There once was a certain floozie
Who sang just like a chantoozie
Not in smoky night clubs
But in outback pubs
It happened when she got quite boozy.
Lonely elf not 5’4, horny toad toon
Hits on maties wives in pubs and saloons
a smidge taller than Manson
yet not quite as handsome
His gal pal elves nudge him to G-E-T -A -R-O-O-M!
Simply absurd
Heard the news
Snotty residents
On pedants pews
Clear precedents
Vice do choose
Drive us potty
In arty farty mews
Latte & biscotti
With dotty views
Party always grotty
Spice will lose
A slutty hotty
Putty in her hand
Seedy queues
For smutty totty
Or bit of botty
Plenty of booze
A nutty hinterland
Hear our boos
Us well manned
Against this ruse
So underhand
With their coups
Good times banned
Westminster eschews
In pubs can't stand
Everyone poo poos
That's what's planned
If papers peruse
Chaos canned
Soho's Blues
I am a cemetery
Hmm. Passed lives. Memories
I can’t remember the past. Faces
Hmm. How many from the past?
Workplaces, pubs. Passed lives
Age. Time. Years. Where are?
Hah. Goodbye my lives. Loves
You are in deep, in my soul
In a graveyard. Open church
A way. To heart. A garden. Life
You are dead. Lives in my life
So many lives are a vortex in mine
I don’t forget you, oh, old lives
Brothers, sisters, loved souls
Hmm, nice memories, moods
Living faces, smiles, memoirs
All of them are a world. Personal
Happy souls, happy friends
I stay. Still. Hmm. Wait, wait, me
Love you
My loves
The souls
My dream destination is Ireland,
I want to walk in the lush green.
Visit towns of cottages, pubs and music.
I want to see the rocky coasts, lakes, rivers and wetlands,
the birds, animals, and wildflowers growing,
the mountains, pasturelands, and the architecture.
I will explore Dublin, the churches, castles and museums
to inspire my poetic pen,
and instill a peace and sublime feeling within me,
as I enjoy the friendly people I will meet along my journey.
I especially want to visit, The Burren, a vast limestone plateau.
It is a unique botanical environment where alpine flowers grow
in the limestone stone crevices to create splashes of color.
I will stay at Bed and Breakfast Inns along the way.
and mingle with the people I meet.
Try some interesting food in the restaurants and festivals.
Shop till I drop and go to a symphony, ballet or opera perhaps.
Ride a horse on a woodland trail, country lane or mountain path,
and I must, must go for hikes in the glorious Irish landscapes.
Oh, it is a delightful dream . . . . to dream.
Stay free Dezi..' Stay alert old son..If you ever vist England, drop in it'd be fun, bring
Some vegamite, a cherry-ripe, some four
Xxxx beers as well.' I'll take you to some old tyme pubs, I reckon you'll go down swell? We can talk at lenght of sanity, and
Gippsland in the spring, the mallee and its
Wheatfilds, the western districts potato
Kings.' We'll have a go on picking out a horse to win the cup.' And maybe we'll go
Back home Dez.? Once i've quenched my
Thirst eniugh..I'm not too sad, to hit the spot with
A rifle, in my arms..Some wallaby stew i reckon will do.' As the bush birds sing out
Their charms.' A line of rope twixt
ghost gums, a canvas sheet upon it, a river
down the way.' I can keep your side safe a good mile wide.
' Now Dez what do you say.?
A Little Train
Train, the train of my home, home of my heart, childhood, past
Past, yes, but lives. Hmm, yes, so good to travel here, and live
Live this air, this life, this feeling, this atmosphere, loved desire
I will come back again, I want to greet everybody here again
The people, the conductors and conductresses, and the neighbours
Shop assistants, waitresses, shops, pubs, and all the stations
All the roads, ways, trees, everything. Good to live in my living heart
This is the best feeling in this superb mind; this is not part of a country.
A country that is everything. Only one. Here is my mini farm. Live here
Live here, a secret mind. He has passed away, but he is always calling
Calling his memory my literature teacher, the grand soul of this land
Good to remember him, master of literature, hmm, why has he gone?
Little train, little train
Train of tales
From past
Help to live
Again
The
Lost
Friends
And past
Luton Airport
People, passengers, everyone going somewhere, somewhere else
I love seeing them; there are so many nationals. Hmm. A half hour ago, I shopped
A white Bacardi, and beside me, I heard Polish words. I looked there
A very likable par. A young Polish woman and a man. I asked them.
