If the UK is as PC
as some would have us perceive
(tho' Britons never never never shall be slaves
Boadicea's turning in her grave)
it's incorrect on two counts
would you believe
and the US we should see
as between '52 and '22
it was a Queendom
not a Kingdom
and either way
that's sexist so
to speak more accurately
accordingly it should be
the United Sovereignty
Categories:
britons, england, humor, language, political,
Form: Rhyme
Hark, compatriots of mine, hark that ye all may hear
a song that yet may cheer your hearts and prompt a bashful tear.
We man the good ship Albion upon this storm-tossed sea.
Our native rights we must defend and the cause of liberty.
Though now Britannia's sway has passed upon the ocean waves,
we still affirm full-heartedly: Britons will ne'er be slaves!
Not one of us will fail his friend; not one of us will flinch,
but each of us will stand his ground, not one will yield an inch.
Not one of us deserts our cause. Desertion, that's for rats!
Shall we who beat Napoleon bow down to bureaucrats?
That song is growing fainter now, and soon it may be still,
but in my heart I hear it yet, and guess I always will.
Categories:
britons, conflict, courage, patriotic,
Form: Heroic Couplet
IN PRAISE OF FOOTPATHS
Across the land a web of footpaths weave
The veins that nourished nation’s interaction
Cross chalk down ridge, vale, sylvan lane, conceived
By feet of ancient Britons, Celt and Saxon
A parallel web of thought now spreads world wide
Where words not footsteps trace a myriad tracks
Each traversed packet bears the key to decide
It’s destination; choice already packed
No more need, in flesh, to bear our information
And impart it face to face in personal meeting
While a person from Porlock mayn’t disturb a poet’s gestation
Nor may they both perceive delight in greeting
When we go the old ways we can choose the goal of our heading
We might also determine the path on which we are treading
Categories:
britons, history, philosophy,
Form: Sonnet
It's Britain's National Poetry Day Hip! Hip! Hooray!
Stay? Which nation is this to serve any dish
we are at least four if not one or two more,
but in these wetlands of these isles I see a draught
of what to write, to rhyme, to scan and everything else a poem must stand.
What one can say is that this muse is not asleep or dead as we are all poets
even if we slumber to feel, to think, to say something interesting apart from writing
about this beautiful Indian summer's day after tombstone skies or can't be bothered
to get of out bed drizzle far too lukewarm to be real rain that used to reign in
England and now is being over thrown by a royal republic of dry summer days that
cheer us all up until we unnecessarily bin British Summer Time for Greenwich Mean
Time so mean for most Britons just to please some north Britons, many but not all
decry to be so darker dangerous evenings so it be, but against our will - hey! the
Michaelmas Daises our in beautiful, delicate bloom as leaves dance to carpet
pavements, parks, fields and gardens galore to thank God or Nature for the Fall.
Categories:
britons, autumn, poetry,
Form: Free verse
Spring. Same plants, same order.
Monday morning, open for business.
Tractor-trailers, day care centers.
Every leaf that’s coming out is out.
To tonight’s town meeting I will go unaware and foolish.
It’s delicious, the unimportance of my feelings.
Even our particular war was small.
Europe had one last a century.
Hubble photos of events 13 billion years ago
Do not put me in mind of the species’ insignificance.
Just the opposite having witnessed the universe’s birth.
But birth from what preceding state? God again rears his hoary head.
They say one must let go and will let go,
God will decide what tragedy you need.
Not every seed becomes a flower,
Not every branch breaks out like a prosthetic trombone.
While the ancient Romans wrote of love
The ancient Britons wrote of war.
The Romans should have been perfecting their republic.
No god could do that work for them.
The November moth's the fall cankerworm--Alsophilia pometaria--
Slender-bodied, beige, beginning life as the well known inchworm.
In our war more children may have died than would have had
the tyrant lived in fear and awe.
We can never know because we conquered.
Categories:
britons, birth, business, fear, flower,
Form: Free verse
Alba and Albion are just the same, but the White Isle is all inflamed
going barmy with boredom hoping or fearing the ballot of 9/18 that
could make or break the Kingdom by the Sea, if independence or
separation it be: Gordon and Ray had their day as comrades in the
Royal Artillery as NCOs. Gordon worked the big gun positions -
twenty-one milers - in his clever head as Ray sketched the target,
one a Scotsman, one an Englishmen, both Britons fighting the only
'good war' against the evil Nazi regime, but whichever side they would
have taken brothers in arms in war - and peace -would surely have
been their order of the day that others should emulate I should say.
Categories:
britons, political,
Form: Free verse
snow sprinkles quiet
on our neighbourhood this
sparkling monday morn
snow is announced as
if britons nor welcoming
or woeful before
snow silences the
shaking sleeping policemen on
our deserted road
Categories:
britons, winter, snow, snow,
Form: Haiku
For days I coughed hard and hurt my guts,
drank tea like Britons from china cups,
the virus never left,
this poor guy never slept...
did this bad cold come from unwashed mugs?
Categories:
britons, food, funny, health,
Form: Limerick
She calls from waters of rivers and seas,
To Britons of the future, now and past,
She is the whisper on an English breeze,
She is the knowledge our freedom will last.
From the valleys of Wales she filled with song,
To purple heather of bonnie Scotland
The call of our nations forever strong,
Through working class to the pompous and grand.
Goddess Britannia we hear your call,
Your image once graced our coins of wealth,
With kings and queens to stand proud for us all,
We hear your blessings granting us good health,
Independent nations now seen unified
Together as one in glorious pride.
Categories:
britons, faith,
Form: Sonnet
In my secret heart I’ve felt
Like a blood-crazed Celt,
Scottish, Irish, either one,
Killing Britons with my gun.
Or with broadsword or with knife,
Dirk, or dagger, taking life
In an Ulster alleyway,
Or Culloden Moor that day.
Smoke and blood on heather grass,
Celtic reverie must pass,
Like a distant, dimming dream
Drowning in a dank, swift stream.
Categories:
britons, history
Form: Verse