Poems - Short poems

I am not a badge of honour,
I am not a racist smear,
I am not a fashion statement,
To be worn but once a year,
I am not glorification
Of conflict or of war.
I am not a paper ornament
A token,
I am more.
I am a loving memory,
Of a father or a son,
A permanent reminder
Of each and every one.
I'm paper or enamel
I'm old or shining new,
I'm a way of saying thank you,
To every one of you.
I am a simple poppy
A Reminder to you all,
That courage faith and honour,
Will stand where heroes fall.

poppy_3491899b.jpg
 
Mary had a little skirt, with splits right up the sides.
And everywhere that Mary went, the boys could see her thighs.

Mary had another skirt, 'twas split right up the front...
But she didn't wear that one often.
 
Time, it passes everyday
The world goes round, come what may.
Time, it passes, anyway
Live, your life, have your day.


That's one I just wrote for you. Cherish it.
 
There was a young man from Brazil
Who swallowed an dynamite pill
His bum back fired
His belly retired
And his penis flew over the hill
 
my own recent one;

I wish I were here,
I haven't been myself for a very long time,
My body doesn't work,
Only my mind
ice cream dreams, melted away , just as sand castles that once touched the sky,
gritty ruins, crumbled at the end of the day
sat in this wheelchair
thoughts linger,
like sunburnt postcards sent from a girl i used to know.


I put the poem through ai songy, it hallucinated some extra stuff, but I quite like it anyway here
 
Last edited:
Threepwood said:
my own recent one;

I wish I were here,
I haven't been myself for a very long time,
My body doesn't work,
Only my mind
ice cream dreams, melted away , just as sand castles that once touched the sky,
gritty ruins, crumbled at the end of the day
sat in this wheelchair
thoughts linger,
like sunburnt postcards sent from a girl i used to know.


I put the poem through ai songy, it hallucinated some extra stuff, but I quite like it anyway here
Click to expand...

Hope you're well buddy <3
 
A ghazal* (kind of)

Leader of the clan. He’s the two-wheel superman, Triumph Bonneville.

You're a Brando, Dean or McQueen, an actor, a man, Triumph Bonneville.



The ride of a tee shirted man, deadpan, a girl in tight jeans sat behind.

Mechanic, black belt seventh dan. The spannerman, Triumph Bonneville.



Single cylinder enthusiasts, will scan, BSA Goldstar, Velocette Thruxton,

or a Manx Norton for the track, he is no Bonnie fan, Triumph Bonneville.



Named for an ancient sea, hard packed saltpan in North-western Utah.

This Bonneville legend, twin carburettors, two wheeled, Triumph Bonneville.



In cherry red paint or blue or maybe even golden tan with silver and chrome.

You've made the scene. You have fore-ran, you're in the van, Triumph Bonneville.



On a run with some friends to the coast for some fun, top up the suntan,

ride like a wild man, on the hard pan, sup from a can, Triumph Bonneville.



A course is set, from traffic lights to the roundabout and back, the plan,

full on. Outrun the lawman, wheelie like a stuntman, Triumph Bonneville.



The moment comes to ride no more. The final score, no future plan.

The chequered flag? ‘it's in the bag, man’, Triumph Bonneville.


*amatory poem of Persian origin, subverted. :D
 
And another one.

An ode to walking boots

1 My walking boots you've carried me,
To the highest points on our nation land,
Along pathways that to all are free,
In orange and silver, you are not bland,
Italian leather and made to measure,
For climbing, rambling and to stand,
On Striding Edge, Helvellyn’s access door,
To step from rock to rock, each flank a drop,
Too awesome to focus ‘til my footing's sure,
At the wide breast of the penultimate stop,
After the zig zag pathway to the summit crest
Appears in the cloud through a hazy backdrop,
A rough stone cruciform of a wall to rest,
Behind, as the wind and rain do jest.

2 February follows January’s freeze,
Snowfall crests the ridgeline edge,
And cornices grow in the stiff breeze,
The walker must find the rocky ledge,
Under white ice and wind-blown rime,
This is not a place to slip and sledge,
My walking boots it is their time,
Four seasons were promised, the best is now,
But cleated soles are now not prime,
Stiff soles with crampons, an axe endow,
The walker with confidence to strut on ice,
With a thrill he cries, an eagle now,
He gains the summit, the noble edifice,
Standing atop but safe above the precipice.

3. Snowy fields give way to spring, melting, pelting down the slopes,
Paths are streams, streams to raging torrents swell,
Boggy hollow’s fill and brim, over these my body lopes,
My boots dispel, sweat and moisture from the fell,
Time to stop, enjoy the view, light the stove, make a brew,
Pack up now and ready to go, check for litter, say farewell.
Onward, upward to the top then turning to the rendezvous,
Friends and companions, at the end, sitting tired, and inspired,
Decision time now where to go, cafe, pub and curry house too,
Around the fireplace, old pictures are admired,
Bearded faces, tweedy clothes, carrying rope, in walking boots,
Hobnails too, how did they do, so attired,
Now to discuss next week’s routes,
Where to take my walking boots.

01/2019
 

Ode to Spot​

Felis catus is your taxonomic nomenclature,An endothermic quadruped, carnivorous by nature;Your visual, olfactory, and auditory senses Contribute to your hunting skills and natural defenses.

I find myself intrigued by your subvocal oscillations,A singular development of cat Communication that obviates your basic hedonistic Predilection for a rhythmic stroking of your fur to demonstrate affection.

A tail is quite essential for your acrobatic talents;You would not be so agile if you lacked its counterbalance. And when not being utilized to aid in locomotion,It often serves to illustrate the state of your emotion.

O Spot, the complex levels of behavior you display Connote a fairly well-developed cognitive array.And though you are not sentient, Spot, and do not comprehend,I nonetheless consider you a true and valued friend
 
Last edited:
this one is for my dad, may he RIP


then turn it out
for this is how it will be
light a candle of memories,
I won't blow it out
for this is how it will be,
it will be darker without you
for this is how it will be,
This is how it will be,
how it will be.
 
Last edited:
gandhi said:
There was a young man from Dundee
Who was stung on the hand by a wasp,
When asked 'does it hurt?'
He said 'no not much,
It can do it again if it likes'
Click to expand...
This is just glorious stuff. Please more of this.

:edit: good lord it's a 9 year old thread.
 
Last edited:
This one by Carol Ann Duffy always stuck with me, living rent free in my head.

*****

The most unusual thing I ever stole? A snowman.
Midnight. He looked magnificent; a tall, white mute
beneath the winter moon. I wanted him, a mate
with a mind as cold as the slice of ice
within my own brain. I started with the head.
Better off dead than giving in, not taking
what you want. He weighed a ton; his torso,
frozen stiff, hugged to my chest, a fierce chill
piercing my gut. Part of the thrill was knowing
that children would cry in the morning. Life's tough.
Sometimes I steal things I don't need. I joy-ride cars
to nowhere, break into houses just to have a look.
I'm a mucky ghost, leave a mess, maybe pinch a camera.
I watch my gloved hand twisting the doorknob.
A stranger's bedroom. Mirrors. I sigh like this - Aah.
It took some time. Reassembled in the yard,
he didn't look the same. I took a run
and booted him. Again. Again. My breath ripped out
in rags. It seems daft now. Then I was standing
alone among lumps of snow, sick of the world.
Boredom. Mostly I'm so bored I could eat myself.
One time, I stole a guitar and thought I might
learn to play. I nicked a bust of Shakespeare once,
flogged it, but the snowman was the strangest.
You don't understand a word I'm saying, do you?
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back
Top Bottom