Thanks flower. Enjoying your input in t'other thread too.

Thank you so much MrsGoto The Orkney Islands contain spectacular sites too, but Callanish has been preserved much better than most stone monuments. Little is ruined there. It's actually in the shape of a crucifix, despite being built 3000 years before Jesus. I'll probably hit the road in May

Call me Musty by the way, Mrs


Not surprising Biz, it was never released as a single I have a new poem, but I'm going to post it tomorrow. You'll be pleased to know that I spent part of last night with a lady. She has a lot of problems and it can't go anywhere, but it was nice to have a very brief kiss and cuddle again. A bit of shock news from the ultimate outsider - I hope you were sitting down when you read that Biz

Such a cleverly written piece Scottie - I don't know how you get the words to work like that. Even as someone who's not a great fan of toddlers, I thoroughly enjoyed this write


No worries Archiver I always enjoy your poetry because it challenges the mind to really think. I like your latest effort, particularly the flow of it. The poem moves along like a nice stream of cider - if such a thing could exist

See you tomorrow everyone, it's back to work on the book soon. I must say, writing beats every single job I've ever had - there are no bosses for a start

[quote=mr. mustard;71506699] Call me Musty by the way, Mrs


Will do Musty - that was my first time.

I had a friend who visited the Orkneys a couple of years back and she said it was quite a journey and a half, but so worth it.

It is not quite the same as personally visiting, but I have watched all the Island Parish programs on the Beeb. I am enjoying Sark, but I have always wanted to visit The Isles of Scilly and definitely Barra. I hope they all can keep their traditions and families going for a long time yet, seems to be getting so very tough to preserve their history and way of life.
If I ever won the lottery (as if), I would buy a split screen campervan and off around the British Isles I would go, I just know I could break some kind of record for eating the most cream teas in a week or something.

Yes John, "you have the power to mystify me" - as it says in the song.


I always sit down at my laptop - funnily enough and delighted to hear about your evening. First of many perhaps?




Here's to the jaunts in the campervan.

I do the lottery (two lines) twice a week, (I think of it as a charity contribution), and it's always such a relief not having to worry about what to do with all that money.

Not The Parrot Sketch (but apology to the MP's sketch writers)

Pretty Polly my prized poem
propped up in a metaphorical cage
body plumped with preened plumage
as best to pass off onto a prospective
consumer. Stuffed by sonerous stanzas
whose sibillance would fair whistle out its
vibrance to passers by saying please buy me.
I deposit PP boldly inside a digital store I espy;
someone tried to say my poetry was a dead part
of a dying art gone where past rhyme past its time will go
cliched as a deceased dodo or the legendary Norwegian Blue.
It's not cedomposing, I'm proposing it's inclining maybe dozing, can still twit too.
I’m opining its like me, merely pining, for when its now dowdy finery was so shining,
despite appearances it’s alive, nailed on to revive, I’m wryly, really, hoping so do you.

Very clever in all kinds of ways Frank. Enjoyed immensely.


Peter's Word Bird.

Ugly Albert spat out words
much fouler than other birds.
On shiny pictures he would crap.
Rhymingly he was ditto.

Plumage torn by many fights
mostly over pecking rights.
Peter Piper shut the cage.
Albert flapped around in rage.

"* the *ing *ing lorrayoo"
Other things so sure to bother you
I shall not repeat them here.
But I must make one thing clear
(in case you haven't heard):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2WNrx...gl=GB&hl=en-GB

The Mug Shot

Of course she kept things secret,
They stayed inside her head,
It's awkward telling people
You've left five children dead.

But now she had to stand there,
Determined not to lapse
In front of hated coppers
Who needed routine snaps.

While Manchester kept busy,
A camera's flashing light
Would leave the ice queen set in
Eternal black and white.

Because she followed fashion,
The moment didn't cramp
A dose of Sixties glamour
And concentration camp.

The gorgon-eyes of Hindley
Show spite beyond compare,
Her pupils bore right through you,
The Messalina stare.

She lied about the victims,
Defiant as they come;
Young innocents had trusted
A bastard cruel and numb.

That dyed peroxide sadist
Who's haunted me for years
Still looks out, cultivating
The moorland of my fears.


©

A very interesting post Goto ( is it ok calling you that? ) I've only been to Scotland once myself, but I recognized most of the places you mentioned. I have a terrible fear of heights - as a result I've only been on a plane once. That was to Jersey and it terrified me

Just as well Britain is so fascinating really My original plan for Callanish was to rent a campervan, but I've decided to take the train instead

LMAO, I'm so glad you've returned to the thread Frank - comparing a poem to a parrot, who'd have thunk it? You have such a unique style of writing

Keep 'em coming my friend

Another bird poem I daren't click on YouTube in here John

I'm guessing it's a foul-mouthed feathered friend, maybe the rare Gordon Ramsey Tit?

Afraid not Biz but thanks - I'm meeting her again on Friday, but that has to be the last 'date'

A minor point, I'll have to change The Mug Shot in my file. Repetition of the word 'kept' in the first and third verses.

I'm off to Eastbourne tomorrow, but I'll be back on Friday. Take care everyone and keep smiling

Very kind to respond so Musty. I will and thanks archiver. Good to seee so many posting too; unlucky to lose internet M hope you are better otherwise friend. Frank

I know many men are NOT Mummy's Boys, just some,so a little more of my stuff:


Mummy’s Boy

You were Prince Charming when I first met you,
But I was young and stupid, I hadn’t a clue.
You were pampered and spoilt; you lived with your Mum,
She thought it was her job to be wiping your bum.

