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Poetry-Whispering Fields


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#1 georgek

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Posted 11 April 2012 - 03:51 AM

Whispering Fields..Whispering fields that bare no songs.That whistle sounds of death and gore…..Bend the wheat, with wind that shears…..Broken backs from men with tears..The rain that harshly sweeps…….As mothers cry and lovers weep…...Soak the ground as rivers bleed..For no one sees, except the trees…….The buzzards, bees and those who flee.Just like the wind that plays a tune.In skies of grey, amongst the hay.Dead men stray with scabbard knives..Their mist of grey and those who pray…..To whispering fields that count the yield.From wheat and marrow in bags and barrows,.Except for men who never hear, the wind that blows.Like the corn, with ears aglow…waiting still….Just like the wisp….the beggars wrist.All frown and torn from one more morn..To grasp the sword and then to morn.Whispering fields with skies of grey.Play your tune just one more time.So men may hear and start to fear.As prophets see and lovers dream...By George

Edited by georgek, 11 April 2012 - 03:53 AM.

  • Still Waters, Jemesuiddib, Attelutty and 3 others like this

#2 Still Waters

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Posted 05 May 2013 - 11:27 AM

It's a good poem. Have you written a lot of poems? You should post more of them if you have. I like poems :)


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#3 georgek

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Posted 21 June 2013 - 03:58 AM

A Sailor's Plea

 

Why is my life in turmoil O' great god of the sky?

Have I not trod thy humble path of life ?

Watered the crop of forgiveness

Hoisted her flag on the highest mast as I set sail

 

Through turbulent winds has she sailed

Her timbered wounds soaked with  salt

My brine of sorrow like watered tears,

Through jagged rocks my ship did flounder

Cutting the stern as she bled the oil that thy hands have toiled.

 

Did every port not write her name, as she docked her load ?

Her wondrous  cargo has fed  the poor that  even thy eyes have seen.

 

Let my ship with creaking timbers cast her sail to southern winds;

That ye may  blow her home

No more rough waters to rock her bow

 May you lift the fog with a sweep of thy hand

To where  both ship and man go home to die.

 

Did not they ship serve thee in time of need?

When her bow  creaked and rats did flee ?

As her stern thou did bleed..... stood by thee ?

 

In rocky seas did she venture thee; unhindered by gales that be ?

When other ships rained with good luck florals,

Thou endured pain along with all the corals

 

Many ports have embarked thee, through many lives thou has seen

The beginning of life and the end of death,

When two seas meet, they often greet.

Like the wheel of a ship, we loose our grip

 

The  kindled spark that lights the flame

Is often hid within the pain

Did not thy lantern in the fog, guide thy ship through jaggered rocks ?

 

Hoist thy sail my friend of  woes

Rest thy tired limbs and wing,  like the seagull,  and sky born  eagle

 

 

I see a gull in my minds eye,

where ships and men sail home to die.

 

Where no more, will the wind beat on a tired sail

All ridden holed and almost pale

 

Rest thy timbers on the sand..... both boat and weary boson's weary hand,

That ye may never take afloat a vessel laden full of woes.

 

 

************************************************

Prophetic  Actors

 

The venue is set, as the actors prepare to take the stage.

Remnants of old loom by, as each takes his cue.

A hush envelopes the audience, as the atmosphere changes to the scene of the day.

Actors tread the stage once more, gallant and proud, heads held high as the scene unfolds.

Brandishing their costumes gallantly and tireless they move forward.

 

The scene is set, as crumpled men of old take their wares of parchments anew, for act two, scene two is the way of the day.

 

Their noble crowns still intact, each nods to the audience as they quietly take their place ready to perform.

 

The audience is in cheer, for they have returned, unscathed, untarnished and wiser. Pages turn, and the story begins, a gentle hush of serenity fills the air as the act unfolds.

 

Soon it will be time to bring the curtain down. The lights will go out and the stage will be empty again, yet each in his heart will carry the gift, and the actors will go home, never to return for their work is finished.

 

The doors have closed and the lights have gone out.

But stage is silent now

Still voices are heard ....deep within....... as the pages slowly turn.

The actors thread woven within a parchment of fineness as the book slowly closes.

