Best Tonne Poems
Wiltshire is a lovely place too be
A county with plenty of history
Neolithic rocks from north to south
You can even see a white horses mouth
With walks over undulating ground
Find the mystery of the giants mound
You can see where the soldiers train
On the expansive Salisbury Plain
With white horses carved into the hill
Walk around them enjoy the thrill
If you are not able to do the walks
Visit the heritage centers hear the talks
But if all else fails jump into the car
You can easily see them from afar
No queuing required and it's free
Come to Wiltshire and you will see
Stonehenge, Avebury stones too name but afew
I guarantee you will go phew
Ingenuity of the people before
Its amazing, it will not bore
Moving those rocks that weigh a tonne
Without machinery just father and son
Carving horses into those chalky hills
Showing us, all thier artistic skills
So visit Wiltshire and see these sights
Plenty to do from morning to night
Let the country air cover your face
Do this slowly it's not a race
Enjoy your trip to this county
Paradise Yes without the bounty
Meet the locals and have a chat
Enjoy a cider you can't beat that
She had a bit of a problem
Of which she was reluctant to disclose
Her wardrobe was full to overflowing
With a wild array of clothes
She justified this behaviour
By insisting it was cheap stuff
Purchased from the op shops
She couldn't get enough
Because it was so cheap
She'd buy three things instead of one
Her shirts multiplied in dozens
And her dresses by the tonne
The day eventually arrived
The wardrobe door would close no more
The drawers were overstuffed
Things were piled up on the floor
Clearly drastic action was needed
And obviously, without a doubt
This would require some discipline
And red wine to sort it out
Hours later, knackered and dishevelled
She had reduced her clothing stash
She promised never to repeat this mistake
And instead save herself the cash
She staggered to the op shop
Weighed down with bags of gear
But naturally, there was a sale on
And really, she had nothing left to wear...
A knife stab on a man
Hurts as much on a kid
He has to remain mum
A brave face to cede
A woman on his side, on the other a son
Two souls to shield, emotions never freed
He has strength to lift a tonne
And more to make his tears recede
He holds the tears back like a dam
When his boiling anger feeds
His heartbreak may have no span
But he won’t flip a lid
Lucid is heartbreak to a woman
It is heart dust to a man crushed to plead
A moon ray in the absence of the sun
Sparkles a tear drop on his eyelid
When the world looks away he becomes human
Allows his tears to flow and dilute his bleeding
He knows crying a river killed no one
But bleeding a river did
SINLESS EYES
Nine solid months unto her womb is he,
breathing and heartbeat they do as one.
Carrying him safely, his husband sees,
providing food and money his daily home run
'til the day his son pleas to be out in the sun.
(always then his aim is to be a good guy)
Though it will take a long long time, his son--
sinless eyes, no smiles, when the children cry...
His son grew then unto the world he spree
where he is exposed to gases, bombs and gun.
Along the streets, he and others learn a key--
that learning curve adhere but some remains undone.
Shoulders bruised, torn, from bearing a tonne,
some lost souls wander, their life gone awry--
falling short to wonder later how it all began,
sinless eyes, no smiles, when the children cry...
Can later bestow some better decree,
outlasting evil by following a model-- a nun?
On returning to God by following thee,
from this day, forward, man shall never shun
to battles that last even 'til midnight sun.
Answers possessed on the strings of whys
and never again to ask for a hired gun.
Sinless eyes, no smiles, when the children cry...
Darkness is beaten, light has won!
Wisdom now reached, cocooning the guy,
a new day now welcomes another son
sinless eyes, no smiles, when the children cry...
©J.A. Fraser and O. E. Guillermo
9:40 pm, December 01, 2014
We cousins looked forward to our summer holidays which were full of fun
Our barbaric guffaws were louder than the joys of any battle won
One was always on the run while another chased him with a water gun
Heroism was on the footloose, with many ghost chilling yarns being spun
Arguments, fights, boasting, was our forte as each refused to be outdone
Pantries ran out of stock as the food we gormandized was more than a tonne
The swimming pool was but ours, and we refused invasion by anyone
We stood undivided, if a glass had broken when we had hit and run
We were punished together, sheepish grins at smuggled food for we were one!
18 syllables per line
June 14, 2016
For Laura Loo
SINLESS EYES - a collab with JAMES FRASER
SINLESS EYES
Nine solid months unto her womb is he,
breathing and heartbeat they do as one.
