How about sexythaibargirlspattaya.com writing some poems?
Well, miracles will happen and this website just happens to like or even love poetry but knows a poet’s audience is between a half and three quarters (of one).
Here are three poems I like a lot and wrote a while ago. “The Nothing-Lyre” tells of a wasted journey. “Missal-Thrush Memories” is religious and about creativity. “To My Poor Father…” is one of those recent efforts and tells of all the problems Dad had in his final months.
We arrived (as the brochure indicated) at a treeless station, only
To find the fond cities dying,
And one or two savage urchins beating
Each other’s faces and tearing clothes.
We learnt later that our relation, Leopold Muckslick,
Having abandoned his job, grew desperately thin, and,
Giving up the Ghost, set himself alight and jumped in the Thames.
(He was unable to greet us.)
After many fretful minutes, filled with the clanging of old bells
and engines letting off steam,
We decided (and not a moment too soon, either) to board a taxi.
As we drove away, a blue-and-white scarfed crowd
of a hundred or more
Began to clash with a blue-and-helmeted crowd of twenty,
at a guess.
Only a side-window of our taxi took a knock
As we screeched beyond the flailing crowds
and cold railings, though
We had realised by then that our journey had no sponsor
And our brochure was a nothing-lyre.
We became preoccupied with Leopold,
With water and with fire.
It is towards a slow keeping-together of themes
from a missal-thrush memory
that words keen and are made.
The place matters little:
a furrow of ponds, a wet landscape
curved like a dish, the brittle stare and awkward movement
of spread-eagling duck on a cup of ice –
what do these matter? unless
the memory keels to the retina a shape of things to come,
teases and minnows them down to a flashing fin
in a chamber of shapeless streams, in a chamber
of crosses and thrushes.
FOR MY POOR FATHER APPROACHING 95
There is something strange -… about
these bunches of snowdrops
by my father’s house
in my father’s garden
by the estranged house
in the estranged garden
overtaken by the authorities – nurses carers social worker cum-case manager doctor
fordshire County Council regulations rules a regiment
certificates for liquid thickeners certified
liquid thickeners -…
that makes these snowdrops themselves
droop flowers down the ninety-four (in July -five)
years of his now bed-ridden life coughing incontinent
ten-pill-a-day package and laxatives select
while the curtains shred tatter and big mice
mischievously scamper and carpets stay dirty
and fixtures stay broken and hearing-aid lost
by a group of couldn’t-care-much carers pack food left food.
And thrice the heavy sentence stalled.
And all the while the old man knows
he matters, and mutters.
Everyone’s a success
in this…..his last demented undertaking
towards a hundred years,