POETRY YOU POST ON HERE.

Yeah, they're SOAP DODGERS...? Is that right, son?

I am on the fourm
own my ownsome
waiting on ponte preta to score
1 goal or more
it's still nil nil
a goal now would be brill

I never heard of ponte preta - is this that game were the Afghans ride horses and bash a goat's head...like at Ibrox?

Ponte Preta is a Brazil football team

Na - big Mohsni's fae Tunisia...

GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLL 1-0 up

Moshni is from fudland

Let joy be unconfined!

I SEE THINGS THAT OTHERS CANT SEE
OTHERS SEE THINGS THAT I CANT SEE
THATS WHY MY SELF AND OTHERS CANT AGREE

do wah diddy 2014

I SEE THINGS THAT OTHERS CANT SEE
OTHERS  SEE THINGS THAT I CANT SEE
THATS WHY I AND OTHERS DONT AGREE

do wah diddy re edited 2014

That's a good 'un, Do Wah.

Older Budweiser

"Look" said the drunkard
"I don't want no fuss"
As he sucked down the finest
From Anheuser-Busch

Im sure you remember the comp winner vel, 'The Prisoner and the Lover?' you paid me in hard lay @ 1.01 cash!
Under your Polish name...anyway, I have always enjoyed The bells, by E A P. which has also been set to music by Phil Ochs.

This is also my own..

I never thought a butterfly could cause me so much pain,

yet down she flew into my heart where dormant love had lain,

'I think I've found a home at last,' she said with outspread wings,

'The soul I see before me now, just listen how he sings;

he sings a song of love for me, though sad the note appears,'

at this my spirit called to her, and recognised her tears,

'We'll never part again,' said I, 'I can't believe you're here,'

'I am you, and you are me, ' she smiled and drew me near,

But then the pain it started, a pain I couldn't bear,

and when I tried to touch her wings I only made them tear,

'Were too alike!' cried she at last, 'you're tearing me apart,

I'm going to have to leave you, if I don't I'll break your heart,'

'But wait!' I said, 'you mustn't leave, I couldn't bear the thought,

if you depart, what shall we do? Our love has come to nought.'

So then, we stayed together, the butterfly and soul,

but if you look inside my heart you soon find just a hole .'

*'you'll' !! I knew I'd ruin it!

This has been published on kindle of course but then who hasn't published on there these days?

One of my favourites from childhood.

FATHER WILLIAM by Lewis Carol

"You are old, Father William," the young man said,
"And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head—
Do you think, at your age, it is right?"

"In my youth," Father William replied to his son,
"I feared it might injure the brain;
But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again."

"You are old," said the youth, "As I mentioned before,
And have grown most uncommonly fat;
Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door—
Pray, what is the reason of that?"

"In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,
"I kept all my limbs very supple
By the use of this ointment—one shilling the box—
Allow me to sell you a couple?"

"You are old," said the youth, "And your jaws are too weak
For anything tougher than suet;
Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak—
Pray, how did you manage to do it?"

"In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife;
And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw,
Has lasted the rest of my life."

"You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose
That your eye was as steady as ever;
Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose—
What made you so awfully clever?"

"I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"
Said his father; "don't give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs!"

Clare,clare,clare,clare,clare,
Clare,clare,clare,clare,clare,
You cannot escape her the coonts everywhere.

Lovely poem Tony Broke, written with feeling.
Chit Chat has talent.

La fille que j'aimera
Sera comme bon vin
Qui se bonifiera
Un peu chaque matin

Baise un poulet
dans Le Marais
de Paris, aujord'hui,
svp.

T Y foinavon, that's very kind of you.

IF I WAS A FLY I WOULD RISE TO GREAT
HEIGHTS IN THE SKY
BUT BECAUSE IM ME
IM JUST A NUICENCE LIKE A FLEA

I LIE ON THE BED
I LIE ON THE FLOOR
I LIE ON THE SETEE
I LIE NEXT DOOR
WHY CANT I TELL THE TRUTH

Non est sine litteris
Non est, non cogitatur imperium
Ludens in tenebris et non in elit
Suspendisse pellentesque nisi transmittetis
Hey! (sic) magister transmittetis pellentesque
Omnia in omnibus, in muro, ut ultricies nisl

He looked up in pained surprise as the concrete hardened crust,
of a stale pork pie caught him in the eye and Ernie bit the dust.

