Poems you love and want to share

And less serious;

THE LION AND ALBERT
There’s a famous seaside place called Blackpool,
That’s noted for fresh air and fun,
And Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom
Went there with young Albert, their son.

A grand little lad was young Albert,
All dressed in his best; quite a swell
With a stick with an ‘orse’s ‘ead ‘andle,
The finest that Woolworth’s could sell.

They didn’t think much to the Ocean:
The waves, they was fiddlin’ and small,
There was no wrecks and nobody drownded,
Fact, nothing to laugh at at all.

So, seeking for further amusement,
they paid and went into the Zoo,
Where they’d Lions and Tigers and Camels,
And old ale and sandwiches too.

There were one great big Lion called Wallace;
His nose were all covered with scars-
He lay in a somnolent posture,
With the side of his face on the bars.

Now Albert had heard about Lions,
How they was ferocious and wild-
To see Wallace lying so peaceful,
Well, it didn’t seem right to the child.

So straightway the brave little feller,
Not showing a morsel of fear,
Took his stick with it’s’orse’s ‘ead ‘andle
...And pushed it in Wallace’s ear.

You could see that the Liion didn’t like it,
For giving a kind of a roll,
He pulled Albert inside the cage with ‘im,
And swallowed the little lad ‘ole.

Then Pa, who had seen the occurence,
And didn’t know what to do next,
Said “Mother! Yon Lion’s ‘et Albert”,
And Mother said, ‘Well I am vexed!”

Then Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom-
Quite rightly, when all’s said and done-
Complained to the Animal Keeper,
That the Lion had eaten their son.

The keeper was quite nice about it;
He said “What a nasty mishap.
Are you sure that it’s your boy he’s eaten?”
Pa said “Am I sure? There’s his cap!”

The manager had to be sent for.
He came and he said “What’s to do?”
Pa said “Yon Lion’s ‘et Albert,
And ‘im in his Sunday clothes, too.”

The Mother said, “Right’s right, young feller;
I think it’s a shame and a sin,
For a lion to go and eat Albert,
And after we’ve paid to come in.”

The manager wanted no trouble,
He took out his purse right away,
Saying “How much to settle the matter?”
And Pa said “What do you usually pay?”

But Mother had turned a bit awkward
When she thought where her Albert had gone.
She said “No! someone’s got to be summonsed”-
So that was decided upon.

Then off they went to the P’lice Station,
In front of the Magistrate chap;
They told ‘im what happened to Albert,
And proved it by showing his cap.

The Magistrate gave his opinion
That no one was really to blame
And he said that he hoped the Ramsbottoms
Would have further sons to their name.

At that Mother got proper blazing,
“And thank you, sir, kindly,” said she.
“What waste all our lives raising children
To feed ruddy Lions? Not me!”

MARRIOTT EDGAR

Of serious poems, this is a favourite;


The Donkey
BY G. K. CHESTERTON
When fishes flew and forests walked
And figs grew upon thorn,
Some moment when the moon was blood
Then surely I was born.

With monstrous head and sickening cry
And ears like errant wings,
The devil’s walking parody
On all four-footed things.

The tattered outlaw of the earth,
Of ancient crooked will;
Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,
I keep my secret still.

Fools! For I also had my hour;
One far fierce hour and sweet:
There was a shout about my ears,
And palms before my feet.

Thanks to everyone who has contributed to this thread. I've laughed, I've cried and thoroughly enjoyed it all.

One of my favourite poems is by Dylan Thomas, Poem In October ( won't write it all out, expect others know it, and you either like Thomas or you don't.) His use of language was remarkable, and this poem isn't sad or happy exactly but bittersweet.

Belated congrats Wilma! A theme seems to be developing!

Luckygirl it was a book token.

Greyduster I love that one

Here's a short one from Wendy Cope.

'The day he moved out was terrible -
That evening she went through hell.
His absence wasn't a problem
But the corkscrew had gone as well.'

Wilma

What was your prize?!

(In my head it's always the voice of John Laurie from Dad's Army saying my slogan )

Aw we do love them really!

Talking of McGonagall, I'm from Dundee and when I was six I won a prize for writing a slogan for a road safety campaign. My Mum still has the piece torn out from the local paper (The Courier), where my effort was compared to the man himself, William Topaz McGonagall -

^It's no use being sorry
when you're under a lorry.^

I think I missed my vocation!

And another on a similar theme based on the Greek myth of Sysyphus who was condemned by the gods to push a stone uphill, only to see it roll down again and have to start again - and again :


Mrs Sisyphus by Carol Ann Duffy

That's him pushing the stone up the hill, the jerk.

I call it a stone - it's nearer the size of a kirk.

When he first started out, it just used to irk,

but now it incenses me, and him, the absolute berk.

I could do something vicious to him with a dirk.


Think of the perks, he says.

What use is a perk, I shriek,

when you haven't time to pop open a cork

or go for so much as a walk in the park?

He's a dork.

Folk flock from miles around just to gawk.

They think it's a quirk,

a bit of a lark.

A load of old bollocks is nearer the mark.

He might as well bark

at the moon -

that feckin' stone's no sooner up

than it's rolling back

all the way down.


And what does he say?

Mustn't shirk -

keen as a hawk,

lean as a shark

Mustn't shirk!


But I lie alone in the dark,

feeling like Noah's wife did

when he hammered away at the Ark;

like Frau Johann Sebastian Bach.

