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The Valley that Calls

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The Valley that Calls

A Collection of Poems

Deniz Besim

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dedicated to my friends, family and all who have inspired me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Contents Table

Volume I

Sestinas

Amazon

A Painful Love

Schooling

The Woollen Coat

Tuning into Tennis

The Desolate Green

The Office Worker

The Volcano

Tender is the Night

Poetry

The Virgin (I

The Clock

The Golf Player

These Yellow Chicks

Spring Cherries

Villanelles

The Secret Box

The Cherub

The Fireman

The Private Box

The Adolescent

The Old Oak Tree

The Artist

The Silverstone Racetrack

Internet Dating

The Sauna

Memories

The Attendance Register

The Island

The Kiss

Sunset in the Valley

Sonnets

The Ugly Creature

An Unfortunate Day

An Unfortunate Date

The Hairdressers

The Drink

The Exam

A Foreign Friend (I)

A Foreign Friend (II)

The Rainbows

A New Baby

The Pencil Case

A New Home

The Desert

Fifteen Hundred Metres

The Eye Test

Pantoums

Outside the Window

March

A Subconscious Dream

The New Girl

The Ice Lolly

May

The Golden Lion

The Fortune Teller

The Coward

The Author Book Signing

The Matador

The Roommate

The Blind Man

The City Club

Three Wishes

Volume II

Sestinas

About ‘The Periodic Table’

The Bears

The Girl’s Night In

The Encounter

The Virgin (II)

Taking the Kids to the Park

The Princess

The Embrace

The Romantic Creep

The Search for Treasure

The Valley at Night

The Birthday Gift

Sheila

Tear_Jerk

The Missing Phone

Villanelles

The Farm Wife

The Caterpillar

My First Year

Packing the Suitcase

Run Away Fox

The Outback

The Bridesmaid

Bathing the Kids

The Fisherman

A Holy Visit

A Confession

A Surprise Kidnapping

The Eerie Grave

Hide-and-Seek

The House Plant

Sonnets

Helium Balloons

Karaoke

A Parachute Experience

The Mountain Goat

Negative Attention

A Dilemma

Truth or Dare (I)

Truth or Dare (II)

The Lake of the Valley

The Surfer

The Photo Album

The Future

The Circus Show

The Ransack

The Valley’s Call

Pantoums

The Periodic Table

His Warm Teddy

The Burial

The Fall of the Bee

A Memory Down the Aisle

Foreign Exchange Student

The Answer Phone

The Clean Fish

The Euro

A Bowl of Fruit

A Valley of Butterflies

The Telegraph

Weeping

Distraction

The Accident

 

 

Volume I

Sestinas

Amazon

Walking through the forest’s narrowest paths,

Sighting the world’s most famous Amazon

An umbrella of trees, cascading leaves,

Surging for millions of kilometres.

Distances longer than I can fathom

The jungles, the most resplendent beauty.

Dangerous jungles, the most wild beauty,

Frightened to be led astray of the paths,

The heat much hotter than one would fathom.

Half the world’s rainforests, the Amazon,

Trees that are cut down for kilometres,

Endangered for want of wood and its leaves.

 

As industry is in want of its leaves,

Leaving the world stripped down of its beauty,

In awe of the scenes for kilometres,

As I make my way through insurgent paths.

A world wide website too named Amazon,

Industry higher than we can fathom.

 

This world of jungle, you could not fathom,

Immense numbers of magnificent leaves,

Its branches extend wide in Amazon,

Widely surging with excessive beauty,

And so do the clipped angles of its paths,

That can be enjoyed for kilometres.

 

Websites have no lengthy kilometres,

When producing more books than you fathom,

Glorious fantasies of wildest paths,

Fine trees are cut down to produce the leaves

Of the books you read. Letters of beauty,

Places orders of books on Amazon.

 

Thus readers who’ve never seen Amazon,

Cannot imagine those kilometres

Of clear, fresh, promising lands of beauty.

Those who know the website could not fathom

That Amazon’s being cut down for its leaves,

For your books, you can read about its paths.

 

But you’ll never know the Amazon’s paths

Or see its kilometres of tree leaves,

Its endangered beauty, you can’t fathom.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Painful Love

 

I knew he loved me still when we broke up,

The next day he’d show me his new girlfriend.

He’s moved on so soon, I didn’t believe,

When he kissed her in front of me to show,

His eyes were open, as he kissed her slow,

That’s how I knew it’s not love, still hurting.

 

I broke up with him and he was hurting,

Though he’s kissing her, I tried to cheer up,

Prove to him the pain’s not burning me slow,

Although it was, for she was his girlfriend,

Not me. I loved him, to him I’d not show,

For I was contained, and he won’t believe.

 

That he loved her so, he’d have me believe,

Their kisses grew more passionate, hurting

Me so. I’ve moved on I would have to show,

I found a better man from higher up.

Knew how unpromising was his girlfriend,

When so much pain’s burning within me slow.

 

He found out about my new man quite slow

Over time. He was angry, I believe,

But with that man, not me, his ex-girlfriend.

Silently, I knew my love was hurting.

The rich man I found kept my spirits up,

That my ex- was jealous, he'd not now show.

 

He and Tina married, that was to show

Me he’d be with her much longer and slow

Over time. Yet the man from higher up

Was called Charles and I would have him believe I loved him. I married Charles though hurting

For my ex-. Never again his girlfriend.

 

We married the wrong people. His girlfriend

No more, his wife now, for Tina would show

Me that his violent anger was hurting.

I knew he beat her behind doors quite slow,

Because of his love for me. I believe

He hurt for me so, when he beat her up.

 

As his ex-girlfriend, my own thoughts weren’t up,

The way he’d show his love for me, believe

Me, I was helpless and hurting so slow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Schooling

 

Many varied nations on mother earth,

No one decides their origins of birth,

We learn lessons through different courses,

Within studies we realise sources,

Pending on what studies we would so choose.

Schooling doth sometimes our ideas refuse.

 

When students do us proud we won’t refuse

Observations they make about our earth

Perspectives moulded by lessons they choose,

When representing their country of birth,

Limitations inherent in sources,

Preaching what they’re fed about their courses.

 

Various contradictory courses,

Sometimes studies doth the other refuse,

Information varies through the sources,

Producing different results of our earth,

And scientific studies of man’s birth

What we want to believe we still do choose.

 

Scientists do not believe that they choose

Information given by their courses,

When it concerns facts about human birth,

Inaccurate data they would refuse.

Cosmological studies about earth,

Limited by a couple of sources.

 

Sometimes we have changed imprecise sources

Into an accuracy that we choose

The ways we monitor weathers on earth

At times inaccurately. Our courses

Aren’t always exact and should not refuse

Minds produced by other nations of birth.

 

Since man don’t pick his origin of birth

Or the character of his own sources.

Some education systems can refuse

Morals from other nations that do choose

Another way to present their courses,

Moulded by their own area of earth.

 

Every man’s birth decides their place on earth,

Changing sources in mould to the courses

That refuse opinions we do not choose.

 

 

 

 

 

The Woollen Coat

 

I loved her for me our love was my tool,

I bought her a fine coat made of sheep’s wool.

Love’s the way she appreciated me,

She wore my coat every single day, she

Loved the item. We would hold hands quite tight

And the way she thought I was always right.

 

Even with her father I was still right,

We didn’t always agree, but he’d tool

Everything I said. His trousers wore tight

And his belly would surge over the wool

Of his jumper. It was because of she

That he thoroughly even trusted me.

 

She was the only way he trusted me,

And the way he thought I was always right.

Thus, nice to be told that I’m wrong by she,

It would work well as a correction tool,

Since her coat was made of expensive wool,

And her leather belt she would buckle tight.

 

Every Winter I would hug her quite tight,

And gently pull her figure close to me,

In Winter she was grateful for the wool

Of the coat that she loosely would wear right

Over her stylish clothes, since style was tool

To being fashionably dressed and since she

 

Always was. My coat was a statement she

Made of our love, that she would hold to tight

Since both for me and her, our love was tool.

But this sort of love was much more for me

And it was nice being told I’m always right,

To see her wear my coat made of sheep’s wool

 

Every day. Eventually, I wore wool

Too. The material well worn by she,

Her friends would always complement her right

About how my gift was quite snug and tight

And fashionable. So it convinced me

My gift was an asset to her, a tool

 

To fashion. Wool, a fashionable tool,

She would pull off Fashion Week, owed to me,

Because I was right about her coat – tight.

 

 

 

 

 

Tuning into Tennis

 

I turn on the program for the tennis

The politics channels are a menace

All politicians have something to fear

And the phrases they coin are all quite queer

But with Wimbledon I love what they wear

When players wear bandanas that’s quite rare.

 

I tune in to matches where the game’s rare

In June, it’s a pleasure to watch tennis

Always loving what the spectators wear

Sounds interrupt the game – what a menace.

Sometimes the competition gets quite queer

Yet the players have each other to fear.

 

Like when players their service games don’t fear

Since not all contestants are good or rare

It keeps the game going at the tennis.

They all need to look out for their menace

Else it’s defeat what on their face they’ll wear.

 

One thing they don’t want on their face to wear

Is defeat. That is what they have to fear -

An opponent who makes game a menace.

A quality play would make the game rare

Giving more joy to fans of the tennis

When they get angry, their statements are queer.

 

When they mumble angry comments, quite queer

And anger’s the expression they would wear

Nowhere else but at Wimbledon tennis.

Sometimes players have bad weather to fear

That stops the game of a contest quite rare

Then suddenly, the rain’s what’s a menace.