The first poem I taught my eldest grand-daughter, when she was 5, with 'dance routine', three more grandchildren to teach it to, but not yet, they're 3 (boy) 2 (girl) and 7 months (boy)

(start skipping)  

Float like  a butterfly
(throw left jab)
sting like a bee
your hands can't hit
(hide head behind raised fists)
what your eyes can't see
(drop hands to side)
now you see me
(put hands back in front of face)
now you don't
George thinks he will
but I know he won't
(Raise both arms in air in victory).
I am the Greatest.

"Clare,clare,clare,clare,clare,
Clare,clare,clare,clare,clare,
You cannot escape her the coonts everywhere."

The Unanswered Question.

By Kevin Shadley-Johnson.

Fred Quiverly was a billionaire when he
Contacted the town council of Hettersley.
"I want to do a MASSIVE project, linking
North and South Hettersly," said Fred.

The project was budgeted at 680 million
Euros and aimed to increase tourism in
Hettersley : "I will build a Giant Strider"
Said Fred and sure enough, by the year's
End, the Giant Strider was built, in the
Desolate gap between the two Hettersleys,
North and South, bang, bang, bang, bang.

"Wait a minute," said Fred, "Let me take
You there, to the Giant Strider that will
Forever link the lonely gap betweeeeen
North and South Hettersley! It's optional!"

5.4 billion Euros was the final price to be
Paid for the Giant Strider, a great plarkotex
Figure that walked the long road between
North and South while the cars sped between
Its legs for free due to the generosity of Fred.

Yet there were malcontents who complained, after
Five years had elapsed, "What is the point of the Giant
Strider? Ok, Fred Quiverly built the fookin' thing, but we
Have to pay the prohibitive maintenance costs and
Tourism has dropped away somethin' chronic...
Why didn't Quiverly pay for hospitals & schools instead?"

Anyone know a poem about a "toff" and a tramp?

Can't remember the title but heard it when I was a kid.

About a tramp who sits next to a posh-looking bloke on a park bench and keeps
taking the mickey out of the "toff" and his fine clothes, airs and graces and all that.
But it turns out the "toff" is blind....

Would love to find it - heard it loads of times as a kid....

Are you sure it wasn't a Charlie Chaplin film? Or a Pete 'n' Dud sketch?

Book Of Matches

My party-piece -

I strike, then from the moment when the matchstick
conjures up its light, to when the brightness
moves beyond its means and dies,
I say the story of my life.

Dates and places, the torches I carried, a cast
of names and faces, those who showed me love,
or came close:
the changes I made, the lessons I learnt.
then somehow still find time to stall and blush
before I'm bitten by the flame, and burnt.

A warning though, to anyone nursing
an ounce of sadness, anyone alone,
don't try this on your own, it's dangerous,
madness.

Simon Armitage

Velasquez - it was definitely a poem.

William H. Davies was a tramp AND a poet...I wonder if he wrote that poem...?

Can I have Fifty pounds to mend the shed?
I'm right on my Uppers.
I can pay you back
When I get this postal order from Australia
Honestly.
Hope the bladder trouble's getting better.
Love, Ewen?

You have to say that's...magnificent?

Don't think it was W H Davis, velasquez.

I think the poem I'm looking for was a bit too whimsical?

It's driving me mad now!

O, for A...

by Lennart Crewe,

a re-imagining and general upgrade of
Keats' "Ode to a Nightingale."

O, for A draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora marg and the country green,
Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the...who knows,
Darlin', who knows...?

Valentine by John Fuller

The things about you I appreciate
may seem indelicate:
I’d like to find you in the shower
and chase the soap for half an hour.
I’d like to have you in my power
and see your eyes dilate.
I’d like to have your back to scour
and other parts to lubricate.
Sometimes I feel it is my fate
to chase you screaming up a tower
or make you cower
by asking you to differentiate
Nietzsche from Schopenhauer.
I’d like successfully to guess your weight
and win you at a fete.
I’d like to offer you a flower.

I like the hair upon your shoulders
falling like water over boulders.
I like the shoulders, too: they are essential.
Your collar-bones have great potential
(I’d like all your particulars in folders
marked Confidential).

