Thread: Poems that you find

Kelly

Conspirator's of Old.

As history tells of the year sixteen-o-five
Of Catesby, Tresham and Fawkes
the infamous Guy
Agents so daring, a tale of men so bold
Became conspirators together and a plot unfolds.
Against James the First's
persecution was their aim
To blow up Parliament, the
Government domain.

As Fawkes knelt in cold cellars below
With a barrel of gunpowder he was
setting to blow,
About to ignite the gunpowder he'd set
Caught red handed, betrayed, the hangman he met.
Unbeknown to him, Tresham, a traitorous soul
Had forwarned his family of
Catesby and Fawkes' goal.

The years move on to the
twenty-first century
Catesby, Tresham, Fawkes, now
decreed to history.
Yet remembered still on the day of their fate
For the fifth of November will never outdate.
It all began in the year
sixteen-o-five, three conspirators of old
One a traitor and the other two, the bold.[/size][/color]


Author Pat Simpson known by member's of AA as 'Paddyc' whose poem was published in last night's 'Evening Echo' in Liverpool and who also gave me permission to post on this board.

Posted by Starlight

Kelly

My City


I wandered not lonely as a cloud
But as a Scouser tall and proud,
My accent states my place of birth
And thus my humour and my mirth.

In far off land they know our city
With a waterfront that's mighty pretty,
We've two Cathedrals side by side
Either one we view with pride.

Tunnels way beneath the Mersey
Some fool said they're going to Jersey.
At Aintree's Grand National don't pull out your hair
When your jockey's unseated going for the chair.

A column with Wellington admiring the view
He's watching over his Waterloo.
St. George's Hall sits serenely below
A building of beauty that you a glow.

But that massive bird some think is a vulture
Is the Liver Bird over our City of Culture.

Author Jim Ireland

Posted by Starlight

Kelly

Creation


Maybe one day we shall all recall
That the Lord above created us all,
For no matter what the colour of our skin
It is the feeling that we all have within.

All colours and creeds can live together
Living freely like birds of a feather,
To blend into communities to share their skill
This sharing and caring will foster goodwill.

Calypso dancing or a Scottish fling
Morris dancing we can all get into the swing,
Traditional pageants often a blaze of colour
All blended together create such splendour.

This unity of nations we must work out
Historical changes there must be no doubt,
For the Lord created our mother earth
And to him we must all equally serve.

Let us all be good to each other
One happy family brother and brother,
The answer is one of love not to make war
And to live in peace for evermore.

Author W, Reilly, Liverpool.

Posted by Pauline (Nanna)

petal

Found these two poems by Alan Titchmarsh in the Sunday Express.

Like it was

Twas the night before Christmas
Not too long ago
When the streets of the town
Were all covered in snow.

No rain filled the gutters
No wind shook the tree
The trains were on time
And the traffic ran free.

But still, though we're warmed
By those global effects
And programmes on telly
Are all about sex

We've managed to cling to
The hopes and the joys
That we had when we were
Little girls, little boys.

When we used 'old money'
And apples stored well
And Blair was the real name
Of writer George Orwell.

When Prime Ministers wives
Lived at Chartwell in Kent
Instead of in Bristol
With two flats to rent.

When my dad gave my mum
A new perfume called 'Heaven'
And Westlife was something
You found down in Devon.

There were nuts and satsumas
Roast gooose and high teas
Instead of Nigella
Cellphones and CD's.

But in spite of the changes
The fastness of life
Through it all shines the tale
Of a man and his wife

They journeyed at night
Through the darkness and danger
To give birth to a son
In a dusty old manger.
__________________________________________________ _

A letter to St. Nick

I'd like a bike but I won't fret
If all I gets a painting set.
It's all the rest that live here too
That need some bits and bobs from you.
Like Dad, who says he likes 'Old Spice'
Please....CK is twice as nice.
For Mum whose nails are varnished red
Please send her some pale blue Instead.
My brother has a room that stinks
Although it's trendy, so he thinks
To wear the same clothes every day
Send soap to take the smell away.
My sister, last of the big spenders
Loves that young guy off Eastenders
Send her his poster, Santa, do
And one for me, I love him too.
There's just two more who need a treat
Although they're old with aching feet
Gran and Grandad end my list
By now I think you've got the gist.
Send Granny chocolates -she's on a diet
Grandad ? He just wants peace and quiet.
Whatever else the season brings
I hope that you've got some nice things
Cos just like socks don't make Dad merry
You must be really sick of sherry !

petal

Ooops ! This is just a wee bit too bit I think and wont go into the verses like it should ! Tried to alter it but can't.............

