Rather Than Twiddle Your Thumbs, Write A Poem...

[poetsbumcheeks]

PROGRESS

Is it another landfill full?
Of VHS, Betamax and audio tape cassettes.
Of credit maxed out,
and another year,
of regrets.

Or of cosmetic alteration?
So paper thin that the cracks,
Begin to show,
Before the wounds even heal,
You can't simply forget,
Or ignore how you feel.

Or is it going faster?
And faster and faster.

Prescribed a pill to smile,
Prescribed a pill to sleep,
Prescribed a pill to wake up,
Deadlines to meet.

Buy, lie and buy,
The latest and greatest,
Don't be too late,
Or you might never make it.

You've got to go,
Faster and faster and faster.

Destruction of the old,
Is the welcoming of the new,
New catalogue, new season,
Red's the new blue.

 

[poetsbumcheeks]

The Unsaid

all the things,
we will never say.
All the things that remain,
locked inside,
all the things we feel,
we have to hide.

It seems,
some are not at ease with feelings,
some are not inclined to thinking.
so all the things we say instead,
is simply the way we deal,
with the great, great unsaid.

 

[poetsbumcheeks]

Music

Is but a candle that burns out,
The song must end.
The feeling must drift,
And float away.
The dust must settle,
On another day.

Somewhere within there will always,
be the promise.
Of better day or another place,
And somehow expressed;
Is understanding,
And the soundtrack,
tO the possibility of freedom.

 

[poetsbumcheeks]

Vegetables

Brightly coloured,
When not overboiled.
Full of vitamins,
when not pushed beyond,
Tasty vitality.

A vegetable,
one who is dumb,
stupid and numb.
Politically incorrect,
Wheelchair bound.

Or a question,
in a game outside,
my lifetime.
Not a trivial pursuit,
in this case,
not concerned with fruit.

Mashed,
Pureed,
Sauted,
Boiled,
Or Steamed,
The question,
Is Vegetable.
What does it mean?

 

[poetsbumcheeks]

The Lesser of Two Evils?

The newspaper,
The 411,
Should perhaps,
For right or wrong;
Be a nation,
In conversation,
With itself.
That is to say,
Communicating,
Not fornicating,
With titiillation.
But offering the nation,
Some justification,
For its more privately disclosed,
Education.
Is it censorship that brings about?
Two ultimate choices;
The personal or the political,
Red topped and certainly red-blooded?
Or the broad sheeted,
Hard to hold,
And without doubt,
Goddamn Hard to swallow!
I don't know,
If its just easier,
To choose,
Between black or white,
And the lesser of the two?

 

[Moley]

The Lesser of Two Evils?

The newspaper,
The 411,
Should perhaps,
For right or wrong;
Be a nation,
In conversation,
With itself.
That is to say,
Communicating,
Not fornicating,
With titiillation.
But offering the nation,
Some justification,
For its more privately disclosed,
Education.
Is it censorship that brings about?
Two ultimate choices;
The personal or the political,
Red topped and certainly red-blooded?
Or the broad sheeted,
Hard to hold,
And without doubt,
Goddamn Hard to swallow!
I don't know,
If its just easier,
To choose,
Between black or white,
And the lesser of the two?

Which field of Ireland are you from?

 

[poetsbumcheeks]

1st left off the ferry, keep on going till you get to a pub called 'o'hara's'. ask the irishman leaning against the gate on the right of the pub called seamus where the moat house is, go completely the opposite way and there you shall find a field. the one just down the road on the 3rd left by a phone box is mine.

p.b.cheeks

 

[Moley]

Ahhhhhhhhhhhh..........I know it well

 

[db]

is it the one next to the peat bogs, at the end of the rainbow? aye, i think i know where you mean

 

[Moley]

Jesus, Mary and Joseph..............I'm Feckn' homesick now........:meh:

 

[db]

lol

Stafford Forum: Destroying Stereotypes since 2007â„¢

 

[poetsbumcheeks]

never trust an irishman moley, unless you be one yourself...!