I like your cheeks, I like your nose,
I like the way your lips disclose
the neat arrangement of your teeth
(half above and half beneath)
in rows.

I like your eyes, I like their fringes.
The way they focus on me gives me twinges.
Your upper arms drive me berserk
I like the way your elbows work,
on hinges.

I like your wrists, I like your glands,
I like the fingers on your hands.
I’d like to teach them how to count,
and certain things we might exchange,
something familiar for something strange.
I’d like to give you just the right amount
and give some change.

I like it when you tilt your cheek up.
I like the way you hold a teacup.
I like your legs when you unwind them,
even in trousers I don’t mind them.
I’d always know, without a recap,
where to find them.

I like the sculpture of your ears.
I like the way your profile disappears
Whenever you decide to turn and face me.
I’d like to cross two hemispheres
and have you chase me.
I’d like to smuggle you across frontiers
or sail with you at night into Tangiers.
I’d like you to embrace me.

I’d like to see you ironing your skirt
and cancelling other dates.
I’d like to button up your shirt.
I like the way your chest inflates.
I’d like to soothe you when you’re hurt
or frightened senseless by invertebrates.

I’d like you even if you were malign
and had a yen for sudden homicide.
I’d let you put insecticide
into my wine.
I’d even like you if you were the Bride
of Frankenstein
or something ghoulish out of Mamoulian’s
Jekyll and Hyde.
I’d even like you as my Julian
of Norwich or Cathleen ni Houlihan.
How melodramatic
if you were something muttering in attics
like Mrs Rochester or a student of Boolean
Mathematics.

You are the end of self-abuse.
You are the eternal feminine.
I’d like to find a good excuse
to call on you and find you in.
I’d like to put my hand beneath your chin,
and see you grin.
I’d like to taste your Charlotte Russe,
I’d like to feel my lips upon your skin,
I’d like to make you reproduce.

I’d like you in my confidence.
I’d like to be your second look.
I’d like to let you try the French Defence
and mate you with my rook.
I’d like to be your preference
and hence
I’d like to be around when you unhook.
I’d like to be your only audience,
the final name in your appointment book,
your future tense.

^^^ kids, say no to drugs

Zammo

Ive always liked this poem:
---
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me sometimes, and I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight searches for her as though to go to her.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before.
Her void. Her bright body. Her inifinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.

By Pablo Neruda, and originally in Spanish

This is excellent, yes? Like Pablo and Tony are VERY Romantic, yeah? I like to say, Tony Broke, I kinda remember the prize was really bestowed by URW or was it Dobbo, now, I'm stuggling to recall...?

Well Tony, it was really nothing on my part but maybe I should give Maczysz Dziedyszycki a bell? But I was thinking if MD posted, then that donut Big Charlie would start a fight or at least be...antagonistic...?

Owe gie to me a shillin for some ****
And I'll pay yer back on Thursday.
But if you can wait till Saturday
I'm expecting a divvy from the
Harpenden Building Society.

Valentine by Fuller is a favourite of mine and can be heard on YouTube - Spoken by Tom O'Bedlam

http://youtu.be/hv3Pz_o1DQk

asterisked word should be "f@gs"

HAD I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

W.B. **** (1865–1939)....

Yéats............ffs

****

This is quality...'cos...I like the HOPE in it, yeah? Like, the author has went with a trad building society, yeah? Instead of a rad bank that's dodgy? Could you do a sequel about Credit Unions, Cobblaz?

****.

Ardross.

That is Bizarre. (Dual winner 1824, 25)

Why is **** banned? ?

*** ***

mur der

****** heck!

thanks for the link crags, I first heard it on poetry please read by roger mcgough

Bring on the Rosy Cheeked Girls by Mike Harding

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_qMpJGM2s3Y

Bring on the rosy-cheeked girls
The smiling ones, the light-footed dancers,
Those that sing with their eyes,
Those with the warm breasts and soft hands,
Those that look deep in the eyes,
Not at the garbage of garb.
Bring on the dark, the fair, the brown as a berry,
Bring them all on with their wet laughing mouths,
The fat, the thin, the short, and the lanky,
But let them be filled of life as a pod with peas,
Let them feel as company comfortable as an old friendly jacket,
young or old,
And most of all... let them be merry.

