Poetry Blog by ray pool (Jan 2019)

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John Coopey on THE PULL OF HOME (8 days ago)

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Tony Hill on DELILAH (13 days ago)

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Graham Sherwood on DELILAH (14 days ago)

raypool on DELILAH (14 days ago)

LOST CAUSE

I hadn't seen her for some time

but the dolls in her pram hadn't changed.

She had got older of course,

more haggard,

but still the nurturing went on

willing herself into the background,

her dedication a flight from reality.

 

She seemed to have taken to the streets

since her low key cafeteria was glammed up

throwing a spotlight on her entourage,

raising more questi...

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HOLOCAUST SURVIVORS

Memories like keepsakes

they have to tell

clinging to life on the edge

of pits and ovens still

 

have to let us know of

those they loved whose lives

were parted to the bone

departed from their rightful place

 

have to relive for history's sake

the interminable pointless ache

leaving their mark on youth's

wide open expectations,

living now in relative grace...

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MURDER MOST FOUL

Successive stars have forged their name

in the heat of the cinema killing game.

Sylvester Stallone stands alone for

rampant destruction for a worthy cause;

Liam Neeson has added a frisson

of genuine grievance to other's malfeasance.

The list is endless but there'll always be

the biters of bullets for you and me.

 

The English have an admiration

for more subtle means o...

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ENDINGS

I'm thinking of an ending

not to life, that's too drastic

but to some remote drama

too painful to resolve

that everyone would eagerly await.

 

I suppose that won't happen,

as endings require a push start at least

to lead up to themselves.

Mostly ideas just end up on shelves.

 

Life can be tantalizing

but mostly needs revising

to stay ahead of the game -

no...

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DRINKER

He stood as if to hold up the wall,

looking down, leaning in,

his face obscured.

 

Behind him, a penumbra of wet traffic

lit up a thin stream

ongoing, seeking an outsource,

 

a purpose; at the drain it said goodbye

with a blush of steam,

just enough to remind me

 

of the persistent thud of need

taken from the well

and re-distributed.

 

 

 

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INSPIRATION

I saw her standing there

and suddenly thought;

what a wonderful title for a song;

but of course i'm not the Beatles,

so using the idea would have been so very wrong.

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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

...

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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...

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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.

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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...

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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...

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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

...

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