Best Ware Poems
Dedicated to 12 innocents killed by a gunshooter in West Cumbria.
A killer vindictive staunch, trivial systallic gush.
Violate grumble wish washy starling a virent push.
A Wheeler dealer syncopated steadfast ware wolf,
Gurgitation gusty thorough fare tripudiate brush.
Tirailleur timorous tintinnabulation whiffle tingle.
My mother had a friend who had chalk-ware decorations in her kitchen. She had inherited them
From her grandmother, maybe even her great-grandmother. They were from the forties.
A chalk-ware peach, a chalk-ware apple, a chalk-ware orange, a chalk-ware banana.
Cook, butler, maid, stove, refrigerator, sink, all in chalk-ware.
When she reached her nineties she was still in her own home, but making a few little mistakes.
She called my mother one time to complain because she had put her chalk-ware decorations into
The dishwasher to “freshen them up”, but after the dishwashing cycle, they had disappeared.
My mother told me about it, and we laughed.
All those little wires in the bottom of the dishwasher, my mother said.
We laughed again.
Chalk-ware brain, I thought.
I wisely kept this to myself.
Breaking hard my head
Thoughts ware
4985
Fair Ware and Tare
Golf courses will have ways that are fair;
Rivers cut through due to ware and tare;
Must be saying,
Here much golf playing;
Does anyone have an eagle they can spare.
Cyril is a squirrel that comes from the Wirral,
he looks cute and furry but he's gone a bit feral,
Cyril dislikes foreign squirrels,
won't hear no ifs or buts,
he says the tide of squirrelgrants are going to have all the nuts,
Cyril voted ukip and cheered when brexit won,
The says 'now we've taken back control,
got the eurocats on the run',
Cyril thinks that Farage is just a wicked bloke,
he'd like to sit inside the pub with him
and rant and drink and smoke,
he says that Nigel's got it and speaks with the common squirrel's voice,
now we're leaving Europe we have simple choice,
strong and stable nut trees or bremoaners whining, jeez
- surely empress Theresa must be the best of these.
He thinks that every squirrel,
should be free to gather as many nuts,
as he is physically able and if that means some cuts,
to furry mammal welfare that's just the price you pay,
for strong and stable government, it's the neo-squirriberal way.
Now Suzanne's a cosmic yoga teacher,
with her chakras all aligned,
she sees the good in everyone, wants peace for all mankind.
She took her mum out shopping, to Tescos in Ledbelly town,
parked the car and got her bags for life and prepared to shop on down,
she needed organic yeast free beansprouts
and free range yoghurt with which to knit,
a tea cosy for the Dalai lama,
(she thinks he's really fit).
But at the storefront entrance,
a standoff was in full swing,
a fearsome beast with claws and teeth and lot's of tats and bling,
was scaring all the customers!
-the staff couldn't do a thing,
they said 'you'll have to go to Aldi, for if we open up,
Cyril the squirrel will trash the place!',
Suzanne said 'wassup'?,
Suzanne's sense of social justice began to kick in now,
she said 'he's got a point you know,
I'm being a mardy cow'.
She overturned the basket and said to Cyril run,
go, be free and have some squirrel fun.
And there the story might have ended (TBC)
continues ....
(for it 'twas by him that she was awoken).
'Dont listen to hate, or give in to fear,
He said with a countenance kindly,
remember your Vedas and mantras,
Let your be life be lived for the many,
and not for the few,
don't be led into fascism blindly'!
With these wise, timely words in her ears she awoke,
And said by Krishna! I feel so much better,
I must give to the poor and buy the big issue
off that bloke,
the one that's got the red setter.
Now she's totally restored to full yogic health,
and she volunteers at the hospice on Sundays,
'Social welfare should be funded by taxes on wealth!'
She says now, and every Monday
Suzanne can be found (when no one's around)
doing good deeds,
for strangers,
by stealth.
Gone is the curse of the ware squirrel,
but, what of Cyril?
Surely, there must be some news?
The rumour is that he joined Conservative Home,
And now works for Boris in Tory HQ.
And there the story might have ended
But the bite on Suzanne's thumb
Throbbed and became distended,
'I must say, I feel a little rum',
she said and lay down on her bed,
but as she fell asleep a patch of fur
started growing on her tum.
She slept a light and fitful sleep
Full of strange hypnotic dreams
in which she leapt from branch to branch,
speaking in a stuttering chattering scream.
When she awoke she felt warm and cosy,
her bad dreams had all gone away,
The clear bright light of dawn was rosy,
She was looking forward to the day.
But looking in the mirror her face turned a whiter shade of pale,
for now, coming from her lower back was a thick and bushy tail!
Her two front teeth were now so large they stuck out prominently,
And somehow she was not quite in charge of an urge to act, well, more rodently!
Now instead of inspiring her yoga class
With her incredibly flexible poses,
These days Suzanne is sure to be found
In the park, (only partly obscured by the roses),
Listening intently with her pointy ears for the sound of a poor unwary fella,
that sits down to munch on a nutritious lunch
of sandwiches filled with nutella.
For Cyril had imparted a terrible curse,
He was a ware squirrel you see, man,
and what is worse, his thumb biting curse,
had passed on his populist schtick,
and now she's a big Daily Mail fan!
