Poetry Blog by ray pool
| Email: | raypool@live.co.uk |
| Email: | poolray1@gmail.com |
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
...Tuesday 15th January 2019 7:31 pm
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...
Friday 11th January 2019 10:22 pm
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.
Thursday 10th January 2019 9:55 pm
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...
Wednesday 9th January 2019 9:41 pm
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...
Monday 7th January 2019 2:46 pm
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
...Tuesday 1st January 2019 12:43 pm
Recent Comments
Big Sal on IT'S ONLY RIGHT (1 hour ago)
M.C. Newberry on IT'S ONLY RIGHT (2 hours ago)
Wolfgar Miere on IT'S ONLY RIGHT (19 hours ago)
raypool on SPARROWS CAN'T SING (2 days ago)
raypool on NANNY'S HOT WATER BOTTLE (2 days ago)
poemagraphic on NANNY'S HOT WATER BOTTLE (2 days ago)
jennifer Malden on NANNY'S HOT WATER BOTTLE (2 days ago)
jennifer Malden on SPARROWS CAN'T SING (3 days ago)
poemagraphic on LETTER FROM THE STREETS part 2 (3 days ago)
raypool on LETTER FROM THE STREETS part 2 (3 days ago)