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Best Poems Written by Patrick Maitland

Below are the all-time best Patrick Maitland poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Patrick Maitland Poem

Water Droplet

I was a happy little water droplet
Playing in a cloud
Until lightning struck 
And thunder clapped loud
Stopping all my mirth
Dropping me to earth

Joining many others
Of my sisters and brothers
Bobbing wild and rampant
In a surging torrent
Towards a dam
Causing quite a jam

In a pipe so black
With no way back
Chlorinated pure
Like I’ve never been before

Jailed in a tray
With cells all the way
Frozen in a cube until used
Dropped into whisky
Making me quite frisky

To the sound of “Cheers”
I disappeared
Down a gullet to a stomach
Mushed to and fro

Told to go
To a loo full of poo
Down a sewer full of mice
That really was not nice

Finally to the sea
Where I was free
To have some fun
Floating in the sun.

Feeling emancipated
Zap!. Evaporated
Into a happy little water droplet
Playing in a cloud
Hoping not to hear the thunder clapping loud.

Details | Patrick Maitland Poem

Itchy Bum

Sitting at the table, with prim and proper guests
We only started eating after the food was blest.
While chatting to the Vicar, I felt a sudden twitch
My voice started trembling, because my bum began to itch.

I wiggled on the chair, hoping to rub the itch away
It would not bloody budge, the itch had come to stay.
I poured the wine quite calmly, while wondering what to do.
The itch was now quite vicious, my mind was in a stew.

Though the itch had started slowly, it was now a raging pain
I had to scratch it quickly, or I’d go insane.
As my hand was moving downward, ready for a scratch
They made me light the candles with a ruddy match.

The meal dragged on so slowly, it seemed to take so long
And every time I tried to scratch, my timing was wrong.
But when the meal was over, the Vicar made us pray
I prayed with such intensity, the itch just went away

Details | Patrick Maitland Poem

Baby Gecko

Baby gecko on the wall
You are so very, very small.
Have you come inside to play?
Or just to pass the time away?

Does your mother know you’re here?
Or is she searching everywhere.
She must be frantic with emotions reeling
While you’re just walking on my ceiling.

If I catch you, and put you out
Will you know your way about?
If you go through a different door
You won’t see your mother anymore.

So I’ll have to let you stay
To wander on your merry way.
I hope one day you’ll be big and strong
And stay outside, where you belong

Details | Patrick Maitland Poem

Old Age Pills

Pills, Pills, Pills
For all my aches and all my ills.
Many shapes, and lots of sizes
Can fight any sickness that arises.

Some are big, and some are small.
It does not matter I take them all.
Colours also help me know
Which one makes my illness go.

The one that’s large and coloured green
Thins my blood and cleans my spleen.
Without the one that’s coloured red
My heart would stop and I’d be dead.

I know the one that is light brown
Perks me up when I feel down.
And if I’d had too much to drink
I take the one that’s coloured pink.

When I get up, I take a few
And after breakfast, some more too.
More at tea, and more at lunch
All day I must these darn pills munch

Some days however I get confused
I can’t remember which I’ve used.
My health would fail if I forgot
So to be sure, I take the lot.

And so it is we all get old
Though we thought it would never be.
And if today you are young and bold
Tomorrow you’ll be ill and take pills like me

Details | Patrick Maitland Poem

The Dinner Party

The cars pull up, the doorbell’s rung.
To a hugging welcome, in they come.
With gifts wrapped up and tied with bows
There is warm handshaking, more hello’s.

The men bring in some good red wine
That will go down nicely, when we dine.
We stand, at first, renewing friendship links
While the host is scurrying, pouring drinks.

Then into chairs, we sink to chat
About trips, and kids, and this and that.
Slowly, surely, we all get louder
Telling stories that make us prouder.

The hostess dashes, with some concern,
The oven’s smoking, the food might burn.
Then from the kitchen wafts a gorgeous smell
“The food is ready”, comes a welcome yell

To the table we slowly go.
Each place is marked; a name will show
Each guest where he should sit.
It’s carefully planned for a gourmet hit.

The meal that’s served is fit for a king.
Praise the cook we loudly sing.
The company’s good, with laughter more
Another highlight in memory’s store.

Coffee’s drunk, but they stay awhile.
The friendships great, with plenty a smile..
Time takes its toll, and they start to leave
But when they’re gone, it’s time to grieve.
There’s dirty cutlery, and plates to wash
If I were a Greek, I’d give them a bash.

Next day, of course, the phone line hums
Scores are settled, invites come.
It’s my turn now to enjoy a feast.
If the truth be known.
I’m a Party Beast.

