Best Practised Poems
hey ho
does an octopus know
how to juggle with eight cups and saucers
and the fish watching him
while the elephants swim
then he juggles with a turtle and tortoise
then ho hey
does the octopus say
I can do this all day round in circles
but an ache in my arm
in my arm, in my arm
and so on through all eight tentacles
so hey ho
let the octopus go
to bed nice and early with honey
to rest and recline
for a considerable time
so he doesn’t feel worn out and funny
ho hey
and a new octopus day
refreshed and all ready to juggle
so with cups and with saucers
a turtle and tortoise
but the elephant’s splash makes him struggle
hey hey
that’s not fair that’s not fair
so the octopus went somewhere quieter
where he practised a lot
and a lot more than not
and so now he’s a pro entertainer
He'd practised all day with his Mummy
A tune for his Daddy's delight.
His soft little fingers were aching
From trying to get it just right.
He gave it his full concentration
Determined to master the tune
Expecting that his darling Daddy
Would be coming home very soon.
His Mummy had guided his fingers
He'd felt for each note one by one,
She'd sat by his side and encouraged
Her cheerful, adorable son.
Unable to offer a painting
He offered his own work of art,
For vision had never been granted
And music had lit up his heart.
But Daddy called late from the office
So sorry but he'd been delayed.
And one little boy gave up waiting;
The birthday tune never was played.
'Tell me a story 2' : sponsored by Brenda Chiri
picture 1 - The sleeping child
06/11/18
The DJ shuts the fader by mistake,
yet speaks his words in slick and practised tones,
but doesn’t hear them coming through his ’phones,
berates himself: That’s quite a gaffe to make.
That’s five whole seconds, nothing but dead air.
I’ve dropped a clanger. This is just not done!
The programme’s live, it’s not a trial run.
The punters might retune and go elsewhere.
But more important is that what we give
distracts, amuses, offers light, bright, trite.
Dead air is not an option. Get it right!
They need our pap: it tells them how to live.
Although this little lapse is but a blink,
it might just give the punters time to think.
...inspired by 'Cul-De-Sac' by Allen Tate
The golden sheen had turned to rust,
the laughter to a pile of rags,
the joy to ghostly lamentations,
how the weighted second drags.
Blind and deaf to consecration,
weak the beatings of the heart,
barren now what once was fertile,
love's become a dying art.
The chasm of their lives together
broadens with each passing day,
echoes barely audible
now rattle in a death-mask play.
He spends his time in retrospection,
trying to ignite the flame,
all the tinder is but ashes,
all their tenderness a game.
Passing in the hallway, they will
glance away in silent grief,
post-it notes and conversations
miss their mark, the practised thief.
He concerns himself with models,
crafting planes no one will see,
for an unborn son or daughter,
generations not to be.
Would a child have made a difference?
(would that he were strong and able),
tiny sneakers, matching socks,
another place to set at table.
Living with an empty feeling,
she tries not to blame or doubt,
busies with the darning, dusting,
looking for a quick way out.
Finances keep them together,
stocks and bonds, annuities,
the only glue that holds the airplane,
slim and thin prosperities.
Fifty years, and inching slowly,
they will not be One with God,
separate, they make arrangements,
he cremated, she to sod.
There was happiness and laughter,
lo, those many years ago,
back before they wanted children,
the physician told them no.
They are dead and gone, I'll warrant,
separate, and in repose,
Heaven opened, they crossed inward,
What they said? God only knows.
...inspired by 'Cul-De-Sac' by Allen Tate
The golden sheen had turned to rust,
the laughter to a pile of rags,
the joy to ghostly lamentations,
how the weighted second drags.
Blind and deaf to consecration,
weak the beatings of the heart,
barren now what once was fertile,
love's become a dying art.
The chasm of their lives together
broadens with each passing day,
echoes barely audible
now rattle in a death-mask play.
He spends his time in retrospection,
trying to ignite the flame,
all the tinder is but ashes,
all their tenderness a game.
Passing in the hallway, they will
glance away in silent grief,
post-it notes and conversations
miss their mark, the practised thief.
He concerns himself with models,
crafting planes no one will see,
for an unborn son or daughter,
generations not to be.
Would a child have made a difference?
(would that he were strong and able),
tiny sneakers, matching socks,
another place to set at table.
Living with an empty feeling,
she tries not to blame or doubt,
busies with the darning, dusting,
looking for a quick way out.
Finances keep them together,
stocks and bonds, annuities,
the only glue that holds the airplane,
slim and thin prosperities.
Fifty years, and inching slowly,
they will not be One with God,
separate, they make arrangements,
he cremated, she to sod.
There was happiness and laughter,
lo, those many years ago,
back before they wanted children,
the physician told them no.
They are dead and gone, I'll warrant,
separate, and in repose,
Heaven opened, they crossed inward,
What they said? God only knows.
Sung to the tune of "Oh Little Town of Bethlehem"
Our infant school nativity,
Directed by Mrs. Page,
Was my first opportunity
To act upon the stage.
I always was an extrovert;
So that appealed to me.
