Best Timetables Poems
Often I drift back to my days of youth
to where life did begin; a rural treat,
those sharp brisk mornings a moorland uncouth
a naïve nakedness a one-way street,
simple things like the sun rise snow and sleet.
No timetables no worries to go wrong
tuneful mum dusting the blues in a song,
where fences were constructed to lean on
over which chat neighbours when ties were strong,
A relief thinking of those days long gone.
2021
Entered Mark Toney's
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile contest 15
30/9/2022
A special teacher does NOT....
care about financial gain
play the glorified sitter
teach some, yet let others wane
ever really seem bitter
A special teacher DOES....
sometimes use their own accounts
to get kids what they need.
Not caring about amounts
preparing to plant the seed.
They don't....
give up on "unteachables"
hand out notes and walk away
care that much for timetables
dismiss what a child might say
They do.....
use every single facet
to aid children's connecting.
try hard to help ALL get it
have great ears for listening
All their tots are respected
no matter their race or size
They comfort those dejected
to the top, they help them rise.
Our world needs more of their kind
caring souls, oversized hearts
Passion for sculpting a mind
deep within them, where it starts
I know of one such teacher
though it has not been for long
Feel she's a children reacher
molding them to become strong
That's not what brings pen to pad
the thought has my heart sinking
What does could have been so sad
if not for her quick thinking
She saved a young life that day
NO ONE dare say otherwise!
Such calmness within the fray
one's instincts, how they arise
What was done, creditable
a debt I can not repay
Earned her place at His table
Forget Nicole NE'ER A DAY!
BACK STORY
Me and my dad used to work as a team on the Trolley Buses for Manchester Corporation, out of the Hyde Road Depot. Dad drove, and I was his offsider, collecting fares, and keeping order on the bus, like making sure people did not block the aisle, or go past the stop they had paid for. and no one was standing up if there was room to sit down, also making sure people upstairs did not bang there feet on the floor. General Spoilsport eh. In the second part, Moses was a big African fella, and his offsider was a little red headed Irishman, they usually had the run in front of us, and tried whatever they could to get us to go ahead, and take the load off them, timetables did not bother them much. I always told dad,
if it comes to a fight, I will take the little one
Trolley Buses
By Robert (Bob) Moore ©
I used to work on trolley buses, up and down Hyde Road
My dad he was the driver, and I controlled the load
Move along the bus I’d say, there’s room for 2 upstairs
that’s where you were allowed to smoke, in those days no one cared
Leave from Piccadilly, the 210 was our bus
Keep eyes on the timetable, it meant a lot to us.
Ardwick Green and Belle Vue, then on past Debdale Park
Hyde would be the Terminus, then turn and head right back
Sometimes a petrol driver, would try to make some cash
With overtime on trolleys, but sometimes they were rash
They’d forget about the trolley arm, and try to overtake
They’d see us wave and shouting, and realized “mistake”
It was all too late of course, and the sparks would start to fly
The arms were bent and waving, and the power it would die
Then swearing and apologies, and laughter close to tears
Then back to depot on batteries, for the ribbing and the sneers.
Moses was an African, his offsider was a Mick
They tried to get us to take their load, with every dirty trick
We pulled into Hyde one day, they had their trolleys down
You should be in front they said, and take the load to town.
Dad did not bat an eyelid, we’er on a break he said
you’ll have to wait 10 minutes, before we go ahead
they knew they could not wait that long, they had to make their run
so trolleys up, and off they went, we drank tea and watched the fun.
Time
There is the essence of time in space, that we are not aware
There is a quality of time, that we wish we all could share
There may be times when you feel that time is on your side
Or time can be an eternity, lost somewhere in the great divide
There are timelines that we impose upon our daily lives
There are timetables that we set forth and attempt to strive
There are timeouts, whenever we believe events have gone awry
There are timeframes, life's memoirs lost in the sweet bye and bye
We have timepieces we wear, they remind us to be there
We have timekeepers, to tell us we should always be aware
We have timeshares, that are meant to share a part of you with me
We achieve timeworn, a reflection of what was and what must be
Never be timed with what you really want to achieve
Allow yourself to be timeless in what you truly believe
If we all live our lives with humility in a timely manner
Then our time spent on this earth shall truly matter
Within every second, minute, hour, day and year
Like the rhythmic beating of your heart you hear
Every breath you take, is such a true gift everyday
Because one day, father time will take it all away
Tick Tock, Tick Tock, Tick Tock, Tick Tock
Within the beating of our hearts, like a time clock
Good morning my Sweetheart
Although you’ve got nothing to gain
Your love is as pure as the imminent oncoming rain
Wipe sleep from your wakening eyes
And prepare for the oncoming day
With needles and diets and timetables
No respite nor no time to delay
From pains in your tummy
And bloods taken throughout the night
I wonder at all how you manage to love me in spite
Of the pains you go through
You’ve a heart brimming so full of love
No remorse nor self pity
You’re my Princess my Angel my Dove
Though life can be cruel
And at times it can seem so unfair
The tolls that we pay and the burdens oft’ too great to bear
I’d lay down my life
And all that I’ve left that’s worth giving
To grant you a wish and afford you
A life that’s worth living
For my little Princess …
As adults we walk around the streets and parks
with a face saying “I know where I’m going,”
“I know what I’m doing”.
