Sky Writer
Our voices met in a bar
whilst knocking back tears.
We fell, quite steeply off the narrow
breaking down a thousand futures
in promises of sand dune mist.
Where love leaned on love,
those mighty fell to earth
down that spiral staircase
to where the low notes live.
I hate love,
it rips vowels from my words
pulls me toward impossibles,
with a merry head
hypnotising me to some cloudy words
scrolled across a vivid blue sky
in biplane ink.
I need a stopper,
to keep emptiness from running in.
It’s far too keen, too energetic,
can’t someone hold it back,
tie its shoe laces together,
handcuff it to a chair
or something?
Jerry Pike
Saturday 29 May 2010
It's An Ill Wind
It's an Ill Wind. April 2010
Smug in her luck,
she thought the rest of us
disorganised or lacking.
Our attitude was wrong
Nothing to this life
if you applied your mind.
Bedraggled, tear-stained,
impotently furious,
accusing, aching,
lacking information,
she waited with the rest,
humbled by a cloud
Dorothy Pope April 2010
Smug in her luck,
she thought the rest of us
disorganised or lacking.
Our attitude was wrong
Nothing to this life
if you applied your mind.
Bedraggled, tear-stained,
impotently furious,
accusing, aching,
lacking information,
she waited with the rest,
humbled by a cloud
Dorothy Pope April 2010
Continental Drift
Continental Drift
Firm handshake exchanged,
and an attempt at something like a hug
half done. We left our cars,
and the world they came from,
and began to walk.
Hours drifted beneath a big sky,
the sun warmed us, we moved
and meandered in
and out of conversation.
And we wound our way back
to the spot where we'd begun.
It didn't matter what time it took,
what counted was that we reached our end.
We took the elm tallest of the forest's trees
as an anchor. At our furthest point
we had its crown fixed firm upon
horizon.
And it was as we walked across fields
that you recalled the first line of your book,
'The stories of entire continents
cannot be adequately told in
single volume histories."
You smiled at how it took so long
to find those opening words, And while
1 am sure that you are right in what you say
1 don't think it half so hard to capture a continent
as it would be to set down
what has passed between us.
Things must have changed,
or so 1 believed,
thoughts ill bred in a welter of silence
would cloud the air and touch still waters.
But instead we picked up the beat
and went on -
orbiting each other.
The elm remained rooted
and we made our way towards it
when far off it was easy.
Yet as we approached the tree began to vanish.
Neil Elder
Firm handshake exchanged,
and an attempt at something like a hug
half done. We left our cars,
and the world they came from,
and began to walk.
Hours drifted beneath a big sky,
the sun warmed us, we moved
and meandered in
and out of conversation.
And we wound our way back
to the spot where we'd begun.
It didn't matter what time it took,
what counted was that we reached our end.
We took the elm tallest of the forest's trees
as an anchor. At our furthest point
we had its crown fixed firm upon
horizon.
And it was as we walked across fields
that you recalled the first line of your book,
'The stories of entire continents
cannot be adequately told in
single volume histories."
You smiled at how it took so long
to find those opening words, And while
1 am sure that you are right in what you say
1 don't think it half so hard to capture a continent
as it would be to set down
what has passed between us.
Things must have changed,
or so 1 believed,
thoughts ill bred in a welter of silence
would cloud the air and touch still waters.
But instead we picked up the beat
and went on -
orbiting each other.
The elm remained rooted
and we made our way towards it
when far off it was easy.
Yet as we approached the tree began to vanish.
Neil Elder
An Answer To An Aphid
An Answer toan Aphid
It was, a sparkling summer's day
When I went out, intent to spray
My rose, with garden pride invested,
Which was with greenfly thick infested
But I went to Pull the trigger
I heard a tiny voice, no bigger
Than gnat's or flea's- in fact so small
There hardly was a voice at all
"Keep off" it piped, your nasty stuff
Which kills a thousand with one puff.
To think we here before the Druids -
Are poisoned now with noxious fluids.
Give over your one-sided war.
What do you think a rose is for?
Can you not see its foremost use is
To supply us with its juices?
The swelling buds we like the best,
But we can manage with the rest
There was a time - gone, many a year,
Long, long before you men were here
When greenfly rights were uncontested
We sucked the juices unmolested
Except by these pernicious thugs,
The hover-flies and ladybugs
No surely you can grant a place
For our most ancient, humble race
You cannot surely be so mean
Come on now be more eco-green
Our sins (if any) please forgive.
Put down your spray, and let us live!
It touched my heart this piteous plea.
I'd half a mind to let them be.
But when I saw my rose's fate,
Its buds and leaves in such a slate,
I felt my heart again to harden.
I said "You've done too much to pardon!"
And aimed the spray, and with one shot
I polished off the **** lot.
Interactive poetry. The reader is asked to supply the missing word(s)
John Waddell
It was, a sparkling summer's day
When I went out, intent to spray
My rose, with garden pride invested,
Which was with greenfly thick infested
But I went to Pull the trigger
I heard a tiny voice, no bigger
Than gnat's or flea's- in fact so small
There hardly was a voice at all
"Keep off" it piped, your nasty stuff
Which kills a thousand with one puff.
