Best Bristol Poems
Wales to me is her Celtic tribal history,
Wales to me is walks upon her shores.
Wales to me is her druids, saints, and mystery,
the soil I tread, the salt that leaves my pores.
We drove an hour from Brecon down to Cardiff,
a plane to catch, a new job to begin.
She dropped me off but lingered for a long, long kiss,
I miss her now; my love, my lady Gwyn.
In my window seat, I glimpse a fishing trawler,
as Bristol Channel meets the Celtic Sea.
My heart grows lonesome as the boat grows smaller,
I long for Wales and all she means to me.
I miss her valleys, I miss her plains and lush, warm hills,
I miss her beauty that would make me stop and stare.
I miss her gardens, her leeks and lovely daffodils,
I miss my Wales, and the sweetheart I left there.
I'll be thinking of her Welsh cakes and her laverbread,
I'll be thinking of our trips to Aberystwyth.
I'll be thinking of the beer we love, the tasty Cwtch red ale,
I'll be thinking of the one I'd drink it with.
I'd love to throw some darts and sing within her pubs,
I'd love to watch her rivers, lakes and coast.
I'd love to watch some matches of her rugby union clubs -
But the one I love is the one I'm missing most.
I miss her valleys, I miss her plains and lush, warm hills,
I miss her beauty that would make me stop and stare.
I miss her gardens, her leeks and lovely daffodils
I miss my Wales, and the sweetheart I left there,
I miss my Wales, and the sweetheart I left there.
Written 16 June 2020
Miss Muffet sat upon a velvet stool
I know 'twas a tuffet; learned that in school
But Muffy was the tart
Who broke the spider's heart
I'm telling the story, so shut up, fool!
Humpty Dumpty had no wisdom at all
That stupid raw egg sat upon a wall
Tempting luck, he gambled
Kerplunk...he got scrambled
Oh what dire fate for an egg to befall
Robbie Rabbit had a fly on his head
It flitted to his tongue where it fell dead
Robbie's halitosis
Was a bad neurosis
He was banished before allowed to spread
The scoop on gardener, Mary Mary
Is she liked to sip Bristol creme sherry
Her tummy was growing
Pregnancy was showing
The dad? Tom, Dick, Harry; maybe Jerry
Jill followed Jack up that hill on a whim
She thought he was cheating on her with Kim
The buxom preacher's daughter
Jill was jailed for slaughter
She beat both of them with Jack's bloody limb
Such a bad little boy was Jack Horner
Spent many hours in the time out corner
Jack was dumber than dumb
Ate plum pie with his thumb
Wagged his purple tongue at each laughing scorner
There was a speedy racer, called the hare
He was so fast, thought he'd have time to spare
The tortoise whooped his butt
The hare shouted some smut
I won't repeat it. No way I'm going there!
I read the tale about Cinderella
Who went to a ball to snag a fella
Bippity boppity boo
She ran off and lost a shoe
And stepped in some sticky mozzarella
Hey, where are ya going, Baa Baa, black sheep
Leaving your meadow, Master, you're a creep
You sheared off my wool
Tired of your bull
I'm joining the herd of Little Bo Peep
Three oinkers built houses with diverse ideas
Straw and sticks? Those guys drank too many beers
The bad wolf huffed and puffed
Piggy three had him handcuffed
The bricker was much shrewder than his peers
Amidst reality of my life two single things remain
inflection of your voice and glow of your tender eyes
held safe by this memory we become transparent rain
wild as the tidal waves of Bristol souls of no disguise
fluid as the ocean we are open inlets, giving rise
sepia moments of a little cottage hidden in the cove
the scent of sweet cinnamon and the taste of your clove
the cackle sound of unseasoned wood against the brick
we sucked the flavors of our passion, and called it love,
holding on to each other, like flames on a candle wick
molten wax and liquid centers with all I hold so dear
when the moon comes into view the stars turn into glass
willful moments arching as tender reeds adhere
we spiral down the staircase, of God's Mandir
we find the miracle of us, and know that it will last
caught between two soft spots we are cloaked in silk
like two lovers in heaven or two lonesome sacred elks
amidst the reality of my life, two single things remain
the taste of a kiss and the place from whence we came
you my first love, were always right as rain.
August 27, 2021
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
Contest Name: Vagabond Dreams
Everybody's bashing Putin week!
