I left school in 1978 with few qualifications, and not much by way of an education. I always considered myself to have been a failure at school, till my sons pointed out that it was the school which failed me. I've always liked to tell stories, mainly about my upbringing. a few years ago my oldest son suggested that I write these stories down. which I did albeit with a twist and some name-changing. I have written 24 of an intended 32 chapters, but it's taking a lot longer than I thought it would. (booksie/ Yorkshire born and bred. if anyone's interested) Till last December I had never written a poem, but I thought I would give it a go, and I was quite pleased with the results. I don't fully understand poetry, and I don't know what makes a piece of writing a poem or not a poem. which is why I make mine rhyme. because of my lack of understanding, I find it hard to comment on other peoples work, but I know what I like. to cut a long story short, I tell stories, make them rhyme, and hope that that makes it a poem.
Albert Edward Burrows With iron grey ‘tache And eyes of steel Attractive to women Sex appeal A massive frame Chiselled and bold A liking for young ‘uns Although he was old Police were in fear of This man so strong Though they saved him that day From the baying throng He’d married a local A fair maid called Hannah She was much younger The talk of the manor She’d one child already Then soon had another A picture of happiness Father and mother And work, there was plenty He was earning good brass Enough to keep two kids And also the lass The marriage was sham though Nothing was real The moustachioed charmer With so much appeal Had one wife already And bigamy’s a crime Six months in prison He bided his time And the baying crowd They vented their bile But all settled down soon At least for a while The work it dried up And the cash became tight He couldn’t keep two wives Try as he might So did Hannah leave him? That wintery night When she, and her two kids Disappeared from sight And the baying crowd The massing throng Demanded their answers ‘cos something was wrong Where are they now They demanded to know Nobody’s seen them Where did they go? But the moustachioed charmer With so much panache Said they’d come to no harm As he lied through his tache And the baying crowd They vented their bile But all settled down soon At least for a while An old man gets lonely A song must be sung A yearning for young flesh How young, is too young? A small boy went missing A lad of just four The baying crowd Came calling, to Albert’s door Accusations were flying And bad things were said Albert joined in the search Though he knew he was dead. They searched Symmondley Moor To the fore and the aft And they found four dead bodies Down a disused pit shaft Protestations of innocence Claimed, his conscience was clear Not in the area Not even near But the baying crowd They vented their bile The monstrous, murdering Paedophile The baying crowd The massing throng Who’d have thought They were right all along As the townsfolk poured out From the neighbourhood Wishing to lynch him Baying for blood They went the whole hog Nothing by half And they strung the sod up By his very own scarf And the police though they feared him They did cut him loose They spared him the lynch mob But not from the noose Hoist the black flag As the verdict comes in He would not tremble But, he’d hang for his sin Eleven minutes The jury took To find him guilty And close the book He would not tremble At his own deaths knell Albert Burrows Rot in hell
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
The Onklid [Pan Quercus] (21/05/2017)
Shut Thi' Clack (13/05/2017)
The Black Pudding Hunt (01/05/2017)
Jasper Slugshaw's Very First Date (23/04/2017)
The Alcoholic Benefactor (01/04/2017)
Driving through Grimstone Low (19/03/2017)
Nora's Irregular Gardener (11/03/2017)
Fred's Little Problem (04/03/2017)
Keep it in the bedroom (19/02/2017)
Blog link: https://www.writeoutloud.net/blogs/kevin
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