Details | Patrick Maitland Poem

Baby Kangaroo

The arrow struck with a sickening thud
Piercing the neck with a spurt of blood.
Searing pain with anguish shrill
The wound severe, but did not kill

The baby kangaroo reeled, and fell
Into an agonizing Hell.
An arrow, through the neck, half out the other.
A look of horror from his mother.

Strange instinct told that Man had the power
To save him in his desperate hour.

For days he staggered through bush and plain
With one thought in his aching brain
To reach the streets of Sydney City
In search of help. In search of pity

Brave Baby! How did you know
You could trust man, who had hurt you so?

You did not run. You did not flinch
You stood your ground, did not yield an inch
When they came with a cage to take you away.
You did not know if this was your last day 
Or whether in some far flung Zoo
You would be a captive kangaroo

But man with kindness, and great skill
Removed the arrow that was meant to kill.
The wound soon healed and the decision made
To return the Baby to where he once played.

How can a Man have a heart so savage
Thinking it fun to ravage
The body of a defenceless baby with an arrow?
This cruelty fills one with horror.

Lord! I know you have the power to take revenge
And have many ways to avenge
The pain and horror of this deed.
But the Bowman needs help
His soul is sick, it needs repair
Teach him to love, teach him to care.

Details | Patrick Maitland Poem

Flamingo Migration the Leader

Come on chaps its time to go
We must leave now, before the snow.
I know the way, I know the path
The route is South to a great lake bath.

You’re my pal, so you’re first right.
Help me guide them on this long flight.
You’re first left, cause you fly so strong
Make sure our path is never wrong.

When I count to three, we’re on our way
The journey’s long, no time to play.
At the count of one, start to run
The take off’s hard, it’s not fun.

Flap your wings at the count of two
Not only me, but all of you.
At the count of three, lift your feet and soar.
Do it wrong and you’ll hit the floor.

Line up quickly in a V-formation
Maintain your distance, keep your station.
Then circle once and follow me
We’re heading South for a mating spree

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They Came

The plain was flat, wild, and desolate
They came when I, a San, was digging up a root.
There were three
They were brown Xhosa, bigger than me.
Though they spoke in a tongue I did not know
I knew that I had to go
Further South across the river

They came as I, a Xhosa, was working in the field
There were three
Tall black Zulu, with assegai and shield
And though they spoke in a language I did not know
They made me understand that I must go
With them to hear their chief
Say that my land was his.
But I may live in peace
If I went to another land, another place.

They came when I, a Zulu, was in my hut
They did not knock, though the door was shut
There were three
They were white, and smaller than me
But they had guns which could kill
If I did not bend to their will
Though they spoke in a tongue I did not know
I knew I had to go
Further North across the river

They came when I, a White, was on my farm
They said they would do no harm
There were three
They were black, with paper and pen
They said they were here before me
And I must restore the farm to them
They knew it would hurt me so
But I had to go.
 
They came when I, a Black, repossessed my land
There were three
The Ghosts of the San
They said because I was black I could remain
As long as I did not claim
The land of the San had always been mine.
If I lived in peace
And erased the hatred in my heart
I could start afresh
And find happiness.

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Washing Up

The meal was over
And with apprehension
I took my plate to the kitchen
Where I looked at the devastation
Caused by its preparation.

Who could guess
That a cook could make such a mess.
Pots and pans were everywhere
Causing a washing despair
Especially as I was the one
To get it done.

It would have been easier 
With a dishwashing machine
But since last week it is a has-been
Just when I need it most
It gave up the ghost.

To add to my dismay
The water’s cold
Because we were told
They’re cutting the power today.

Now the grease won’t budge
It’s a sticky sludge
That won’t go down the drain
And remains everywhere.

I can’t wait to go to heaven
And see a sign
No food or wine
Beyond this gate.

Details | Patrick Maitland Poem

The Snails Lament

It’s hard to be a snail.
When there’s no rain or hail
For a year.
I am in despair.

There is an awful drought
Not much water is about.
Plants that were juicy green
Are hard, and dry, and taste obscene.

No longer is there the pleasure of soaking for an hour.
In a sprinkling shower
Now, water comes in a quick bucket burst
That knocks you off your perch,

Once I got a bath of scented soap
Which boosted ego beyond my wildest hope.
I strutted in the garden with striding pride
Which is very strange because a snail can never stride

Mostly I get soaked from the kitchen sink
A filthy, dirty mixture that makes me stink.
It dries so quickly hard, and sticks to shell and skin
Spoiling any chance of another weeks love-in

The ground’s so hard and rasping dry
That sliding makes me cry
The stinging grit is needle sharp
I inch along, I never dart.

The gardens dry, the plants won’t grow
But I’d hate to see it go.
The latest news makes me quite sick
I hear they want to cover it with brick