 

Umbrellas out to shelter from menace

Some umbrellas quite unusual and queer

And a few of them with colours so rare

Such as stripy or gold spots that they wear.

The sun comes out, it’s now the game they fear,

When people put their odds on the tennis.

 

It’s a menace to put odds on tennis,

Since it is queer to have tennis to fear,

Games are quite rare, and players sport clothes wear.

 

 

 

 

 

The Desolate Green

 

My helicopter lands on the valley,

It’s midday with a most glorious sun,

Casting its strong lights over empty fields

With a spectacle of coloured flowers,

Scattered in red and white over the green,

Spacious with areas of condensed trees.

 

I land on a patch of field with no trees,

Distances extend over the valley,

Bumpy hills of the most glorious green,

Shadows contrast the strong lights of the sun

Dark parts contrast the colours of flowers,

As hills shade certain areas of fields.

 

Blooming shades captured in rows on the fields.

Beyond the distance there are looming trees,

Over that there are more lawns of flowers,

Exotic ones too over the valley,

That settles well with the glories of sun,

Of various colours settling on green.

 

Yellow suns and blue skies constitute green,

Serene and in shades settling on the fields

And as time passes, the light of the sun

Moves on to caress a new row of trees,

Dimming its strong lights over the valley,

An orangey-yellow kiss on flowers.

 

My helicopter crumples the flowers,

When it settles on to the serene green,

Light of the star seeps over the valley,

Beautified by the calmness of lark fields,

With many species of birds on its trees,

Capturing energies of peeping sun.

 

I lay out a picnic on lawns of sun,

My mat carefully settles on flowers,

It’s just me and an immense of wild trees,

In differing shades, the denseness of green,

Extending chirpily over vast fields,

Looming beyond the depths of the valley.

 

I chew beneath the sun-light of valley,

Note the colourful flowers of the fields,

Sighting tall trees by the sides of the green.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Office Worker

 

Matthew turns on his stuffy computer,

Early in the office, there are no staff.

A specialist in his line of commerce,

Day in, day out, his hours are robotic;

Matthew works in a nine-to-five routine,

His long hours do so predictably close.

 

Matthew and his colleagues are not too close,

He chats to his wife on his computer

When they aren’t looking. Bored of his routine,

He’s not usually questioned by the staff,

A machine company chain, robotic,

Since he delivers so much to commerce.

 

A lot is automated in commerce,

Keeping much impersonal and not close,

The staff’s movements are also robotic,

Faces fixated on the computer

Screen, that has them all at their desks. The staff

Can’t go anywhere, it’s a tight routine.

 

Matthew wants a break away from routine,

He just cannot get away from commerce,

The same names again, impersonal staff,

No fresh air when they would the windows close

When cold. Constantly at his computer

Which does nothing for a life robotic.

 

He’s more friendly with machines robotic,

Copiers, fax machines in his routine,

Telephones, impersonal computer,

Behaves the way machines want in commerce.

That’s all he knows as the whole day draws close,

He forgets to say ‘Goodbye’ to the staff

 

When he leaves, for they won’t notice, the staff

And they’re all in their own world robotic.

Another claustrophobic day draws close,

And the next, and the next in his routine.

The weekend, too, has imprints of commerce,

No other way of life, but computer.

 

Automated staff, active computer,

Every day robotic, for it’s commerce -

Too hot and close for an active routine.

 

 

 

 

 

The Volcano

 

The volcano wasn’t meant to erupt

For the next nine centuries. No lava

Was anticipated when the people

Built their homelands dependent on its soil.

It wasn’t until the first signs of smoke

That they looked upon in hapless horror.

 

The volcano spit out flames of horror -

The first signs it was starting to erupt.

The blackest of gray ashen flares of smoke,

Citizens must run away from lava,

That would soon consume their homes as the soil

Would give way to flaming lakes, the people

 

Would have to run. Frightened were the people,

They cried, ‘Unanticipated horror!’

It wasn’t meant to come, not on this soil.

The papers said it would never erupt

Not for a long time. But now the lava

Threatens – as sure as so dense is the smoke.

 

Hot streams would follow magnificent smoke

Quickly they would have to save the people

Let their property now burn in lava

No, they had to save themselves. In horror

Would they now run, before this eruption

Peaked any worst. They must leave their home soil.

 

It was not their fertile, inviting soil

No longer. It was now transformed to smoke

And ash, molten, fiery seas will erupt

They must run before they scorched the people

Panicking. Squealing screams, shouting, ‘horror!’

Into cars to drive off before lava

 

Flows. Never mind their houses, the lava

Was soon to come. It would consume the soil

They knew so well. They realised in horror

That soon they won’t recognise it since smoke,

Ash and streams of fire is all the people

Would now see. Seas of red would now erupt..

 

They cried and wailed for lava would erupt

Their homes lost, the soil ruined, the people

Squealing in horror, engulfed by the smoke.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tender is the Night

 

‘I’m bored, I have nothing to do,’ she said.

‘Will you accompany me?’ Thomas asked.

‘But galleries aren’t my scene,’ she remarked.

‘This isn’t just a gallery,’ he called,

‘It is an art exhibition’ he spoke.

‘Besides, it’s your business, not mine,’ she quipped.

 

‘What if I went with someone else?’ he quipped.

‘You mean another woman.. So?’ she said.

‘You would be so envious then,’ he spoke.

‘Who were you planning to go with?’ she asked.

‘Possibly Eve or Grace or Rose,’ he called.

‘It wouldn’t phase me at all,’ she remarked.

 

‘But you know I love you so,’ he remarked

‘I know but galleries bore me,’ she quipped.

‘There’s no one I’d rather go with,’ he called.

‘I’ll make it up to you tonight,’ she said.

‘How about you make it up now?’ he asked.

Her voice quietly mellowed as she spoke.

 

‘Sure.. don’t go to the gallery,’ she spoke.

‘Close your eyes.. I want a kiss,’ he remarked.

‘Mmmmm… will you take long to get there?’ she asked.

‘Honey, your cologne’s so spicy,’ she quipped.

‘Your lips are so tender and soft,’ he said.

‘Stay on them and don’t let me go,’ she called.

 

‘We’ve been at it a few hours now,’ he called.

‘Mmmmm… take me through the darkened night,’ she spoke,

‘Just me, you and no galleries,’ she said.

‘I’ll take you through to sunrise,’ he remarked.

‘Mmmmmm… nothing better than… sunrise,’ she quipped.

‘How about to morning…. breakfast?’ he asked.

 

‘You want me to morning breakfast?’ she asked.

‘Unless that’s still not long enough..’ he called.

‘It’s never long enough, darling..’ she quipped.

‘Mmmm… I’ll take you through the week then..’ he spoke.

‘Mmmmmm… mmmoooore… I’m not… complaining,’ she remarked.

‘Mmmm.. no…one’s…comm..plaining….honey….’ he said.

 

‘It’s… time to… hush… Don’t… say… a … word…’ he said.

‘Mmmmmmmmm… Just take me through the night,’ she remarked.

‘Baby… hussshhhhh… tender is the night,’ he spoke.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poetry

 

The teacher said, ‘We’ll discuss poetry

Today.’ As with everything, the class groaned.

‘What is poetry?’ he asked the students.

A voluntary surge of hands went up.

‘Mark, what is poetry?’ The teacher asked.

‘An expression of our inner feelings.’

 

‘Well done, Mark, an expression of feeling,’

He said. ‘What do we mean by poetry?

How do we write a good poem?’ he asked.

‘Who wants to write a poem?’ The class groaned.

‘Not me!’ Someone shouted. ‘Put your hands up.’

A couple of hands were raised by students.

 

‘It’s written in verses,’ said some students,

‘It helps us pour out all of our feelings,’

They said. ‘No,’ said the teacher, ‘They write up

In stanzas. Verses are not poetry,

But in song. Write in stanzas…’ The class groaned.

‘Sir, may I write in verses?’ Someone asked.

 

‘Why is it called stanzas?’ another asked.

‘Isn’t it the same thing?’ said some students.

‘It is not the same thing,’ another groaned.

‘As in song, you may pour out your feelings

In stanzas, instead. That is poetry,’

Said the teacher, ‘So write all your thoughts up.’

 

As the class began writing their thoughts up,

There were a few more questions to be asked.

‘My writing’s in verse, is that poetry?’

The teacher replies to all his students.

He wants them all to explore their feelings.

‘Write two poems for homework.’ The class groaned.

 

‘.. and of course poetry’s in verse…’ he groaned.

‘You’ll learn more about it by writing up,’

He said, ‘A great way to explore feelings.’

He defined each and every word they asked,

In their lexicography, the students

Did write. They learnt much about poetry.

 

Bell rang, the class groaned, no more poetry.

Up they got now, as all of the students

Left the class. Bare of feelings. No more asked.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Virgin (I)

 

The virgin was mature beyond her years,

Uncorrupted in a world so modern,

Many lost their virginity by now,

But she was in her forties and still pure.

They gave her grief, she gave them innocence.

She would purify all that was corrupt.

 

The Mona Lisa in a world corrupt,

The virgin remains pure despite the years,

She was expensive in her innocence,

Like the Mona Lisa in the modern

Day. Since she was compared for being pure

To the Madonna. All that was pure now.

 

The virgin, an expensive asset now,

Retains her dignity, she’s not corrupt.

Her thoughts, the fresh dew of flowers, so pure

As the milk-thistle that welds through the years.

She challenges a world in the modern,

Numbers of girls stolen from innocence.

 

She’s a ballerina in innocence,

She is probably ballet dancing now,

As sceptics reside in this age modern,

They’d assume otherwise in hearts corrupt,

Yet only she can conquer all those years,

For, like the Madonna, she remains pure.

