I'm not really one for poetry myself so here I thought we can post our own work and those of others that we like. Always remember to include the authors name, and the date it was written if you know it.

This is one of my favourites:

Very little is
more worth our time
than understanding
the talent of Substance.
.....
A bee, a living bee,
at the windowglass, trying to get out, doomed,
it can't understand.

Stan Rice (1976)

Dont know who wrote this and may get it slighty wrong but I remember this poem from my school days and has always been my favourite for some reason...

A man of words is not of deeds
Its like a garden full of weeds
And when the weeds begin to grow
Its like a garden full of snow
And when the snow begins to fall
Its like a brick upon the wall
And when the wall begins to crack
Its like a stick upon your back
And when you back begins to smart
Its like a penknife in your heart
And when your heart begins to bleed
Your dead and dead and dead indeed

Hey thats cheery eh !!!

Nice Pippa! I like the particularly happy ending on that one!

I have a rhyme that was my favourite for as long as I can remember. My nan used to recite it to me and it was orginally found in my "Childrens 301 Bumper Nursery Rhymes" book, sorry no idead who wrote it, but here goes;

Mrs Mason bought a basin
Mrs Tyson said "Ohh what a nice 'un"
"What did it cost?" asked Mrs Frost
" Half a crown," said Mrs Brown
"Did it indeed?" asked Mrs Reed
"It did for certain" said Mrs Burton
Then Mrs Nicks
Up to her tricks
Threw the basin on the bricks

LOL Sorry but this always made me giggle when I was little and thought I would share it with everyone else! (it may have helped that my nan used to do different voices for all the people in it!)

This is one of my own poems which i wrote some time in the late 80's/early 90's.




The Girl (K.J)

A young girl of seventeen,
So nieve she couldn't have seen,
Seen the part she'd taken on,
Just one night and all would be gone.

She wasn't there to be abused,
Wasn't there to be used,
But one selfish remark from someone bold,
Turned this girl to something cold.

He left the girl in crisis state,
Never the intention to stop and wait,
Never the intention to see her out,
He turned his back and blew her out.

And when the decision was finally made,
The girl never forgave the price she paid,
The price she paid without a say,
To have part of her taken away.

And to this very day the girl still dreams,
Of something she wants or so it seems,
Or so it seems of another so bold,
Without a care and a heart so cold.

Mary had a little lamb, she tied it to a pylon
A thousand volts shot up its arse and turned its wool to nylon

I like Prom's a lot, not going to say anything about Pippa's last post; which, ironically, is actually like saying something I suppose...

Thank you Mal

I used to write a lot of poetry in my younger years but then i just lost the ability to, just couldn't get the words to flow any more. I have a portfolio with about 30 or so poems in it, which i will filter through this forum from time to time.

One of my favourite poems was written by Henry Scott Holland, Canon of St Pauls Cathederal (1847 - 191. I guess the reason i like this poem is because of my spiritual side and i find the poem rather comforting.



Death is nothing at all

"DEATH is nothing at all. I have only
slipped away into the next room. I am I, and
you are you. Whatever we were to each other,
that we still are. Call me by my old familiar
name, speak to me in the easy way which you
always used. Put no difference in your tone,
wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.
Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes
we enjoyed together. Let my name be ever the
household word that it always was, let it be
spoken without effort, without the trace of a
shadow on it. Life means all that it ever
meant. It is the same as it ever was; there is
unbroken continuity. Why should i be out of
mind because I am out of sight? I am waiting
for you, for an interval, somewhere very near,
just round the corner.
All is well."


When i pop my cloggs, i would like this read at my funeral.

me too! (at mine I mean) Or on a similar note by Tennyson, 1889; three years before he died.

Crossing the Bar
SUNSET and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the
boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and
Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.

Not much of a poem fan, 'cept this poem sticks in my mind. It's a Wilfred Owen poem, written on the front line of WW1. Morbid and depressing, this is the most visual poem I think I've ever read. Gives, in my opinion, more of a shock an opening of the eyes as to what war is like than any film or re-telling. My English teacher made us study it, quite intensively, which is probably why it makes such an impact on me.

Dulce Et Decorum Est
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.


Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!-An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.


In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.


If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,-
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Wilfred Owen.

Hello D'baser, nice to see you. Wish I was better at Latin; do you know what it means, Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori?

something like, sweet and decorative, he is home country's fashion. Hmm, probably miles off, worse than Yoda English

something a bit brighter by an Australian poet called, Norm Davis.

Each Life may bear its pattern,
Each mind may think alone;
Each picture tells a story,
We may share or make our own.

We can live just for excitement,
We can live for health and joy;
We can live to be a rebel,
We can create or just destroy.

We can go along with nature,
And enjoy her lovely ways;
We can bring about disaster,
By our living standard craze.

Which ever way we like it,
We each can make our choice;
We can wallow in illusion,
Or tune in to nature's voice.