****************************************************************************************

 

 

 

The Duke of Chester

 

 

I saw the Duke all frail and broken

Pray that night for having spoken

Five hundred men had died this time

From lucid words and ill sought verbs

                                                                                                                  

The candle light had gained no height

As it slowly dimmed as beggars grinned

Then darkness loomed in this passive room

Forgotten dreams where silence looms

 

************************************************************

 

The Wind and the Land

 

Keep the reins on your soul as the gentle wind blows.

Hold on to your hats, as the wind shears through the plats.

It comes........it turns, never beckons or learns.......
Hang on to your shirt for what the tailor had served

It sweeps this land of rough sand and soil,
Precarious toils… of man's sweat and broil

There is no rule or word of truth......
Arduous tasks of fields churned and chewed….
No man, beast or fool that cannot be ruled

We see it no less than the air on the moor,
Lest it summons a rage, and brings out the rain.

It cannot be caged,
Like a bird or a mule, for it cries like a ghoul.

Howling it be.... it breaks down the trees.
Then behold.....a whisper I hear.....as it wisps past my ear.

Playful it seems from a gentle breeze; whistling a tune from the wood and the seas…
Windmills creak as love birds sing.

A flick of a leaf as an insect flees.
Then all is still as the land bows and kneels

God at it's heel which devours, even man at the wheel.
So let the simple weed flourish all scattered and nourished
Pray for the winds to replenish our sins

 

**********************************************************

 

 

Drummer Boys
 
 
 
The wind blew on this ill sought morn
When cannons glowed red through dead mens corn 
Rap-a-tap-tap the cap and the badge
Twelve drummer boys rapped as the guns went bang
Solemn mens faces and young boys with braces,
Marched as a band with rap-a tap-tap
 
They raced with a haste with no time to waste
A bugle blew loud as dead men fell down
To charge up the mound, by a captain's a shout
Then a drum hit the ground with one less sound
 
 
Over the hill, death gore and howlers....
Beat more louder than drum sticks and powder.
 
On a still Summers day some people may say:-
Drummers are heard along a cattle master's herd
With a sound of a chirp, through a woodpeckers mirth,
A bugle is heard from the tap of a birch
Twelve drummer boys tap
By the sight of a cap.
 
Then mist comes down from the hill and the pound
Covers the spot where the grasshoppers hop 
Silence then falls, on the fay and the hay,
As the wind and the rain beats down on our brains
 
Like tears of pain; all nurtured and strained
Harmonically sweet from a drummer boy's beat

**********************************************************************************

 

The Elemental Gods

 

Ye are gods...... children of the most high
Who are those who stealth through the night sky?

The mighty power of the Elemental Gods!

 

That man may be born to die like an insect and be born again!

He is like the gnat on a tree, who crawls by day and hides by night

Oh great are ye, thy Elemental Gods who with a wave of an arm cause the sky to streak with forked lightning.
To clasp thy hands in a clap of thunder, as the waves twist and turn by the skew of thy hand

 

Then as thee lay thy hand down on the green of the land…….
May a sunbeam shine from the tip of thy finger into the hearts of men.
That they may know that thee are great and above all things

Let thy hand raise a chalice to the dry arid land, that fruit may grow
For thy cup holds the rain that every mouth shall drink

Let not your wrath fall in tempest on the poor and ignorant
For ye are wise and above all things
That they shall know that thee and the land are one

 

***********************************************************

 

 

We Fall

 

 

 

 

 

As we climb the heights, as turmoil strikes...
We fall!

To get back up, we clamber still
Then hoist our flag to ask for more

Then sadness strikes the ones who fail
As we bolster up our world's desire
To break the backs of those who tire

Sadness reigns on my poor heart
To fill this ground of pain and sorrow
Not to know what comes tomorrow
Lest we grow old and ponder still
What drives our pain and all our ills

So as we fall; our guides do call
Then raise a hand to those who mourn

So we may know that hope still reigns
Amidst the pain and putrid haze

To hold our hand so we may stand
As to watch the flow of this dear land


 

*************************************************************

 

The Steam of Matilda and Her Builder

 

 

The old engine let off a belch of steam a hiss and a pop, plus a resounding slop.

Wheels began to turn, all hands to the stern.
Her whistle blew loud and people gathered round,

 

She careered down the track as men pulled back
Her pistons  filled, as steam gathered yield
A thunder and a crack,  as there was no holding back
Matilda was fast and right on track.