Carrying him safely, his husband sees,
providing food and money his daily home run
'til the day his son pleas to be out in the sun.
(always then his aim is to be a good guy)
Though it will take a long long time, his son--
sinless eyes, no smiles, when the children cry...
His son grew then unto the world he spree
where he is exposed to gases, bombs and gun.
Along the streets, he and others learn a key--
that learning curve adhere but some remains undone.
Shoulders bruised, torn, from bearing a tonne,
some lost souls wander, their life gone awry--
falling short to wonder later how it all began,
sinless eyes, no smiles, when the children cry...
Can later bestow some better decree,
outlasting evil by following a model-- a nun?
On returning to God by following thee,
from this day, forward, man shall never shun
to battles that last even 'til midnight sun.
Answers possessed on the strings of whys
and never again to ask for a hired gun.
Sinless eyes, no smiles, when the children cry...
Darkness is beaten, light has won!
Wisdom now reached, cocooning the guy,
a new day now welcomes another son
sinless eyes, no smiles, when the children cry...
©O. E. Guillermo and J.A. Fraser
9:40 pm, December 01, 2014
I judge men by the colour of their teeth,
And by the colours of their teeth I group them:
The Whites we have,
The Blacks we have,
The Browns we have,
And the Yellows too.
Life we all start as Whites, and with good care
Whites we remain.
With less care Yellows we become;
With yet lesser care Browns we become;
And with least care to Blacks we turn.
‘Tis thus that our descent down the rungs of color
Often bespeaks our personal quality.
By effort and discipline Blacks, Browns, and Yellows
are sometimes to Whites restored:
So it is that men can choose what color they'll be
If by tooth not skin we judge their color.
There is song and speech in the colors of their teeth
From which can be gleaned glimpses of their habits
and hints of their mettle.
But neither song nor speech we find in their skins
Which are born mute, live mute, and die mute.
So if ever you hear my skin speak,
Spinning tales of my habits and mettle,
Rather look up my teeth and hear their side.
They lack a tan but speak a tonne--
That much I know from my years on earth.
The whole truth they may not give
But what you get is closer to it!
I see we are open again.
It’s time to welcome old friends.
The homely, the lonely,
they who want only
to have somewhere to place their rear ends.
The people I bear are so glad.
The stories I hear are not bad.
Where I smell the beers
and I taste the tears
of the sad, and they who are driven mad.
So come in, come on, come over - come over and take a seat.
I am here to help you take your mind off your feet.
All day I sit here waiting for everyone who comes.
I am your barroom bar-stool, who welcomes all your bums.
Here comes a raving beauty, this is gunna be fun.
An hour glass figure; tight blue jeans - where do those legs run?
But why has she stopped walking?
Can’t she just stop talking!
Oh no, wait - this bloke’s fat and ugly and he weighs two tonne.
Barroom stools have feelings too.
They just don’t see a pretty face,
although they love to touch the cheeks
that are in some other place -
So come in, come on, come over - come over and take a seat.
I am here to help you take your mind off your feet.
All day I sit here waiting for everyone who comes.
I am your barroom bar-stool, who welcomes all your bums.
Now here comes the girl that I’m looking for.
An hour glass figure and parts to explore.
Her blonde hair’s amazing;
I feel like hell raising,
for bar stools like you also like to score.
The life of a bar-stool is a life worth living.
Supporting the souls who need forgiving.
I’m hoping each minute the perfect one comes,
‘cause I’m sick of tired of supporting old bums.
Since there was no stone to close Jesus’ death tomb
According to modern Christian myth, it had vanished,
But as of the Gospel version of this story, boom,
In Luke 24:2 the stone was rolled away - astonished?
Matthew 28 verses 1 to 6 tell us squarely, no tact,
That an angel appeared to the two women, the Mary’s,
To the next of kin in Jesus’ life, mum and partner, fact,
Which defers upon these two people the quandaries.
Jesus had caused such a kerfuffle amongst professionals,
In the medical scene he’d had an important remark,
That the poor should also receive treatment, nationals,
Did it in public even, brought medicine out of the dark.
So the continuation of this new strand of medicine,
Had to be engineered, and the two Mary’s saw that,
So, I detect, they told a lie about the internment scene,
Because they suggest strength by angels having hat.