And then take all the others,
All the tight-lipped, crab-faced, mewling, mithering,
Niggardly, sour-faced, crab-mouthed,
Cold-titted, tight-arced, moaning,
Sullen, frozen-legs-together,
Money-grubbing bitches, and
Take them and heap them together
On some blear and dreary moor
In the howling sleet
And moaning drizzle of November. . . and leave them there,
For it deserves them And they each other.

Then bring on the lads,
The smiling lads,
The open-handed, shoulder-to-the-wheel lads,
Lame dogs helped over stiles lads,
Take a pint, stand a corner lads,
Good laughing lads,
Lads with a quart of life in their hands
And eyes that look straight . . .
Bring on the tall, the short, the long,
The runners, the walkers,
Those that can hammer, those that can turn out a song
Bring on the fat, the thin, the bald and the hairy,
Young or old,
So long as they sup life by the gallon . . .
So long as they’re merry.

Then take all the others,
The sly-eyed, twisty-mouthed grabbers and fumblers,
The shifty-faced, two-tongued, leadswinging lizards,
The snotty-nosed, mardy-arsed bullies
And false friends...
And stick them up to their necks
In the foulest stink-pot of an old bog
You can find... head down...
And leave them there.

But for God’s sake not too near
That moor with all the old ****s...
If they meet up and breed
We’re all buggered.

Twas the eighteenth day of November
Outside the town of McRoom
The Tans in their big Crossley Tenders
They hurried along to their doom
For the boys of the column were waiting
With  hand grenades primed,on the spot
And the.....


Phones ringing,it must be the sanctimonious little shithead Ramruma.

Horace

Much to his Mum and Dad's dismay
Horace ate himself one day.
He didn't stop to say his grace,
He just sat down and ate his face.
"We can't have this his Dad declared,
"If that lad's ate, he should be shared."
But even as he spoke they saw
Horace eating more and more:
First his legs and then his thighs,
His arms, his nose, his hair, his eyes...
"Stop him someone!" Mother cried
"Those eyeballs would be better fried!"
But all too late, for they were gone,
And he had started on his dong...
"Oh! foolish child!" the father mourns
"You could have deep-fried that with prawns,
Some parsley and some tartar sauce..."
But H. was on his second course:
His liver and his lights and lung,
His ears, his neck, his chin, his tongue;
"To think I raised him from the cot
And now he's going to scoff the lot!"
His Mother cried: "What shall we do?
What's left won't even make a stew..."
And as she wept, her son was seen
To eat his head, his heart, his spleen.
And there he lay: a boy no more,
Just a stomach, on the floor...
None the less, since it was his
They ate it – that's what haggis is.

Havent heard that for ages Cobblaz. Was it one of Spikes?

My favourite toilet wall poem

I wish I was a ring
Upon a ladies hand
So every time she wiped her @rse
Id see the promised land

Some gems that we had to learn as kids;
Ozymandias - Shelley, about Byron
The Listeners - Walter de la Mere
The Highwayman - Walter de la Mere
Cargoes - John Masefield
and one that I found later is ,Jenny Kissed Me by Leigh Hunt. All short and easy and ,more importantly, worthwhile.

Life is  he riddle.

Life is the riddle
We are stuck in the middle
To get a medal
Pedal,paddle and saddle up
There will be time for cuddle
And time to ride tidal wave

Don't remain idle
Attack some hurdle
Grapple swaddle raddle life
Pickle tickle tackle life.

heading should be: life is the riddle.

Spring is sprung the grass is ris
I wonder where the birdies is
some say the bird is on the wing
but that's absurd
the wing is on the bird

The Horace one isn't one of Spike's. I googled

The Shark by Lander Mazeiros.

Now! It is a big shark
It is a giant shark and
It's in the water, in the water
Ya better watch ya step!

Did that at school for the O Grade.

"The most important wave he'll ever catch: Surfer frantically paddles to escape the jaws of a huge shark as it comes for him in the pristine waters off Western Australia..."

Fookin' 'eck, like - Headline story and pics on Daily Mail website...!!

Check post at 12 OCT...!

Another Shark.

by  Lander Mazeiros.

The water was so warm
Like a Scotch pie left
To cool, yet in this
Reverie, a greyish thing
Loomed over the horizon :
Was it another shark?