 

She is the reason expensive is pure,

All that’s conquerable but innocence,

It’s the only thing that lives on through years,

Still so pure as she ballet-dances now.

Her price is Madonna in worlds corrupt,

So rare is she through all times, and modern

 

Times too. In fact more pricy in modern

Times. She will always challenge petals pure,

Virgins stand out like diamonds through corrupt.

Virgins refuse to give up innocence,

She still retains hers in her forties now.

For infinity, she’ll defy the years.

 

A modern virgin will outlast the years,

Like the Madonna pure, compare her now

To uncorrupted Mona’s innocence.

 

 

 

 

 

The Clock

 

When the baby was born they bought a gift,

It was a shiny, wooden-brown wall clock.

Every second, each baby’s breath would count

With the clock will the baby grow through time

And as that passed, the clock would count the years

It still ticked on when he was ten years old.

 

It would tick on when he was decades old.

In time, he began to realise the gift.

A subconscious part of him over years

Very used to the ticking of this clock

A stability to him over time.

It would be there for him, seconds to count.

 

He got married, had kids, it would still count.

Six foot tall, he grew a beard and got old.

His form largely transformed over much time

Constant in appearance remained the gift.

He would sigh calmly when he saw the clock

It brought him peace and rest over the years.

 

Closing his eyes, he reflected on years

The clock still patiently would for him count.

His age-old relationship with the clock

Compassionate friend at sixty years old,

Even his wife would relinquish the gift

Since she knew it re-lived with him through time.

 

The clock still ticked over decades of time

His hair now cotton white as all his years

Still counting – every moment now a gift.

Nothing more important than life to count.

Metrically it was the same age old

As himself – he was as old as the clock.

 

But now he was dying and old, the clock

Would still tick. Death would consume him in time.

A good life, but now a century old

Illness would now engulf all of his years.

Before he died, he would the ticking count

Now in blackness – what would be of his gift?

 

The man died, the clock stopped – no more the gift.

A century would it all this time count -

The clock stopped too, at one hundred years old.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Golf Player

 

As the golf ball courses over the green

Arthur watches, his eyes is on the ball

It travels distances over the lawn.

He squints his eyes, it lands, there is applause.

Not a hole in one, but almost, he views.

From the hole, but a few inches of space.

 

He putts lightly, it falls into the space,

‘A hole in two!’ he cheers into the green.

His eyes glaze over the fields at the views

It is immense! This incredible ball,

The incredible game, gracious applause,

The miles upon miles of gorgeous, green lawn.

 

Arthur makes his way over the coarsed lawn.

The fifth course, he has to find the new space.

Can he do it again? There’ll be applause.

Arthur putts the ball, ignoring the green.

It sails overhead far. The stumbling ball

Eventually lands. He looks past the views,

 

He can’t quite see it, squinting as he views.

Has he done it? He walks over the lawn.

He can’t see it. Where is it? Where’s the ball?

He continues walking over the space.

He still can’t see it, he walks through the green,

‘It’s in the hole!’ They shout. There’s wild applause.

 

In another ten minutes the applause

Would be over. They cheer for him, he views.

For his game-play, for all these sights of green.

Now the sixth course. He walks over the lawn,

Whilst looking up at the skies and the space.

He’s never known a better-behaved ball.

 

It’s the sixth course now, he whacks at the ball

Will there be some more rapturous applause?

Oh no! It lands in yellow sand-pit space.

No getting a hole in two now, he views.

This time he toddles over the vast lawn

He can’t get this ball back into the green.

 

He strikes the ball, it goes onto the green.

Polite applause dimming over the lawn’s

Open space. He’s won, anyway, he views.

 

 

 

 

These Yellow Chicks

 

Enter the farm, behold the new-born chicks,

Seconds ago did they hatch from the egg.

Provide them an extra supply of seeds

They’re stumbling over their feathers fluffy

They chirp continuously in bright yellow

Cheering up the horizon’s skies so soft.

 

The chirpy chicks touch us, their noise so soft

So much life. Give them the chance to be chicks

They are the result of a yolk-yellow

Spare us the opening crack of an egg

Let them chirp like this in forms so fluffy

Let them delight with this presence of seeds.

 

As chirpy yellow chicks peck at the seeds

It’s tempting to touch them, they look so soft.

I hold one in my hands, it feels fluffy

The softest fluff I’ve ever felt, these chicks

Need never have become a scrambled egg

This reminder that their yolk is yellow.

 

Embryo cast, destined to be yellow

Now exuberant life feeding on seeds.

What would the result be eating the egg?

Why must we sacrifice cute chicks so soft?

Why not let them be? Let them just be chicks.

Let them exist in our realm so fluffy.

 

My thoughts as I stroke this chick so fluffy

Perceive the sun in glorious yellow

Cheering me up brightly – as are these chicks.

I offer my hand out containing seeds

They peck at it with cutest beaks so soft

They happily chirp, thankful for the egg

 

That breed their lives – their own gracious egg

Transforms yolks to materials fluffy.

Chickens look after them, their feathers soft

Chickens no longer in chick-form yellow

Yet with them they like to peck out their seeds

Bearing in mind, they look after the chicks.

 

Hens warm up the egg that breeds us these chicks

In their own fluffy colours, pecking seeds,

Hens too look soft, no longer in yellow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Spring Cherries

 

These berries come to me in perfect red

The smell of the season, they’re Spring cherries.

In sight, I perceive them the sweetest fruit

And in taste too, the most succulent juice.

I sense that around the corner Summer

Resides. Only into the freshest Spring.

 

The creation of life, only in Spring

The birth of the sun – bright-orange and red -

Prematurely, leads way to our Summer

We wait for it by breed of these cherries

Making the most of this brightly churned juice

With it bestows a tall season of fruit.

 

The world’s most colourful basket of fruit

Shiny reds, greens, browns, yellows is the Spring.

Squeezing every last drop of orange juice

Apples, strawberries, cherries, all in red,

And squeeze the juice out of many cherries.

Breed the finest fruit juice for the Summer.

 

 

We have to look forward to the Summer,

For it will soon produce a lot more fruit

That Winter denies us, like theses cherries.

‘Look forward to Summer,’ tells us the Spring,

‘And every other fruit produced in red.’

Pomegranates, watermelons, sweet juice

 

Of berries. To eat raw or drink by juice

Savouring all flavours of the Summer.

I put on my lipstick – colour in red -

And go to the garden to pick out fruit

I see early signs of figs, budding Spring

And wash out a basket of pure cherries.

 

Every moment, savouring the cherries

Slowly sucking out all its sweet red juice

Breathing in wisps of the fresh water spring.

Moments of the arriving warm Summer

Savoured. Let me draw this basket of fruit

So I’ll remember how it stands in red.

 

The life of the cherries, glories of red

Sweetening juice, carefully hand-picked fruit

The fresh water spring streams through for Summer.

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Villanelles

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The Secret Box

 

Eve said: ‘Don’t look into my private box.’

What in the world would her eight year old hide?

Was it something precious or a dead fox?

 

Over the box, there were numerous locks.

It had to be something she won’t confide.

Eve said: ‘Don’t look into my private box.’

 

The mum was quite curious, was it rocks?

She wants to know, to open it she tried.

Was it something precious or a dead fox?

 

Hopefully, it wasn’t Eve’s smelly socks.

Probably something to do with Eve’s pride.

Eve said: ‘Don’t look into my private box.’

 

Perhaps she conceals the prettiest frocks.

A white wedding-dress if she’d play the bride.

Was it something precious or a dead fox?

 

‘Don’t touch it!’ Eve said, ‘Inside I’ve bought stocks!’

What mum doesn’t know was that Eve now lied.

Eve said: ‘Don’t look into my private box.’

Was it something precious or a dead fox?

The Cherub

 

Cupid’s a cherub sailing on a cloud,

Cupid searches for new hearts to flutter.

Hearts ecstatic will boom, boom, boom out loud.

 

Over the distance, Cupid spots a crowd.

A hostile couple, foul words do mutter.

Cupid’s a cherub sailing on a cloud.

 

Cupid strikes his arrow, the two are wowed.

For each other now, their hearts will clutter.

Hearts ecstatic will boom, boom, boom out loud.

 

Cupid spots a sad girl, and a boy proud.

Fires at the boy, who’d kind words now utter.

Cupid’s a cherub sailing on a cloud.

 

He fires at a couple with their heads bowed

Now these love-birds will pull down the shutter…

Hearts ecstatic will boom, boom, boom out loud.

 

Cupid thinks more marriages will be vowed

The work he’s done is as good as butter.

Cupid’s a cherub sailing on a cloud,

Hearts ecstatic will boom, boom, boom out loud.

The Fireman

 

The fireman would rather not receive calls

For he hates houses burning down in fires.

He don’t like huge flames consuming house walls.

 

When building structures because of fire falls,

To save breathing lives, the fireman aspires.

The fireman would rather not receive calls.

 

Flames easily consume spaces and halls

When people negligently handle wires.

He don’t like huge flames consuming house walls.

 

Sometimes thrilled by the moment, it appals

Him when their thoughts about their safety tires.

The fireman would rather not receive calls.

 

Although he’s aware a wild flame enthrals,

It’s a nuisance to thrill all sorts of choirs.

He don’t like huge flames consuming house walls.

 

It burns down businesses in shopping malls,

He must do his job, that is why he hires.

The fireman would rather not receive calls,

He don’t like huge flames consuming house walls.

The Private Box

 

Eve, now all grown up would fondly look back,

Recalls what she’d in her secret box keep.

