My stuff.

[prendrelemick]

A King's Lament.


I liked my car park, it must be said,
But now I'm in a box instead,
A resting place that's quite absurd
For a Monarch like me - Richard the Third.

It was quiet down there all tarmac'd over,
Gently lulled by Ford and Rover,
Till that accurse'd JCB
Dug me out of history.

They took me from my bed of loam,
And and plumbed my Royal chromosome,
And tested my carbon for its date,
And would not let me lie in state.

They built my face up from my bones,
They took my picture on their phones.
And shoved me 'neath an X-ray scanner,
It tickled a bit,- in a pleasant manner.

For several months I was sorely tested
Poked and probed, felt and molested.
Then for a week, I was all the rage,
In rightful place, on centre stage,

Now once more I'm on the shelf,
Till they re-bury my royal self,
Treatment that is so much ruder,
Than aught I got from Henry Tudor.

[cacian]

I have a plan to stick all my poem stuff here, because it is scattered about the poem contest thread at the moment, and I am not organised enough to keep it anywhere else. This is vanity of course.

Great idea I will do the same I think.

[cacian]

It's
Risky
At my age,
To look in the mirror,
'Cos a stranger stares back.
Have the years been so unkind,
To leave my face so haggard and lined.

this is a clever little one. I enjoyed it
i noticed you are into shape poetry . i too enjoy writing to give a shape. it feels palpable that way aesthetic is another one i like to think of when i compose poetry.

[prendrelemick]

He wakes up every morning and knows that something's wrong,
The knotted lump lodged in his chest, reminds him she is gone.
A knotted lump of grief and loss, that says he can't move on.
And time it goes so slowly, now that she is gone.

He remembers leaping on that bed, and how her eyes had shone,
And laughter filled this yellowed room for they were young and strong,
And children came and snuggled close and time flew on and on.
But now it goes so slowly, now that she is gone.

And forty years flew by so fast and then their song was sung,
Dreams are all he's left of her, since her soul passed on.
And death can't seem to find him, although he's waited long.
And time it goes so slowly, she's gone, she's gone, she's gone

[prendrelemick]

Thankyou cacian... It's worth doing, But I am finding the urge to tinker and change stuff almost overwhelming. Is a poem ever finished?

[cacian]

Thankyou cacian... It's worth doing, But I am finding the urge to tinker and change stuff almost overwhelming. Is a poem ever finished?

well i change my poems every second so to speak. i do not think there is ever a finished poem. the more i revisit the more i am tempted to change.
it depends on the mood one is in.

[hannah_arendt]

well i change my poems every second so to speak. i do not think there is ever a finished poem. the more i revisit the more i am tempted to change.
it depends on the mood one is in.

It is always worth working on the text a little bit longer

[Jack of Hearts]

mick,

it's fantastic to see you posting these. This reader has always appreciated your output.






J

[cacian]

It is always worth working on the text a little bit longer

Hi Hannah true however sometimes spontaneous is also worth it. it allows one to change their mind about what they have written which is not a bad thing and sometimes it works perfect. it depends on one's mood.

[Hawkman]

Thankyou.

I keep wondering "What was I thinking when I wrote that ?"

Probably the same sort of thing that Seamus Heaney was thinking when he wrote "Digging"

There are some real gems in here. I was particularly taken with Photo of a Dead Bird, your sense of humour shines in may of these offerings.

I do wonder whether #19 wouldn't have been better in ballade format as they are rather long lines for couplets, especially as there is only one rhyme.

Personally, I find putting all the poems in a single thread makes them not only difficult to find but also difficult to comment on, especially when there are many posted in a short space of time. One has to keep switching back and forth between pages, which can be tedious. It's easy to miss when a new offering has been made as well. Still, it certainly avoids flooding the poetry forum

Live and be well - H

[prendrelemick]

^You may be right, but I didn't expect anyone to comment anyway. i suppose I should print them off really - then they would be finally finished.

As to number 19, I will look up what a ballade is. I was thinking of a Country and Western song when I did that one. ( O Rooooo-ooooby dont take yer love to town.)

[prendrelemick]

At Chaco


Itzil son of Coatl picks up a stone,
He weighs its possibilities in his hand,
Checks its flatness,
Judges its thickess
Checks its fitness
Decides which edge is the face,
Which is the bottom,
Which is the top,
He gauges it against the space,
He checks its match with its neighbour,
He knapps off a back corner,
So it will lie flush and sweet,
He does all this in a second,
Then he lays it.
It lies there still.

[prendrelemick]

There is a young lady from Brest,
(That's in France if you hadn't guessed,)
A popular girl,
with many a curl,
In her home town area she's blessed.

[AuntShecky]

There is much here to savor. As yours fooly once noted some months ago, "A King's Lament" is a winner in my book.

[prendrelemick]

Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number -
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you -
Ye are many – they are few.

From “The Mask of Anarchy”. by Percy Bysshe Shelly.



The time was ripe back then,
When came that call to working men,
We could've done it then.

Now link by link, inch by inches,
Beguiled by cars and larder fridges,
In mortgaged homes that feel like riches,
Crowing over petty victories,
Chains are once again our due,
We give ourselves to their embrace.

In fact, we demand our chains,
And hand back our father's gains

And anarchy?
Anarchy's a fashion label,
Traded round the boardroom table,
Easy terms through optic cable,
Promoted by gone viral fables,
Fight the system! Buy the T shirt!
Stay in your bedroom, no one gets hurt.