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.

THE NOTHING-LYRE

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.

one of those poetry books!

 

MISSAL-THRUSH MEMORIES

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.

some poetry and some prose – a mixed “bag”

 

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

garden-house-house-garden

overtaken by the authorities – nurses carers social worker cum-case manager doctor

Ox

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,

or less.

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