Poetry Blog by Rose Casserley

stew-pid food for thought poem

I was his tart

he always called me honey

he was soo tasty

the apple of my eye

and cool as a cucumber


but recently he frittered his dough away

on a souped-up banger

I thought he was crackers!

and told him I didn't think

he was using his loaf

that it was a bit of a lemon

the brakes were crumby

and there was something fishy

about the documents

not to men...

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as good as they come if not better ( for Jemima )

she only has to say a few words

but they have the power

to bring a mountain down


or one final larger than life touch

of pen to paper

and the little story sets off down the runway

on colossal journeys.


At time she exceeds herself.

When looking for perfection

she can lift a tiny stone

and find the whole of heaven beneath it


and after demolishing

a u...

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womb passenger

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to loving tones

of Mother's voice

beyond her wall of flesh

slumbering your way into the world.


So many dreams and opportunities await

arranging themselves in ranks of readiness

for your arrival for your selectiveness


each one holding hands with time

the unwanted turncoat intent on withering

the opening flowers of your days. 


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and still he gets in loves way

He continues taking the soul

out of all she offers 

no matter how much she speaks to him

like tears in the eyes of a child would


He persists in allowing deception

to eat into his promises.


But no longer can she

permit her truth to be tortured

or standby watching him

walling himself out from himself.


In her leaving knowing

his forbidding of her 


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Syrian woman defying violations of home


she will not leave her murdered loved ones 

and become one among many leaving

to wander dangerously aimlessly


she will not listen to the voice of fear!


Like an uncaged prisoner

like an enemy in her own land,

her future goes on darkening

being stupified by the rages of war


she truly believes

the history of her land

shall by the will of Allah be vi...

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being true to the real world

I must turn my back on dreams

stop envisioning

oh, and forget about all that might be but probably won't.


I have to be determined

and believe my own voice

when it says 'this is life'


though at times it can be trick-tested

into being made to say it isn't.


My insistence on truth

has to overwhelm any imaginings

and has to do away with gossamer words


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how heavy the loss

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we've been separated

from a beautiful friendship

shared with so many here

and many more in his life

filled with his gifts of wit his wisdom

and inspiration


no longer

declares the cruel voice of time

and I choke on tears

no more

says the harsh uncompromising

ever present claimant

and I sit cornered by sadness

listening to the whispering of a memory


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hyped up hypocrites

Tailing the week

this Sabbath day.


My Sunday morning lie-in

is once more being made to feel

like the actions of a disbeliever

by the disturbing 'get out of bed and come to Jesus'

spire hatted bells

clanging for all they are worshippingly worth


and devil denying family pods I know will be

shuffling in queues 

towards the vicars welcoming limp wristed pale han...

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timeless opposites

love and hate

as in the present

as in the past

as in forever


life's irrefutable bedmates 

that I will go on without any doubt

sharing my life with.


A forced marriage to

these two disagreeing groom's 

till death do us part.  

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the ignoring of J.C.Clarke

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I've forgotten his name,

was it Jim Higgins?

I'll probably forget it again

but this so-called poet

Bill Higginson

was showing me

a crap poem he had written.


Meanwhile, some dude with spiky black hair wearing shades

and with a spiky black suited physique to match   

came into the pub.


I had known Jim ( or was it Bill? ) on and off for years.

He was asking ...

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in deep grass

lie with me

share love

and the silence

of these hills and valleys

embrace all I have to give

and forget to consider

the ways of times closure

to the forthcoming

unfathomed delights

of ecstasy.

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Mr and Mrs Maelstrom

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she was wickedly attractive

he was dangerously good looking

both dirty devil bedmates

eager players in the same

narcotised game


he was rock and roll ruthless

she was crude 

their knife-edge reputations

went before them

life wasn't fast enough


they loved being caught up

in a different race

addicted to everything bad

like riders on a crazed carousel


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long ago

red fluids of ancestry

having flowed 

into us both

within the same womb

now binds us

and is ours alone

we were those seeds

of continuity

that grew

from the 

garden of birth

to become flowers

of unquestionable


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Edens fools

damn those first apple pickers! 

those disallowed tasters 

those unknowing inventors

of the original sin starting blocks

from which humanity set off 

most trying to outrace the other 

as they did from the first day

and do now


yes, the race continues 

but do the runners all have

the same versions of victory in their minds

and will the finishing line

ever be ...

