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A nice night for some poetry....

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By (user no longer on site) OP   
over a year ago

We are the music-makers, 

And we are the dreamers of dreams, 

Wandering by lone sea-breakers, 

And sitting by desolate streams. 

World-losers and world-forsakers, 

Upon whom the pale moon gleams; 

Yet we are the movers and shakers, 

Of the world forever, it seems. 

With wonderful deathless ditties 

We build up the world's great cities, 

And out of a fabulous story 

We fashion an empire's glory: 

One man with a dream, at pleasure, 

Shall go forth and conquer a crown; 

And three with a new song's measure 

Can trample an empire down. 

We, in the ages lying 

In the buried past of the earth, 

Built Nineveh with our sighing, 

And Babel itself with our mirth; 

And o'erthrew them with prophesying 

To the old of the new world's worth; 

For each age is a dream that is dying, 

Or one that is coming to birth. 

(Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy)

And with the beautiful words of the aforementioned poet I bid the forums adieu.

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By *iamondsmiles.Woman
over a year ago

little house on the praire

Thought this would be a good one for tonight

The raven - edgar allan poe

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By *ushroom7Man
over a year ago

Bradford

Mary had a little pig

she could not stop it grunting

she led it down the garden path

and kicked the little runt in.

No one said it had to be intelligent did they?

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By (user no longer on site)
over a year ago

See yer Pauly...take care mucker..

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By (user no longer on site)
over a year ago

Following on Mushrooms line of poetry

Hickory Dickory dock

the mouse ran up the clock

The mouse ran down

his arse was brown

And so was the cuckoo's cock

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By (user no longer on site)
over a year ago

jack and jill went up the hill

to fetch a pail of water

jill forgot to take the pill

and now they have a daughter

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By *lackboaWoman
over a year ago

greenock

I wish i was a glowworm

A glowworm's never glum

'Cos how can you be gloomy

When the sun shines out yer bum?

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By *razydriver8Couple
over a year ago

plymouth

i eat my peas with honey

i've done it all my life

it makes the peas taste funny

but it keeps them on me knife.

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By *razydriver8Couple
over a year ago

plymouth

i found this one on the net..lol

Coming Unstuck

If you surf the Internet

For the obscene

You may end up, literally,

Glued to your screen

Copyright © Patrick Winstanley

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By (user no longer on site)
over a year ago

I love poetry but as soon as I see the words Nineveh, or Babel, or Quinquireme or some other such garbled nonentity in a poem that has no earthly place being there I stop and shudder and think: Does this poet understand verse at all, or does he subscribe to modernist ideals (of his time) because it's 'trendy' to do so and thus forsake the art of poetry in return for something that although in the short term can be very rewarding it leaves much less value to those that read it long after the poet has left this world.

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By *emmefataleWoman
over a year ago

dirtybigbadsgirlville

A crunch: afoot a dead arachnid

Spanning once a serving plate –

Oh! that others be alive

With such as me for spider bait!

I slunk along the silent hall

Of ancient ore attired in grime –

Feculent beyond the nose;

No bearing here, nor feel for time.

I shuddered in appreciation –

The ambience would mortify

A feeble mind, aghast, opined

Of murky thought, and typify

The will of Belial err I brought

Upon myself to loathe and dread

Exquisite retribution: to linger

Oftentimes alive, then dead.

Compulsion saw me edging on

Toward a narrow door of oak.

Behind, I knew, a greater evil

Waiting in her fusty cloak.

A choice of nil upon the table;

Aught of leave, I had to face

Alone the shrew – her flaming aura

Angling me; my deep disgrace

From ugly deeds I dealt in life,

A heinous world I honed in glee…

'Now take a crooked path to death,

For I have come to torture thee! '

Out of eyes of orange flame,

A piercing glare, then here it came –

The cackling cry of chanting song:

'You thought you'd die alone in pain

The once – nay nay! you'll die with me,

And so a catch: you'll die again

Ad infinitum - ever be!

Your soul to curse, my heart we'll gore,

Your liver to draw and quarter;

A sadomasochistic pair,

We'll slither together in slaughter! '

I answered only with a scream, from

Sensing near her craving lust.

My crimes to answer; wrongs annul;

Renounce my soul and turn to dust...

On an evening cool and quiet,

Stretch an ear to listen tight –

Are you lucky of a moment –?

Hark! my clarion call of plight.

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By *yrdwomanWoman
over a year ago

Putting the 'cum' in Eboracum


"Following on Mushrooms line of poetry

Hickory Dickory dock

the mouse ran up the clock

The mouse ran down

his arse was brown

And so was the cuckoo's cock"

Hickory dickory dock

The mice ran up the clock

The clock struck one

But the other got away with minor injuries.

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By *emima_puddlefuckCouple
over a year ago

hexham

Walking today i thought nothing describes Autumn better

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

II

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,

Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a brook;

Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

III

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

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By (user no longer on site)
over a year ago

Under the spreading chestnut tree

the village idiot sat

amusing himself

by abusing himself

and catching it in his hat!

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By (user no longer on site)
over a year ago

Love most potent in ardent embrace,

Usurped within a fiery passion,

Spent - like a match - and then cast aside,

Tossed upon the coals of love's endeavour.

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By *o Peep n WoodyCouple
over a year ago

suffolk

This was one of my Dad's favs

The boy stood on the burning deck

picking his nose with a pin

he rolled it into little balls

and sold it tuppence a tin

or

The boy stood on the burning deck

eating red hot scallops

he dropped one down his trouser leg

and nearly burnt his bollocks

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By (user no longer on site)
over a year ago

The boy stood on the burning deck

His legs were all a quiver

He gave a cough

And one fell

And floated down the river.

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