Poetry Blog by ray pool


rapscallion your cold heart let you down

it knew you too well with your veins of ferns

you shimmered in the wide heat your plans

were laid as eggs


your playground the dregs of


a subcontinent

the sun your mentor

      who showed you mercy

               even with your silly grin

but none to your scrabbling prey


not even aware

they'd been taken  in.

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The first lesson today is pruning the roses,

my wife the headmistress misses nothing.

The little children have been quiet in their beds

all winter long - now they need haircuts, sprucing. 


Some big bully shrubs were expelled last year,

others warned with severe cutbacks.

Daffodils in clumps put up their hands

in buckets, bowls, pots-

"look at us, we're here to please!"


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There is a green hill far away without a city wall.

On its slopes there soon will rise

dwellings of impressive size;

with each and every valued plot

a sense of peace as like as not. 


There'll also be a club and spa,

gymnasium and a foodie bar. 


There was a green hill far away without a city wall

where nature has been crucified

to house us one and all. 

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Aside from politics and religion

there is one topic that's shy of discussion

and that is TEETH,

the grand parade of them

or the sorry state of them.


Decisions on their fate, of

refurbishment or a dental plate,

are often made in the safer skull

where the brain begins to calculate

costs that seem to escalate. 


A full set of gnashers

brings out the flashers


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From Fagin's garret to basement clubs,

from cut throat razors to cuban cigars,

from Whitechapel alleys to Belgravia flats,

people got bought, people got sold,

services rendered, favours returned.


Slanders concocted - lessons learned. 

Crime has always, always paid.


Now online sticky fingers

in respectable houses in nowhere towns

tap away their morse code dreams


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On this bench dedicated to E.F.Hawksworth

by his wife Lucinda 1983

these youths have no respect.


The girl is on her haunches -

the boy like a raven shrouds her,

both shrunken by drugs.


The bench of bleached oak stands as testament -

to what who knows,

who now cares?


A small patch of cleared earth

awaits the gesture of spring bulbs,

pigeons gather


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Every inch a poet

from his tippy toes

to his restless fingers

whence the poetry flows.


Every inch a word

running into lines

waiting on the edge of breath

ready to be heard.


Will you read for me

the measure of your life,

those inches spinning into miles

that set your spirit free?

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Hi folks, Paul Hollywood here;

I love life and what it's done for me. 

I've just made a discovery.

I used to only eat cheddar

until I chanced on Brie de Mersey,

French by name English by nature. 

Bloody crackin' it is -

if ever there was a taste of the north

this has got it in buckets. 


It's in Tescos as we speak, 

I love it to bloody death.

It's safe on the g...

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Inertia can bring comfort;

reason flies at it in a rage, but

soon calms down to accept its rules.


It's in good company

with many admirers:

lethargy, apathy, acceptance.


Indifference, whose bleak prospect heralds it,

unveils its faded grandeur

in a slow ceremony


with a grey cortege,

bowing low with a welcome.

Fighting with it brings little solace



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It's always been claimed that places can be haunted,

uneasiness felt around ancient doors.

Fleeing the skies to settle scores:

undefined figures, strange lights, sounds,

impressions in restless beds

up to those well-rehearsed tricks.


But I met an old man at the dead of day.

He said: perhaps it's us that are haunted,

carrying our burdens to sympathetic rooms,

baring ...

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