Hello in here. New place for me to comment. I have lurked many times. Lots of good work to read. Just a little ditty for my God thread mate/irritant , sweet and poetic Archiver


There was an old fart named Archiver
I've sent him for sweets with a fiver
He'll get a pain in the tum
Make that pain in the bum
Take a break from being his driver.

Rain (musty)

Nineteen sixty-six,
Beatles got their kicks
Rain was in the mix

I know another poem which starts in exactly the same way, but it is low,low,low in tone, not like your poem at all.

It has been lovely reading this thread and catching up. I have been traveling to see me Mother. She was diagnosed with Pancreatic Cancer at Christmas and I have been accompanying her to chemo, so away from home frequently and away from friends at present,although they have been so caring and supportive.I am blessed with my friends, very lucky to have them.
You all work so fast and regularly, where do you find the time? I know nobody minds, but it does make me feel completely inadequate.

I am never moving to Islington while Hattie resides there.

"Let the Tudor terrors begin."
I had an absolute obsession with Henry VIII, as I used to live around Nonsuch Park, Richmond Park, Hampton Court and Carew Manor. This has jogged my memory about some books I read, I must look them out, there were some juicy stories I would enjoy getting re-acquainted with, as I am back in my home town so much of late. Thank you musty.

Reading between the lines

Do I read too much into the words you say?
reading between the lines
Do I interpret things in my own way?
reading between the lines
Do I only hear what I want to hear?
reading between the lines
Is it me who makes the meaning clear?
reading between the lines
Do I fill in each empty space?
reading between the lines
Is the real meaning in your face?
reading between the lines
Do I look behind every single word?
reading between the lines
Do I only hear what I have heard?
reading between the lines
Do I know you so well that I can tell?
reading between the lines
Do I catch every nuance in your words so well?
reading between the lines
Do I trust myself to let you be?
reading between the lines
Should I only act on what I see?
reading between the lines
Do I read between the lines too much?
reading between the lines
Should I rely on sight and not on touch?
reading between the lines
See what I read and read what I see?
reading between the lines
And listen to you instead of me?
reading between the lines

Sorry to be a bit one track these days.

His?

Some animals became so proud
of standing out above the crowd
they thought; if they become divine
they could turn water into wine.

All concentrating with closed eyes,
while muttering satanic lies,
they offered up themselves to god.
Denying that they're on their tod.

When god looked down to see their plight,
It noticed some had got it right.

God knows it can be known by none
and all that it had ever done
is nothing more than all there is.
It doesn't care they call it "His".


I'll change the record soon.

Which way the wind.

A rhyme sublime?
A downward climb,
down Jacob's ladder.
Last chance to see
the sea maybe
before I go madder.

To drift offshore
where nothing more
than life beneath the stars,
rests in peace
where no police
or panic station mars.

The total bliss.
The secret kiss
which every drifter knows.
Cast off and away,
that I might say
which way the wind blows.

Because.

Concepts lost of all respect
for that which we so neglect.
Tangible failure as a knife.
Stupid derailleur of life.

Sidewalks cluttered with good news.
Someone muttering their views
on all that we must refuse.
Someone drunk on stolen booze.

Sad to see us fail the test.
We only had to do our best
at doing what we've always done.
Surviving here under the sun.

Someone asked why I care.
It's just because this is so rare.

I couldn't agree more John - the only reason I write is to hopefully get a reaction from the reader


They're great places for people-watching Sandy

Thanks MrsG I'm so sorry to hear about your Mum

Prehistory is my favourite era of history, but the Tudors come a close second! Their time in power included so many amazing events. In the history section of my book I have poems on Henry VIII, Lady Jane Grey, Mary Queen of Scots and Father Henry Garnet. He was the priest who took the confession of the gunpowder plotters. Sworn to secrecy by his own faith, but against their use of violence, he was eventually executed with the others. An innocent man who died through association.

Take care Mrs G

A fascinating poem Scottie and a big departure from your normal style

No apology needed John, as ever I enjoyed all the latest contributions from you! Your thought-provoking verse adds so much to the thread - essential and existential

Hi Anne and welcome to the thread

It's nice to see Archiver get a poem in his honour

Cerberus, The Hound

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

Like Hell's keys,
The fanged-mouth gaping,
If he sees
Some soul escaping
Cerberus will bound.

Phantoms try
To flee, but it's hard
Getting by
The Underworld's guard,
Cerberus is fast

To attack,
Wild and suspicious,
No whole pack
Is quite as vicious,
He hears every sound.

