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
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.
Thursday 22nd February 2018 10:46 pm
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!"...
Sunday 18th February 2018 4:43 pm
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.
Friday 16th February 2018 10:53 pm
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...
Wednesday 14th February 2018 10:37 pm
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...
Tuesday 13th February 2018 9:48 pm
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,
Sunday 11th February 2018 10:40 pm
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?
Saturday 10th February 2018 9:42 pm
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...
Friday 9th February 2018 4:15 pm
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
Tuesday 6th February 2018 9:31 pm
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,
Friday 2nd February 2018 10:42 pm