Putin's Fallsky
While Putin is doing the Kazatsky
Ukrainians praise the famous Banksy
Putin fell down and went hide’n
Graffiti we all took pride’n
Amid the ruins of war, flowerings of artsy
An artist known as Robin Gunningham
Resides in Bristol, near Tom Cunningham
Paints of war’s grim hypocrisy
Where Putin heads plutocracy
Embraced by a conscience that gives a dam
by I Am Anaya
Bansky's Bravado
With stealth and bravado he's in a rush
He works with passion and departs in a hush
His bold art in Ukraine
Drives Vlad Putin insane
He's Banksy our hero with message and brush
by Robert Gorelick
I have to admit I’ve got a confession
About my unhealthy obsession
Other kids love pop stars with all their heart
For me it’s the Bristol Stool chart
There’s seven different types of poo
With pictures that give me a clue
to how long the poo’s been in my bowel
Poos that’s both fresh and some that’s foul
Each morning once I get out of bed
For breakfast I’ll have brown bread
The chart is a handy tool
To identify your type of stool
Now I’ve decided to tell
You about the different poos that smell
Cos it’s clear that the Bristol stool chart
Can also indicate your type of fart
Type 1 is as hard as a nut
And stays longest in the gut
Type 2 is a sausagy lump
That’s hard to squeeze out your rump
Then there’s types 3 and type 4
These are the poos I adore
These are the poos I prefer to make
A cracked sausage or smooth like a snake
Types 5 and 6 are easier to pass
Blobby or fluffy ones from your ass
Type 7 is the worst of all
It gushes like a waterfall
So now you’ve got all the scoop
On all the different types of poop
I love identifying my poo and type of fart
The Bristol Stool chart fills my heart
A letter from Bristol arrived on my doorstep
I knew its contents would cause me such pain
An invitation for a routine mammogram –
My Goodness …two years have flown past again
I arrived at the breast-screening center
And sat down on a bright lime green chair
The x ray room I soon would enter
I’d have to strip off my pink underwear
The radiologist asked me some questions -
Did I have any worries about my breasts…
I replied they were droopy and sagging
And no longer pert on my chest!
The radiologist laughed at my answer
My humour really did break the ice
We discussed the detection of breast cancer
She listened and was so very nice
It was time for the dreaded deed to be done
Each breast squashed as flat as a pancake
Two images were taken of each compressed one
Good grief my boobies don’t half ache!
A few moments discomfort can detect cancer
Soon the pain was gone from my Bristol Cities
Early detection is really the answer
And in two years they will re squash my titties!
09~23~16
(Bristol Cities is cockney rhyming slang for titties)
Squashed like two pancakes
Mammograms detect cancer
Please kiss me better
Follow up to my mammogram poem – my poor aching ‘Bristol Cities’
09~24~16
A person shot dead,this how it unfolds
rioting and looting,electrcticals clothes and gold
Tottenham bore the first brunt,that came undone
and spread throughout the boroughs of London.
As i sit viewing the tabloids that brings
aireal shots fires destroying buildings
mindless youths as it spreads north
Leeds,Bristol,Birmingham to Liverpool and forth
People go homeless,shopkeepers go broke
no school for children,an absolute joke
we have soldiers in countries fighting wars
they are the unsung heroes fighting a cause
Ashamed to be English? to an extent
i have never seen anything like this event
what will go next Buckingham Palace?
one word from me being absolute " disgrace".
.
People flock to Naples.
Monday, lunch-crowd
Says, "I'll take the
Graveyard--'Bob n' Ruth's' special."
Seneca chiefs continue
Their conversations.
Symbols speak in
Passionate tongues.
Who's listening?
The Bristol Hills know
That every tree and vine
Has a tale worth telling,
"Forgive us,
Our dearest Seneca brothers."
A chief of the Senecas chose to be buried in Naples, NY in the late 19th century.
I'm flattered by Nina but need to take her to the cleaners,
and splat her inbetweeners with fluid from wieners.
Don't mock or beat down Bath when you're Bristolian,
you were all conceived in a seat in the Odeon,
and you should defuzzle that muzzle after a dozen shots
or your muzzle will rot,
it puzzles this Bard from Bath when you say I act hard, that's daft,
I craft the first draft with regards to retards,
but I don't spar like "gangsta", more prankstar, thank ya.
Hip hop Choco-latte,
ow the Arty Farty Party is to tarty for a starty,
this is too easy I laugh at thee, not smarty,
Bath's beautiful with history it stores,
Bristol looks like it fell out of a horse,
we've got James Dyson and Jane Austin,
you've got Baldrick and webbed off spring.