Baldrick:
'Hear the words I sing,
War's a horrid thing,
But still I sing, sing, sing,
Ding a ling a ling.'

Sublime.

There's a Ted Hughes poetry trail in a local Country Park that I often walk round, he's got some good ones.

Not as good as Baldrick's though

Kenny - where's all the TS Eliot cat stuff...?

Anatole France......a cat named Hamilcar.

dunno. I remember writing an award winning poem at school. It was about the forthcoming Clay/Liston fight but I can only remember the 2nd half.

It finished

boloks, everytime I press enter for new paragraph it submits the post!

5th line. (referring to Clay's fight with Enery) But there it was that nasty cut

though Clay's big mouth was nearly shut. And though he thinks it oh so funny, just wait till he meets up with Sonny.

Velasquez
Did that at school for the O Grade.


eh? They've deleted my post of Owen's DULCE ET DECORUM EST.
Why? And so close to Remembrance Day...

The Lamplighter

My tea is nearly ready and the sun has left the sky;
It’s time to take the window to see Leerie going by;
For every night at teatime and before you take your seat,
With lantern and with ladder he comes posting up the street.

Now Tom would be a driver and Maria go to sea,
And my papa’s a banker and as rich as he can be;
But I, when I am stronger and can choose what I’m to do,
Oh Leerie, I’ll go round at night and light the lamps with you!

For we are very lucky, with a lamp before the door,
And Leerie stops to light it as he lights so many more;
And O! before you hurry by with ladder and with light,
O Leerie, see a little child and nod to him tonight!

Robert Louis Stevenson

The kiss of the sun for pardon
The song of the birds for mirth.
One is nearer Gods heart in a garden
Than any place else on earth.

When all the others were away at Mass
I was all hers as we pealed potatoes
They broke the silence let fall one by one
Like solder weeping off the soldering iron
Cold comforts set between us, things to share
Gleaming in a bucket of clean water
And again let fall. Little pleasant splashes
From each others work would bring us to our senses
So while the parish priest at her bedside
Went hammer and tongs at the prayers for the dying
And some were responding and some crying
I remembered her head bent towards my head,
Her breath in mine, our fluent dipping knives
Never closer the whole rest of our lives.

Seamus Heaney `When all the others were away at Mass`
Never

MD now bringing threads back from 2 years ago. Very bold, mate.

I LIE ON THE BED
I LIE ON THE FLOOR
I LIE ON THE SETEE
I LIE NEXT DOOR
WHY CANT I TELL THE TRUTH



Do Wah the poet

I miss you do wah

Thanks Mister Badger for the poem by Mike Harding and the link.  I used to watch him on tv many moons ago but have not seen him since then, I think.

Hey annie.

Hi bodil, are you sober or drunk?

mary had

mary had

kjlklkl

jkjkjkjkkj

jhjjhjh

Oh england what a state
no improvement under johnnie southgate
a draw with spain
what a pain
get sis alex, its not too late

Laugh

The time has come the raven said
to close your eyes and hang your head
and walk with me through barren fields
to stand among the dead

I'm glad I haven't got a houseful of (non-existent) refugees like Chit Chat's very own Ian Mohammed
The place would be like Corbyn's train WASN"T, i.e. 'Rammed'
It would make me SEETHE, probably resulting in me going off my rocker listening to loud music by The Damned

THE END 

Copyright Alun2005, 2016.

NH Racing

Run run jump run run jump run run...

Right to the winning line, such fun.

Flat Racing

Run run run run run run run run run run...

Right to the winning line, not so much fun.

To be sung to the tune of I wish it could be Christmas everyday.

When the Newsman got to glow

because we Voted No

and you could not wipe that Big Smile off my face

When the neighbours heard me cheer

Whoop for joy and crack a beer

I was jumping like a child around the place

O, I wish it could be Brexit every day,

When the bells would ring

and we'd be out the door o.k

I just wish it could be Brexit every day,

So let the Bells Ring Out for Brexit .



When the pundits were so glum cos

They got the E.U exit wrong

Despite all the fear and doom chucked at our face,

We defied the EU Clan

and chose to make our stand

You could hear the disbelief from miles away....

So I wish it could be Brexit every day

When the bells ring out

We put the E.U Schemes away

I just Wish it could be Brexit Every Day...

Let the Bells ring out for Brexit!

TGM