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Your Poems.


Loyal Member
Staff member
In Ireland, but born Bucks.
I saw this on another forum, which will remain nameless.:)

Post your favourite poem, whatever it is without causing offense.
Please acknowledge the poet, if possible.:)

I'll start, shall I.;)


They were on the bridge at midnight,
Their bodies all aquiver.
He gave a cough, his leg fell off,
And it floated down the river.

Spike Milligan.


Loyal Member
Staff member
Steve the Superhero

I'm Steve the Superhero
and you simply won't believe
the superpowers I possess
by merely being Steve.

My smile can crack a mirror
and my breath can make you faint.
And when I take my socks off
it's been known to peel the paint.

The power in my underarms
can make a grown man cry.
A single burp can make you want
to crawl away and die.

The bad guys know it's hopeless,
so they all get up and leave
whenever they get wind of me--
the superhero Steve.

--Kenn Nesbitt


Loyal Member
swindon wilts
Liddington Hill.

The friendship of a hill i know,
Above the rising down,
Where the southern balmy breezes blow,
But a mile or two from town,
The budded broom and heather,
Are wedded on its breast,
And i love to wander tither
When the sun is in the west.

Written by Alfred Williams the Hammerman poet born a mile up the road from me.
Truly a remarkable man.....and writer of a book called Life in a Railway Town.


I would reccomend you read this book if given a chance...me and Donnami frequently walk up Liddington Hill.
I love poetry and have a few of my own published including this one...forgive me for posting itredf)redf)


One man's horror.
One man's dream.
One man's glory.
Another man's scream.

One man's medal.
One man's legs.
One man takes aim.
Another man begs.

One man's smiling.
One man cries.
One man lives.
Another man dies.

One man's honour.
One man's beat.
One man's won yards.
Another's lost feet.

One man loses.
One man wins.
One war finishes.
Another begins.

Lee Ferris:biggrin:

Poetry has played a big part in my life and to be honest i dont have a favourite...it depends on my mood or the weather or a million other things:)


Valued Member
near Boston Lincolnshire
Boys and girls

When God made little boys,
He made them out of string.
He had a bit left over,
So he made a little thing,

When God made little girls,
he made them out of lace.
He hadn't quite enough,
so he made a little space.

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Loyal Member
Staff member
In Ireland, but born Bucks.
Dulce et Decorum Est.

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!......An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,---
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Wilfred Owen. (b.18 March 1893 – d.4 November 1918 )
new england
I am a bunny rabbit
Sitting in me hutch
I like to sit up this end
I don't care for that end ... much.
I'm glad tomorrow's Thursday
'Cause with a bit of luck
As far as I can remember
That's the day they pass the buck!

by Pam Ayres
South Yorks
This one is my favourite poem
written by Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)


REMEMBER me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you plann'd:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.
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Loyal Member
South Aust.
Dust If You Must
by Anonymous

Dust if you must, but wouldn't it be better
To paint a picture, or write a letter,
Bake a cake, or plant a seed;
Ponder the difference between want and need?

Dust if you must, but there's not much time,
With rivers to swim, and mountains to climb;
Music to hear, and books to read;
Friends to cherish, and life to lead.

Dust if you must, but the world's out there
With the sun in your eyes, and the wind in your hair;
A flutter of snow, a shower of rain,
This day will not come around again.

Dust if you must, but bear in mind,
Old age will come and it's not kind.
And when you go (and go you must)
You, yourself, will make more dust.


Loyal Member
South Aust.
Mother Doesn't Want a Dog
by Judith Viorst

Mother doesn't want a dog.
Mother says they smell,
And never sit when you say sit,
Or even when you yell.

When you come home late at night
And there is ice and snow,
You have to go back out because
The dumb dog has to go.

Mother doesn't want a dog.
Mother says they shed,
And always let the strangers in
And bark at friends instead

They do disgraceful things on rugs,
And track mud on the floor,
And flop upon your bed at night
And snore their doggy snore.

Mother doesn't want a dog.
She's making a mistake.
Because, more than a dog, I think
She will not want this snake.