A bunch of love letters piled in a stack.

 

Her mother would some understanding lack,

For at eight, Eve with her boyfriend did sleep.

Eve, now all grown up would fondly look back.

 

Through the years, these letters would fill a sack.

He, then only twelve, emotions run deep.

A bunch of love letters piled in a stack.

 

Eve thought her mum would have her head did whack,

If she into her secret box did peep.

Eve, now all grown up would fondly look back.

 

Another item she’d secretly pack:

A musical ballerina, not cheap

And a bunch of love letters in a stack.

 

It fills her heart with warmth, she’d a smile crack,

As the ballerina danced, Eve would weep.

Eve, now all grown up would fondly look back

At a bunch of letters piled in a stack.

The Adolescent

 

These were the first signs he was growing up,

Every time a girl touched him, he’d quiver.

It was evidence he’s no more a pup.

 

He’d look at women and gaze at their cup,

It run emotions and made him shiver.

These were the first signs he was growing up.

 

His voice deepening, it would now break-up,

Trickling of water-streams down the river.

It was evidence he’s no more a pup.

 

Hairy bristles on his face would start-up,

His hormones would new moments deliver.

These were the first signs he was growing up.

 

He’d think about her, with her he’d catch-up,

Buy her gifts, he wants to be her giver.

It was evidence he’s no more a pup.

 

He grew many feet tall and was grown-up,

He got his license, became a driver.

These were the first signs he was growing up,

It was evidence he’s no more a pup.

The Old Oak Tree

 

Down by the road, there is a huge oak tree,

The tree stands by the side – it’s a giant.

One thousand years old, it’s legendary.

 

Children would sometimes climb it, carefully,

The tree remains mighty and defiant.

Down by the road, there is a huge oak tree.

 

On the tops of it would they the views see,

The tree would stand poignant and valiant.

One thousand years old, it’s legendary.

 

On the tree-tops would they talk, merrily,

The tree resides gracious and radiant.

Down by the road, there is a huge oak tree.

 

Back down its bark they crawl, quite gradually,

The tree on much water is reliant.

One thousand years old, it’s legendary.

 

As it observes all their moves, silently,

The tree remains the quiet compliant.

Down by the road, there is a huge oak tree,

One thousand years old, it’s legendary.

The Artist

 

Paintbrush on palette, with colours he’ll play,

He coats differing tones of painting deep.

Much time to finish it over the day.

 

He draws a horse, one almost hears it bray,

A peaceful dog besides it that doth sleep.

Paintbrush on palette, with colours he’ll play.

 

How well he captures the sunshine’s bright ray

A shepherd girl, too, she’s Little Bo Peep.

Much time to finish it over the day.

 

He coats the skies with a few shades of gray

Squarely portraying the white flocks of sheep.

Paintbrush on palette, with colours he’ll play.

 

Over the distance, a water-fall’s spray

Some perspective on his canvas need creep.

Much time to finish it over the day.

 

All of his work is in pleasant display

Over the distance lies a church’s steep.

Paintbrush on palette, with colours he’ll play,

Much time to finish it over the day.

The Silverstone Racetrack

 

All the drivers on the racetrack must last

As race-drivers place importance on speed.

A tiny array of cars speeding fast.

 

I watch another speeding car go past

On the scoreboard the statistics do read.

All the drivers on the racetrack must last.

 

The quick race is on the Sport’s Channels cast

There’s much intrigue as to who’s in the lead.

A tiny array of cars speeding fast.

 

A few car-companies are overcast

All of them their brand to promote do need.

All the drivers on the racetrack must last.

 

The nations presented are very vast

Since every car involved is its new breed.

A tiny array of cars speeding fast.

 

Each set up an International mast

More purchases of cars will the race heed.

All the drivers on the racetrack must last,

A tiny array of cars speeding fast.

Internet Dating

 

He didn’t think a dating site would work

When he was pushed into it by his peers.

Then he met a beautiful girl from York.

 

Disillusioned with love, like pigs of pork

A sad thought he won’t find it, brought him tears.

He didn’t think a dating site would work.

 

His approach to love was a stumbling stork

Failing to find it over many years.

Then he met a beautiful girl from York.

 

It started online, he’d feel like a dork

She spoke to him in a way that endears.

He didn’t think a dating site would work.

 

Soon they got married and popping the cork

Announced their love while the audience hears.

Then he met a beautiful girl from York.

 

They reside on a street shaped like a fork

Their five years’ anniversary soon nears.

He didn’t think a dating site would work

Then he met a beautiful girl from York.

The Sauna

 

The temperature is unbearably hot

My muscles tightly clench and I breath hard.

I can’t bear any more time in this spot.

 

I could dehydrate or my blood could clot

Must not stay long, I’ll be sent to the ward.

The temperature is unbearably hot.

 

The sauna’s crowded – people I know not.

More time spent here could win me an award.

I can’t bear any more time in this spot.

 

How much time have I spent here? I forgot.

Any more longer could be haphazard.

The temperature is unbearably hot.

 

Quite soon will I the sand-timer pivot

It almost reads twenty minutes forward.

I can’t bear any more time in this spot.

 

I get up, out of the sauna I trot.

Leaving the sauna is now my safeguard.

The temperature is unbearably hot.

I can’t bear any more time in this spot.

Memories

 

When older man grows, the memories seep.

Whatever the role these memories play?

As man grows, he thinks back, ever more steep.

 

Man all his best moments would rather keep

Yet even those times appear to fall stray.

When older man grows, the memories seep.

 

Yet, the bad times makes his thinking still deep,

Then so much happier, rather more gay.

As man grows, he thinks back, ever more steep.

 

The memories all pile up in a heap

Still so much sadder – depends on what day.

When older man grows, the memories seep.

 

The present affords a jump and a leap

When seizing moments in the month of May.

As man grows, he thinks back, ever more steep.

 

Always remember you sow what you reap

Of better moments does man always pray.

When older man grows, the memories seep.

As man grows, he thinks back, ever more steep.

The Attendance Register

 

Monitors absence of the girls and boys,

Miss Small holds the register in her hands.

Absence from school should not be a kid’s choice.

 

When the children are absent it annoys

Miss Small – and each of them in trouble lands.

Monitors absence of the girls and boys.

 

Children having fun make a lot of noise

The kids pretend they are rock-stars in bands.

Absence from school should not be a kid’s choice.

 

She makes them do work, silencing their voice

Checking to see how their attendance stands.

Monitors absence of the girls and boys.

 

Miss Small makes sure they don’t excuses poise

Nor claim the dentist was checking their glands.

Absence from school should not be a kid’s choice.

 

The kids should at school their presence rejoice

Such as when the kids play game in the sands.

Monitors absence of the girls and boys.

Absence from school should not be a kid’s choice.

The Island

 

With wild-waves at mid-ocean it stands bare

The island’s deserted and stands alone.

No inhabitance, it reigns warm and rare.

 

A solitary island stands so fair

The island’s her Majesty on the throne.

With wild-waves at mid-ocean it stands bare.

 

In its element, nature now won’t spare

This island by people won’t be outdone.

No inhabitance, it reigns warm and rare.

 

Nor will its areas with mankind share

As cool winds do blow it stands like a cone.

With wild-waves at mid-ocean it stands bare.

 

The island’s tiniest creatures do care

About its shells, woods, rays, sands, seas and stone.

No inhabitance, it reigns warm and rare.

 

The sun hotly on the island does glare

Around it the un-tamest winds do moan.

With wild-waves at mid-ocean it stands bare

No inhabitance, it reigns warm and rare.

The Kiss

 

Passionate, strong and fiery is the kiss

It lingers over the mouths of the two.

Each other for a long time they would miss.

 

Their lips every last moment will pursue

Every last breath is orgasmic for them.

Passionate, strong and fiery is the kiss.

 

She tugs his shirt and pulls across its hem

Coarsing her fingers wildly through his hair.

Each other for a long time they would miss.

 

Ecstatically, they’re both gasping air

Sexual atmosphere lingers in the room.

Passionate, strong and fiery is the kiss.

 

The twinkling blue dusk will silently loom

Murmuring voices as rushing hearts pound.

Each other for a long time they would miss.

 

Soft, silent whispers as fevers resound

Capturing each every moment of bliss.

Passionate, strong and fiery is the kiss.

Each other for a long time they would miss.

Sunset in the Valley

 

Over the valley, the yellow sun sets

Some travellers stop at a spot to rest.

By the lakeside a dove its feathers wets.

 

The water last glimmers of sunshine lets

The valley’s insects like the sunset best.

Over the valley, the yellow sun sets.

 

The voice of the tree as the sunlight gets

The slight sounds picked up by birds in a nest.

By the lakeside a dove its feathers wets.

 

Far across the distance a speed-boat jets.

Darkness will the noise of the speed-boat test.

Over the valley, the yellow sun sets.

 

The man on the speed-boat about night frets

He wonders what time to go would be best.

By the lakeside a dove its feathers wets.

 

The sun bodes farewell to the valley’s pets

A tired, hot traveller takes off his vest.

Over the valley, the yellow sun sets

By the lakeside a dove its feathers wets.

 

 

 

 

Sonnets

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The Ugly Creature

 

On the slush muddy soil I see a worm

Growing and contracting in slimy rings,

Unsightly creature in colour and form,

Be eaten by the chirpy bird that sings.

The worm is there relinquishing in slime

As it squirms its way through the wet, brown soil,

It’s hideous as it bathes in the grime

And right around a pebble does it coil.

The worm now underneath the soil buries

But I can still see its tail sticking out,

It could be designed to last centuries

Providing no one tramples it throughout.