To think we here before the Druids -
Are poisoned now with noxious fluids.
Give over your one-sided war.
What do you think a rose is for?
Can you not see its foremost use is
To supply us with its juices?
The swelling buds we like the best,
But we can manage with the rest
There was a time - gone, many a year,
Long, long before you men were here
When greenfly rights were uncontested
We sucked the juices unmolested
Except by these pernicious thugs,
The hover-flies and ladybugs
No surely you can grant a place
For our most ancient, humble race
You cannot surely be so mean
Come on now be more eco-green
Our sins (if any) please forgive.
Put down your spray, and let us live!
It touched my heart this piteous plea.
I'd half a mind to let them be.
But when I saw my rose's fate,
Its buds and leaves in such a slate,
I felt my heart again to harden.
I said "You've done too much to pardon!"
And aimed the spray, and with one shot
I polished off the **** lot.
Interactive poetry. The reader is asked to supply the missing word(s)
John Waddell
Suitcase
Suitcase
You see it in the O~fam shop window
You see its palchy red, its gilded locks
Gasping for losty lost keys.
You cannot hear its travellers tale,,
No Desdemona you to its Othello
Yet it has seen icebergs in the Antarctic
And felt the tropical sun burn through
Its tawdry fabric.
It's pitted from the rains that battered it
On oceans from Pacific to Atlantic
In many an airport it has been flung and tossed
Weighed down with bags and trunks
With prams nod skis.
Once left lonely on a Caribbean quay
Its owner unconcemed, unknowing it was lost.
In numerous hotel rooms it has resided
Pushed under dusty beds
Surplus, redundant
Till suddenly its value reinstated
It's packed again, a new journey started.
Now in a ~~indow, fledged round with refugees
From lofts and garages, unwanted books
Old pictures, glasses,
The case's travels Just ill history
The very thing for your trip to Southseal
Sylvia Goodman
You see it in the O~fam shop window
You see its palchy red, its gilded locks
Gasping for losty lost keys.
You cannot hear its travellers tale,,
No Desdemona you to its Othello
Yet it has seen icebergs in the Antarctic
And felt the tropical sun burn through
Its tawdry fabric.
It's pitted from the rains that battered it
On oceans from Pacific to Atlantic
In many an airport it has been flung and tossed
Weighed down with bags and trunks
With prams nod skis.
Once left lonely on a Caribbean quay
Its owner unconcemed, unknowing it was lost.
In numerous hotel rooms it has resided
Pushed under dusty beds
Surplus, redundant
Till suddenly its value reinstated
It's packed again, a new journey started.
Now in a ~~indow, fledged round with refugees
From lofts and garages, unwanted books
Old pictures, glasses,
The case's travels Just ill history
The very thing for your trip to Southseal
Sylvia Goodman
Sunday 2 May 2010
Tiger, Tiger
Tiger, Tiger
They're burning down the pubs now,
all accidents I'm told,
No petrol cans at twilight
or matchbook fronts unfold,
The George and Dragon bought it,
they paid by breathless fire
The White Hart stumbled closely,
no arrows of desire.
The Rat and Phoenix mingled,
no feathered tales arose
Just carpet cleaned by fireman,
within a smoke of prose
1 watched some sparkling ideas,
unleashed upon Tithe Hill
So sadly on the ground now,
its history lies still.
Their names live on in guide books,
"The Admiral was there!"
Half-Nelsoned into dying,
not aleing, but by flare.
They never catch these Guy Fawkes',
who load the powder high
And whisper to the death of night,
your history's goodbye.
Jerry Pike
They're burning down the pubs now,
all accidents I'm told,
No petrol cans at twilight
or matchbook fronts unfold,
The George and Dragon bought it,
they paid by breathless fire
The White Hart stumbled closely,
no arrows of desire.
The Rat and Phoenix mingled,
no feathered tales arose
Just carpet cleaned by fireman,
within a smoke of prose
1 watched some sparkling ideas,
unleashed upon Tithe Hill
So sadly on the ground now,
its history lies still.
Their names live on in guide books,
"The Admiral was there!"
Half-Nelsoned into dying,
not aleing, but by flare.
They never catch these Guy Fawkes',
who load the powder high
And whisper to the death of night,
your history's goodbye.
Jerry Pike
Born By The Sea
Born by the Sea
1 leave my isolated rock
Ahead of an advancing tide
and, dripping, print the sand then dust
It off and, sandal?shod, go on
Revivified.
The sea restores me always with
Its heaving tonnage, greeny deeps
And restless, rhythmic, boom splash drag back
Lullaby. 1 synchronise
To healing peace.
Emerging energised, 1 think
Of continental people vastly
Far inland and wonder if
They feel a nameless yearning for
An unknown sea.