Timetables, manuals, diaries, and journals somehow
find themselves in our pockets,
as form of reassurance for “I know what I’m doing” slogan.
Other times we show a blank expression on our faces,
when the weather forecasters go all wrong;
when life savings end up in a pyramid scheme;
when heroine dosage goes out of control;
when we blame the stars for a breakup…….
Uncertainty breaks apart our certainty……
Poet name: Teddy Kimathi
Date of entry: 12/10/2015
For the contest: Creative Layouts
Sponsor: Broken Wings
That timetables rapt familiarized discern
resolves transmitting rumors, my befriend
dysfunctions with misgivings, halting's bend
and circumvents a standstill toward no end!
While oppositions furthering's belief
beginning's placate, anchoring's achieve
and dormancy becomes a truth's bereave,
life's reconciling justice to perceive!
All told, involuntary atmospheric sieve,
the matters decimating planning's blind
are flushed away, as truth's fulfilled contend
perniciously is focused to amend!
The timeless trust, no telltale virtue's send
can irritate or spill the hope's distend
hurt's mortifying gospels' spoken trends
are turned to Love, by faith's conspired extend!
This standstill wavers not with jury's press
the voice of legal cost must so address
some epilogue of change, not chance's duress
must gravitate consideration's bless!
Trial of Standing Bear, Ponca Indian Chief. On May 12, 1879
Chief Standing Bear held out his hand to Judge Elmer Dundy
and pleaded for recognition of his humanity ~
"My hand is not the color of yours, but if I pierce it, I shall feel pain.
If you pierce your hand, you will feel pain. The blood that will flow
from mine will be of the same color as yours. I AM A MAN.
The same God made us both."
Go to www.poncatribeofnebraska.com and read legacy manuscripts
written by Thomas Henry Tibbles ~ and most definitely visit upper
Northeast Nebraska on the Niobrara and Missouri Rivers.
(Inspired by Harry’s poems- The Old Oak Tree, Oh them hot air balloons, Death is Not the End and An Agendaless Age)
I have known Harry barely two years back
Yet I felt a strange rapport with him
Even before reading his poems,
On seeing the silhouette of Harry,
In colored glass and grey hair, reflecting
Nobility and gentleness, I got overpowered.
I have always felt he was cool and level-headed
But strong like the old oak tree, ever sheltering!
A sanctuary to new poets, a guardian to everyone,
To learn and derive inspiration from.
A gentle spirit who had a word of encouragement for all.
He was not among the clump of trees
But stood aloof like the old oak tree
He wished to stay rooted to the ground
And never fancied to ride like the hot air balloon
As he knew it would soon come down to earth
He was never a votary of the ultra modern age.
He nostalgically reminiscences of an agenda- less age,
When there were no timetables and no worries
Where fences were constructed, not as barriers,
But to lean on and talk with neighbours.
Harry, with you we too believe, death is not the end.
You will not die dear poet friend
But through your poems, will live in our hearts forever.
Enjoy the bliss of being in an agenda- less age,
And roam free ‘in fresh woods and pastures new’!
May 31.2023
~ Placed First~
Tributes to Harry Horsman- An Uncontest Poetrty Contest
Sponsor- Andrea Dietrich
.
If we decided to till our farms,
They don't care to help us with their arms
We are hungry while they are in satisfactory
Is only food we always battle for
We discover our fate while striving for it
They say we act skulduggery toward them
Every rainy season we hope for fertilizer
Which is among their tool during campaign
We don't get it without chuckling our pennies
Despite it gets to our hands
It must contain fine sand
It never yield the farm as we want
Time for harvesting they increase
the fuel price.
The implements they promised are there
in their farms working for them
We only use our inherited method to
harvest and process our crops
Everyday we are on food
We don't know the timetable for it
They have their own timetables
Whatever we hit in the morning,
We only install it without asking.
On their timetable they depend
In the morning they slot slices of wheat
And hot semi-liquid of refined beverages.
While we slot rough slabs of maize
And diluted of fermented pap
While lunch they eat white softy foreign particles and big fleshy vowels
While we swallow drenched cup-son
Which drains our body fluids.
It's only when we are lucky that we could
eat our broken softy particles that let fresh consolidated gems.
During supper theirs is the zenith
Ours is the lagged with no tastes
They eat with the intention of making
their bodies fine and smooth
While we eat just to daze the hunger
that kills us.
Their food's responsibility is embedded
in our country's budget while ours is
in our hands and powers of our muscles.
If they eat their food, they jump, dance and even take themselves on marathon
While if we eat, we only get horizontally
And let our souls to go and rest.
