Autobiographical Poems - Poems about Autobiographical

Martin Softly spoken, conscientious, thoughtful, union man, The proud son of a nurse, no stranger to, “the pan”, Loving the blues and blue grass, I’m a Bolton Wanderers fan, Feeling hopeful, happy or sad, I walk outdoors when I can, Fearing for the grand-kids, the planet, the common man, Hoping for peace in Gaza, Ukraine and Sudan, Bolton, North West England, made...

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As I sit wandering about the south side of Chicago captured effortlessly by the tall dandelions watching the lightening bugs rest on sunken cattails we often lit them just before the sun sets over George Washington Carver campus deep within the forest preserve over looking the Dan Ryan expressway just to keep the mosquitoes at...

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Hyperbolic quasi autobiographical prevarication... caricature sketch of person best known to yours truly What began as an honest to goodness attempt to craft personal truthful profile evolved into a fictional poem manifested into the following. Despite the onslaught of paparazzi, I (an eccentric kindhearted sexagenarian - born January xiii, mcmlix at The Christ Hospital within Mount Auburn, Ohio) instantaneously shied, blinked away from the spot (klieg)...

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I wandered the Vale and Harvington, A singin' me songs with passion, Back then I liked to live frugally, But me melodies were never on ration! One evening whilst singing in Banbury, The Police pulled up in their car, Out stepped a tall copper I'm in trouble now proper! But he wanted to play my guitar! I wandered around the city streets I roamed...

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The Death of the River When I see the mirror I can see the inner working of my machinery, Look my mental wire renders ...

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My Gallery In upper part of my body A cognitive bell rings From a dial-up connection of live wires The modem is working just To repeatedly provide the facsimile of Barren and bald paths Inner lumbering of daily freight Coiling, clutching upward There is no vivacity The vital force has parasited How I inhale life? My days and nights are bolted Inside a brain cell, My voice has held back It lays...

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the smell of the leather the fizz of the seam thump into the gloves its seems like a dream the smell of the ralgex the wince in the hit strain of the scrummage that I had to quit the smell of the chlorine the click of the hub the ache of the thighs no more, that's the rub the smell of old photos of passions now spent now just...

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