My voice reduced to a squawk,

my smile to a twisted smirk;

while, up on the deepening murk of the hill,

he is giving one hundred per cent and more to his work

Oh I love poems that make you laugh- so here's one for all those feeling fed up with their bloke

Mrs Icarus
By Carol Ann Duffy

I’m not the first or the last
to stand on a hillock,
watching the man she married
prove to the world
he’s a total, utter, absolute, Grade A pillock.

Ah, how could we forget the prolific mcGonagall. The poor man had a hard time of it as you can see from this verse. You would need a heart of stone not to laugh.

A New Year's Resolution to leave Dundee

Welcome! Thrice welcome! To the year 1893
For it is the year I intend to leave Dundee,
Owing to the treatment I receive,
Which does my heart sadly grieve.
Every morning when I go out
The ignorant rabble they do shout
'There goes Mad McGonagall'
In derisive shouts, as loud as they can brawl,
And lifts stones and snowballs,throws them at me;
And such actions are shameful to be heard in the City of Dundee.

Should have said. The ones I put up are by Charlotte Mitchell. She's dead now.

My Kitten Won't Stop Talking
by Kenn Nesbitt

My kitten won't stop talking.
She just prattles night and day.
She walks around repeating
nearly everything I say.

My kitten never says, "Meow."
She never even purrs.
She mimics me instead
in that annoying voice of hers.

She waits for me to speak,
and then she copies every word,
or begs me for a cracker,
or says, "I'm a pretty bird."

I'm not sure what to do, and so
I simply grin and bear it.
She's been this way since yesterday;
that's when she ate my parrot.

I love a bit of Wendy Cope!

I Can't Remember
by Anonymous

Just a line to say I'm living,
that I'm not among the dead,
Though I'm getting more forgetful
and mixed up in my head.

I got used to my arthritis,
to my dentures I'm resigned,
I can manage my bifocals
but God, I miss my mind.

For sometimes I can't remember
when I stand at the foot of the stairs,
If I must go up for something
or have I just come down from there?

And before the fridge so often
my poor mind is filled with doubt,
Have I just put food away, or
have I come to take some out?

And there's a time when it is dark
with my nightcap on my head,
I don't know if I'm retiring, or
just getting out of bed.

So, if it's my turn to write you
there's no need for getting sore,
I may think I have written
and don't want to be a bore.

So, remember that I love you
and wish that you were near,
But now it's nearly mail time
So I must say goodbye, dear.

There I stand beside the mail box
with a face so very red,
Instead of mailing you my letter
I opened it instead.

This actually happened to me on Sunday.

Choice

I am standing before two cakes.
One is to be bought by me,
and in that choosing
my whole life is called in
to help or hinder.
Plain or fancy?
Where do I stand?

And I am hovering, confused by passions,
tossed back and forth.
And the exhausted opponents,
they are merciless,
seeking blood.
"Whatever is the matter with her?"-
Two cakes chatting-
but I still don't know which I prefer.

My Funeral by Wendy Cope

I hope I can trust you, friends, not to use our relationship
As an excuse for an unsolicited ego-trip.
I have seen enough of them at funerals and they make me cross.
At this one, though deceased, I aim to be the boss.
If you are asked to talk about me for five minutes, please do not go on for eight
There is a strict timetable at the crematorium and nobody wants to be late
If invited to read a poem, just read the bloody poem. If requested
To sing a song, just sing it, as suggested,
And don’t say anything. Though I will not be there,
Glancing pointedly at my watch and fixing the speaker with a malevolent stare,
Remember that this was how I always reacted
When I felt that anybody’s speech, sermon or poetry reading was becoming too protracted.
Yes, I was intolerant, and not always polite

And if there aren’t many people at my funeral, it will serve me right.

(That was in response to the wear purple one. Hate that poem with a vengeance!)

Oh purleeeease!!!!

Screeeeam!!!!

This was one of my father's party pieces ( maybe better appreciated by Scottish people!)


THE BIG EFFEN BEE
(Matt McGinn)

"He kept bees in the old town of Effen,
An Effen bee-keeper was he,
And one day this wee Effen bee-keeper
Was stung by a big Effen bee

Now this big Effen bee-keeper's
Wee effen wife for the big Effen polis she ran
For there's nobody can sort out a big Effen bee
Like a big Effen polisman can

Now the big Effen polisman he did his nut
And he ran down the main Effen street
In his haun wis a big Effen bat
He'd big Effen boots oan his feet

Now the polis got hold of this big Effen bee
And he twisted the Effen bee's wings
But this Effen bee got his own back
For this big Effen bee had 2 stings

Now they're baith in the Effen museum
And the Effen folk oaffen come see
The remains of the big Effen polis
Stung to death by the big Effen Bee

Can't believe this hasn't featured yet!
When I'm an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.
Jenny Joseph

Tears

If I'm going to be sad,
transport me quickly to an empty beach
along a mile of sand
where the crying need not stop-
Oh the terror of being sad
In a crowded shop.
Let my tears back up the wind
dwarfed by the sea's rain-
Oh the terror of being sad
in a rush-hour train.

Rude

They call the police to a murder,
they call the police to a drunk,
they call the police to a prowler,
a smelly old tramp or a punk.
They call the police to a GBH
or a person who pinches food,
but I'd like to call a policeman
to a person who, for no apparent reason,
is downright, bloody well rude.