To touch it I have myself forbidden,

Under the soil the worm is now hidden.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

An Unfortunate Day

 

I overslept and to work I was late,

I got a good telling off by my boss,

It was clear with me he was very cross,

Plus I missed an important meeting date,

I realised my boss split up with his mate,

When my sad boss lowered my yearly gross,

He made me feel like brown, cold, slimy moss,

And pointed out I’d put two stones of weight.

The bad day I had didn’t get better,

I had no umbrella when thunders broke,

The walk home was about to get wetter,

For fairly heavy rains now had me choke.

In my hands I was clasping a letter

And droplets of rain would the paper poke.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

An Unfortunate Date

 

My first blind date was a hideous sight,

When he introduced himself all his spit

Landed wetting my face and lightly hit

My cheeks. It was going to be a long night.

He spoke like he thought he was always right,

Then he scratched his head and flicked out a nit,

Tempted to say ‘Ewwwwwww…’ but I my tongue bit,

His conversations were not very bright.

Needing an excuse, I wanted to go,

I kept considering ways how to leave,

What was he saying? I just didn’t know.

At some points he froze and started to heave,

It was making my anxiety grow,

A nice, white lie, now, I needed to weave.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Hairdressers

 

My hair was growing, it needed a trim

Getting tired of my natural colour

It all just seemed so much duller and dim

So I went to a hairdressers parlour.

At the hairdressers I check out new tones

With all the numbers of various styles

The busy hairdresser’s equipped with phones,

Three ordinary ones and two mobiles.

The phones ring now as she tries to explain

Eventually I a colour do choose

The end result is a nice sunny stain

And lots of complements I don’t refuse.

Smiling today, I’ve enjoyed my day out

Back there I’ll return, there will be no doubt.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Drink

 

In my hands I hold the cold, moist, clear glass

I take a gradual sip, it tastes like bliss,

The sweet, tangy taste of the drink is class,

A shot of alcohol, its bitter kiss.

Lightly with my finger I stir the ice

Cold and cool floating over the fizzy

A blend of many flavours, each so nice,

Tropical shots – in time I’ll feel dizzy.

One more sip of the luxurious shot,

The world around me I have forgotten,

Its icy-coolness in a world so hot,

With nothing else am I now besotten.

These moist flavours of pineapple I hail,

There is nothing else quite like this cocktail.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Exam Room

 

I’m in a hall taking a maths exam

There are hundreds of students in the room

Every one of us quiet as a lamb,

Our eyes are on the clock as time will loom.

After a certain time the test will end,

But a limited hour to work it out,

What percentage of the price does Jane spend?

What’s the volume that fills up the pots snout?

Now I’ve had it, this question is too hard,

The probability John will choose red?

No, this question I will have to discard

How many miles per hour has the car sped?

Our hour is up, the test is now finished

Not complete, will my grade be diminished?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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A Foreign Friend (I)

 

We had relationship long-distance

For I was in Venus, he was in Mars,

Our true love would meet this with resistance

Being with him was like dancing with stars.

Neither of us would with no one else be

For only together did we feel best

That’s how I knew he would no one else see

Because I knew our love would stand the test.

I wanted to see him abroad one day,

He was the first who arrived at my door,

I was touched, he was a bright sunshine ray,

And I took him round my city to tour.

One day I’ll have to see his city too,

In no rush to for our love is still new.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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A Foreign Friend (II)

 

He said, ‘Come on over, have you see France,

I want you to see the Eiffel Tower.’

His warm voice would sing and his eyes would dance,

I left all the touring in his power.

He’d lived in France ever since he was born

Showing me new places made him merry

At night I would him with kisses adorn,

Flirtatious games with stems of my cherry.

He loved London when I showed him around

I was aware he knew more than he saw

Yet these views of Paris would me astound,

We both shared a drink with a single straw.

This romantic city would me delight,

As we played love games in the starry night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Rainbows

 

Straight through the valley a river surges

At the end of that there are waterfalls

Over rocks the crashing water purges

You will see a sight for a rainbow calls.

Gorgeous colour streams of differing rays

Reds, blues, yellows, pinks, purples, silvers, greens,

Orange, browns, gold, see-through clears, whites and greys,

One of the globes most remarkable scenes,

As gracefully all these colours do blend

Over the violently crashing currents

There where it crashes, the waters doth end

Sailing in flows and streams of wild torrents.

You can envision some unicorns there

With no blend of these rays, it would seem bare.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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A New Baby

 

The moment the nurse gave me my baby

I saw her full of remarkable grace

So she’d sleep I sung her a lullaby

And so tenderly did I her embrace.

Her breathing was incredibly tender

And soft. Her eyelashes were thick and full,

A baby of my favourite gender,

She’ll take after me and be beautiful.

Her eyes were gently closed like a petal

Of the most tenderest blue baby’s breath

Her heart strong, her courage will be metal,

I see her blanket and lie her beneath.

What will I name her? I contemplate Rose

She hardly nothing about the world knows.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Pencil Case

 

A friend of mine picks up my pencil-case,

‘What in the world do you have here?’ she asks.

A large ruler fulfils all sorts of tasks,

A sharpener and pen, perfectly ace,

A calculator with strangely shaped face,

What I don’t have is a couple of flasks

And inappropriate if I’d packed masks.

Pencils, compass, rubbers – all packed in grace.

She smiles and says, ‘Can I borrow this pen?’

‘Fine,’ I say, ‘As long as you give it back.’

She tells me my pencil-case looks open

In yellow – other colours brightness lack -

Her preferred colour – but I wonder when

She’ll return my pen, she best be on track.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A New Home

 

The family arrive at their new house

A great big building and new neighbourhood

The children are in a miserable mood

Their unsettling rooms they will have to browse.

They’re unhappy, but as quiet as a mouse,

As they their new situation do brood,

They think about the new school that they would

Have to start. Low feelings this would arouse.

All the happiness that they left behind

A world they would have never given up

And all the new mates they will have to find.

Within the new kitchen they will now sup

To season their salad, they do herbs grind

And carefully pour some tea in a cup.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Desert

 

I opted to adventure through the sand

And wanted to take the shorter route through

My car did litres of petrol demand

It stopped in the midst of the desert dew.

I was worried and it was scorching hot

The desert was bare with cactuses few,

Sufficient water supply I had not

There were lethal snakes and scorpions too.

I began developing a mirage

Of plenty water supply and a lake

I also dreamt of my girlfriend’s visage

Would I ever in the morning awake?

I was lucky for it started to rain,

Soon enough I spot and called out a plane.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fifteen Hundred Metres

 

I start my fifteen hundred metres run

Against ten others I have to compete

How will I ten other runners defeat?

My weight feels like it is weighing a ton

Second in lead I begin having fun

There is still a long race-track to complete,

I pace my breath and am feeling a treat

By three quarters of the run, I feel done,

I am panting, breathing and gasping air

And realise I will not be the winner

Although second place is not hard to bear

I feel hungry and wanting some dinner,

I am pleased for my silver medal, rare,

The man who won gold must be a sinner.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Eye Test

 

The optician asks me if I could see

The letter in front of me, ‘Yes,’ I say,

‘It’s an ‘A.’ The letter below is ‘B’.’

She says: ‘Your eyes can see well. Well done, Faye.’

I was pleased I won’t have to wear glasses,

Nor have to consider the range of tints

My eyes does this whole tricky test passes,

‘Some colour contacts?’ The optician hints.

I’m not into contacts so I declined

And knew she was trying to sell items

But in some bold sun shades I was inclined

They looked like fashionable little gems.

I left the place without a prescription

Since driving now gives me no restriction.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Pantoums

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Outside the Window

 

Outside the window the birds have landed

They’re pecking away on pieces of bread,

Hundreds of worthless crumbs to them handed

As different flocks are now being fed.

 

They’re pecking away on pieces of bread

They are fondly teasing one another

As different flocks are now being fed

A carpet of birds the gardens bother.

 

They are fondly teasing one another

A countless array of flocks flying past

A carpet of birds the gardens bother

The bread crumbs will in time be finished fast.

 

A countless array of flocks flying past

Hundreds of worthless crumbs to them handed

The bread crumbs will in time be finished fast

Outside the window the birds have landed.

 

 

 

 

 

March

March is the Spring’s pink blossoming flowers

March is the striding that the soldiers take

March is the growth of life it empowers,

March is the rhythms that the soldiers make.

 

March is the striding that the soldiers take,

March is a location in Cambridgeshire

March is the rhythms that the soldiers make,

March is a town where the residents cheer.

 

March is a location in Cambridgeshire

March is the Spring’s pink blossoming flowers,

March is a town where the residents cheer

March is the growth of life it empowers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Subconscious Dream

 

I’m lying in bed not half awoken

I’m still pretty much in the daze of dream

I hear murmuring, has someone spoken?

I hear a yell, a shout and a small scream.

 

I’m still pretty much in the daze of dream

Nothing has risen me as I still sleep

I hear a yell, a shout and a small scream

Are they but figments of my own dream deep?

 

Nothing has risen me as I still sleep

A subconscious part of me now to wake

Are they but figments of my own dream deep?

I open my eyes and see my son, Jake.

 

A subconscious part of me now to wake

He’d like me to help dress him – wear his clothes,

I open my eyes and see my son, Jake

He’ll get the hang of dressing when he grows.

 

He’d like me to help dress him – wear his clothes

I realise he is part of my dreaming

He’ll get the hang of dressing when he grows

The real world is like a dream still seeming.

 

I realise he is part of my dreaming

I hear murmuring, has someone spoken?