Down the rails she roared.
Then beauty astound, there was countryside all around.

She went to a station and picked up some people

Both  weak and feeble.
Then went down the line all wrought and taught
Picked up a Lord who was solemn and bored

At the next station, ready and patient…….
More people had gathered for poor old Matilda

Chugging along, she saw two men of the cloth
Who waved at Matilda  through the soot and the smog

Storm clouds had gathered like anvils and hammers
Which drenched poor Matilda all plenished and worn.

More steam did she 'sip', as she went up the dip.
Then tiredness came in one mighty pain

Matilda had slowed as she gave a loud moan
To let us all know that it was time to go.

Her journey had started with one mighty hiss.
To die on a track, there was no turning back

Many journeys she had made, in more than a day
Her fate had ended, as it began;

A clap of a hand and a porter's cry.
Like woman's birth and a baby's cry

Salvage Matilda at her poor demise?
Is the same as a man when scavengers dive.

To blow clean as a whistle or die in the thistles

A solemn disgrace is to die in a race, all battered and worn
Without an embrace, no honour or grace........regardless of race

A journey we take just like the train.
At times it is late and we sometimes wait


Work too hard and we die  like the train,
All clogged with steam, with hardly a dream

Be it man or machine, our fates are the same.
The earth claims us all....both cogs and lords.

 

********************************************

 

Tired Love

 

Did I not say that I loved her.......as I held her hand so tightly when there was a tempest?

The sea was calm and the sky was blue.
Her youthful smile most radiant, as our souls entwined

For we had sailed many journeys and spoke of oneness

Then when the sea had unleashed it's rage once more...
Did I not go back and hold her hand?

But the hand had wizened and the soul had tired, as I gently let her go.


Edited by georgek, 21 June 2013 - 04:34 AM.


#4 Still Waters

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Posted 21 June 2013 - 12:01 PM

You have written a lot! How long have you been writing poems for?

 

I've only written a few poems and haven't been doing it for very long. My friend is a poet and I got interested in them through him. If anyone wants to see them they're posted in my UM blog along with my other ramblings :D

 

http://www.unexplain...log&blogid=2714

 


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#5 georgek

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Posted 21 June 2013 - 06:25 PM

Well....I have  a lot more that I write, as it gets me out of trouble.

 

So it seems!

 

I had recently joined up with a few networking sites, and profess to not knowing anything about poetry. 

This is what my English Literature teacher, told me at school...that my English was so bad, that I would never be able to achieve the simplest qualifications.

 

So I started using my mind a s a psychic to tap into the spheres.

 

It is called:- "Automatic Writing", and sometimes I write so fast, that I don't have time to see what I had written.

 

One afternoon, I was walking through Nottingham City Center, and noticed a poster of Lord Byron.  It was a poster displayed at some bus shelters.

 

I started looking at his picture and could sense  a problem in his sinus area, between the forehead and the bridge of his nose. Concentrating on his picture, I began to write this:-

 

 Ode To Byron

 

Milk and honey 'o tender white

My mucus sinus constricts my sight

Oh pain, this venomous pungent catarrhal strain

Illicit words that find no fame

 

Smelly pungent, it's all the same

As I smoke my hookah, it's just a game

 

Pretty harmless stuff, but it got me banned from a network site.

 

Reason being, is that I was asked how many books of Lord Byron's poetry had I read?

 

My answer was 'none'!

 

So, I was labelled as a liar and cheat, because the only way that I could have written this poem, was to have read his life!

 

Oh..well...I could not log on, so I thought I would try another site and wrote this after looking at a picture of Coral Castle on a paranormal forum:-

 

 

Coral Castle

 

 

Coral Castle bright and gay

Call my heart back home to stay

 

Go awhile oh mists of grey

I pray to thee and then to he

 

Send back my boat of earth desires

From sea of grey of lustful days

Bring back my love, she calls to me

From the wind that blows, I miss her so

 

Again I was told that I had read books, and by denying, it got me into trouble.