In her throat comes a lump
at the mention of Donald J Trump,
And austerity, well now she's all for it, ha!,
Let the poor rot in hell,
And the disabled as well,
Katy Hopkins she follows on Twitter,
She's the chair of her local EDL group,
Since she abandoned her candles and crystals,
At night she culls badgers, just for fun, with a whoop,
And owns shares in a frack site near Bristol.
Could this be the end for our white witchy friend?
Can the curse of the ware squirrel be broken?
Fear not dear reader, there's light round the bend,
these few verses are merely a token,
Soon in hushed tones by crusty old crones of a miracle will it be spoken,
how Suzanne the fair, once cursed by a ware
Squirrel was magically spared from this sorry affair
by our old Jedi mate Oby Wan of Conorbyn,
for it 'twas by him that she was awoken.
will not be long
here or rome
when its hot
down the block
is a swimming pool
its so cool
stop and stare
it thoese
SUMMER SWIM WARE
In the dawn of deception, who can perceive what is real?
Do things appear benevolent or do they come to pillage and steal?
When one gives from the heart, the receiver sometimes wants even more.
It is often wise to bolt, lock and secure your door.
Be careful of the ones who call themselves your friend.
For evil is on the prowl and lurks around every bend.
Let the heart be receptive and partner with the mind.
Always be cautious and careful but also be courageous, courteous, considerate, and kind.
It was to prove Some Sort of Snare,
When he, got the Gift of Hare
While he’d wanted to keep A Mare…
He wasn’t sure how he would fare,
Whether he wouldn’t be left bare;
What The Hell knows he of Hare,
Except its furs not like our hair…
Perhaps, he should sit on some chair
To reflect on the gift - Quite Rare
And see what and what he might dare
To sell off The Mare like a ware
And The Hare kill in Public Glare
To be rid of The Stupid Pair!
I was putting away some Fiesta Ware the other day when, noticing all the colors in front of me
I had to stop and smile at how they reminded me of our family tree.
I love our family tree…love every leaf…love its branches one and all…
love how it is painted all year long…in colors of the Fall.
I’m proud of the colors of our family tree…and as each new branch extends
how easily those colors synthesize…how beautifully they blend.
There is a kind of magic in how our colors come together to form this beautiful symmetry.
knowing underneath those colors lies the heart…the true magic of our family tree.
We share each others highs and lows…and we’ll go to extremes
to support each other’s hopes…to encourage each other’s dreams.
We find the more we do this…that our tree grows strong and tall…
and we find the colors of our tree…though beautiful, don’t matter to us at all.
I could probably end this poem here…but I think it only fair
to go back to where it started…with our Fiesta Ware.
I love the diversity of each plate…the different colors one and all…
love how our collection is permanently painted in colors of the Fall.
How food that’s made with love…always will taste great..
no matter which color bowl we choose…
no matter which color the plate.
That’s why Fiesta Ware reminds me of our family tree…
because whether its the Fiesta Ware stacked high on a kitchen shelf
or our family tree standing tall…
when love is holding them together…
their colors do not matter to us at all.
I think that I shall never see
an insect scary as a bee
Sister screams, she spots a spider
but bees are lethal when they bite her...
I cower at bees' buzzing sound
as they circle round and round
If I try to wave 'em away
They attack, without delay...
Logic tells me not to cower
Bees are needed to grow flowers ~
Let reason try another tack
Lest reason also BEE attacked
here's where to go
its a cheap store
buy more
rain snow or hail
this is a
WARE HOUSE SALE
He had a way with words,
An avuncular style,
A throaty little laugh,
A world embracing smile.
He didn’t suffer fools gladly,
He thought that I was thick
But not too bad really for
A Yorkshire country hick.
He came into my life
For just a year two
One of those characters
That just passes through.
Raw recruits together
Both misfits in our way
Wouldn’t be given houseroom
In the Army of today.
This was sixty years ago
When his career came to end
And so often over the years
I’ve thought about my friend.
Somehow I bumbled through
A life of undiscovered crime
While my poor old mate
Got caught out every single time.
I stood, both escort and witness,
Even brought the final charge,
That set in motion the events that
Returned him to the world at large.
He wrote to me from civvie street
To say thank you and goodbye,
An offer of continuing friendship?
I didn’t even bother to reply
All these many years later
A thing I’ve lived to regret
One of those true characters
It’s so very hard to forget.
A misfit who loved his words,
Who tried to escape in drink,
Who for a while survived
Always living on the brink
Not so many months after
By mutual consent
It was agreed
Time that I too went.
I wrote to my old friend
I felt I had to try
But like me earlier
There was no reply.
For a long time I missed him
Missed his way with words
Missed his throaty chuckle
His laughter at the absurd.
These many years later
I still have fond recall
Of my fellow misfit
And how we survived it all.
He didn’t suffer fools gladly
Often told me I was thick
But not too bad really for
A Yorkshire country hick.
What do I care
When at me eyes stare
Or at me glare
And I safe from every snare?
Why should I ever care,
When you can’t hurt my hair
Or much worse things dare:
The Terrible the Unfair?
Begin I shall to care
With a dispossessed mare
Or a made-away ware
And I can’t find it anywhere.