 

[poetsbumcheeks]

Cat Of Mine

We rocked,
And then we rolled.
Then we made,
A ham sandwich.
We moved,
And sung;
Then We talked,
About the biggest,
The biggest brain.
SInging songs,
MOst of these men,
Most of these men,
Seem like Serfs,
For what its worth.

 

[Alan B'Stard]

Emo's

Emo's
all around
sometimes up
sometimes down
But always around
Emo's
are you coming to my town
or am I coming to yours?
We're on different buses, Emo's
but we're both using petrol
BOMBS

(shamelessly plagarised from The Young Ones)

 

[poetsbumcheeks]

Emo's Pt 57

Poor bastards,
Ridiculed and mocked,
Unwittingly marketed,
Conformist rebellion,
Of faux-sensitive rock.

Wanting to be cool,
And needing to be scene,
Waiting to grow up,
And finally be free,
Of failing to get pissed without fake id.

Easy targets,
These nice boys and girls,
Still unsure of their way in the world;
The way they mope around and flick their hair,
With a face that says no-one understands or even cares.

Made-up teenagers,
Dream machines,
Painted nails and heroines,
Emotions and stakes running sky high,
Who knows what will be considered cool next time.

 

[poetsbumcheeks]

Happiness

Is it a far and distant land?
Forever alluded to and never reached;
Forever promised,
But never given without a receipt.
A marketing tool,
Cod-spirituality,
Never adhered to,
But the purchase of the literature,
Is certainly a start,
In matters of love,
And affairs of the heart.

Could it be a stand?
A state of mind,
That exists out of time.
A refusal to be governed,
By forces all around,
That tell you where it is,
That the good life should be found.
It might be up a mountain,
With the greatest of views.
It may lie behind closed doors,
Never to be witnessed,
Intimately comfortable,
A more effortless christmas.

Smiles as rebellion,
Why should we be controlled,
Lets suffer and test the world without tears,
Its good to see a man,
Fighting through his fears.
Testimony to the human spirit,
Is life reclaimed;
We might be out of sync,
Or born in a hole,
We might try too hard to be normal,
As if that was the goal.
We may come to believe,
The boundaries that surround,
Are the same all over the world,
As in our own home town.

 

[poetsbumcheeks]

Best of All Possible Worlds

If it is;
Then we have nothing left do?
A History of politics,
Leaves a littered autumn.
Of ideologies,
Tried, tested and discarded.
Brown and dying,
And rotting underfoot,
Perhaps awaiting genetic modification,
To be tested again,
After the fall,
Of the latest super-power,
Shooting above its station.

If this is the best,
Of all possible worlds;
Why do we speak,
So uneasily,
Overflowing with resentment,
About our leaders.
Why are the gripes and swipes,
Of middle England
So petty and unfounded.
Like children,
Deprived of cake.
With opinions balanced,
Precariously between innocence,
And self-righteous indignation.

That's not to say,
This world or even country,
Is not unkind or unjust.
And spiteful and unsure of itself,
Like a playground bully;
Claiming power
Over friendship,
And money over understanding.
How do we choose that anyone,
Has the right at all,
To deal;
In global reprimanding.

 

[Mrs M]

This was written by myself and my children a couple of Halloweens ago.