 

 I wrote this which other's looked with suspicion:-

 

 

Montana

 

Oh Montana, sweep me by
With brazen saddles and pale blue skies
Lift the burden from my eyes
That I may see what others cry
Then let this  rose slowly die
 
Pageant silks and cuffs and frills 
Trinkets, plaques and blood red stacks
The gentle breeze on my still cheeks
As a petal blows from my blood red rose
Just like the wind, all full of prose
 
I grasp a while the sharp cruel thorns
Then to let them go, as the air did blow
On Montana's land all large and grand
Where the wind does blow and prophets go
 
Oh Montana sweep me by! 
Lift my eyes unto the skies
Take this rose from my eyes
Red with blood from those who stood

 

 

I think the administrator got hold of me; and asked me to write one about him. So I wrote about Montana. He relied back, saying that I was a fraud, and that he lived nowhere near Montana, after giving his location. So I Google mapped the area and found the town (not the city) only ten miles away! He got the wrong Montana...lol

 

So I posted back a map, and was unable to log on again!

 

I moved on, and finally asked someone to send me a picture, so that I could write a poem.

 

Someone sent me a picture of :-carrbridge Water with no name. 

 

Carrbridge Water

Sparkling stream full of joy

I bask my trinkets full of coy

Oh maiden steeped with sparkling wine

Sprinkle stardust from the sky

 

Snow falls like crusted flakes

As fairies sparkle through the haze

 

Oh joy I feel within my heart

To feel the love of ages past

 

Deep within my soul I pray

Oh Bernadette your love stay

 

To help my brothers gather hay

Then face the perils of the day

 

Peace oh be...oh righteous queen

Who walks this land with pitcher high

 

The wondrous waters from the sky

That fill the wells that never dry.

 

 

In this poem, I mention Bernadette and her pilgrimage to this spot, not knowing where it was.

 

"Got you!" was the reply. 

 

"No mention of Bernadette."  This confused me, until the sender informed me, that the picture contained heather.

 

Newcarridgewater_zps9d0d9d34.jpg

 

 

Apparently, when Saint Bernadette came to visit; she had brought her own heather, that is absolutely unique to this area, and cannot be found anywhere else in the UK. It is called:- Bernadette Heather.

 

 

 

This caused outrage, as again there were silent mouths!

 

 

So you see...I don't get on with the poetry. I suppose it is alright for folks to write demonic stuff and porn....that is accepted, but folks don't like looking foolish, especially with Psychic Poetry, because they literally do not believe it! My poetry upsets people.

 

It upsets the church goers and every channel of art! So I don't write anymore.

 

I even gave up picture reading....as that is unforgivable!

 

Someone sent  a picture of herself, and asked if anyone could find her ailment. Of course there was the usual replies of body language, because she looked depressed. Posts that remarked on her beauty and how she felt of herself and obvious things that anyone could see.

 

So I told her the exact location of her illness and what it was.

 

"How dare you take over my readings was the reply"

 

Well...she asked, and I told here.

 

Only to be reprimanded on the strict rules that apply to reading pictures. As it was criminal  and against forum regulations to give readings of this accuracy! AS the forum administrator could be sued after being taken to court.

 

Well...so there you are.

 

It all boils down to hocus pocus and crap.  


Edited by georgek, 21 June 2013 - 06:49 PM.


#6 Still Waters

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Posted 21 June 2013 - 07:48 PM

I just write when the mood takes me, which isn't very often, and for my own amusement. When it comes to sharing my stuff I start to feel uncomfortable, I'm not sure why really. I guess I'm too much of a private person. In real life I can be pretty quiet at times.


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#7 georgek

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Posted 22 June 2013 - 03:29 AM

What most people do not realise, is that poetry is from the mind.

 

It is based on creativity and works in the same way a song writing and any form of art.

 

I am an engineer.

 

Engineers are not just educated, but are born that way. You cannot make an engineer just like you cannot make an artist.

 

When we use our minds, something strange happens.

 

We are able to tap into The Spheres.

 

To some people, this is called 'imagination'

 

Once we are able to control this imagination, it is like hitting the correct notes on the piano. Our memory is based on what we call the subconscious.

 

This is nine tenths compared to one tenth consciousness.

 

Our subconscious is our TRUE selves and contains all our existences from the time we were created.

 

Poetry is based on psychic reading. By looking at a picture, we can connect to the things that created it.

 

For example:- Looking at a rose bud, we feel the plant. The plant tells of the climate and the climate tells the soil and so on.  It is like that with poetry.