My hopes and dreams of all the years,
An actor I would be.
I wanted to play Joseph,
‘Cos Mary was played by Joyce.
And, of all the little girls in the class,
She was my first choice.
And if I couldn’t be Joseph
And ride along with her.
I’d be a king with golden crown
And frankincense or myrrh
I practised every morning,
And every evening.
Imagining the audience applause
For Joseph or a king.
But when it came to casting,
It didn’t come to pass.
The part that Mrs Page gave to me
Was the back half of the ass.
But one day I’ll be famous,
And then I’ll marry Joyce.
The latest toast of theatreland
And all will know my voice.
I’ll invite all my friends to attend,
As I take centre stage.
They’ll be there in the front row.
But I won’t ask Mrs Page.
Each day I awaken, excited by the prospect of the day
Why would I want to feel, any other way
I made commitments many years ago to treat myself, with tender loving care
How I follow this commitment, this is what I'll share
God created nature which includes the rising sun
In that sunlight every morning, I'm running, really so much fun
Over years I've learnt a skill so I can make the people laugh
And when I leave this planet please record it, on my epitaph
Barefoot is how i travel, since the first day of my birth
Connect to positive energies which arise from mother earth
Tibetan rites, a ritual that's practised every day
Reverses ageing process so I can forever play
And when I sit to dine, I select the very best
Organic raw non poisoned fare, for the soul, I mindfully invest
Play guitar with harmonica and also like to sing
Connects left right brain hemispheres. always makes me zing
Mentally, emotionally and physically, I'm always on a high
If you'd like to get more tips, I'm always waiting, I'll be on standby
Today is a perfect day to build a tiny boat.
Out of paper or an old milk carton.
I’d say do not choose paper
since it might not float for long.
We run outside and find the perfect curb
and crouch down on our knees,
at the fastest rapid releasing our ships
in the river of melting snow.
This is the perfect spot for our boats to sail,
each searching for its magical path.
Racing their way through the rushing stream,
to see which one will win.
Not a word is spoken between you and I
as we each hold our breaths,
to witness our tiny boats
get swallowed by the drain.
My boat wins, of course it does.
I practised and built all winter long.
As a champion I look up to the sky
and let the sun edge a smile on my face.
We high-five. Spring has finally sprung.
A warm Spring's fragrant wind
lifts leaf shadows as, molten metal
sizzles from the sudden wet plunge
A farrier holds firm the muddy fetlock
while on three legs a plough horse
stands, docile beneath the hammer blows
A brown eye shines and gently
shuts- he lets a practised hand
glide over sweat-stained withers
that wiggle when a fly lands
The first foot falls- a soft
snort from a velvet muzzle as he
lifts the other to be shod
Soft hooves becoming, iron clad
For the contest, Any Poem, sponsor, Broken Wings must appear on poem
An eisteddfod* is arranged for March 1st
The whole school is encouraged to do their bit
Poetry wasn't my forte in those days
Art was not allowed for this
I decided I would sing a traditional song
Practised whenever I had a spare chance
My voice isn't perfect but I can keep a tune
As times gets nearer wished I had chosen dance.
March 1st arrives our national day, St David's Day
The school was buzzing with most of them here
I try to sing my voice has gone,
Panic sets in I said a prayer
They call out my name and the house I represented
Madame Curie was the one. I opened my mouth to sing
Not a sound came through, my eyes filled with tears
I had practised and practised to get right this thing
My voice I had lost, my nerves were in shreds
Felt like going home and taking to my bed
Instead I shrugged my shoulders, said. C'est la vie
What will be will be, will recite it instead.
They clapped me for trying, felt my shoulders go back
Instead of a song, they had it in verse
I hadn't let my house down just made a different attack
Quick thinking saved me, was just not as rehearsed.
*eisteddfod = annual Welsh festival artistic competition
I beseech thee to
answer
Is there still
hope???
Forgetting their
vows of chaste they
become lecherous
Fighting for power,
they become
ambitous.
Their actions make
people shock
For they forget why
they put on the
cassock.
Respect for God, our
clergies no longer
have
But so greedy with
the things they
have.
They make not,
benedictions to
empty pockets
But go for the rich
to enrich
themselves.
Churches are now
business centers for
money
Clergies bless only
those who make the
offertory box full.
SO BROTHER, IS THERE
STILL HOPE??
They stand as if
pious to duty
But pious are they,
to money.
They check not the
motor
But go for “500frs”
which is their
motto.
They can be seen
standing with zeal
Hands stretch, they
stand still
First, they stamp
After collecting
bribe, they champ
SO SISTER, IS THERE
STILL HOPE??
The rich live
mysteriously
And enjoy themselves
like angels
While the poor live
in mysery
And die because of
negligence.
TO YOU, IS THERE
STILL HOPE??
Embezzlement in
Cameroon is a virtue
It is practised in
all offices
Thieves go in broad
daylight unscathed
While the innocent
ones are caught and
they cant fight.