Dorothy Pope
1 leave my isolated rock
Ahead of an advancing tide
and, dripping, print the sand then dust
It off and, sandal?shod, go on
Revivified.
The sea restores me always with
Its heaving tonnage, greeny deeps
And restless, rhythmic, boom splash drag back
Lullaby. 1 synchronise
To healing peace.
Emerging energised, 1 think
Of continental people vastly
Far inland and wonder if
They feel a nameless yearning for
An unknown sea.
Dorothy Pope
The Vibrant and the Dying
The Vibrant and the Dying
My mind twists between the vibrant and the dying.
She, bright daughter, flying in
Glowing, exuberant, epitome of life.
And he, grating off the shards of eighty years
Scarcely able to recall he is a grandfather
For few of flying out. His mind
Coils around corners of the hereafter
Scented with hospital smells
Bumping into nothingness
Seeking some light,
fearing the Light And the Dark, and the void.
She lands, smelling sweetly of sunshine
And joy in a tumble of luggage.
He, reluctant, makes his way empty handed
Towards the gate to eternity,
Waving feeble farewells before boarding.
She may just catch the final flutter.
My heart twists between the vibrant and the dying.
Sylvia Goodman
My mind twists between the vibrant and the dying.
She, bright daughter, flying in
Glowing, exuberant, epitome of life.
And he, grating off the shards of eighty years
Scarcely able to recall he is a grandfather
For few of flying out. His mind
Coils around corners of the hereafter
Scented with hospital smells
Bumping into nothingness
Seeking some light,
fearing the Light And the Dark, and the void.
She lands, smelling sweetly of sunshine
And joy in a tumble of luggage.
He, reluctant, makes his way empty handed
Towards the gate to eternity,
Waving feeble farewells before boarding.
She may just catch the final flutter.
My heart twists between the vibrant and the dying.
Sylvia Goodman
Daily Political Poems on Twitter the funny ones
Daily Political Poems on Twitter the funny ones: Peter Keeble
30 March 2010 (the baby boom vote)
We've romped over the plains
of the fin de steels years,
a horde of Gauls
reaching you on oar zimmer frames
to demand you look after us all.
7Apri12010
Forget about that wretched moat,
uphold the status quo
just focus on the glamour show
and don't forget to vote.
7 April 2010
Election Cycle: Disillusion, dissolution,
desperation, obfuscation, reelection,
prevarication, disillusion
9 April 2010 (MacLennan withdraws as Labour
candidate following rude tweets)
It's easy to deride the emails of McBride
and sweet to expose MacLennan's tweets:
a trend for Labour Scots to tie themselves in knots?
10 April 2010 (Tory tax break to married couples)
Oi Dave You marry cos you good bloke
or you good bloke so marry?
Praps torys snort coke to be posh
or is it they posh so snort coke?
12 April (The election campaign hots up)
They paddle faster in the pedalos,
working up a froth before the tidal wave
can catch them in its trough
along with all their peccadillos.
13 April (Publication of party manifestos)
Line the manifestos up
see how they run
the red the blue the yellow and the green
and all the colours under the sun:
hit do they mean?
17 April: (Icelandic dust, the pathetic fallacy reversed)
Look into the sky's limitless jade:
particles of sand and glass hide unseen
like a forgotten debt waiting to be paid.
Twitter is a social network site whose entries (known as tweets) are restricted to 140 characters, including spaces & punctuation. To see the rest of Peter's tweets and fillowfuture ones put Twitter Peter Keeble into Google.
Peter Keeble
30 March 2010 (the baby boom vote)
We've romped over the plains
of the fin de steels years,
a horde of Gauls
reaching you on oar zimmer frames
to demand you look after us all.
7Apri12010
Forget about that wretched moat,
uphold the status quo
just focus on the glamour show
and don't forget to vote.
7 April 2010
Election Cycle: Disillusion, dissolution,
desperation, obfuscation, reelection,
prevarication, disillusion
9 April 2010 (MacLennan withdraws as Labour
candidate following rude tweets)
It's easy to deride the emails of McBride
and sweet to expose MacLennan's tweets:
a trend for Labour Scots to tie themselves in knots?
10 April 2010 (Tory tax break to married couples)
Oi Dave You marry cos you good bloke
or you good bloke so marry?
Praps torys snort coke to be posh
or is it they posh so snort coke?
12 April (The election campaign hots up)
They paddle faster in the pedalos,
working up a froth before the tidal wave
can catch them in its trough
along with all their peccadillos.
13 April (Publication of party manifestos)
Line the manifestos up
see how they run
the red the blue the yellow and the green
and all the colours under the sun:
hit do they mean?
17 April: (Icelandic dust, the pathetic fallacy reversed)
Look into the sky's limitless jade:
particles of sand and glass hide unseen
like a forgotten debt waiting to be paid.
Twitter is a social network site whose entries (known as tweets) are restricted to 140 characters, including spaces & punctuation. To see the rest of Peter's tweets and fillowfuture ones put Twitter Peter Keeble into Google.
Peter Keeble
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