 

We write poetry by what we call 'threads'.

 

You say that in real life that you are pretty quiet at times?

 

Poets are introverts and your logo labelled "Still Waters" tells me that.

 

I could say that I was able to read you? But so can anyone without being psychic...just by pulling threads. Just like poetry.

 

You have demonstrated an art without realising.

The same as I do, when looking at a picture.

 

 

I don't know anything about poetry, and if I looked at somebody else's poetic work I would not know what I am looking at, to decide if it was good or bad?

 

You see...we are all psychic, and the more artistic talent a person has; then the more psychic they are.

 

Being psychic is the ability to separate the conscious from the subconscious. When we can do this; we are able to attribute our brain to the conscious and the mind to the subconscious.

 

A psychic can experience Astral Travelling, because he/she can recall the experience to their conscious mind afterwards. If an inexperienced person tried to astral travel, they would just fall asleep.  I can't astral travel...I wish I could. Reason....I don't know. Occasional flashes maybe, but only under extreme cases.

 

Again this word:- "Mood" Meaning a state of mind. In other  words, what you are saying, is that you cannot sustain this state of mind?

 

Not unusual!

 

Amusement stimulates the mind...as you have expressed. It enables the mind to work. 

 

The conscious mind cannot let go for too long. For example:- See how long you can think of nothing? I recon up to ten second? Sooner or later, you are going to think how well you are doing? That then fails the experiment.

 

MEDITATION=TRANQUILITY= CONTROL

 

When we meditate, we can reach new heights. The mind starts to open up.

 

My mind is powerful and with meditation it would increase and perhaps I could write better poetry?

 

The mind allows us to walk a tight rope but the brain says that we may fall.

 

Faith is based on the mind because it is belief.

 

if you strongly believed something, then that is powerful. Like believing you can and you will under hypnotism.

 

Now we come back full circle. 

 

The ability to write and to put down the mind for all to see. Just like me and my poetry. 

 

It makes others think for themselves, as to realise that everything in life is based on finding the creator.


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#8 Still Waters

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Posted 22 June 2013 - 10:17 AM

I don't know much about poetry either, but I know what I like when I see it.

 

A poem is usually a very personal and individual form of expression. While it might mean a lot to the poet who wrote it, it can confuse others who are reading it. I must admit, there's a lot of poems I've read over the years which totally escape me as far as the meanings behind them are concerned, some of them I just don't understand at all but that's probably me.  I like what I call 'simple' poems best, to me they say a lot more than complicated ones, but then perhaps I feel that way about them because they're easier to understand.

 

When I write poems it's usually about something connected to me in some way, a few are based on real life events and they are the most personal I have. Not all of them are like that though, a few of them are made up from my imagination.

 

When I first started writing them my poet friend gave me some good advice which I've tried to follow, he told me to "write what you see" and "write how you feel". I keep his advice in mind always.


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#9 georgek

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Posted 22 June 2013 - 05:00 PM

 

 

A poem is usually a very personal and individual form of expression. While it might mean a lot to the poet who wrote it, it can confuse others who are reading it. I must admit, there's a lot of poems I've read over the years which totally escape me as far as the meanings behind them are concerned, some of them I just don't understand at all but that's probably me.  I like what I call 'simple' poems best, to me they say a lot more than complicated ones, but then perhaps I feel that way about them because they're easier to understand

 

 

 

Yes....I learnt poetry as a method of expression. It was the paranormal that taught me...lol

I found that I was able to reach people, if I could identify the things that they knew.

 

With psychic poetry, it gives a sense of 'belonging', because most people are familiar with things in their own background.

When we combine the basic instincts of life towards further goals, it is easy to understand.

 

I personally find people who like my poetry, but never say anything about my ideas. Perhaps this is like sugaring medicine? I am not a preacher, but I like to be heard.

 

Reason being is that I have learnt so much.

 

I often find that all things in life are connected with life itself. Life is simple...it is people who make it hard.

 

When this happens, life becomes complicated, and one is often blamed for being born.

 

Being born, is to experience different things, that is not obvious in the spirit world. Hardship is usually self created, rather than being accepted.

 

Accepting poetry is to like the way that it is put, and thus harmonising with it.

 

When folks can do this; they see themselves. Often people don't like themselves and blame others. Such is life!

