Foreword Poems | Examples

Foreword

Frightened by what I have written,
Still I move forward past my foreword.

Rowing

My spirit released
	set free to fly
seeking in wonder
	what I do not know

so long ago
	so far from I
when for time
	they went down to the sea

bending the back
	a smooth strong pull
and gathering breath
	 in a foreword lean
	
beneath open sky
	among the waves
for how many days
	how many weeks

I strongly pull
	another stroke
and I wonder
	about them

what did they think
	upon the sea
as they did row
	someone like me

Murder On The Orient Expressed

Murder on the Orient Express--just?
Shorter the fuse tighten the screws,
sharper stuns the rushed, drug delays the hushed,
marker trashed refuse, clues confuse.

'Morning after sharpened scours the given,
charming entertains the witty,
earning their forthcoming thwarts admission,
forming and sorting out gritty.

Straightforward clues like manna from Heaven,
page foreword; Farmer's Almanac,
date onward, sow-reap, from whence transgression?
Came forward all, the common task. 

Burdened heavily, labored the righteous,
incessantly drew in favor,
descendancy ends by the impious,
death penalty, all-signed ... waiver.

                      Adieu, Poirot

Her

i ask you random questions out of the blue because i want to know you. 
everything about you.
every piece that makes up your beautiful self. 
why do your eyes light up when you see sunflowers?
what do you look foreword to?
why do you look at me when someone makes a joke? 
why are stars so important to you?
what makes your day?
who makes you the happiest?
because then when i know these things 
maybe i’ll be your answer to my last question.

Hush, Crooned the Night

Here I sit on this night so still,
not a rustle in the leaves
nor a stirring in the grass.

No whispers intrude; naught but mine.

Ill news after days spent ill,
unwelcome foreword to grief
inexorable more like than not.

No answers come; naught but malign.

A thirst I can never quell,
a gulp seeming to smash the silence
whilst whiskey spars with the fear.

No solace is on tap; naught but fake.

A call from inside breaks the spell,
an urging for sleep's cocoon
next to a lover's warmth.

No closure can I find; naught but striding on.

Spring - No Bling

[Foreword: spring in the UK is delightful 
But it isn’t all sunshine and roses!]

                           ***

’tis a word, oft heard, for March, April, May
The crocus enlivens the woodland way
’twas not to be seen only yesterday
Spring is the word that the birds sing today

Weeping the willow tickles the ripples
The angler most keen swigging Scots tipples
For frost isn’t distant there on the bank 
Yet Bream ’neath the branches dance flank to flank

A tail on a golf ball, this is the wren
As an old friend, good to see him again
Venture in sweater to fend sneeze and cough
Yet should the breeze drop, the sweater is off

’tis a word, oft heard, for March, April, May
Spring is the word that the birds sing today

                           ***



11 March 2021
Contest: Breath of Spring
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh

Cannibal Picnic

Foreword: we’re all aware of the ’pot ate oh’ and ‘pert arter’ debate... well, in some English accents (including my own) there is a third version: ‘per tay ter’. I lean toward this pronunciation in this poem... So please don’t throw stones... or pertarters.


Two cannibals went hunting humans one day
Hoping a decent meal might come their way 
They came to a beach and there was a boat
A skin and bone man said, ‘I’m six weeks afloat’

Because he was boney with so little muscle
They skewered that sailor with barely a tussle
A fire they lit and then over it
They perched our survivor like meat on a spit

One cannibal said he was off to find wood
You keep him turning to cook him real good 
And then in an hour he stood there aghast 
He’d never seen anyone turn meat so fast

His mate was rotating the spit roast like crazy 
His victim’s arms flailing so fast they were hazy
The other one said turn it slow or be sure
That damned skinny human is gonna be raw

Well, the cannibal cook said with undisguised ire
I’m having to spin him fast over the fire.
So he won’t be cooked till quite a lot later
’cause each revolution he nicks a potater

Covid Christmas

(Foreword: don’t know the score elsewhere, but the UK has a rule of six... which is the number of people who can gather as a group. Unless they’ve changed it... again).



My sister, my brother, my father, my mother
Came round Christmas Eve and we chose to stay in
We sat round the table with old auntie Mabel 
She’s slightly unstable but always brings gin.