You were never expected to look after yourself,
Who did you think did all the work? The housework fairy or maybe an elf?
She always would call you ‘her little Prince,’
It was painful to hear and made me physically wince.

I wish I had realised you were such a spoilt brat,
I would have just chucked you and that would be that.
But no, I was silly and young and naïve,
I listened to your requests for me not to leave.

‘I am not treating you right,’ is your Mum’s favourite whinge,
‘But you’re a middle aged man, not a baby,’ I reply with a cringe.
‘I am important, I am the man, look what I earn,’
But that is all you do, there’s nothing else in life you are willing to learn.

You are childish and moody, you constantly sulk,
It would be easier to live with The incredible Hulk.
You think its ok when you’ve been in a huff,
To sidle that body up to me at night, in the buff.

Of course I don’t fancy a night of romance,
When you’ve been wearing a pair of old, stained, underpants.
You must think I’m crazy,
But you stink and you’re lazy,
So I’d rather curl up with my book.

I plead every day when you go to the loo,
To open a window and let some fresh air blow through.
You say, ‘Why does it matter, why moan? Tell me why?’
I say, ‘Cos the next person who ventures in there could die.’

It doesn’t matter to you if I have a crap life,
So long as the big baby gets a Mummy as well as a wife.
It’s been a life of deceit, of cheating and lies,
It’s taken me years, but now I’ve got wise.

Clean your own skid-marks and socks with their pong,
Clean your own toenails and your back like King Kong.
The kids have left home, no more clinging to me
I am off to have fun, after years-Hooray! I am free!

You’ll be fine, take the plunge, give your Mother a call,
She’ll be glad I am gone and you will both have a ball.

Pam Ayres will be having to move over, as someone said, this is great truetolife humour against a worthy dislikeable target almost too graphically described, dirty pants indeed. Yuck. My nickname BTW means no soap operas which is a bete noir pour moi. Well contributed Mrs. Ooh err Mrs as Francis Howard might say.
Frank

Hi everyone Please forgive me if I don't reply to every post, I'm only here for an hour a day bar Sundays, when the library's shut

deleted

I was a mummy's boy Goto, I only ever left home for a few months I got a lot of stick for it from other men. No surprise there I guess. 'Parasite' and 'ponce' were among the charming names I was called.

Great poem, full of your excellent style and wit. I'm so glad you've joined the thread

I hope you stick around, unlike the many other writers who've left after brief stays

Not at all Frank, losing it has helped me

The big book's underway and wonderful distractions like Wikipedia have to go. I've even stopped buying my beloved Daily Mail The handful of people who bought my first effort will understand this point: The Designer was a drop, the next book's an ocean. A large portfolio might actually wake up a publisher who's not intellectually obsessed by non-rhyming poetry. As a sneak preview for the hundreds of DS lurkers and the lovely FMs on this thread, I'm posting the first official 23 poems. A Pukka notebook has 23 lines, so that's the size of the chunks I'm working on.

Fossil by The Sea
Garden Glimmers
Memoir of a Steam Train
Wondering
Cessna 9 to Base
Love
I am the Magic Bullet
Harlequins and Violins
Waiting for the Moon at Callanish
Mr Lonely
Prayer
Colleen O'Shea
Finding Out in Hove
The Blacksmith
Marilyn
Solitude
English Treasure
Love Song of Culloden
Carry On Kenneth
Boulevard of Lovers Bar
I, Banana
Meditation on Stonehenge
UK Place-Names

Biz has helped me so much and her influence is present in the book.

But our new recruit Mrs Goto has played a part too (that's too many toos )

Her kind words on my Callanish tribute swayed me. Everyone knows Stonehenge - amazing as it is, it's unique like the great pyramids. I wanted another ancient site ode to precede it, one that maybe not many have heard of.

Thank you Mrs Goto

I bet you were telling me off for being absent without leave. As you know my ambition is for the poets to interact with each other - which they do, but only briefly unfortunately. I hoped that MRSgoto would become a frequent visitor.


Oooer! That's a bit of a worry - just hope the influence proves to have been a good one.

Hope you enjoyed your trip and have an enjoyable visit this evening - very intriguing. I wonder if we'll get a poem from your experience.

Bon voyage with the book

Questions in 2014...

Why do we live? Why do we die?
We wonder as life passes us by.

Why are we here? is there more than this?
We wonder, as some are in ignorant bliss.

Why not just do the best that we can,
To make life, while here, a pleasure to Man?

Why do we compete, to see who's the strongest?
And live in fear, to live the longest?

Are we happier, now, today,
than our old relatives in their hay day?

Where are we going wrong, when try as we might,
We still don't seem, to have got things right?

Some imponderables there Flower. For one thing I always feel uncomfortable about fierce competition, which seems so cruel to the many who don't win, and a bit worrying that competitors have to have such a narrow focus.

I like the above lines - a good way to live (assuming that it includes woman as well).

Sorry biz - she stood me up. That's not a problem, as I never intended to see her again after that one date. She's a lovely lady but has a major drink problem. Completely gone the other night (after we'd had a great two hours* of fun and chat), I knew she had the time of our date on her mobile. I don't like letting people down, so I waited the full hour. Maybe she was ashamed that three of us had to carry her out of the pub and get her home. I can understand that

* Two hours can last forever, as you know Biz