 

We all die a little, but is being reborn that is the problem.

 

Poetry expresses what words fail to get across. Words fill the mouth and poetry fills the heart. From the heart comes God and all things that beautiful. 

 

Also comes the pain and the strife that originates from God. 

 

To have one and not to know the other, is not to write at all!

 

Beauty on it's own, is just a passive word, unless it 'bites the heart'.

 

So I don't have much beauty in my poetry, except the natural world and where it can be found.

 

This says that I understand poetry? 

 

Yer....I suppose it does, but how do I explain  poetry from others which most recognise but I don't?

 

This is perhaps why I am not an expert?

 

There are too many experts saying the things what others want to hear, whilst I say the things that others can hear.

 

There is a difference depending on points of view.

 

Is it the pot...or the substance which is at fault?

 

I say the substance!

 

This is why I write poetry....to flavour the substance.

 

 

 

When I first started writing them my poet friend gave me some good advice which I've tried to follow, he told me to "write what you see" and "write how you feel". I keep his advice in mind always.

 

 

 I think this should be corrected to:- "Write what you see...THEN write WHAT you feel"

 

How one feels can be very captivating and fleeting and only makes use of inspirational moments. Which can also be variable?  

 

George


Edited by georgek, 22 June 2013 - 05:05 PM.


#10 georgek

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Posted 22 June 2013 - 05:19 PM

Poetry

 

A Death Call

 

Oh Lord, with thy mighty hand thou pluckiest me from the ground like a weed.

Thy trees are laden with fruit and the land is green with pastures.

Mild winds sway thy branches like a lullaby ready for thy great sleep
My body is weary, racked with sores with molest from thy parasites that thou breeds
Yet you call me in the wake of the day, when I have not cast my seed
To be trodden with heavy load as thou pluckiest my soul.



Cast thy eyes to thee O' seed of man......
For my hand sprinkles the ground that thou walks
That thy fruit be harvest by the Carver
To taste the grape before it is crushed,
Loved and cherished before it is buried

Ruse or bruise, we are sometimes used
Lest we grow old like the prune and the goat
To chew and smote and watch parasites gloat

Then fall to the ground all weak and frail
With no hand or rail, but a hobo's tale

I came for thee on a bright summers day
To chaff the wheat and pick the peach
All tender be, from natures bees


Edited by georgek, 22 June 2013 - 05:25 PM.


#11 Still Waters

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Posted 22 June 2013 - 09:00 PM

I think this should be corrected to:- "Write what you see...THEN write WHAT you feel". George

 

I can see what you're saying. So far though my version has suited me well. "what you feel"..or..."how you feel"....they both mean "to feel " something and that's what I do.

 

he told me to "write what you see" and "write how you feel". I keep his advice in mind always.

 


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#12 Still Waters

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Posted 25 June 2013 - 11:54 AM

Another thing is, I'm hopeless at commenting on other people's poems and creative writings. I read them and enjoy them but the right words to express how I feel escapes me. Yet some people seem to post very complex replies and the best I can come up with is usually  "This is lovely" or "Well done" or "Very good".....that type of thing, although my comments are always genuine, but however much I like something I can't think of anything else to say apart from short comments like those.

 

I know I'm not the only one who has this problem. A lot don't say anything at all because they don't know what to say, so I guess compared to them I'm not doing too bad. Short comments are better than none I think, and at least it lets the writer know you've taken the time to read their work and have appreciated it.

 

Now of course there is the 'like' button which is very handy.


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#13 georgek

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Posted 14 August 2013 - 02:12 AM

Wizpuri Dock

 

The wizened old man of Wizpuri Dock

Had lifted hs eyes to his grandfather's clock

He gazed with a smile.... and pondered a while,

Then shook his great fist at the great wooden block

He came "fourth in the mile", but hindered a while

For now he was old and decrepid and vile

Not a smile had he dared, for those who had stared

As he hobbled along from Wizpuri Dock

 

He grasped his last breath, as he forcast his death

For the time he had guessed was more than his best

In time he had called for man and his lord

But dithered and croaked as he suffered a stroke

Fell to his old feet all laden with grief

Frail and defeated or like a bloated graffitist

He looked at the time, hence grappled a smile

As he groveled and choked all bewildered and broke

 

He fell on his back that had tumbled and cracked

And gazed at the clock from Wizpuri Dock

The clock it had struck...... without even a cluck

As the wiizened old man lay dead as a duck

Had he strived back in time and altered it's chime?