About half past seven to Jesus in heaven
We said a wee prayer then we drank until late
But thanks to the drinking, we weren’t really thinking
And some bloody fool lit a fire in the grate

With much drunken banter we talked about Santa
At midnight we all heard a sound on the roof
But with no sin in me, I called up the chimney
Don’t send Rudolph down or he’ll get a burnt hoof

Then out from the ashes poor Santa Claus dashes
And patted the burns where the fire had licked
Then there was a din and the door was kicked in
The cop said that’s seven and you lot are nicked

Foreword

What these chosen poems mean to me
I put down plainly for all readers  to see
Others may not think them very much
And in no way their hearts ever touch
For me they brought  comfort and pleasure
And this they did gently  in equal measure
Poets everywhere  always yearn for a pen
Their inmost thoughts to  brightly illumine.

So my  poor offerings I do wish to publish
Even though critics may judge them rubbish
To all those who have leisure  to read mine
You might find rich treasure in the odd line
For that very reason I send them abroad
Hoping they will not be put to the sword.

Laughing From Last Place

I feel the spiders touch of silken shirt on skin
Hear the hidden thoughts in words unspoke
I see beyond these eyes
And smell the past, present and foreword
as it lies prone at my feet
just the taste of me
Don't play 
never lose
Laughing from last place

The Block

Foreword... the sort of daft rubbish I write in a effort to defeat writer’s block. No attempt to make any sense, just to get words on a page/screen. Normally I end up deleting such garbage... but I kinda like this one.


The Block

There’s a mule in my pool and he’s munching on a carrot
There’s a fool with a rule who is measuring a parrot
There are chicks doing tricks with some pogo sticks
And some ticks eating bricks with their weetabix

There’s a bunny selling honey cos he hasn't any money
And some blokes telling jokes although none of them are funny 
There’s a ghost eating toast spreading butter with a rifle
And a fellow with some jello cos he’s gonna make a trifle

I got some goats in the post they came through my letter box
I got a present from a peasant, it’s a pair dirty socks
There’s a big hole in my bucket, now you know what made me chuck it
And it landed on the parrot so I think I’m gonna pluck it

So I find I’m writing stuff about a hamster in a frock
Cos it came as quite a shock when I got this writers block
But my back’s against the wall, I’ll write anything at all
’til I unlock the block and I write something really cool

Fate Full of Fetish

Living being, tell me,
What do you do? When fate comes,
With tail in the air; head foreword,
Then picks your neighbor
The classmate; workmate
Up to heights they go.
And now, left low; but capable
You do not qualify to go
Because fate full of fetish
Has made its choice;
What do you do?

He Wasn'T

He was an ugly handsome 
In a foreword  backwards kinda way
Silent and outspoken 
with nothing great to say

Strong with a strange weakness
Secrets he could not keep
He had a sense of humour 
that mostly made people weep

You were cursed if you loved him
his hateful ways made you pay
The Devil was his confidant
Yet he still liked to pray

Heartstrings busted and broken 
oh the songs that he could play
A companion to your lonely
but somehow it was okay

Happiness bled into sadness
your smiling face he’d make it weep
He was the fox in the hen house 
sleeping with the other sheep

On the surface he was so cold
with a penetrating shallow heat
Pulling and pushing deeper
a sour sorta of liquid sweet

You wanted him to stop
He was confused when you said go
Pretending to understand
even though he didn’t know

Whenever he finally left
It was a lonely kinda glad
You prayed for him to be good
Instead he was the best sorta bad

Your memory tried to forget
his familiar foreign ways
Your body craved his approval
So you bathed in his lavish praise..

The Slice of Blue Sky On Your Teeth

The slice of blue sky on your teeth
Those blue lamps in your eyes
The window of flowers a little beneath
The two cherries where sunlight lies
The crimson heat that unties
The commas and stops from the wreath
That gleefully plunges into the skies
While the sword is busy to unsheathe

Look at those excited birds
Also at the surge in the stream
Not distant a blizzard
In the cups emitting steam
Red and blue desires teem
At the end of purple foreword
Ocean seeks to break the theme
Let it be, the wind whispered


December 21, 2017

'u Wanna Peace of Mi'

lets meat-
my mary friends for a   pot LUCK meal
at my plaice
colleen can you  m a k e
       your hale mary chilly
patricia please make your suite
                         bury pi
steve  l o o k i n g  foreword to the 
  grate stake you fry
      I will
by wight whine and read whine
         and brown and wight bred
owe deer dessert !
           monica  HOW  about
   pair moose . . . 
and sum 1     bring  p i c k l e s  and beats
       our GREEN will be pees
and later we will have tee-
             I  t h i n k  that's write !
wee will meat at the our      of ate 
on SATURDAY next weak . . .

___________________________
December 2, 2017

Poetry/Free Verse/'u wanna piece of me'
Copyright Protected, ID 17-9680-29-0
All Rights Reserved.  Written Under Pseudonym.

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