It is Christmas Day in the workhouse,And the cold, bare walls are brightWith garlands of green and holly,Ad the place is a pleasant sight;For with clean-washed hands and faces,In a long and hungry lineThe paupers sit at the table,For this is the hour they dine.And the guardians and their ladies,Although the wind is east,Have come in their furs and wrappers,To watch their charges feast;To smile and be condescending,Put pudding on pauper plates.To be hosts at the workhouse banquetThey've paid for — with the rates.Oh, the paupers are meek and lowlyWith their "Thank'ee kindly, mum's!'"So long as they fill their stomachs,What matter it whence it comes!But one of the old men mutters,And pushes his plate aside:"Great God!" he cries, "but it chokes me!For this is the day she died!"The guardians gazed in horror,The master's face went white;"Did a pauper refuse the pudding?""Could their ears believe aright?"Then the ladies clutched their husbands,Thinking the man would die,Struck by a bolt, or something,By the outraged One on high.But the pauper sat for a moment,Then rose 'mid silence grim,For the others had ceased to chatterAnd trembled in every limb.He looked at the guardians' ladies,Then, eyeing their lords, he said,"I eat not the food of villainsWhose hands are foul and red:"Whose victims cry for vengeanceFrom their dark, unhallowed graves.""He's drunk!" said the workhouse master,"Or else he's mad and raves.""Not drunk or mad," cried the pauper,"But only a haunted beast,Who, torn by the hounds and mangled,Declines the vulture's feast."I care not a curse for the guardians,And I won't be dragged away;Just let me have the fit out,It's only on Christmas DayThat the black past comes to goad me,And prey on my burning brain;I'll tell you the rest in a whisper —I swear I won't shout again."Keep your hands off me, curse you!Hear me right out to the end.You come here to see how paupersThe season of Christmas spend;.You come here to watch us feeding,As they watched the captured beast.Here's why a penniless pauperSpits on your paltry feast."Do you think I will take your bounty,And let you smile and thinkYou're doing a noble actionWith the parish's meat and drink?Where is my wife, you traitors —The poor old wife you slew?Yes, by the God above me,My Nance was killed by you!'Last winter my wife lay dying,Starved in a filthy den;I had never been to the parish —I came to the parish then.I swallowed my pride in coming,For ere the ruin came,I held up my head as a trader,And I bore a spotless name."I came to the parish, cravingBread for a starving wife,Bread for the woman who'd loved meThrough fifty years of life;And what do you think they told me,Mocking my awful grief,That 'the House' was open to us,But they wouldn't give 'out relief'."I slunk to the filthy alley —'Twas a cold, raw Christmas Eve —And the bakers' shops were open,Tempting a man to thieve;But I clenched my fists together,Holding my head awry,So I came to her empty-handedAnd mournfully told her why."Then I told her the house was open;She had heard of the ways of that,For her bloodless cheeks went crimson,and up in her rags she sat,Crying, 'Bide the Christmas here, John,We've never had one apart;I think I can bear the hunger —The other would break my heart.'"All through that eve I watched her,Holding her hand in mine,Praying the Lord and weeping,Till my lips were salt as brine;I asked her once if she hungered,And as she answered 'No' ,T'he moon shone in at the window,Set in a wreath of snow."Then the room was bathed in glory,And I saw in my darling's eyesThe faraway look of wonderThat comes when the spirit flies;And her lips were parched and parted,And her reason came and went.For she raved of our home in Devon,Where our happiest years were spent."And the accents, long forgotten,Came back to the tongue once more.For she talked like the country lassieI woo'd by the Devon shore;Then she rose to her feet and trembled,And fell on the rags and moaned,And, 'Give me a crust — I'm famished —For the love of God!' she groaned."I rushed from the room like a madmanAnd flew to the workhouse gate,Crying, 'Food for a dying woman!'And the answer came, 'Too late.'They drove me away with curses;Then I fought with a dog in the streetAnd tore from the mongrel's clutchesA crust he was trying to eat."Back through the filthy byways!Back through the trampled slush!Up to the crazy garret,Wrapped in an awful hush;My heart sank down at the threshold,And I paused with a sudden thrill.For there, in the silv'ry moonlight,My Nance lay, cold and still."Up to the blackened ceiling,The sunken eyes were cast —I knew on those lips, all bloodless,My name had been the last;She called for her absent husband —O God! had I but known! —Had called in vain, and, in anguish,Had died in that den — alone."Yes, there, in a land of plenty,Lay a loving woman dead,Cruelly starved and murderedfor a loaf of the parish bread;At yonder gate, last Christmas,I craved for a human life,You, who would feed us paupers,What of my murdered wife!"'There, get ye gone to your dinners,Don't mind me in the least,Think of the happy paupersEating your Christmas feast;And when you recount their blessingsIn your smug parochial way,Say what you did for me, too,Only last Christmas Day."George R Sims

petal

Sorry peeps............the Christmas Day in the Workhouse poem must have been too big to lay out in usual form. Never mind. Think it's still readable.

nanna

A Christmas Sentiment

I have a list of folks I know, all written in a book
And every year when Christmas comes I go and take a look,
And that is when I realize that these names are a part
Not of the book they're written in, but of my heart.

