I look in the mirror
It isn’t me.
Where is the person
I’m meant to be?
I stare back at accusing eyes;
I swear the face in the mirror cries.
How did I earn the face I see?
Is this the person I meant to be?
It feels I’m leading another’s life
Who is that person, who is me?
Your Majesty I’m wondering
If you got my note?
I volunteered for Laureate
But haven’t heard back yet.
I know you’re really busy
With weddings and such stuff
But spare a thought for Poets
Our life can be quite rough.
I’m practicing my poems
And some are really good
I’d like to write a few for you
So get back if you could.
Perhaps you didn’t see my note
It’s very hard to know
So just in case, I thought it best
To have another go.
A poet bleeds and breaks his heart
Spills it out on paper
The reader spares a passing glance
And treats it like a favour.
All the anxt and heartbreak there
The intellectual labour
Keep your troubles to yourself
Or share them with a neighbour.
Spare a penny if you’re kind
Spare it for a busker.
Nothing for the poet though
Empty words and bluster.
Skip around the mulberry bush,
Dance and skip and caper.
Another poem in the book
Isn’t worth the paper.
A poet has to get to work.
A stanza here; the odd few lines.
Just get it down. What’s on your mind?
Find a rhythm, maybe rhyme.
There’s worse work for a man to do.
There’s some-must earn their corn you know.
Just get it down. Don’t think it through.
The words are there but how’d they go?
Does rhyme need reason, conscious thought?
Don’t stop to think who’ll want to read?
Unconscious scribbles, last resort.
Will this suffice or must I bleed?
None of my work is any good
You needn’t read; but if you should
Remember not to copy it.
It’s all my own, stuff what I wrote.
Everything is copyright
So no one has a legal right
To copy or to steal my stuff
I’m really fearful that you might!
If you achieve celebrity
Stealing stuff what’s written by me
It really won’t be very fair.
So leave my stuff. Just don’t you dare!
You may think that I’m paranoid
But steal my stuff I’ll get annoyed!
I’d hate if you got rich and famous.
Stealing my stuff; that’s really heinous!
Please like or leave a comment if you enjoy reading my work but DON’T under any circumstances copy. It’s rubbish and spreading it across the internet would be a public disservice.
Curse the coffee cups and spoons
The yellow fog, the window panes
Curse the dying of the light
Curse the rage against the night.
Curse daffodils, satanic mills
Pleasure domes, the albatross,
Comparisons to summer day
The last man in, an hour to play.
Curse roads divergent in a wood,
The knock upon a moonlit door
The airman’s helmet and the hawk
Painted women and their talk.
Curse Gunga Din, curse Kubla Khan,
Curse the Tiger burning bright.
Curse Dulce Et Decorum Est
Let Drummer Hodge not find his rest.
Unstop the clocks, unmuffle drums
Forget the honey with your tea.
Forget the grin of bitterness,
The look of rooms returning thence.
Forget the friendly bombs on Slough
And men in brightly lit canteens.
Curse the damns of your content
The crumpling floods that force a vent.
Zero hour will never come,
We won’t ride a merry go round
Or Whitsun train that’s late away.
We won’t be naming parts today.
Stop the cannons, stop the charge,
Stop Hiawatha in mid song.
The eye will simply look on glass
It won’t look through; it shall not pass.
No knock kneed men will cough like hags
Three will never meet again.
Blood stained hands will be washed clean
And woods won’t come to Dunsinane.
Too many words crammed in my head
The rhythms dance, the cadence strong
I need new words to call my own
My head rings with another’s song.
My favourite coffee cup of the moment. Click the image link to get yours on Amazon.
Listen up youth to what I’m sayin’
Cos I’m long in the tooth and I ain’t playin’.
Got a gammy knee been pensioned off
I ain’t Hip Hop more like hip op.
A burden on the NHS
Wastin’ my time with guff like this.
Get me a stair lift, zimmer frame
Too old n’ stiff for party time
Kind of past it – know what I mean?’
‘Get Down with tha youth’ just ain’t my scene.
Hate Hip Hop – am more into tunes
Dodgey dad dancing – playin’ the goon.
Kind of tiresome getting old
Past your bed time, feeling cold.
Shuffle off grandad, had your day
No one’s listnin’ to what you say.
Can’t quite cut it any more
Legs are tired and feet are sore.
Listen up youth it’s comin’ to you
Ain’t gonna tell you what to do.
Just make the most of what you got
Got your youth, got your health, you got the lot.
Past my prime, the ‘best before’ date.
Get the most out of life before it’s too late.
Done it my way, now try yours
Creepn’ outta here on all fours.
Spun around some, done my bit
Good while it lasted, guess that’s it
Exit left, don’t need no applause
Done my stuff, stage is all yours.
Among my favourite examples of over complicated English are the signs of the platform of what was an international station saying, ‘Do not alight here’.
Do not alight here
There’s a sign as you pull into the station
It says,’do not alight here’.
No need for an explanation
You’re sure to know what it means?
We don’t want you planning to set it alight
We don’t want it set on fire
Be careful with your matches
Don’ set the place ablaze.
Or could they have kept it simpler
Said what they meant to say?
If they don’t want us getting off the train
Why don’t they just say?
Say what you mean
Mean what you say
Use much simpler words.
So confusing for foreigners
When you use such arcane words
You don’t need to say
‘Do not alight’
When you just mean
‘Don’t get off’!
Narrow lanes to country farmhouse
Isolated, rural splendid,
Penned beneath the Dorset hills.
Morning runs between the hedgerows
Wild flowers, birdsong, seldom cars.
Sorties out to pebbled beaches
Warmed by gentle English sun.
Fossil hunting, coastal footpaths,
Farmhouse eating, barnyard fun.
One last day in bed and breakfast
Then return towards congestion
Drive back through the summer rain.
Submitted by Andrew Green
Narrow lanes to country farmhouse
Isolated, rural splendid,
Penned beneath the Dorset hills.
Morning runs between the hedgerows
Wild flowers, birdsong, seldom cars.
View original post 35 more words
I posted this first on Wattpad where it provoked an interesting discussion.
Pistol Packin’ Teachers
I’m a pistol packin’ teacher
It’s best you don’t forget!
Mess around in my class
You know just what you’ll get!
There is no corporal punishment
That wouldn’t make no sense.
Just be sure you don’t commit
A capital offence!
Will be no use complain’n
If you’re reported ‘late’
We teach em Christian values
And fightin’ hate with hate.
Andrew Green's Poems 