Tweaky's Poetry, but please post your own as well.

Thanks Moyra, the ward was just written from experience.

I think you should write more poetry, you appear to have a gift. Go for it.:thumb:

 

[align=center]The Pond
[/align]
[align=left]The lillies blossom into flower on their shiney saucers of green,
with dew drops left by a shower, that I wish you could have seen.
The reeds so tall and slender with bullrushes soft furry brown.
The dragon fly in all it's splendour flashes blue as it sweeps down.

Reflections of the evening sky, on the water's surface can be seen,
All the clouds as they pass by as o'er the grassy bank I lean.
Tadpoles swim at the water's edge their tiny tails sweeping to and fro.
Baby tench under a shadey ledge, taking shelter while they quickly grow.

A heron sees his opportunity for a treat his beak cuts the water like a sword,
a quick splash as a fish surfaces to eat creating ripples that spread outward.
The evening wears on and the water's still, the moorhens drifted off to roost.
Now I must leave, but return I will, Next time my life needs a boost.[/align]

 

You have written about something other than you, which is really good. I just generally write about myself or family. However, this one is not about either, although it is sad...why do I write sad abstract poems.....Answer is I really don't know.

 

Oh that's lovely Tweaky. I do all sorts of poetry but I haven't got it on the pc. Most of it is in a ledger. I haven't written anything recently - mostly back in the 80's. But I have written lots of sad stuff too.

 

SHE
She came in the dead of night,
like a breath of fresh cool air,
He felt her hold him tight,
but he knew she wasn't there!
He tossed and turned and tried to sleep
but sleep it would not come.
He wanted her there to keep,
there to welcome him home.
He knew that she was only a ghost
of his subconcious past.
That he was clinging to like a post,
while time moved on so fast.
Was there a time when she was real?
It seemed so long ago
and yet her presence he could feel
and could not let it go.
She had been real and he knew the time
when her laughter had filled the air.
The hours together so sublime
and the secrets they used to share.
Now they were gone and so was she
except for her ghost left behind.
Was this her spirit, could it be,
or just a figment of his mind?

 

Well when you have a minute or so to spare over a week and you have nothing to do...please post them...would be great.Most of mine I wrote before, but I think I shall start up again as it's something I enjoy doing...even if it is getting rid of frustrations or feelings. I think its good to put them on paper. I'm shore we all have something in our daily lives to unload..what better way than to put them in abstract or verse....as there are no rules, they don't even need to rhyme do they? Everyone can do it.

 

You are all very good:thumb:.
I had to do a poetry project once and ended up thinking in verse all the time...It almost drove me nuts!:D

 

I Want to be a writer

I sit here at my work station almost every day.
Conjuring up something I think should be ok.
I've typed nine chapters of a novel with much zest,
and just when I feel that I may have been blessed
Then I hit the wrong key, on the proverbial P.C.
I don't think I need to explain the rest!

And so with heavy heart I start all over again
from rude words and expletives I try hard to refrain,
Can I stop myself feelings so miffed and so peeved
As I manage to replace all that I had previously achieved
Before I hit the wrong key on the proverbial P.C.
I can't say I am not extremely relieved.

All my best plots come either last thing at night
or when I'm considering some other poor wretch's plight.
My mind takes over and I'm off on the keys,
Writing, writing and if you please, oh please,
I won't hit the wrong key, on the proverbial P.C.
and then I'll finish in comfortable ease!


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Hmm. Paladin, I know what you mean, Lol

 

Well. If your a gardener, your half way there anyway.:D

 

Wow, just spent all morning reading these poems, they're really great. I'm looking forward to some more guys. I'm not that good myself.

 

Here is one I wrote for my Cousin Sheila, she's a theatre sister.


Title:- Sheilaâ??s Rubber Gloves.

Half past four, a ringing bell,
Alarm going off, still black as hell,
Teeth out of glass and straight in gob,
Rush downstairs, put kettle on hob.

Monday morning, start of week,
Seventy two hours until next sleep,
Oh why, oh why, does one pursue,
This career, if I only knew?

Breakfast made for kids and hubby,
To work and school no time to worry,
About the opâ??s on this weeks list,
Get dressed, face on, nothing missed.

But one more thing before she leaves,
A choice to make, for this weeks needs,
Important more than heaven above,
Some matching pairs, of rubber gloves.

Yellow oneâ??s delectable, red oneâ??s are depraved,
Purple â??mmmâ?? licentious, black is all the rage,
Although a little kinky, unconventional and lewd,
Translucent tinted puce oneâ??s , often suit the mood.

Selection made for week ahead,
She gatherâ??s duffle coat, off bed,
Packs flask and sarnieâ??s checks her purse,
Goes off to work our little nurse.

First op., On the list today,
A foreskin job for a chap whoâ??s gay,
What colour gloves for a circumcision...
Pink oneâ??s seem the right decision.

â?oh my, my dear,â? as heâ??s given his local,
What adorable rubberâ??s, he sounds rather hopeful!
â?I now know that Iâ??m in safe hands,â?
He sayâ??s with a wink, as she exposes his glands.

â?i chose the pink especially for you,
They seem much more sexy, than wearing dark blueâ?,
A secret smile, behind her mask,
â?pray tell me where you shop?â? He asks.

While scrubbing up, the surgeon sayâ??s
â?a kidneyâ??s next, first one for dayâ??s,â?
Oh thatâ??s good, Iâ??ll wear the yellow,
Theyâ??ll befit his looks, the lucky fellow.

For every patient on the table,
Complimentary colourâ??s whenever able,
Always subtle, never dour,
Decorous cloves, to suit the hour..

And when the week comes to an end,
Journey home, sets forth to wend,
Bag filled with the things she loves,
Her matching pairâ??s, of rubber gloves.

===============
Hope you had a laugh with that. Apparently, she showed it to everyone in the theatre:thumb:

 

[align=left]Biddy[/align]


[align=left]Tiny toes dipping into puddles[/align]
left behind by the summer rain.
[align=left]Not for her soft warm cuddles
but bare feet on a country lane.
Dark and mysterious this gypsy child
a loner who loved to roam.
Happiest most when out in the wild
wandering miles from home.
Roaming the fields of golden corn,
climbing great oaks, watching the bees.
Free as the wind for this she was born
to share with the wild, the birds and the trees.
On mossy banks just to lie and stare
at soft fluffy clouds drifting on high.
Filling her lungs with sweet fragrant air,
watching as swallows soar in the sky.
The pleasure in seeing a grasshopper jump
or of finding a four leafed clover.
Then coming down to the earth with a bump,
realising the day is nearly over.
Now looking back after the years have flown,
remembering brings tears to her eyes.
With grown up children of her own,
for her long past youth she cries.
Now she wonders if her children too
look back on their childhood years.
She supposes that they must do
as she leaves behind her tears.[/align]

 

That is wonderful Moyra.

 

That won a competition and they wanted to publish it, however they expected me to pay £20 or more for the book it would appear in......... at the time that was a lot of money and I couldn't afford it so I denied them the pleasure. I have to confess Biddy was me!