Then would he have died as he gazed at the time?

All tightened and torqued despite that he was short

Like the clock on the wall that cheated his fall

To alter it's chime from the clement of time?

That man should stay tall despite his great fall

Is to kindle the lines of the face on the dial?

As to tell it stop by a man at the dock

To lay dead at it's heel at Wizpuri Dock!

But.... suffer the men who look ill at their clocks!

As nothing will move, and all is still as a rock!

From ghosts that are born....from Wizpuri Dock.

 

****************************************************************************************************

 

 

 

Tax on My Soul

 

 

He taxes your belt, including the Celts

Hold on to your heart, lest he takes it apart

Pay a price for your labour and one for your sabre

Give him his tithe, because that is his right

 

He labours all day, like man in the hay

Yet cannot be caged, as he looks at your age

 

Don't die in the straw, for the devil will call

 

Two coins on your eyes as you lay on the ice

Leave a penny for heaven and two for the preacher

As the money he takes is for him from your grave

 

Don't carry your coffin on backs that are cloaked

The tax man won't choke from the crippled and old

 

Lack of your gold; may render him cold.........

Yet he searches your soul, to seek out your goal

 

He hides in your 'will' and even your till

Escape him you must, but he catches your dust

 

Useful were you, to the church and the few

But he taxes your faith despite all the hate.

 

The psalms that he holds are from farms he has sold

Lest they call him to hell from palms that are broke

 

He seeks all the answers through time and debate

Yet when he is gone, others will come.

 

Pray to your God, and the ones you forgot

Lest you meet him in Hell with the souls he had bought

 

**************************************************************************************

 

Tipity Harry

 

Tippity Harry fell down on the floor

Tiperty Harry could not even call

Hit his poor head hard on the rich ground

With such a big crack as to wake up the hounds

Tiperty Harry could not even walk

Yet let out a cry just as if he was born

Said his goodbye to his face on the wall

 

Tipperty Harry, Oh what have you done?

Broke your poor nose and your crown on the floor

A ticket to heaven and one for the pall

Plus a carriage and spade with a priest at your grave.

Tip Tipperty Harry all the way in

Tipperty Harry could not even sing

Except his poor soul which started to walk

That walked on the ground before he could talk

 

*********************************************************************************

 

Old Phil Pepper

 

 

Old Phil Pepper had hoped to get better.

He sat up in bed, before he hit his head

Broke in pain,

As he went insane

Mumbled a curse

Then called for the nurse

Cried out in vain despite his pain

 

She hurried her pace after powdering her face

Greeted poor Phill with his bloated blue gaze

All dead and bled, as he fell in his bed

 

Kissed him and prayed, then sent for the maid

Then blessed him she may

Till he fell in his grave.

All sorry was she, as she played with the sheet

That had covered poor Phil who had written his will.

No more had she had

Than the pan and the fan

As an empty bed lay

Lest Phil Pepper could stay?

 

*********************************************************************************************

 

The Plight of Old Bill Wuthers

 

 

Old Bill Wuthers, who died last Summer

Sat down on the bench, owned by he and his brothers.

He pulled out a smoke, and gave out a toast,

Blessed the ground of his mother and two of his brothers

 

Then called  out for the wreath made by him and two others

He sat up and smoked, and made one or two jokes

Then lowered his head, and fell flat on his bed

He belched out some smoke, just as he had croaked

Then lay dead as his cloak all mottled and soaked

 

The wine he had drunk, was before he had stunk

All rosen in red, like the clot in his head

He gave out a sigh as he rose up all high

To watch his old body all riddled and broke.

 

 

Two pennies for heaven and one for his cloak

A debt for the devil and one for his smoke

Let Bill join his brothers and bless his poor mother

I lay down a wreath to give Bill some peace!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


Edited by georgek, 14 August 2013 - 02:46 AM.

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#14 georgek

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Posted 14 August 2013 - 04:10 AM

Cannibal Hector

 

Cannibal Hector first ate his lecturer

 On the last day of school, he no longer could chew.