I just remembered this one, it brings back memories..>:D
Leeds, born Hull
Unlicensed Love

On a summer's day long, long ago
I fell in love and I'll never know
Just what it was that made me feel
So drawn to her, what the appeal
That set my pulses so to race
When e'er I gazed upon that face
Of one who was scarce but a child
Yet even then could drive me wild
I'll never know the how's and why's
I lost my heart to Hazel Eyes
But when I got that long sought kiss
I knew I'd found my Perfect Miss
My elfin girl from down the lane
And I'll never let her go again

For how could I describe our love?
Romantic love, all hearts and flowers
No way to count the days and hours
Spent in self-indulgent wishes
And thoughts of long awaited kisses
Of sweet embraces, tender sighs
And gazing into love filled eyes
Oh yes, it is that kind of love

Or, is it yet the love of passion
The ecstasy that knows no ration
That shuddering nerve-tingling feeling
The climax with your senses reeling
The wondrous joy when you discover
That sweet surrender to your lover
Oh yes, it's that kind of love too.

Or even yet a love that grows
One that cares and one that knows
That sees beyond the outer skin
Into the person deep within
That loves the spirit and the soul
The inner self that makes the whole
Built on trust and empathy
A love you know was meant to be

The love we share is all these things
A love that has no need of rings
A love you never need to doubt
A love I cannot live without
A love to last us all our days
A love I'll share with you always

- Jim Sharman -
South Yorks
I think this one has to have a place

In Flanders Fields
by John McCrae, May 1915

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

What a moving, excellent poem, supposedly written
on the back of a cigarette packet, this sums up
so much and alot of men were lost at Flanders
Sunderland, born Hull
The Voice

Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me,
Saying that now you are not as you were
When you had changed from the one who was all to me,
But as at first, when our day was fair.

Can it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then,
Standing as when I drew near to the town
Where you would wait for me: yes, as I knew you then,
Even to the original air-blue gown!

Or is it only the breeze in its listlessness
Travelling across the wet mead to me here,
You being ever dissolved to wan wistlessness,
Heard no more again far or near?

Thus I; faltering forward,
Leaves around me falling,
Wind oozing thin through the thorn from norward,
And the woman calling.

Thomas Hardy


Loyal Member
Staff member
In Ireland, but born Bucks.
The Soldiers At Lauro.

Young are our dead
Like babies they lie
The wombs they blest once
Not healed dry
And yet - too soon
Into each space
A cold earth falls
On colder face.
Quite still they lie
These fresh-cut reeds
Clutched in earth
Like winter seeds
But they will not bloom
When called by spring
To burst with leaf
And blossoming
They sleep on
In silent dust
As crosses rot
And helmets rust.

Spike Milligan.


Loyal Member
Staff member
In Ireland, but born Bucks.
This was my mothers favourite poem, and would often recite it to me as a child.:)

I Wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

William Wordsworth.


Loyal Member
South Aust.
Family & Friends
© Jill Wolf

We all have a cherished garden we tend -
It is planted with love of family and friends.
The memories and dreams we treasure and share
Are like beautiful roses found blooming there.
The comfort and care on which we depend
Is given with love between family and friends.
The sunshine of laughter and rain of a tear
Only make our love grow with each passing year.
We may all be ourselves with no need to pretend
Because of the love of family and friends;
They notice the rainbows and weather the showers.
They overlook weeds and praise all our flowers.
The most valuable thing is the time that we spend
Tending this garden with family and friends.
When counting our blessings, we know from the start
That family and friends come first in our heart.


Loyal Member
Staff member
Day of the Freds
by Tom Remes

There are many Freds famous, there are many admired
But the greatest proportion of Freds are just tired
These aren’t the Freds who belong to the ages
Instead these are Freds listed in Yellow Pages
These are great Freds, yet we know zilch about them
But how in the world would we manage without them?


Active member
This Be the Verse by Philip Larkin

They f**k you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were f**ked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

Sage advice I missed along the way somehow! Though I wouldn't be without my kids and their kids.

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