Poetry Blog by ray pool

Tags from last 12 months

IT'S ONLY RIGHT

It's only right we should cheer ourselves up

when hearing of the death of innocents,

of those fresh from the womb,

and of those who have outstayed their welcome

through age; of those who were

in the way of someone's plans

through strife, moving objects,

gun or knife, it's only right.

 

It's only right we should feel guilty

though innocent ourselves, for who would not

...

Read and leave comments (3)

it

Read and leave comments (0)

it

Read and leave comments (0)

SPARROWS CAN'T SING

Gawd strewth, there ain't no bluebirds round 'ere,

no whippoorwills neither,

the sparrers are getting rarer too,

though I did see one in Waterloo.

What with the flyovers taking to the sky

there's only pigeons that seem to fly.

 

Why O why can't we hear the bells

get our East End back agin'

with the corner pubs, the rub a dub dubs

as we used to call 'em.

 

It's a...

Read and leave comments (8)

SELL EBRITY

Hall of fame

a wall of flame.

What's in the pipeline,

what's in a name?

 

Worshippers of taste

going to waste.

The playthings we treasure

with poison laced.

Read and leave comments (1)

NANNY'S HOT WATER BOTTLE

When Nanny died, her hot water bottle cried;

"I've no one to warm up," she sighed.

Hiding her maker's mark face down,

as sad as a cast off children's clown.

 

The charity shops refused to take her

saying she was unhygienic,

and even though she was made of rubber

and quite dried out, she began to blubber.

 

In spite of her fondness for bodily contact

she'd reached t...

Read and leave comments (8)

CHIC LIT

There's a little cove on Cornwall's coast

where a lady is writing her latest book

making the most of the atmosphere,

imagining drifting boats in the sun

and sporty chaps in flannels with pipes

or controlling types with attitude and gripes;

and someone is falling in love again.

 

No fast food outlets to spoil the view

of a harbour wall where gulls descend.

No slicks or...

Read and leave comments (12)

THE INN AT THE END OF A LIFE

The sign at the inn swung like a gallows,

the light lay low on the heath.

Old Ben was in his settle

sucking baccy through his teeth.

 

Puddles formed on the flagstones

where a one - eyed dog stood watch;

underneath a ragged sky

the inn was dark as a crotch,

 

except for a fire - lit window

that glowed like a winter star,

through which a cluster of faces took in

...

Read and leave comments (5)

This site uses cookies. By continuing to browse, you are agreeing to our use of cookies.

Find out more Hide this message