For each name stands for someone who has crossed my path some time
And in that meeting they've become the rhythm in each rhyme.
And while it sounds fantastic for me to make this claim
I really feel that I'm composed of each remembered name.

And while they may not be aware of any special "link"
Just meeting you has changed my life a lot more than you think.
For once I've met somebody, the years cannot erase
The memory of a pleasant word or of a friendly face.

So, never think my Christmas cards are just a mere routine
Of names upon a Christmas list, forgotten in between.
For when I send a Christmas card that is addressed to you
It's because you are on the list of folks I am indebted to.

For I am but the total of the many folks I've met
And you happen to be one of those I prefer not to forget.
And whether I have known you for many years or few
In some way you have had a part in shaping things I do.

And every year when Christmas comes, I realise anew
The best gift life can offer is meeting folks like you.
And may the Spirit of Christmas that forever endures
Leave it's richest blessings in the hearts of you and yours.

Author: Anon

Nanna

nanna

Nature's Cycle

The wind is cold the night is dark
And in the fire gleams a spark,
The icicles hang cold and long
The robin sings a cheerful song.

The stars are gleaming from on high
The moon is shining in the sky,
The snowflakes now begin to fall
They start to cling to every wall.

The trees are bare and have no leaves
The winds took them like icy thieves,
But buds will grow and birds will sing
And then we'll know it's almost Spring.

The crops will grow and leaves appear
Ready for the brand new year,
The sun will shine and cast it's glow
And nature's beauty will then show.

Author: Maureen Keeling, Sefton, Merseyside.

Nanna

nanna

Lady Isabella
In Laxey Isle of Man
Built in 1854
Pump water was the plan
From mountain streams the water came
To turn the wheel around
The miner's working underneath
They lived in Laxey town
Named for Isabella
Wife of Charles Hope
The Governor of the Isle of Man
Who climbed the valley's slope
Charles did set the wheel to move
Recorded at the time
Remembered now in history
Its opening was sublime
The Laxey Wheel
Its job complete in 1929
No longer needed for the work
When mining saw decline
So now the tourists flock to see
This beauty in the vale
Proudly standing slim and tall
Unique and not for sale
In the year 2000-4
There was a celebration
One hundred years and fifty
Recorded by the Nation
The Laxey Wheel received new paint
All pristine now was she
She smiled and shone in victory
Big Wheel she turned so free
Lady Isabella
In Laxey Isle of Man
Built in 1854
Pump water was the plan
From mountain streams the water came
To turn the wheel around
The miner's working underneath
They lived in Laxey town

© Elizabeth A Feisst 17 November 2005


I have posted a link to Elizabeth's poem's on the Link's, Hint's and Tip's forum, where you will find some wonderful pieces to read.

Nanna xx

nanna

About the Area where I was Born.

A long time ago in 1923
A place close to my heart
Twas Wavertree.
My early days I can recall
It was the ideal place to have
A pub crawl.
The trip was exciting for an
Adult Scouse,
For the first port of call was
The Coffee House.
Then just round the corner
The Clock was next pick,
The time it takes was
Just half a tick.
A few more steps you have to go
And lo and behold was
The Barley Mow.
Then across the road, if you could
Dodge a tram,
Was a fine big pub
It was called The Lamb.
Then just down the street
You could steam full throttle,
To another pub called
The Cock and Bottle.
The Prince Alfred was next
On this boozy patch,
So over the road and on
to The Thatched.
Where to next, God only knows
Was another pub,
It was called The Rose.
Then off again to the next abode
Was a pub called The Sandown
In Picton Road.
We're near the final pub now
With a real belly,
And this was the last pub
It was called The Welly.
All sounds exciting and really
Quite funny,
But alas, in those days
No-one had any money.

Author Harold Citrine aged 83

P.S As one born of this community and living on this road I have frequented every one of these pub's myself and a few more that have sprung up over the year's namely Merryweather's, Cuff's(The old Village Police Station), Chillie's and Chequer's.

Nanna