My country is said
to be democratic
But elections have
never been smooth
For a score and
ten, the president
has stayed in power
Using deceit and the
gun to rule.
IS THIS HOW IT
SHOULD BE??
Virgins have now
liquidated
themselves
They prefer being
ravishe.
Whores, they become
in quest for money;
My black girls don’t
like their colour
They strive to be
whites
Thus, monsters they
become in a bid to
peel their skin
Very few believe in
“black is beauty.”
Brothers copulate
sisters
While fathers
copulate daughters.
IS THERE STILL HOPE?
" 1st price, poetry
contest,
poemsclub.com,
April 2014"
Stef, born in New Zealand’s fine country,
Moved to Canada aged 4 with her parents,
Where she had a boating accident aged 9,
Which amputated her right foot for her life.
She’s married to fellow Paralympian fast,
Canadian wheelchair racer Brent Lakatos,
And they both train at Loughborough Uni,
Where there’s a plethora of sports facilities.
Stef graduated from good Queens University,
In Biochemistry with honours and at times,
Is a professional speaker, a fashion model,
And lay preacher of the gospel and the way.
Before the accident Stephanie played rugby,
But afterwards she could not do this because,
Her prosthetic was at risk of detaching itself,
Mid-game and injuring near placed players.
So she went into track and field athletics,
Practised until she became sick and tired,
Which saw her make the 2008 Paralympics,
In Beijing when she won gold for the sprint.
She graced the podium often at small meets,
In Manchester and in London. Christchurch
Saw her flourish when she won two bronzes:
One for the long jump and one for the 200m.
In Swansea at the European games in 2014,
Stef took home for the T44 long jump a gold,
And in the London Paras which introduced,
So many to disability sport, she won a silver.
In Rio she won another silver, on the mark
For TeamGB. She hasn’t always represented,
Britain because when she was much younger,
She competed for Canada’s rocky territory.
I ONLY SPEAK SECOND-RATE SPANISH
I didn’t say it then, but I can say it now -
I can say many things in many languages, and how!
English, Russian, French and the lovely Spanish tongue.
First one I started with, when I was young,
Was Spanish - learned in The States and
Obviously Mexican Spanish, perfectly at hand
For communicating with half a billion who likewise speak,
If in Latin America and over world you seek.
I chanced to meet a long-lost acquaintance,
A snobbish woman of little real substance,
Who spoke Spanish and we practised our learned word.
Oh, she says, you speak only Mexican Spanish. She demurred
- Not real Spanish………
Actually what she thaid wath, “You thpeak Mekthican Thpanish”
Real Thpanish ith called Cathtellano……
You would not be underthtood in Thpain, oh no!”
I obviously disappointed her with my inferior ability
She certainly disappointed me with her snobbery.
Now I can say that speaking Spanish is a pleasure
But thpeaking Thpanish is a torture.
The people of Thpain will have to be denied my voice
But the billion others may hear its song and joys.
Carriage drawn by four black steeds
Zombie coachman no blood to bleed
He is employed by Dracula
Who calls him fondly Tarantula.
Tonight he's on deadly mission
His masters suffering malnutrition
With fangs that ache, desperate for blood
He's practised in art of courtly love.
Tarantula picked up Dracula's date
Dressed to the nines her fate awaits
Beautiful woman if only she knew
Vampires entice and then subdue.
Charming Count's enigmatic smile
Teeth so white he does beguile
Taking her hand at table they sit
He really has most invasive wit.
Weaving his spell she quickly falls under
Satisfied Count made fatal blunder
He turned her into creature of night
She now bedevils him, wanting a bite.
Lips combine
To say,“Amma”, the Mother Divine.
Amma – the sweetest word the first alphabet can provide
And the tongue safely rests inside!
Amma
Is sweet ambrosia.
O! she sees!
And my sorrows cease.
Her face
Reveals the divinest grace.
Her touches rinse
All my brutal sins.
O! she kisses and embraces!
I’m changed, I confess.
Then, she whispered something in my ear
It was so soft that my heart alone could hear!
It is a lesson
No father cares to teach his son.
It is a skill
A master is yet to teach his pupil.
It is an art
No educational system is fit to impart.
It is a position
That demands no university qualification.
It is an opportunity
That is never going to be easy.
It is a vocation
Where none can decide the remuneration.
It is a quality
Even the wise men envy.
It is a legacy
That no forefather has passed to his progeny.
It is a wealth
That is not owned by stealth.
It is a treasure
Beyond measure.
It is a fortune
That dances not with the rich man’s tune.
It is so priceless
That any price assigned makes its value less.
It is a noble virtue
Practised by very few.
It is a burden
For the weak-minded men.
It is a wish
Even the greatest yogins are yet to accomplish.
It is a want
A pleased God is yet to grant.
It is so human
That no Gods can attain but men!
It is as easy as easy can be!
It is as hard as hard can be!
Now let me reveal
The words Amma made me feel
What she beautifully said
What my heart at once responded
Was composed of only a few words, not many!
Ah! it was a new Vedic hymn to me.
She only said: “Serve mankind
With a selfless mind”.