The real world is like a dream still seeming,

I’m lying in bed not half awoken.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The New Girl

 

The good girl has newly started our school

She probably thinks she is very smart

Unlike me she is certainly not cool,

Deep down inside she’s probably a tart.

 

She probably thinks she is very smart

The teacher introduces her to us,

Deep down inside she’s probably a tart

Over her only the teacher will fuss.

 

The teacher introduces her to us,

At break time the good girl approaches me,

Over her only the teacher will fuss,

‘I’m not her pet,’ she says assuredly.

 

At break time the good girl approaches me

Over time I realise she’s quite nice,

‘I’m not her pet,’ she says assuredly,

When I’m stuck she offers me good advice.

 

Over time I realise she’s quite nice

She’s now a member of my friendship clique

When I’m stuck she offers me good advice,

Her Confidence is really quite unique.

 

She’s now a member of my friendship clique

Like me she is certainly very cool,

Her Confidence is really quite unique,

The new girl is no longer new in school.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Ice Lolly

 

This lolly eats in strawberry flavour

I suck it and let it tingle my tongue

The sweet, fresh, fruity cool taste I savour,

I would like this lolly stick to last long.

 

I suck it and let it tingle my tongue

Tropical islands I now remember

I would like this lolly stick to last long

Maybe as long as next month’s September.

 

Tropical islands I now remember

The sweet, fresh, fruity cool taste I savour

Maybe as long as next month’s September

This lolly eats in strawberry flavour.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

May

 

May is the quest of given permission

May is the ripening of Spring-season,

May is the priests’ pardoning submission,

May is the swallow’s presence of reason.

 

May is the ripening of Spring-season

May is a single-syllable girl’s name,

May is the swallow’s presence of reason,

May is the woman the young girl became.

 

May is a single-syllable girl’s name

May is the quest of given permission

May is the woman the young girl became

May is the priests’ pardoning submission.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Golden Lion

 

The rare lion prances through the valley

Looking astutely for signs of its prey

Through the dense brush the lion will dally,

Its golden coat is a shade of sunray.

 

Looking astutely for signs of its prey

The lion strays through the wild in silence

Its golden coat is a shade of sunray

It searches for all moving residence.

 

The lion strays through the wild in silence

The lion quite soon discovers a chimp

It searches for all moving residence

It pounces on its find and tears it limp.

 

The lion quite soon discovers a chimp

It now has lunch for its afternoon share,

It pounces on its find and tears it limp

It will save some for hungry cubs that care.

 

It now has lunch for its afternoon share

The rare lion prances through the valley

It will save some for hungry cubs that care

Through the dense brush the lion will dally.

The Fortune-Teller

 

That wet day I entered a gypsy’s room

She proclaimed that she my future would read

Over the next few days what would thus loom?

Hopes the prophesies won’t fill me with dread.

 

She proclaimed that she my future would read

Concentrating into her crystal ball

Hopes the prophesies won’t fill me with dread

I’m as impenetrable as a wall.

 

Concentrating into her crystal ball

She begins to receive some messages

I’m as impenetrable as a wall

She says I will come across savages.

 

She begins to receive some messages

She says my cash they will attempt to steal

She says I will come across savages

They’ll try rob me to my very last meal.

 

She says my cash they will attempt to steal

But I won’t any of it surrender

They’ll try rob me to my very last meal

Yet I’ll remain the avid defender.

 

But I won’t any of it surrender…

I think to myself, ‘All sorts of rubbish.’

Yet I’ll remain the avid defender…

If it turns out it would me astonish.

 

I think to myself, ‘All sorts of rubbish.’

When I got home thieves broke into my safe,

If it turns out it would me astonish

They took thousands of cash and my agrafe.

 

When I got home thieves broke into my safe

All of the fortune-teller’s words came true

They took thousands of cash and my agrafe

For the cash was fake and they never knew.

 

All of the fortune-teller’s words came true

It thus made the robbers easy to track

For the cash was fake and they never knew

When they fake cash spend, police will attack.

 

It thus made the robbers easy to track

Her oracles came true, I can’t believe

When they fake cash spend, police will attack

Protected me in the way she’d perceive.

 

Her oracles came true, I can’t believe

It could have been bad, it could have been doom,

Protected me in the way she’d perceive

That wet day I entered a gypsy’s room.

 

 

The Coward

 

The coward was frightened of everything

Around friends, he was scared of his shadow

The ugly tones that his own wife would sing

The little lambs that sit by the meadow.

 

Around friends, he was scared of his shadow

Always frightened that the roof will climb in

The little lambs that sit by the meadow

He was scared to use the recycling bin.

 

Always frightened that the roof will climb in

He was scared to fix the cracks on his wall

He was scared to use the recycling bin

And when neighbours would play games of football.

 

He was scared to fix the cracks on his wall

The ugly tones that his own wife would sing

And when neighbours would play games of football

The coward was frightened of everything.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Author Book Signing

 

I’m at an author’s book signing event

A whole queue of people want their book signed

A chance to find out what the author meant

In certain passages of my book bind.

 

A whole queue of people want their book signed

With this novel I was rather engrossed

In certain passages of my book bind

The queue’s moving faster than I supposed.

 

With this novel I was rather engrossed

He probably don’t have time for questions,

The queue’s moving faster than I supposed

Or anything else anyone mentions.

 

He probably don’t have time for questions

I think as I reach the front of the queue

Or anything else anyone mentions

All I got was a bland signature too.

 

I think as I reach the front of the queue

No time to have a chat with the writer,

All I got was a bland signature too

Though somehow my book seemed so much lighter.

 

No time to have a chat with the writer,

No chance to find out what the author meant

Though somehow my book seemed so much lighter

I’m at an author’s book signing event.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Matador

 

The matador is in the arena

She waits for the arrival of the bull

The bull is as slouched as a hyena

As he runs towards her now, black and dull.

 

She waits for the arrival of the bull

His horns sticking out wants to do damage

As he runs towards her now, black and dull

Her intellect is above average.

 

His horns sticking out wants to do damage

Don’t let her play with him, it’s dangerous

Her intellect is above average

A lethal outcome could be ominous.

 

Don’t let her play with him, it’s dangerous

Though the matador handles him with skill

A lethal outcome could be ominous

The viewers and she in her game do thrill.

 

Though the matador handles him with skill

The bull is as slouched as a hyena

The viewers and she in her game do thrill

The matador is in the arena.

The Roommate

 

I was sharing a room with a cute boy

On my first year of university

He thought I was quite smart but really coy

He liked me and told me I was pretty.

 

On my first year of university

It’s hard sharing room with a guy you like

He liked me and told me I was pretty

He was always quite in tune with my psyche.

 

It’s hard sharing room with a guy you like

Out of the bathroom I caught him half nude,

He was always quite in tune with my psyche

I felt awkward, it just appeared too rude.

 

Out of the bathroom I caught him half nude

That night we got passionate and we kissed

I felt awkward, it just appeared too rude

Looking out the window at a light mist.

 

That night we got passionate and we kissed

Ever since then we have been together

Looking out the window at a light mist

Being with him is like sunny weather.

 

Ever since then we have been together

He thought I was quite smart but really coy

Being with him is like sunny weather

I was sharing a room with a cute boy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Blind Man

 

The blind man stands lone at King’s Cross Station

He wears sunshades that do his spoilt eyes hide

Crowds pass him, people of his own nation,

A guide-dog with him in whom he’d confide.

 

He wears sunshades that do his spoilt eyes hide

He has his hat out where he collects coins

A guide-dog with him in whom he’d confide

His trousers down low, it clasps at his groins.

 

He has his hat out where he collects coins

His cane sticking out, a slight length forward,

His trousers down low, it clasps at his groins

He pets his dog and gives it a reward.

 

His cane sticking out, a slight length forward

In his guide-dog he is quite reliant

He pets his dog and gives it a reward

The dog’s always his friendly compliant.

 

In his guide-dog he is quite reliant

Crowds pass him, people of his own nation,

The dog’s always his friendly compliant,

The blind man stands lone at King’s Cross Station.

The City Club

 

The music beats loud to modern music

As a huge crowd gathers on the dance floor

A couple of slow-dancing pairs lovesick,

Tune after tune you will hear an uproar.

 

As a huge crowd gathers on the dance floor

They move like a single organism

Tune after tune you will hear an uproar

It’s a statement of their urbanism.

 

They move like a single organism

As the DJ guides them, he works the tunes,

It’s a statement of their urbanism

And forget about all their misfortunes.

 

As the DJ guides them, he works the tunes,

The dance floor is always where to do it -

And forget about all their misfortunes

Their awful lives, as drunken souls vomit.

 

The dance floor is always where to do it,

A couple of slow-dancing pairs lovesick

Their awful lives, as drunken souls vomit,

The music beats loud to modern music.

Three Wishes

 

If you had three wishes what would you wish?

Would you wish to be taller or shorter?

If you’re a fisherman you’d wish for fish.

You might wish for a nice pint of porter.

 

Would you wish to be taller or shorter?

Perhaps you’d wish for infinite good health,

You might wish for a nice pint of porter

Or perhaps you would want eternal wealth.

 

Perhaps you’d wish for infinite good health

I would wish for a thousand more wishes

Or perhaps you would want eternal wealth

That way you may always ask for riches.

 

I would wish for a thousand more wishes

If you’re a fisherman you’d wish for fish

That way you may always ask for riches

If you had three wishes what would you wish?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Volume II

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Sestinas

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The Bears

 

Within the valley there is a clear lake

A mother bear and her cubs now play there,

Washing under the hot afternoon sun,

Splashing around, hunting fish, keeping cool.

