Poetry Blog by Phil Golding

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Andy N on Life is.... (Tue, 28 Sep 2010 07:52 pm)

Lynn Dye on Be still your Tears (Thu, 23 Sep 2010 09:07 pm)

Andy N on Be still your Tears (Mon, 20 Sep 2010 08:14 am)

Andy N on Raise the Barrier (Sat, 21 Aug 2010 09:42 am)

Patricia and Stefan Wilde on Raise the Barrier (Fri, 20 Aug 2010 08:33 pm)

winston plowes on Feeling Small (Thu, 12 Aug 2010 10:27 pm)

Andy N on Feeling Small (Thu, 12 Aug 2010 08:20 am)

Andy N on Bashful Brian and the Waggle Dance - my story poem (Thu, 15 Jul 2010 08:18 am)

on Bashful Brian and the Waggle Dance - my story poem (Wed, 14 Jul 2010 04:15 pm)

Deborah Jordan on My ‘Rose’ in a Desert Storm – my poetic song (Wed, 14 Jul 2010 02:03 pm)

Life is....

Life is but a stage, and we the players,

Shakespeare would have us believe.

The question is who controls the auditorium?

Is it controlled through Government hand outs or

augmented taxation served up to befuddled legislaton.


Life is a randomised, unsolicited list of stage directions,

given as prompts regardless of consequence.

It’s the equivalent to being forced


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Be still your Tears

No picture could portray the questions in your mind,

nor could any word describe, feelings of any kind

When a cruel twist in life throws a curved ball,

it strains your heart to make sense of it all.


Be still your tears, that match a raindrops fall,

I’m here in rainbows beyond the treetops, tall.

You will find me, in fields of Daffodil’s,

bringing Spring to vase...

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The brother of a neighbour of minetook his own life. The day before he fixed the roo

Raise the Barrier



We have to surmount many barriers with each new day we face

Trying to get past or over them; sometimes forced to re-trace

Everyone is trying to get by in what’s called ‘Societies Norm’

Looking for a sign or signal to help us along and conform


We all need markers to act as a series of signposts and guidelines


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Feeling Small

This part one of a trilogy of poems based upon the sensative subject of Domestic Violence. The first looks at situation based upon men violence towards women, the second part looks at the subject where men are victims and the third looks at its effect on children. For each research has or will be done. Amongst the research for the first I interviewed a victim of  Domestic Violence 



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Bashful Brian and the Waggle Dance - my story poem



Down in the valley,

not far from the sea,

lives Brian Bumble,

a bashful bee.


He worked in a field,

for hours and hours,   

gathering the food,

from all the flowers.


Brian was hungry,

at the end of his shift.


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Should I publish this?

My ‘Rose’ in a Desert Storm – my poetic song

I sit on top this ‘tin’ roof, balanced precariously,

between a sinking past, and a future I want you to see.

I see the troubled world you are in,

do not lock me out, please let me in.

Let the healing begin, my rose in a desert storm.


A gentle breeze weaves amid, the playground in the park,

you and I made castles in the sand-pit, it was nearly dark.

When we got ...

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Would society find me, if I was not there

The sun, prizes my curtains apart again, mauling my eyelids,

as I lie here, in my self-contained flat,

a high-rise, male teenager in a canopy of concrete and steel.

Green envious eyes peer down,

at the urban jungle below.

I am hooded, against the cold,

a shadow of an existence,

as I meander, the grey washed streets of conformity.

My daily life bores me shitless,


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Shakespearian Speakers Corner


Fair maidens, noble sirs I bid thee tarry a while.

Prithee remove cloth, that dust cover thyne ears,

and keep’st thyne portals of sleep awakened

that thou may heed my chronicle.

For mine is a winter’s tale,

thats brought nought but discontent,

to kindred spirits of this peopled land.

Elected emissaries of her majesty,

dust ...

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Discoveries Highway


The dream of lying naked with that perfect woman,

amongst the sweet smell of summer meadow,

beneath azure canopy.

The freshness of a sprinkling light shower,

kissing your soft delicate skin,

baked by noon day sun.

The afterglow of our love on our island green,

drenched by beads,  

lost amongst furnace toasted dunes.

Like birds of prey this imagery...

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