A Halloween poem

In count Dracula’s castle,
In the middle of the night.
The vampires woke quite hungry to the honcho vamps delight
They scoured around for this and that, nothing but the odd old rat
Suddenly a knock came at the door,
Who could it be, dinner for Four?
It was a young man all alone
He’d got no signal on his mobile phone
He came across the old vamps castle
Looking for a phone, not wanting hassle
They invited him in and got him sorted
Almost there but they were thwarted
He was sent a text, Signal was stronger
He needed not a phone no longer
Van helsing here the text did say,
Get out, get out and wait ‘til day,
If you don’t get out so very soon,
You also will live by the beckoning moon
The young man he did soon discover
Of the vampire’s, one was his missing brother,
Was he to late to save his kin?
Or would old drac’ the vampire win
Time to get out his bag of tricks
His holy water and crucifix
A few good prayers and wishes make
Some garlic cloves and a wooden stake
The sun is rising times almost out
For the old decrepit vampire scout
The hand is raised stake at the ready
Mallet poised hands are steady
The beams of light come rushing in
Cries of pain a vampire din
Yelling, screaming a right furore
The light is coming in through the door
No longer is a coffin the place to hide the light of day is coming inside
One strike, two, three and four
The stake is driven more and more
This is the last of the evil one
And released the soul of my fathers son
The others decompose so fast
Drac’ is gone, hoping it will last
No more drinking blood for him, no more screams of a vampire din, he can start his life anew, no longer belonging to a chosen few.

 

[Mrs M]

Here is a soppy one I did for my Mum and Dad's anniversary 14 years ago, just before my dad died. It's sometimes hard to say what you want and I'm not usually the soppy kind so I found it easier to write it down. It's not for all of you but some might like it.


I don’t often say ‘I Love You’
I don’t often show I care
But I hope you know I’m grateful
For the times that you’ve been there
When I have really needed you
And needed some advice
Not always easily taken
But then I’ve paid the price
Though all you said was taken in
I never would admit
That I was wrong and you were right
And I was in the shit
You’ve always been there for me
In the good times and the bad
I’m so proud of the two of you
You’re the bestest Mum and Dad
Just one more thing I have to say
So, thank you Mum and Dad
I Love you very, very much
You see, I’m not so bad.

 

[Mrs M]

some prose i suppose...

Who the F**k Are ya?

...who the feck am i? Who the feck are you? the eternal question of philosophers, psychologists, therapists, sages and fuckwits the world over for more than a thousand years...have we got any closer to this answer?...Mr Jones knows he is an accountant, his wife; the lovely Mrs Jones, knows she works part-time in a flower shop...not full-time on account of her bad hip (she's waiting for an operation)...the two of them with this insightful knowledge are utterly convinced that they are most unlike Craig and Tracy Stubbs two streets away because Tracy is a full-time cleaner and Craig is unemployed (Mrs Jones always sees him in his garden at lunchtime because she finishes at 12.30pm) and Craig and Tracy swear a lot....the Stubbs's next door neighbour is Major Thompstone an old WW2 veteran....Tracy knows she rather likes the lovely old man but Craig knows differently...the Major suffers from poor hearing due to the exposure of his aging ear drums to so much gun-fire in the 'prime of his life'(so the Stubbs's swearing goes over his head), yet he still has a strong penchant for old military music...which he plays very loudly during the day while Tracy is out at work...the reason it drives Craig mad is because he suffers from perpetual migraines that keep him out of work...sometimes the Major goes for coffee at Mrs Jones house on a Sunday morning where he will often chat to Mr Jones about the Cricket...both of them feel Cricket is a Gentleman's game and they draw comfort from this knowing themselves to be somewhat 'Gentlemen' by association...however Mr Hardy next door, a male nurse regularly describes Mr Jones as an 'ignorant wanker' to all and sundry due to his continuous use of more than his allotted car parking spaces (Mr Jones has 3 cars, Mr Hardy has a Mini)....Mr Hardy knows damn well that he would never be so rude and arrogant because his Mother brought him up to learn respect for others....the Major often publicly ridicules Mr Hardy because he is a male nurse, though only behind his back... Mr Hardy is also close friends with Ruth, who lives opposite him they get on very well; primarily due a to shared interest in Sado-Masochism and the fact that Ruth's got her own gimp suit...Ruth's husband knows precisely feck all.....

Sorry to bring stuff up from a while back, but I like poetry, rhymes etc and as I like to write the odd one myself I thought i'd read right through this thread. Then I got to this, and in the words of Joannie Taylor, (Catherine tates old lady), 'What a lot of old shit'. Sorry bumcheeks Lighten up. I'm an educated person but nothing prepared me for this. Toooooooooo much.