The mother bear warns her cubs not to stray

For the lake soon gives way to a river.

 

The currents are high where there’s a river

The bear tells her cubs to keep by the lake.

One rebellious bear cub wants to stray.

He wonders why she won’t let him go there.

Refusing to hear, the cub thinks it’s cool

To go his own way, under the hot sun.

 

Under the hot, scorching afternoon sun

The cub now strays and heads for the river,

Unseen by his mother who splashes cool.

As his cub-siblings splash on in the lake,

The brother cubs notice the cub’s not there

Informing the mother he’s gone astray.

 

Wild torrents now take the frightened cub stray

Mother calls out to her endangered son,

She knows he can’t control the swim out there.

Waterfalls at the end of the river

Fierce, wild torrents not as safe as the lake,

Crashing wildly over unsafe rocks cool.

 

The endangered cub could see his un-cool

End. He’ll be crashing on rocks, drowning stray.

Powerfully crashing down by a lake.

The helpless bear thinks she has lost her son

For he has reached the peak of the river

The falls carry him, he crashes down there.

 

He swallows water while crashing down there,

Force of the waters, he’s missed the rocks cool,

He topples off the end of the river

He hits the far bottom beneath but stray

From rocks. The lucky cub greets a warm sun

Plopping safely onto a calmer lake.

 

The safe cub meets his mum there by the lake,

The air is cool despite the scorching sun

And fresh river-fish over the falls stray.

 

 

 

 

 

 

About ‘The Periodic Table’

 

There’s one hundred and eighteen elements

To learn on the periodic table

How do we these elements represent

In poetry? Since they are important.

How do we these elements get to know?

These elements we would like to explore.

 

A science of forms is hard to explore

In poems, to capture the elements

A different construct to get to know.

Unlike the construction of the table

Is this poem – and yet it’s important

To capture its essence and represent

 

The wisdom of the table. Represent

The elements in poems, to explore

Why its existence is an important

Scientific message. The elements

In poem – a message of the table,

The message is scientific, please know.

 

There’s no better place a message to know

Than in a poem and there represent

Ways to learn the periodic table,

Nowhere else but a poem to explore

The significance of the elements.

Therefore, see my tribute, it’s important.

 

There is no other place more important

Than through poem, the elements to know.

Boron included in the elements

Zinc, gold, lead, tin, iron, to represent

That they are there and to try to explore

How much more significant the table

 

Is presented by poems. The table

Is nowhere else any more important

Than when simple poems want to explore

Why the message is important, so know

That it’s science it tries to represent

When poems talk about the elements.

 

Tributes to the table of elements

The important poem does represent,

And it explores its existence, thus know.

 

 

 

 

 

The Girl’s Night In

 

Rose is having a girl’s night in with friends.

She has invited four of her friends close

And they are all enjoying a gossip

In their jim-jams, as they about guys talk.

With her is June, Heather, Mary and Grace.

They giggle, squeal, laugh and are quite happy.

 

Suddenly, the door-bell rings. The happy

Girls wonder who’s at the door. All her friends

Are in Rose’s room. With that, she lets Grace

Pop down to open the door. Her mates close

Behind. But June stays in the room to talk

To Rose: ‘Wait up, we got a new gossip!’

 

Calls Heather. The girls wonder what gossip…

They gather into Rose’s room happy

But behind them enters Roy, and the talk

Abruptly halts. Oh my! Which of her friends

Let him in?! He’s more attractive up close,

Rose thinks. In a moment’s reflection, Grace

 

Suggests that the girls leave the room in grace

So Roy and Rose could catch up on gossip

Alone… Roy approaches Rose and gets close,

He gently whispers, ‘I would be happy

To read you a love poem, Rose…. as friends.’

Rose is mystified and intends to talk

 

Further on this poem and make small talk.

He reads the poem and reads with much grace.

It becomes clears he is more than just friends.

No doubt to Rose that the girls will gossip

For Roy has just made Rose very happy…

She closes her eyes, so he’d kiss her close.

 

As Roy kisses Rose soft, besides him close,

The girls about them behind their backs talk.

It’s clear to them that Roy’s made Rose happy.

They would like to find a guy with his grace,

A guy with whom they could also gossip,

Someone like Roy who’d make them swoon with friends.

 

Meanwhile, while Roy and Rose kiss up close, friends

Aren’t on her mind. Let them talk and gossip…

Happy with Roy in the room’s quiet grace.

 

 

 

 

The Encounter

 

The lone sport star has just had a meeting

With a girl fan of his. There was something

Different about this girl. She was not

Like most of his fans, but he can’t quite place

It. Perhaps it was in her reserved joy

On meeting him. Most people would have been

 

In hysterics by that point. She’d not been

Like that. But more reserved in the meeting,

It was clear to him she was so much joy.

Asked him for his autograph or something,

She certainly kept herself to her place,

Give her his autograph? How could he not?

 

It was evident to him she was not

Like most. Made no display of having been

Infatuated nor made it her place

To give him her number upon meeting

Him. She made no effort to give something

That he can call her by. She was much joy,

 

It was what was most evident – her joy.

Yet she didn’t appear to like him not,

An under-reaction. It was something

He couldn’t quite place. Was he a has-been?

Why’d she not want to know upon meeting

Him? It seemed she sure put him in his place.

 

She did not even ask him of his place,

Don’t she know he lives in a mansion? Joy

Does not even compare to that. Meeting

Her was an under-reaction he’d not

Expect from most fans. Yet he knows she’d been

Half his age, or maybe she was something

 

Young. Was he too old for her or something?

Why was he the one feeling out of place?

He wants to see her again, she’ll have been

So happy. So different from the joy

He’s used to. Whether she was game or not,

He had to arrange another meeting.

 

There was something great about this meeting.

She’d put him in his place – something that’s not

Happened in some time. She was such a joy.

 

 

 

 

The Virgin (II)

 

The virgin was a good ballerina

As she danced she’d conceal her joyous laugh

Her prim figure was muscular and strong

Her movements were light and filled with beauty

The smartest man would glare at her in awe

They talked to her so their morals would grow.

 

The years passed, the virgin’s value did grow

She was more than a nice ballerina

She was a strong attribute of their awe

She was more than the Mona Lisa’s laugh

But contemporary, she was beauty

It was the modern age and she was strong.

 

Others were tripped by lust, but she was strong

She never gave in, her value did grow.

There was recognition of her beauty

She’d be a prosperous ballerina

Since the men were entreated by her laugh

They’d talk to her and gaze at her in awe.

 

In turn, she would listen to them in awe

She would never fall prey, for she was strong.

Falling snow and sleet, the sound of her laugh,

Over the years, more valuable did grow.

In form, she was but a ballerina

A masterpiece with virginal beauty.

 

It’s hard to find uncorrupted beauty

In the modern day, we see it with awe

As she performs, the prim ballerina.

As time goes by, she will but remain strong

Her own self-importance will only grow.

National importance is due her laugh.

 

Those who talk to her are stunned by her laugh

Even through this she bestows much beauty

Her reputation will certainly grow

Internationally, they’ll gaze in awe

Eloquent, epic, shock-story so strong

Much to surprise them, this ballerina.

 

Musical laugh of the ballerina

Her beauty so meticulous and strong

She will grow, they’ll all gaze at her in awe.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Taking the Kids to the Park

 

It is a gorgeous day with the sun

Out. It’s the right time to take my children

To the park, so they’ll enjoy the outdoors,

The right time to take the two somewhere fun.

My boy, Sam, and my girl, May, will enjoy

This day. This fine day with me at the park.

 

Together my children play at the park.

As I watch them playing under the sun,

The swings, slides, the roundabout they enjoy.

Sam gets stuck on a pole. Though the children

Seem scared to go down the pole, it’s still fun.

There’s laughter as they enjoy the outdoors.

 

We’ve prepared ourselves food for the outdoors,

They feed the ducks bread – the pets of the park,

May wants to pet the ducks, she’s having fun.

Not the brats they were at home with the sun

Out. The ducks seem quite fond of my children.

They peck at Sam’s shoes, his toes they enjoy.

 

May does the sight of the white swan enjoy

She is awed by its grace in the outdoors.

Soon we spot an ice-cream van. The children

Make me buy them lollies. ‘Liking the park?’

The ice-cream man asks my kids while the sun

Shines. The kids reply, ‘Yes, we’re having fun!’

 

It’s great to hear my kids are having fun,

Though going down the pole they don’t enjoy.

We prepare a picnic under the sun,

So that we can enjoy our lunch outdoors.

I realise they like to be at the park

And are less of a nuisance as children.

 

Loving this special day with my children

In all sorts of ways, they are having fun,

As we munch on sandwiches in the park

Some crisps, doughnuts, lemon-juice we enjoy,

Olives, biscuits, celery sticks outdoors.

Sam jumps up and down and points at the sun.

 

As it sets the children stare at the sun

Soon all the fun they are having outdoors

Will end. No more the park will they enjoy.

 

 

 

 

 

The Princess

 

The Princess sits prim in the royal box

Watching the interesting tennis match.

It is the Wimbledon final between

Roger Federer and Rafa Nadal.

The Spanish Princess sits in the royal

box anticipating. It’s a hot day,

 

Yet not quite as scorching as Spain. The day

Promises wonderful sights from the box.

The Princess waves her fan, feeling royal

And warm. Cool winds pass, she glares at the match.

As she watches, her hopes are that Nadal

Will win it for her country. Torn between

 

Keeping her prim composure and between

Jumping out for joy when he scores. The day

Is monumental, as crowds cheer Nadal.

Sitting next to Prince Felipe in the box,

Hope in her eyes as she glares at the match.

