Sunday, May 27, 2012

Flowers of the Forest again


Flowers of the Forest again

More war years
Won’t dry the tears
On the mothers sallow cheek

When soldier boys
Have lost their toys
And return in the brittle box

A folded flag
A political gag
Placed in the mothers hands

On dusty street
Sad mothers weep
For the children dead in arms

Across the sand
Come play the band
Flowers of the Forest again

Young women cry
Old men sigh
As they dip red white and blue

It’s freedoms’ stain
And Britain’s pain
As they go marching on…


Thursday, May 10, 2012

The woman that I'm looking for...


The woman that I'm looking for

The woman that I’m looking for
Has got to have a pulse
A boon if she is breathing
And acts on her impulse

The woman that I’m looking for
Will have a working brain
Has strong opinions good and bad
Laughing like a drain

The woman that I’m looking for
Will have a sense of fun
She’ll like to play and mess around
And maybe call me ‘hun’.

The woman that I’m looking for
Ain’t looking for no jerk
Ain’t looking for no idiot
But maybe I’m hard work

The woman that I’m looking for
Is happy to understand
That at this time of life
Not everyone is bland.

The woman I am looking for
Will be sexy, hot and fit
Happy with her self-image
And flirts with grace and wit.

The woman that I’m looking for
Won’t stay at home and knit
Or sit focused on the TV
And just don’t give a shit

The woman that I’m looking for
Is relaxed and not to desperate
Laid back and nice to chill
If at times we are separate

The woman that I’m looking for
Don’t need to be jealous, hard or mean
She’s got to be my equal
And then she’ll be my queen

The woman that I’m looking for
Is stuck here in my head
The clich├ęd thing I really mean
Is, is she hot in bed!

I need to write poetry

I need to write poetry
Perhaps I'm needing therapy
I'm feeling kinda worse
Cos I'm missing my blank verse

I need to write a couplet
Ill be donning Shakespeares doublet
But I don't know if I've the time
To pen such stunning rhyme

Masters of Japan
Say zen haiku form makes clear
The writers hand is

Folded around the word to make
One think the world a better place
With beauty, style and insight
The sonnets scan the speakers soul

But perhaps my soul is empty
My writing hand is still
Perhaps my iambic pentameters
Have quietly become less shrill

So I could be needing therapy
I might be slighty ill
It might be slightly pyrrhic
Spondee or bacchius still

So there once was a poet from Plymouth
Not so sure he was good enough
So he saught therapy
From her by the sea
Now he's better than Roger McGough

Now a poets life is terrible hard
Said a lovely girl called alice
Be it Bejamin, Hardy or Larkin
They'll fuck you up with Malice

So its all becoming quite crazy
I think I'm losing my mind
The words are getting quite hazy
I'm think I'm going blind

So get me into therapy
Beard my bardic brain
Slow down the rhymes and rhythms
Please stop this poetic pain

Lull me with sweet lullabies
And the hosts of daffodils
Give me the succour of your verse
And keep me off the pills