Of course you went off course with the Bath beige bit, nit witt,
but if we are beige, Bristol... sage and onion,
If I'm rhyme goo you're rhyme ga ga,
rotating between that and blah blah,
Nina Parmenter my off par mentor turned mental,
I'm a stray away from putting this to an instrumental,
cus I think you're menstrual, coincidental
you say my mouth before my mind,
this is written down, no noise,
talking out your behind.
I see you wearing glasses Bristolian,
but I'm from Bath we're different classes, I'm nearly done,
if people in Bath are strange then Bristolian DNA aint got range.
And I sense your bitter remain poke, "Bath Farage",
I'm Mr. Bath At Large,
so LEAVE WON of your remoan votes in the garbage, that's GAR-BAAGE.
I know your only joking and fun poking
through rhyme freedom and I sometimes free dumb,
the outcome of a lout on one, shouting out me bum,
but you saved it in the end with a bit of innuendo,
good poke, I'm off to play Nintendo,
you're tender when you bend so I wont stick it in your endo,
I'm a good bloke.
The big debate : “What is a city ?” –
A town created by a charter
And often with cathedral church
But sometimes with an ancient abbey.
St David's, Pembroke is the smallest,
Just twelve hundred citizens
And London is by far the largest,
Populous eight million plus.
Many sprawling conurbations
Are the backbone of our nation :
There's Leeds and London, Bath and Bristol,
Canterbury, Sheffield, Hull;
Then Cardiff, Glasgow, Edinburgh,
Norwich, Wells and Peterborough,
Oxford, Cambridge, Manchester,
Swansea, Truro, Chichester,
Worcester, Portsmouth, York and Belfast,
Carlisle, Chelmsford, Perth.
In cities there is entertainment
With cinema and theatre too,
Museum, gallery and concert hall –
A cultured way of relaxation.
A city has a green side too
With parks and gardens to explore,
Pedestrian precincts help us shop
Away from traffic noise and fumes.
I recommend a city visit,
So many secrets are in store.
Leave your car outside the ring-road,
Hop on a bus to start your tour.
What bird is this, I ask the man, that flies
The silken skies with shining knives for wings
We watch it slice the light above The Vize
And swoop and rise, and circle as it sings
Its melancholy song. I see him smile
A bird that beats the sparrows to the crack
Of dawn, he says. We stand a little while
I blink. It flies to Bristol, and flies back
He smiles again, and suddenly a tear
Appears to dance a trickle down his face
The bird has flown a sickly chick, my dear
To half a chance, and half a hope of grace
It flew me once. I look at him. Flew you?
Yes, me, he said. And someone else I knew
© Gail Foster 21st January 2018
On Thursday my boobies will get squashed
(My armpits will be thoroughly washed)
Can’t use deo or spray
so I’ll whiff on that day
Mammograms show cancer can be quashed
Always makes me smile that my appointment letter comes from Bristol because in cockney rhyming slang ‘Bristols’ is slang for breasts.
9/19/18
Strolling by the River Avon, I found somebody,
Strolling to nowhere, I found a person.
I looked at the river, I followed the water.
I saw somebody walking to Bath.
He was my old friend the tailor. Very well known he was.
Near to clothes he spent his life, far from all the beloved ones.
Working for his family to have the best.
Among cloths to get some pounds.
Scisors to cut fabrik, money to grow up a family.
By the River Avon I used to walk, to spread my thoughts.
Thinking of my family I was,
but I needed a beer time to time.
Meeting with friends was such a nice time.
Friends rolled by the river, he never could keep them for long.
He took a journey to Spain,
and he started a new life.
A life far from the River Avon,
a new step to be made.
He is far since then, he's lost
in the dreams of the past.
Looking for the old friends,
Searching for the old River Avon.
Looking for the old friends,
looking for the family that one day used to be a dream,
the unfaithful family he used to work from between cloth to scisors to give them the best.
Now, as a forgotten taylor he dreams with scisors.
As a forgotten father he still looks for his daughter.
As a forgotten friend, he thinks about the friends that have dissapeared.
As a forgotten ex-husband, he regrets to be a husband.
After the years, he thinks about the River Avon, the green meadows, Bristol, Bath, England, anyway, his entire world.
All his world is what I've met: the taylor, the struggling person, the singer, the man I found when I was strolling by the River Avon, my best friend.
Sometimes we think we are in Somerset, time to time we dream about the things we've lost. We can't make a step back, but we will make one in front.
My River Avon, you will always be my rolling back.
Since I was strolling by the River Avon, I found my whole life.
England will be split into by an earthquake which
Will start at the Bristol channel
And tear it horizontally in two.