When you do exercises too much or strain excessively,
You can see an angel if you believe in them, reflection,
So I deduce that Mary and Mary moved the stone actively,
And cremated his body without guilt or hesitation.
A lie can often hint the original truth, when you tell one,
And so the real story can be deduced, concluded, traced,
And the Gospel states that the stone was set aside, tonne,
Not disappeared implying god had resurrected and aced.
Extreme fundamentalist parents tell their kids smugly,
That the stone had vanished without explanation,
But you can see clearly that Christianity was born really,
From the two Mary’s and the gardener’s cremation.
I'm sad to see the nature,
which is now in a torture.
It's bad for our future,
to spoil the beautiful nature.
The nature has a tree,
which can be planted for free.
But when we are free,
we don't think about planting a tree!
The nature has a sun,
when it shines; we have fun,
It looks similar as a bun,
and is larger than a tonne!
The nature has a moon,
which I'll be seeing soon.
Shorter are nights in June,
but I love the moon.
The nature has many stars,
that shine for many hours.
They shine in the night,
and there's very little light!
We should preserve the nature,
for our better future.
If we preserve the nature; I would be glad,
and then; I won't remain sad!
"Do what you want son".
Five words that can feel like a metric tonne.
Or keep you grounded through electric fun.
Eject, discard and reload the magazine of your advice gun, cause' at the minute, I've got next to none.
Give and take, it's a one way street.
Face down in the ditch of defeat.
Delivering dreams feels more like chewing on a mouthful of seagull secrete coated concrete.
No choice but to stand up, put a finger up to the so called 'elite' and attempt to keep your war & battle that little bit discrete.
My truck is almost full
of birds , that have risked
their last migration
for a journey to the planet mercury.
So fell from the sky
a ton of fried chickens.
I won't have to swing my fork
in the stars,
nor to plant my fingers
in the electrical socket,
there will still be some time
before I starved to death.
RC
initially written in french
- Mon camion est presque plein
d'oiseaux qui se sont risqués
dans leur dernière migration
pour la planète mercure.
Ainsi, est tombé du ciel
une tonne de poulets frits.
Je n'aurai pas à balancer ma fourche
dans les étoiles,
ni à planter mes doigts
dans la prise électrique,
il se passera encore un peu de temps
avant que je ne meure de faim.
-
The billycart we made, with pride in our hands,
We made with a juvenile fun,
Using 4b2 planks, and big iron wheels,
It weighed somewhere near to a tonne,
For the farm’s eroded driveway, both steep and direct,
Covered in sharp, slippery sand,
Leading straight down, to the shard concrete bridge,
Upon which we'd often crash land,
We didn't need, nor have, O.H. and S. cover,
Our safety plan was more or less hope,
And this was shown with the steering we made,
Out of old worn torn hessian rope.
When we were kids we got cut and we bled,
All the time, with no song and no dance,
We learnt, first hand, how to face a good risk,
How to laugh at danger, at hurt, at chance.
On a recent Monday,
at
an ice cream parlor
I found
chunky pieces of clay,
in my
olde fashion sundae,
that weighed
like a tonne of bricks.
As I excavated
with my wooden spoon
I found crumbs
of an asphalt driveway
with a blond toupee
and three tokens
for the New York
Tokyo and Montreal subway.
Several inches further
I discover racecar pj’s
with toes
in full decay.
Swollen green
blue
red
yellow
black
purple
white
gold
bronze toes
laid on top
of a half cooked stingray.
Even my slush
had undergone
metamorphosis.
It contained
an unlikely flavour.
Instead
of a flavourful
cherry slush,
the drink was
thicker than usual.
I found
my entire cup
was filled with
``Grade F``
dog and horse pooh.
This encounter with
the weird and the bizzare
has taught me,
to take caution
when something
is
free.
Happy New Year, it’s time to fly,
Get together with others, chime,
Collect yourself and inwards cry,
Scream n’ shout at New Year’s time,
Pull down the old if need be,
Flare and dance, temper the won;
Mime, hold to ransom gaunt and Lei,
Astound the self, the gut n’ tonne.
Jig around the Christmas tree,
In the halls and pubs real bright,
Lights will own you, squint or glee,
‘Til surroundings become amie tight.
Happy New Year. Cheers to you all.