the ebb and flow,
When cells were warmed
And life first formed;
Creation's mystery.


©

As Brucie would say say, higher or lower? you get nothing for a pair, not in this game.

Thank You Kind Sir

If I should fall on a leave
I would stand up graceful
as others may stand and observe
but to the nice fellow that
asked with care all was right
thank you kind sir
you are a gentleman
reward as such recompensed

Sentiment

I meant leaf instead of leave, misprint

When F was S

In days of old when knights were bold
And wore metallic sections,
The English language dripped with gold
And needed few corrections.

Yet many authors couldn't stand
To write the letter 'S',
The quill would bend or swivel and
Create an inky mess.

As parchment tore and poets swore
Oblivion S faced;
A charming letter was no more,
By F it was replaced.

Nobody kicked up too much fuff,
Though few could read a word
The different method fuited uf
And didn't feem abfurd,

While Milton thought it very ftrange
How S waf put to death,
Moft were contented with the change
Of fubftituting F.

Old Famuel Pepyf enjoyed a meal
And after drinking wine
He f**ked each finger with great zeal
Then wrote another line.

But shortly S returned again,
As F's eviction came
The pen usurped the quill and then
The language stayed the same.

I'm glad the style did not persist,
Or we'd have Frank Finatra
And no wise existentialist
Could work as Jean Paul Fartre.


©

Manners cost nothing Sandy

Purgatory

And the ward is made, and the Chaplain prayed
And the tools are laid in line
And the table legs are cut to size
As the beast prepares to dine

And the battle roars, ‘round the battered corps
And the bodies fall again
And the stretchers aren’t enough to cope
As they ferry broken men

And the Privates moan, and the Corporals groan,
And the Sergeants writhe in pain
And the orderlies slip, and almost trip
As their tired arms bear the strain

And the wounded press, in a screaming mess,
And the surgeon’s saw is hone
And the leather bit is drowned in spit
As he cuts through flesh and bone

Great poem Elyan! It's cringe-inducing to imagine what soldiers went through in the past. I have to look away from scenes of surgery, particularly those in the 19th century Navy - even though it's only being acted. Your poetry has a way of conjuring up the reality of war.

Apple Tree Man

The apple tree man moves around,
A rumour on the breeze,
Unselfish and invisible,
A whisper in the trees.

Down avenues of red and green
His labour has begun;
To bring the orchard nourishment
With spells of rain and sun.

He tends the fruit so carefully,
The apple-blossoms sway
With pleasure as he passes by
And makes his silent way.


©

You haven't lost your touch Musty, and great to see other talented poets on here too.

Thanks musty.

Death in the Rookery

Through the dank and smoky darkened gloom
Of alleyways and lichened dripping walls
Below a hundred packed and stinking rooms
That hold all hell for those that there befall

A dozen infants cry in hungered pain
Their wailing fills the air above the inns
But learn their cries must cruelly be in vain
On ears of staggering mothers soaked in gin

Two pennies for a time they claim is good
A cold-eyed pimp unfeelingly observes
Another night perhaps he’d say he would
But now his time and strength he should preserve

For the guinea in his purse has bought his time
A hand to feel the blade, safe at his breast
His heartless face reflects a skill in crime
Tonight his victim’s throat will this attest

He’ll wait in shadows for the perfect hour
While eyes who know his business do the same
And as the watchers slink away and cower
A neck of blood and grizzle he will claim

Then while the draining body is still warm
The little ones will come to strip it clean
And a miracle the rookery performs
To make it as the man had never been

They’ll dump his naked body in the Thames
To keep the Peelers out of their concern
And never they’ll have seen or heard his name
In fear the ruthless killer will return

Ey oop Biz Glad to see you're still around

Wow, what an incredibly dark tale! It brought Jack the Ripper to mind, who was about in the era of the 'peelers'. A thoroughly macabre and engrossing piece Elyan

UK Place-Names

Instead of modern Sat Nav
I read maps quaint and old,
From mine here's places that have
Weird titles to behold.

The UK breezes billow
Round signposts north and south;
Some point you to Prickwillow,
Some lead to Cockermouth.

I've never really got 'em,
Each one is quite unique,
Why call somewhere Pratt's Bottom
Or Frisby on the Wreake?

Unlike Newquay and Frinton
They often sound obscene,
What gave us Piddlehinton
And what if Acock's Green?

The presence of strong liquor
Could answer for the bodge
That conjured Upper Dicker
As well as Knockie Lodge.

It's strange to see them written,
Yet stranger knowing that
A village in Great Britain
Is really known as Twatt.

Perhaps the local trollops
Inspired Fockerby
But nothing tops The Wallops
And Wetwang by the sea.

These names should never alter,
We'd dearly feel their loss,
Though some make my eyes water;
Especially Balls Cross.


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Superb Proper laugh out loud, and very clever.

Thanks by the way musty.

Paris, The Day After by IzzyS

What is there to say,
to all the people who pull through,
to all the people who made it,
those who saw; the brutality inflicted,
breathed the same air as such chilling evil personified?.

At times like this,
bleakness may seem far too apparent,
the apparent random nature,
the viciousness,
the cruelty,
how do we respond?.

It can't be denied,
that democratic freedom is abhorred by some;
yet we have so much to be proud of,
we should all come together,
stand as one,
state, loud and clear,
that we will not allow you,
to dictate our way of life.

We will not;
let terror win,
for as deeply worrying as it undoubtedly is,
to be a part of the Westernised world some condemn,
we have a duty, to carry on our lives,
to show our children,
who, in turn, shall show their children,
that we are proud of our freedoms.

Everywhere, here in the West,
may feel somehow at risk, at present,
yet together we can,
no, we shall,
we WILL,
make it clear to those with such deeply ingrained hate,
hate of us, of our freedoms, rights and ways of life,
that we will not be dictated to out of fear.

We will not let the fear,
the terrorising,
win,
we will not beat to the sound of your drum,
we will weep for each and every lost innocent,
of course, we're only human;
but we must, I hope we shall, attempt at all costs,
through some unknown method, which I pray is discovered,
let it be so, please let it be,
that the shameful, horrendous, barbaric loss of innocent lives
may be ended without many more volumes of blood shed.

I know how dreamlike this must sound,
the sound of dreaming and hoping...still I know,
that the power of hope is indeed a strong, powerful entity,
so now and forevermore I hold on to it,
with hopes it comes to pass.

Why??

So many questions going round in my head,
that, the happy yesterday, are now lying ..... dead.

Why?

Do I feel helpless, and what can I say
to stop this happening another day?

Why?