Dear Poet Laureate where’s our poem?

 

 

D4C99235-ED02-4FFE-9F90-70C87986BDFBCarol Ann Duffy have you written a verse

To celebrate the new Royal birth?

It’s hard I know for a child with no name

A tough life in the poetry game.

 

It’s a tough old job but you took the shilling

Have to show up and look half willing.

We often have jobs that we don’t love

We struggle, get by, just do enough.

 

You’re busy perhaps with the wedding one?

Big jobs or small they have to be done.

I’d knock something out before the name

They might give him one that’s hard to rhyme.

 

You know I hope I’m willing to help?

I’m no great poet but can knock out verse

I’ll do my best with a line or two

But won’t be the same as one from you.

You dog, you cur….

animal-dog-pet-dangerous.jpgYou dog, you cur

You insolent pup

I’ll take no more

I’ve had enough!

 

How dare you whine

And snap at me

And offer such

Discourtesy!

 

Who let you out

And off your lead?

How dare the likes of you

Hound me!

 

You slipped your leash

You bared your teeth

How dare you snap

And growl at me!

 

I’ll round you up

I’ll put you down

Come to heel!

How dare you growl.

 

 

via Cur

A response to the Daily Prompt

The Grim Reaper is following you

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A notification once came through

Said, “The Grim Reaper is following you.”

I suspected but now I know it’s true.

He’s behind.

 

So what should an elderly poet do?

It’s hard when you hear he’s following you.

I’m not quitting yet. There’s so much to do.

‘Out my mind!’

 

I’m running hard; my toughest race yet.

Death’s on my tail; won’t let me forget.

I’ve built a good lead. He won’t catch me yet.

Grim Reaper.

 

I can’t run for ever; my pace has to drop;

I know he’ll be on me the moment I stop.

I’ll stay fit and healthy, ahead and on top.

Dig deeper.

 

Forget it Grim Reaper stay well behind

Stay out of my head, don’t mess with my mind.

You may be behind me; I won’t despair.

You can try hard to catch me; 

You’ll be clutching at air.

The Past is Past

arm-woman-hand-girl.jpgThe past is past, it’s gone it’s flown.

No point dwelling on regret;

It won’t come back. The chance’s blown.

 

For all we sit and sigh and groan.

However much we sit and fret.

The past is past, it’s gone it’s flown.

 

The things back then we wished we’d known

Lessons we learned we won’t forget.

It won’t come back the chance’s blown.

 

There may be chances to atone

A different option, better bet.

The past is past, it’s gone, its flown.

 

We learned the lessons we have grown

The future hasn’t happened yet

There’ll be new chances not yet blown.

 

Let go the past, though don’t forget

We’ll grasp the future not yet met.

The past is past, it’s gone it’s flown 

The future we will make our own.

Great news from Dee Kelly – Thriving not Surviving

Quite unexpectedly, my book is available NOW for pre-order on Amazon! The actual release date is Saturday 4/28 so you won’t be waiting long! Thriving Not Surviving: Bravely Pursue a Life That Will Blow Your Mind! After much hard work I have been able to publish well ahead of my self-imposed deadline….And you, my reader, […]

via Today: Announcing Exciting Results, After a Last Minute Frenzy — Thriving Not Surviving

Once

Once God sent a lightning bolt

An angel or a plague or two.

That’s fair enough cos then you’d know

That God had got fed up with you.

 

Now it’s an idiot in a truck

Or with a knife to carve you up.

I wish to God that they would stop;

These beasts with nothing much up top.

 

God’s rules are for the good of man

You shouldn’t mess with His great plan.

But is it part of God’s great plan

to leave his work to such a man?

 

It’s through the ‘work’ of such as these

We shame to say that we believe.

If you must work for God above

Then set your self to work for love!

 

Why do they think Almighty God

needs them to shed an innocent’s blood?

If God should choose to intervene;

it’ll be on them he vents his spleen!

St. George’s Day

271B3507-891E-4481-8976-7746D09AE34F
St. George’s Day Celebrations – April 23rd – Photo from Coventry Telegraph

He got about did our Saint George

Can it be true he’s from abroad?

I guess, but for the dragon thing

They never would have chosen him.

 

They chose him for his slaying skills

The very man to cure our ills

To keep all dragons from our shore

There are no dragons anymore.

 

They say that he was born a Turk

But went to Rome in search of work.

A Roman soldier on a horse

He slew a dragon in due course.

 

England’s long past celebrating

Leave that to the other nations.

We are scared to wave our flag

Lest they think we’re fascist thugs.

 

It’s used for things we can’t support

So only gets brought out for sport.

The Welsh, the Irish and the Scots

Wave their flags but we can not.

 

Nationalism’s just not cricket.

Can’t be English only British.

No patriotism that’s deeply felt.

We have to leave that to the celts.

 

Three cheers today is George’s day

Whose flag we wave when we’re at play.

So raise your glass and drink to him,

The knight who did the dragon in.