(They shopped at the self-service checkout)
Are you Polish? “Yes.” They answered. Nice to meet you, I said. I am a Hungarian
I told them. We talked a bit. Not too much time. They were friendly. Polish and Hungarian
They are brothers and sisters. They are on a different line. I just think. I am still sitting here
So many people walking in front of me, I am sitting on a bench, and the pubs are full here
In this airport. Always
Good to see these people here. How many nations are there? I don’t know. I don’t know
Someone is going to the Parish, someone to Bucharest, Someone to Warsaw, Someone to Krakow. And to so many places, cities, and countries. They're just flies, from my mind
I saw all of them—many faces, souls, characters. My heart is in pain. I can’t see them anymore
Have a Good Journey!!
God Bless You!
All the Best!
All to You
Love You!
They closed the corner store some time ago
the ciggies by the two we now forgo
our lucky bags now a recollection
as is browsing in the comic section.
Mechanics' Social Club no longer stands
their topless barmaids, striving local bands
and Sunday morns' all-comers talent show
both pubs have closed, there's nowhere left to go.
They closed the corner store some time ago
finally called the time and stopped the show
The cafe, bank the chemist shop, all gone
the street is quiet, not much going on.
We'll have a Tesco store sometime, they say
we know they're sure to place it far away
you'll need an Uber car, too far to walk
We'll miss the bench where you could stop and talk.
They closed the corner store some time ago
Nail salons and vape stores, now come and go
barbers, bookies empty charity shops
you see the homeless sleep, you see no cops
once walking up and down the street in pairs
graffiti daubs, the windows smashed, who cares?
An out-of-towner builds an HMO
inside the corner store we used to know.
He leads me through East London,
docks, pubs, among the stray dogs, the
River Thames lapping at low clouds.
We find the second-hand player in a street
where the shops are dusty holes under the arches
of viaducts and railway bridges,
Me carrying the portable Dancette record player
in its hard Bakelite box,
lifting it by its leatherette handle, and I,
small for my age
but wanting so much to lug it all the way home.
The plastic cuts my fingers,
sharp corners bark my shins.
Father talks of his life here, the blackouts
and bombs, rationing,
and the bloody Saturday night street fights.
He whistles tunes
from a songbook of dead crooners.
That evening sitting together, with Sinatra -
watching the dark blue Capitol label
spiral and blur,
hearing the unseen belt under the bobbing needle
as it chewed vinyl -
reliving the clunk-clunk of our boots
as we pushed back fog-muted miles.
Years later, finding that player again
in mother's attic, lifting the machine
feeling how light, it is,
willing to take another walk with him
yet not knowing how to catch up.
He breezed in after a whirlwind tour of the local pubs.
Feeling muggy, he drifted up the stairs like a silent mist,
but was greeted with an isobar across the back of the head.
An icy stare froze him to the spot, followed by a maelstrom of words
that bounced off the walls, pounding him like giant hailstones.
Then fighting against a hurricane he slipped in a pool of hate
He glanced up to see her chest swelling, then with an avalanche
Of abuse she predicted a cold front coming in…
Montreal is my favourite city ~ a mix of old and new.
I love its architecture which graces it with style and unique character.
It's got more than its share of cathedrals, pubs and restaurants.
It boasts a vibrant mingling of local and exotic culture.
Well known to be the hub of exquisite cuisine and fine dining.
Montreal gathers artists into a most vivacious symbiotic community.
Best of all ~ summertime offers its kaleidoscope of musical festivals.
So make a point of visiting this city that is big on charm !
Let Montreal lure you, captivate you and seduce you ~
AP: 2nd place 2025
cofhrrrmph
poetry......
mmmcofcof
once upon a time
pubs were for
ones who rhyme
and ones who etch
at the po at tree
and set it bark free
len
At the pubs across the Ireland nights
It's a clover field under the lights
Irish men love to pluck
Stray petals with good luck
They like the pink clovers in their sights
Its 9'30 monday morning U K time the skies around London are the
Grey of grime.' Its like in the evening', a somber scene i
Think its taken from 'middle earths book' the fellowship of
The ring.? As by mechanical means the sky is sown.' To
Drown us in gloom, these clouds are grown.' To deny real
Life..To cause the farmers strife.' I consider only sad beings, could envisage and plan such an innings' closing
Churches and pubs.' Which don.'t need the pre-fix of hubs.'
Yet there is great capicity in humanity..' innate intelligence
That will counter insanity.' Dr evil and the devil bankers real Sickos.' Can only be the answer.' May the evil curse of
Pathogens enter into them and cover them, may no rest be given
Ever.' to these cretins of wicked endeavours.' May they be
Soundly mocked and forsaken. May their very presence of mind
Be taken.' May every sickness be their portion.' May they
Be a lesson of morality and cause repair.' So to the Bible
Many will hearken to avoid their own souls being darkened.'
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