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an opinion for consideration

composing poetry is like going on a journey, agreed?

a meditative privileged pilgrimage

albeit a not so easy voyaging experience of the mind

sometimes to the point of breaking or beyond

depending on the poet's skills and courage or the lack of


but no pilgrimage whether to

Trial City, Errorsville

or our most desired of all destinations

the lands of perfected imagination


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periods of zilch

bloody typical!

just when I need either of them

my Fairy Godmother or Godfather

those letdowns don't appear

to grant my wish for a return to excitements

of any kind

uplifting necessities to avert boredom

from greying its way into my life.


Mr Nothing and Mr Yawn

the tedious twosome drably parading

their miserable presences 

past the window of my mind

like a ...

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Forgive him (Mr X) Father

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who gets in his own way

who makes his life darker and darker

who cannot stop the rot of his soul from setting in

who allows his enemies to live in his head

who thinks he is the chosen one

who is unable to stop worrying and really learn to love life


for he knows not how to put an end to his masochistic ways.

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and they call this SPORT!

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in fearful flight

from the shooters hidden

in the nearby riverbank reeds

wiser ducks have flapped their way

into the safety of my garden.


Twelve I managed to count

before my mud packed face at the kitchen window

sent them scuttling away through a hedge gap.


But in the distance,I can still hear the killing sounds continuing

shooting away for all they are (not) w...

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snobby brother

always at family gathering's we used to love singing

about Bill Bailey who would never come home

or the unnamed somebody wanting to be shown the way home

because they were tired and wanted to go to bed.


And our frail old father sat there enjoying it all

a strong smile on his weather-beaten face in lieu

of those huge muscle's he used to carry mother up to bed with

singing ...

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my goodbye friend

I've googled up that rough-necked town

you ended up dying in

on the edges of a remote wilderness,

not unlike Dodge City  

but without the horses 

and probably only the odd good time gal for comfort.


Where the bracken surroundings veiled with dew-laden spider webs

and deathly silence waiting for a weak-kneed summer

you never lived to see.


No more shabby loneline...

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strange singer

although I haven't a name for the bird

possibly blown off course 

to its intended destination

now hidden in my garden hedge

probably trying hard to familiarize itself

with the chittering language of our homegrown species

I nevertheless have heard the most unusual most golden tones

it shares with them and my listening

that I can only describe

as being of such a soul-stirr...

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from the soul's paintbox, 

the rainbow selections of spirituality

mixed on the palette

all mingle becoming one

the colour of everything beautiful

I will need to complete

the masterpiece of peace.  


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New Years dishonoured list

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we see them in all kinds of weather 

the usual pin money earning  male or female pensioner

staunchly holding the renowned sign mid road 

watching over noisy nippers most times

holding hands with absolute rocks

that families build their futures on

commonly known as grandparents.


The yellow coated award-worthy symbol of defiance against old age

the guardian angel of the ...

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one HELL of a mistake

entry picture

I know a hill.

I see it often

in my shamed memory


a bloodstained hill

where on high

at the top of a centre-piece cross

the mocking sign


Jesus of Nazareth the king of the Jews


the vision 

passed on by word of ancient mouths

visits my guilt on occasions

and reminds my soul


how very much

I must somehow go on trying

to kill that flower o...

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Recent Comments

Raj Ferds on stew-pid food for thought poem (Sun, 4 Mar 2018 09:47 am)

Patricia and Stefan Wilde on as good as they come if not better ( for Jemima ) (Sat, 3 Mar 2018 09:13 pm)

Patricia and Stefan Wilde on stew-pid food for thought poem (Sat, 3 Mar 2018 09:08 pm)

LEON STOLGARD on stew-pid food for thought poem (Sat, 3 Mar 2018 05:17 pm)

Trevor Alexander on stew-pid food for thought poem (Sat, 3 Mar 2018 12:54 pm)

Brian Maryon on stew-pid food for thought poem (Thu, 1 Mar 2018 03:21 pm)

Rose Casserley on as good as they come if not better ( for Jemima ) (Thu, 1 Mar 2018 02:21 pm)

Rose Casserley on womb passenger (Thu, 1 Mar 2018 02:15 pm)

Rose Casserley on and still he gets in loves way (Thu, 1 Mar 2018 02:05 pm)

Rose Casserley on Syrian woman defying violations of home (Thu, 1 Mar 2018 02:04 pm)

Martin Elder on as good as they come if not better ( for Jemima ) (Tue, 27 Feb 2018 10:55 pm)

LEON STOLGARD on as good as they come if not better ( for Jemima ) (Tue, 27 Feb 2018 07:00 pm)

LEON STOLGARD on womb passenger (Tue, 27 Feb 2018 06:59 pm)

LEON STOLGARD on and still he gets in loves way (Tue, 27 Feb 2018 06:58 pm)

LEON STOLGARD on Syrian woman defying violations of home (Tue, 27 Feb 2018 06:55 pm)


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