Near the Styx
There are no free dead,
Blood he licks,
The dog of three head,
Cerberus, the hound.


©

Angus and the Monster

'Twas on a gloomy Loch Ness shore
Where eerie mist had whitened,
That Angus J McTavish saw
A thing that left him frightened.

Alone upon a forlorn bank
And worse the wear for tipples,
Despite the great amount he drank
He noticed sudden ripples.

And then a creature slowly rose,
A prehistoric classic,
Poor Angus dropped his flask and froze,
The creature looked Jurassic!

As he fled to the nearest inn
His tam-o'-shanter bobbled
And when he heard the monster's din
His sporran shook and wobbled.

The locals heard his drunken lilt,
They shouted he was crackers,
So Angus lifted up his kilt
And flashed them with his knackers.

These days he lives with ridicule,
He wishes they would knock less,
Despite the cynics as a rule
He still goes down to Loch Ness.

So if you're there and hear strange sounds
It may not be too risky;
If not old Nessie on her rounds
It's Angus pissed on whiskey.


©

Musty, I didn't know you can mention the p word on here?

Interesting glide with a trolley and a dance of sorts
as a stop is to start as cabbage is to ought
flung in from afar with a much of precise
applause and a hurrah amongst a where's this recourse

Suicide Off Gulls’ Rock

the dry sand freeflows
moulds itself to my feet
as I tread over the crushed beach
to the call
of the mermaid-waves
that break and die
from the red flare
of the horizon
to the glinting curl of crystalled surf
and the roll of water
the churning of pebbles
popping of bubbles
stirring memories
of sounds and mottled sands
of lazy-warm days of nothing more
than loving the moments
and moments
of time of nothing more
than following the stream of the heart
of the arcing sun and passing of time
I enter the water
a creature native
footsteps erased
and wake-swirl lost
in the eternal roll
of my submerging body meshing
with the amniotic fluid of the sea.





The sea gives up the dead

Washed up,
on an early morning tide,
a bladder-pod,
placenta-veined,
bleached and smoothed like driftwood.

Stranded
on crushed,
dry sand.

Size of a man.

Split and drying in the sun..

A crab scuttles out
over the scuffed sand
away from the sea.

Gulls slew overhead,
calling out
back across the swirl of the sea,
to their rocks.

The sea gives up the dead.

With all

With all that has been
you face such at times
feel a certain surge of love
as it grows between the lines

Great work scottie, but then - you've stunned me before. Thanks again.

I enjoyed Angus and Cerberus (sitting in a tree ) Musty, and yours too sandy. Missing Biz.


Knowing.

A little moral ditty:
To quarrel is a pity.
To sham is a shame.
To damn is insane.

Killing isn't thrilling,
not even for a shilling.
Nothing hits the spot
like something you forgot.

If you think you can tell
I truly wish you well.
If you don't care at all
good luck with that wall.

No need to come clean,
or say what you mean.
It's enough to survive
knowing you're alive.

Dingle Dell.

From Dingle Dell
I wish you well.
My wishing well
is not so deep.
The fish I keep
are fast asleep.

Dark reflections.
Imperfections?
Something looming
would be grooming?
Slightest shiver.
The forgiver?

The fragrant breeze.
Excellent trees.
Feathered streaks
with wormy beaks.
The well worn path.
A child's laugh.

Too much spinning
looks like sinning.
Too much Jesus
tends to freeze us.
Too much joy?
Not yet dear boy.

The Stunt.

Excellent excrement. Tea on toast?
Slippery sentiments. Built to boast?
Angular arguments. Sharp and blunt?
Death was a publicity stunt?

Hello Mr Mustard. Just lurking again. I must say I greatly admire your work. I don't know where your inspiration comes from but it is wonderful stuff.

I've written a lot of deeply depressing prose in my time but I know that doesn' t count.

Welcome

A gift!
How kind!
How thoughtful!
A golden bowl of fruit
left on my kitchen table
on my first morning.

You must have stolen in
while I was showering
and left this welcome for a new neighbour.
An omen for a new start.

The golds and reds and yellows delight,
glistening wet in the slice of sun
that cuts by the barely open door.

I bite into an apple
and shudder at its bitterness.
I smile and return it to its bowl.

The worm shrinks back into the fruit.

It's too late now Sandy, I have


Even shopping can inspire poetry - I must re-post my Down at the Supermarket epic some time Sandy

What is it about the sea that lures us? Two excellent and haunting odes Scottie

Lovely Sandy - your poetry is so uplifting