 

He then ate his sister who gave him a blister

Then spat out her teeth for all her ill grief

After biting the cat, who had eaten his rat

Which Hector had saved and put in a vat

 

Oh Hector poor Hector your teeth have gone bad

Lest you wipe them all clean with brown sauce and some vim

Whatever their state, I wonder in haste,

Why the people you ate, are just not my taste

 

 Lean white and thin or boiled in Gin

Basked in black oil or simmered in foil

Whatever your taste I feel happy to say

That you ate them first, than to let them thirst

 

The drink from a bottle or the pain from a throttle

To knowing what’s right or to gaining some sight

You saw them first whatever their mottle.

 

Best be to Hector who eats them like nectar

Then spits out their bones to the place they call home!

Marked with a stone and all that is known

Except for the cross in place of a throne


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#15 Still Waters

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Posted 14 August 2013 - 11:20 AM

These are good poems georgek. Your latest ones are mostly about death and injury with a touch of humour thrown in.  Where you feeling morbid when you wrote these? :D
 
"Cannibal Hector" especially is a good one.


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#16 georgek

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Posted 14 August 2013 - 03:17 PM

Yes....I do feel morbid.

The humour is 'thrown in' as a sweetener...lol

 

Cannibal Hector, I wrote last night as I sat in front of my computer, wondering what to do?

 

I thought about society and the way that it behaves.

 

We live for six score and ten and all that matters is how we live. 

 

Whilst most people see happiness and success.....I see sadness and failure.

 

I see the curse of having to 'lift one's head above water' to survive another day.

 

You save your money, and there are those who try and steal it legally. It becomes a burden to live; by having to work against a system of corruption.

 

We make our success, by the pain we cause to others. Whether we recognise it, be the devil we embroil that takes both the bad and makes it look good. 

 

No kindness has made a rich man other than be cursed by his fellow man for being  poor.

 

I have been poor and  rich.

 

No one backs a loser, as no success is built by luck, or even be born with it..

 

Cannibal Hector devours his victims and saves them from being tried by man and God for being born.

Then returns the bones that we later worship or respect.

 

 

 

 

cannibal_zpsc915b7cc.jpg

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Verdict

 

dr_phil_you_need_help.jpg


Edited by georgek, 14 August 2013 - 06:31 PM.


#17 georgek

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Posted 19 August 2013 - 01:28 AM

Belief

 

Belief is to right …when all others are wrong

The fight for belief, as the battle goes on

 

To hold your head high at your utmost defeat

Then see all the sky and the right to be free

 

Believe in your heart with the vision to be

When all is revealed that the blind may see.

 

Blindness it seems, is by way of the book

That shows all the maths, but never the paths.

With all the myth legends and all the poor peasants

It’s never too easy to go out and look

 

Tis the sick that are blind who follow the scripts

As to lead them astray, they know all the tricks.

 

Blighted poor horses and coach inns and porches

Dead men and porters and solemn men’s daughters….

They die on the road when there is nowhere to go

Without looking up, they would rather give up.

 

It’s belief that is dead in mother and ox

As neither can see the clock on the wall

Yet still the earth turns; with the silence it looms

As to see through the clouds, I say it out LOUD.


Edited by georgek, 19 August 2013 - 01:33 AM.


#18 georgek

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Posted 02 October 2013 - 04:08 AM

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Memory to Coco

 

You trod so softly into my life…..

And in a moment you were gone.

Never having to speak, you chose your words so gently

Now your silent body all lifeless and dull lies comforting in my arms

Holding you one more time, as I lay you gently against my cheek

Your eyes dimmed with pain, never uttering a word as I hold you tight!

 

Oh my furry friend of whom I knew so well, did life call so brief that I missed your call?

Or did I not see the rain when the sun went down?

To see your body all swathed with towels

My tears rain down, as I kiss you goodnight

 

 

 


Edited by georgek, 02 October 2013 - 04:15 AM.

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#19 Still Waters

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Posted 02 October 2013 - 08:47 AM

Aww :( Nice poem, very touching. I'm sorry for your loss.


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#20 georgek

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Posted 03 October 2013 - 03:15 AM

Thanks 'Still Water' I love cats and rabbits.

 

Coco had been with us for about two years and we found her  slumped in the cage.


Edited by georgek, 03 October 2013 - 03:15 AM.





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