"I am appalled," the administrator said
..."I am appalled by your recommendation."
yet utterly correct, it soon proved to be
for years anonymous, the implied accusation
Challenger "slipped the surly bonds of Earth"
and surely those scientific souls perished
to "Touch the face of God" was said henceforth
but always, in all ways, their memory cherished
Roger Boisjoly*, and a few who knew the truth
also, felt smacked-in-the-face by appalling
as guilt and horror were revealed through proof
let "only the facts speak" was the higher calling
when timetables are allowed to tip the scale
without regard to even more profound losses
we could learn to let probable facts prevail
and overrule overbearing bosses, whatever the cost is
foregoing of foretelling, is unfortunately compelling
© Goode Guy 2012-02-07
* pronounced: (Fr) Beaujolais
http://www.npr.org/blogs/thetwo-way/2012/02/06/146490064/remembering-roger-boisjoly-he-tried-to-stop-shuttle-challenger-launch?ps=cprs
http://www.npr.org/player/v2/mediaPlayer.html?action=1&t=1&islist=false&id=146490064&m=146483712
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Space_Shuttle_Challenger_disaster
the roses of my life are blooming again
i am on my next ride
i feel as if i am going to win
my walk in perfect motion....i have it all in stride
your kiss is like timetables of prosperity so radiantly parallel
our next journey we so eagerly await
whether we hang glide, jump the waves, or parasail,
we simply float freely through each and every gate
I played insane games with my brainwaves, leaving psycho-spiritual stains in the astral plane, collapsed synapses, bruises, scratches, this ain’t magic, it’s incompetence
Unconscious but alive, same as everyone else in the supply chain on the physical plain: is it wrong that I’m still here, I’m in a contract of astonishment
My epiphanes are crystalline, they’re bought and sold like nicotine - indecisive? Lived your life by your choices? Spoilt for choice? That’s not a punishment
These mental ball games, throttled thoughts of pearly tall gates, hadn’t you ought to stop painting a portrait of yourself as a sore saint? It’s getting monotonous.
Train timetables, tortured habits
Surfing rings far from the planet
Ailing adversaries, damaged
goods is how we’ve always managed
http://samnicholasharrison.tumblr.com/
*Image of Spa Coconut Bath Tubs by Pixabay.
The Spa: Fibonacci-Rhyme
The
Spa
when used
be confused
by most first-timers
yet not a case for old-timers.
As timetables vary per clients customary,
employees plan on weekly, shifts expected, with clientele care to be primary.
2022 January 14
HMS; 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, syllables.
I.
I’ve lost my sense of silence…
I’ve lost my self
So now I hate everything
I want nothing to do with anything
Does this make you sad?
It makes me sad, sure,
And even as I curse even that sadness
I cant not rip it off
I wish to burn my angel wings
The game to me is cruel and dumb now
There is no merriment where there is no place to re-fuel
Buried in the thickets of eyes and ears as I am
Let me be
Retreat and I will learn some other trick
And never ever tell you about it
I will show you, like I do my own tears,
To me in the mirror
But just as my tears that I keep hidden from you
I will never tell you my reason for living
My own intents of love
This I will burn in my own memory
I am tired now…
Of you, world…
I wish not death or darkness
But light and warmth, out of ear shot from all savages.
II.
I was pulling strings of beads--
They were dancing!
I lumbered to a lull,
The lighted eyes raying into me--I shot upwards!
A rebounding blue casket flash,
I slip onto wet pavement as Wendell
Dropped salt spit from his brow,
Patting me tender.
Wendell lived alone.
With the many fresh faces rolling along the lawns
Pattering and clopping against the silent realm of wood,
Piercing my silvering sounds
With shuttering glimpses of the Great Blue and White
There was always a party with Wendell.
Woven in nature’s diagonal rings, as they appear against the sun,
There is some irate lust for human companionship,
Like mad scientists a-muck about the land,
All on differing timetables, differing desires,
Thoug with a thirst for air like me.
Shaped by and for wind
the free flowing mane
timetables share in
the horses of the plain
Gallop trot sprint unfold
climbing breezes oblivion
stoney story is told
sculpted in black obsidian
Herds mighty now stampede
on hooves brittle exposed
o’er rocky ground to succeed
the grasses’ tufts unimposed
Crashing prairie like thunder
wet glowing shape in steam
gathers around from under
yellow eyes black night scream
reflecting the tapetum lucidum
moon spreads across the fields
rulers of their night kingdom
the fruits of what they yield
The form speed and shape
lend the horse it’s prizes
furiously charging escape
from predators’ disguises
meant to be free forever
no man upon its back
mysterious and clever
evading animal attack
strength outward haughty
curving muscular weight
tall thin legs almost scrawny
belies it’s gentle gait.
But lightning they race
in full sprint together
dignity and grace
sans saddle or tether
Free as the rain or sun
their beauty intelligence shares
meant to gallup and run
no fences our world in theirs.