poems

Those that heve heard Pam Ayres recite her work,in her Britih, West Country accent, will appreciate this more than those who prefer REAL poetry. Her work is hilarious. 

Satnav – A new poem by Pam Ayres

I have a little Satnav, it sits there in my car.

A Satnav is a driver's friend. it tells you where you are.

I have a little Satnav, I've had it all my life.

It's better than the normal ones, my Satnav is my wife.

It gives me full instructions, especially how to drive

"It's sixty miles an hour", it says, "You're doing sixty five".

It tells me when to stop and start, and when to use the brake.

And tells me that it's never, ever safe to overtake.

It tells me when a light is red, and when it goes to green.

It seems to know instinctively, just when to intervene.

It lists the vehicles just in front, and all those to the rear.

And taking this into account, it specifies my gear.

I'm sure no other driver, has so helpful a device.

For when we leave and lock the car, it still gives its advice.

It fills me up with counselling, each journey's pretty fraught.

So why don't I exchange it, and get a quieter sort?

Ah well, you see, it cleans the house, makes sure I'm properly fed.

It washes all my shirts and things, and keeps me warm in bed!

Despite all these advantages, and my tendency to scoff,

I only wish that now and then, I could turn the bugger off.

I only surrender my treasure when I'm in the mood.

well done NIQ!!

We do not wear crowns,

we may look like clowns,

but we rule worlds.

Although not with swords,

with well chosen words,

we make the decision who lives, who dies,

if a tower shall ever reach the skies,

if that woman will love that man,

who's always looked at her, and whose name is Ben.

We decide if the sun shall rise or not,

sometimes by making a simple dot.

Whether the earth shall stop turning,

whather the water will start burning.

We make people weep,

we make them from joy, leap.

We are us, and we are here.

In the headows, the sun runs past like an unwanted guest.

In the headows, the wind is always blowing from the west.

In the headows, the trees reach the sky with their peaks.

In the headows, no one counts the passing weeks.

In the headows, you and I will one day meet.

In the headows, there is a quiet stream, flowing silently to the world.

In its water, once fell a word,

And became the only whitestone, among those that are grey.

What that word is, no one could ever say.

It waits, hidden behind its whiteness, to be fisched out again.

Waits for the one, who will want to make their hand wet, and reach out for it.

It is waiting for you.

Dear Mr. Senator

Dear Mr. Senator, I voted for you and I’m glad you won.

I’m truly happy and I really must thank you a ton.

I own and live on a chicken farm very far from the city.

The other candidate doesn’t know how it is to live out here.

If they won, it really would have been a pity.

You say you’ll stop the illegal immigrants from invading like deer.

I hope you do really well in the next six years.

In the re-election, I’ll probably vote for you again.

You’ll benefit every single American child, woman, and man.

A few months’ time and I’ll write once more then.

Dear Mr. Senator, it’s now been nine months.

In that time, I like most of what you have done.

But there was that bill you unwisely voted for.

It passed and gave the big businesses everything they wanted.

Well, all of that plus more.

I’m a small farmer and I don’t like the big competition.

I don’t like the stuff they do to produce artificial chicken.

At any time, they could put me out of business.

And then I’d be a homeless man.

I’d be drinking too much and feeding the pigeons.

Dear Mr. Senator, it has now been 365 days.

I’m still mostly confident in your ways.

With all your promises, I thought that I would thrive.

You haven’t done that much though.

Some of my friend’s opinions on you are starting to dive.

Recently, there’s been an issue that is really not sublime.

An oil company wants to make a pipeline.

You’ll be one of the people voting if it’s okay.

That pipeline would go right through all my land.

I hope you manage to keep that thing at bay.

Dear Mr. Senator, you are no longer my friend.

How much money did that oil company send?

Now I see the truth but it’s too late.

My farm is now where a pipeline is.

This wasn’t supposed to be my fate.

I won’t be voting for you in the re-election.

You, alone, managed to put me in dejection.

It was painful watching the news on my television.

The vote was tied and one senator did not participate.

And then your vote made the decision.

Dear Mr. Senator, you destroyed my life.

I no longer have a home, my children, or my wife.

The weather is freezing as I lay on this park bench.

I tried to sleep in a church but they did not let me.

They didn’t want their pews catching my awful stench.

I tried to find a job but I could not succeed.

The only skill I have is making chickens breed.

I fear that tonight I’ll freeze to death.

I should probably try to find a distraction.

I don’t want you on my mind when I take my dying…

A very good  writing, IMO.

Thanks.

We had a forum here, called "Politics" opened by Byron, but it went away with his account. There was one splendid poem by him there.

My first English poem

Unseen foe

Not existent in space,
it reached human race,
not seen nor heard,
it creeps through worlds,
in elder and young to stay,
heeding its way.

An unseen foe,
unconfronted will grow,
heart, mind and
soul,
befallen,
hypnotized the calling,
no light in darkness to be seen,
a sickness,
that will not wean.

A failing try to blame,
the wise say its name,
some,
fleeing everyday,
no path,
crosses their way,
only the brave hold where they stay.

Fear,
it is its name,
only dead released from the game,
darkness of the soul,
loneliness in the heart,
shivering of the bones,
living still,
we become stones.

Only at the end,
they say,
hope passes away,
till then,
let it be known,
not bravery is,
the opposit to show,
it is,
the greatest force we know.

Love,
not seen nor heard,
heed my word,
no end,
no beginning,
love,
will always be winning.

Forlorn hope

Riches can not buy,
the will to grow high,
again and again,
the failing began,
effort in vain,
no time and the pain.

The strength to hold on,
for many is gone,
hope has been broken,
the ending still open.

No goal to be reached,
the walls have been breached,
The moment arrived,
some think they decide,
let me be clear,
it is now,
it is here.

It is coming, it is near,
hear death in your ear?
Whispers of fear,
lose everything dear.

When egos are torn,
there heroes are born,
when moment is nigh,
look death in the eye,
let pain be your path,
hesitation will starve.

The moment your last,
stop breathing and pass,
the stars to be reached,
his rules must be breached.

Let it be known,
will can not be grown,
no way to the top,
you rise,
or you stop.

My last words you must hear,
not death,
let it be clear,
the enemy is fear.

Good job hummingbird!

Thanks Dan, appreciate it! 

Purple dead nettle is no more like stinging nettle

Than a lionfish is like a lion.

The purplish flower petals are similar to lavender.

It is as safe to eat as wild lettuce

Growing in a healthy and verdant meadow.

This diminutive wild flower is to a giant sequoia 

As a flea is to an elephant. 

It grows prolifically with grass.

Bees take its nectar

Even in a cold and barren winter. 

Nice!