When King Carlos steps down from the Royal

 

Throne, the Princess knows she’ll be the Royal

Queen. She will be sharing the rule between

Her and her husband, who now views the match

Besides her. They’re both assured by this day,

It’s promising from this end of the box.

A promising victory for Nadal.

 

Camera flashes are all on Nadal

As he crawls through crowds towards her Royal

Highness. More flashes now capture the box

As she commends his victory between

Federer. It’s a significant day

For Spain, since millions have seen this huge match.

 

Spain’s national anthem covers the match,

The British nation celebrates Nadal

And the Spanish Rule. A glorious day

For the Princess. In six years the Royal

Will be Queen. She sits proud and coy between

Royals, besides Prince Felipe in the box.

 

He glories for the match. She’s in the box

Commending Nadal who stands not between

Crowds. One great day for his Spanish Royal.

 

 

 

 

 

The Embrace

 

He cups her chin in between his strong hands,

He gently brushes off a lock of her

Long brown hair from her face. He caresses

Her cheek gently. He glares into her eyes

Keeping his focus steady. He closes

His eyes and brings her lips towards his lips.

 

She can feel the soft texture of his lips,

She strokes the tones of his arms with her hands,

She lets his lips trail to her neck, closes

Her eyes, she lets out a sigh. She feels her

Throat tingle warmly. She opens her eyes,

Staring, as his lips her throat caresses.

 

His lips trail softly and he caresses

Her ear with his tongue. He fondles her lips

With his fingers. He envisions her eyes

Closed. Brushing her hair gently with his hands.

He kisses her lips and wants to make her

Moan. His pecks harden as his mouth closes.

 

She briefly opens her eyes and closes,

Flutters her lashes as he caresses,

She begins to moan, his kisses on her

Harden. Soon she feels them engulf her lips,

Hard kisses as she feels him clasp her hands,

She feels him gently kiss each of her eyes.

 

He has been stunned by her gorgeous eyes,

He lightly strokes her cheeks as she closes

Them. His warm fingers gently clasp her hands,

The pressure of his fingers caresses

Hers, with more passion he kisses her lips,

He can’t be any more in love with her.

 

She senses his warm lips harden on her,

The deep tingling can be felt by her eyes,

To the growing passion felt on her lips.

She feels dizzy as the passion closes

Over her with each of his caresses.

She’s amazed with what he does with his hands.

 

As he and her embrace, both work their hands.

Their eyes gaze as each of them caresses

The other’s lips. Passion on them closes.

 

 

 

 

 

The Romantic Creep

 

One night I open the lights of my room

I see a man within the corner crouched

I reckon he’s there meant to be a friend

But know he won’t sit too well with my dad.

The strange man in the room wants to be mine,

I reckon the reason he’s there is love.

 

One way people behave crazy is love

This huge man is not allowed in the room

Yet there he is, for he wants to be mine.

I look at him, he’s in the corner crouched.

I feel an urge to protect him from dad.

I won’t let dad see him, for he’s a friend.

 

In whispers, I silently call my friend,

‘What are you doing here? I sense it’s love.’

A huge man like this will be seen by dad,

What will I say when dad enters my room?

I realise he’s scared as he keeps crouched,

I cover him with a blanket of mine.

 

He don’t move under the blanket of mine,

I move closer over to my scared friend

And put an arm over him as he’s crouched,

His huge bulging figure now screams out love,

Knowing he is not allowed in my room,

It could land us both in trouble with dad.

 

For I am now protecting him from dad,

He reaches out to hold a hand of mine,

He softly kisses it while in the room.

He says, ‘I cannot forget you, my friend.

Ever since I met you, I fell in love.’

It’s so romantic, though he still sits crouched.

 

His body language screams love as he’s crouched.

‘Sh!’ I whisper softly, ‘You’re too loud, dad

Will hear. Although I know you are in love,

You’re still looking quite like a creep of mine,

You’re lucky I’m protecting you, my friend,

For you know you have no place in this room.’

 

The man sits crouched and frightened in the room.

‘Thanks for not letting your dad know, my friend,’

He says. Yes, it’s love, he wants to be mine.

 

 

 

 

 

The Search for Treasure

 

The children gather around the checked spot,

All three of them hold a print of the map

That they’d copied. Lucy says: ‘The treasure

Is meant to be there.’ Her finger now points

At a single ‘X’ on the sands. ‘Oh no!’

Says Thomas, ‘But that’s quicksand,’ he calls out.

 

‘Our treasure’s beneath quicksand!’ Jess calls out.

There is no way they could dig up that spot,

It was liquid sand. They could conceive no

Way to get through it. As they hold their map,

They are all determined. Jess also points

At the ‘X’: ‘I’ll go down for the treasure,’

 

She says. ‘You’ll die before you get treasure,’

Lucy says, ‘Not wise, Jess, figure it out.’

Jess treads on the ‘X.’ ‘She is sinking!’ points

Out Thomas. ‘I’m going down through the spot,’

Jess says. As she sinks slow, she holds the map

Tight. Thomas attempts to lift her out, ‘No!’

 

He calls, ‘She’s about to drown in sand. No!’

He can’t lift Jess out. It seems the treasure

Is her destination. Jess holds her map,

Soon to be ruined in sand. ‘Please stay out,’

Jess says. But the two want to join the spot.

As the children begin sinking, Tom points

 

His toes. They’ll go down faster if he points

Them. Soon, the sands consume their brave heads. No.

Suddenly the kids get sucked through the spot,

Straight through a long glass chute: ‘To the treasure,

Weeeee!’ Calls out Tom. When they make their way out

Of the chute, they realise that the map

 

Is right. It really is a treasure map,

For there it is! ‘It’s the treasure!’ Jess points.

There were stacks of wealth, gold and cash. ‘Look out,

We’re rich!’ Calls Lucy. ‘Oh dear, no, no, no!’

She sees, ‘Tell me, what’s the use of treasure,

When we can’t get out of this unknown spot?’

 

‘Map’s no use. We can’t get out of this spot!’

Jess calls out. There is no use to treasure,

If they’ll never get out of this place. NO..!

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Valley at Night

 

In the dense forests I’ve set up a tent

I look to the skies at a starry night,

I have company with me by a fire,

A strong natural flame beneath the stars.

My friend and I are in absolute peace

Within the forests of the valley dark.

 

The deep, dense forests of the valley dark.

The thrill of adventure besides a tent,

Has set us up for a quiet night’s peace.

The forests are beautiful in the night

Beneath the eloquence of many stars,

Burning brightly with ever-lasting fire.

 

As we sit together by the warm fire,

Roasting marshmallows, surrounded by dark

Forests. Over millions of twinkling stars

On the horizon’s skies over the tent.

The skies are vast as stars burn in the night,

Constellations loom above us in peace.

 

The forest’s animals leave us in peace

As we both warm ourselves up by the fire.

I hear the creatures call into the night,

The night owls tweet-two in the looming dark

They are audible to us by the tent

And ever more evoking are the stars.

 

Occasionally, I see shooting stars

So many of them above the skies dark,

They appear like comets above our tent

Not diminishing the strength of this fire,

Without it we’d be in obsolete dark

That only strengthens the calm of this night.

 

What I witness is a glorious night,

Beneath the silence of a million stars

While the forests surround us in the dark,

We both munch on our marshmallows in peace,

The sweet taste tingles our tongues by the fire,

Soon enough we will retire to our tent.

 

I know I’ll sleep well tonight in this tent,

The calm under the stars and by the fire,

A dark so deep will let me sleep in peace.

 

 

 

 

The Birthday Gift

 

I was with a party of girls at break

Time, when one of them proposed to ask me

What it is I wanted for my birthday.

All of the girls were listening closely

When I told them I would like some perfume

Lavender. That was all I had in mind.

 

Both my parents had only me in mind,

They were emotional, their voice would break,

When they asked me what I wanted. Perfume

Lavender, I said. When people asked me

What I wanted for my sixteenth, closely

Listening. What I want for my birthday?

 

What I really wanted for my birthday,

I wasn’t fussed about. Nothing in mind.

Just get me what they’d like. I don’t closely

Care much. Stop asking me, give me a break.

Please, their own ideas on presents for me,

It needn’t be the lavender perfume.

 

On my sixteenth birthday I wore perfume

And had the girls around for my birthday

It’s exciting. What did they all get me?

They gathered round, I had their gifts in mind.

Hope they’d not get me something that would break

Too easy. Peering at my face closely,

 

My friends were paying attention closely.

I opened my first gift. It was perfume

Lavender. ‘Thanks, Molly..’ My voice would break.

The second gift I got for my birthday

.. . Was some lavender perfume. In my mind,

Not again. ‘Thanks Hugh for thinking of me..’

 

The third gift: ‘Some more lavender for me?’

I hope that mum was listening closely

More perfume was not what I had in mind

When I opened the fourth present. Perfume

Again! Thanks a lot mum! What a birthday!

My mates were in laughter. Give me a break.

 

No original gifts for me. Please break

This closely nuisance of copied birthday

Gifts. Copy-cats mind, I don’t want perfume!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sheila

 

Joan works in a pub serving people drinks.

She has a good relationship with John,

Her boss. Even their names sound similar.

There is something about John, so manly,

He does so well with the regulars too.

He sometimes gives the regulars free rounds.

 

Joan also sometimes gives drinkers free rounds,

They both can be generous with their drinks.

One day, John’s been missing from the pub too

Long. Joan has no idea. Where has John

Gone? The pub’s in need of someone manly.

Soon a lady walks in who’s similar

 

To John. Why does she look so similar

To him? ‘I’ll get all the staff some free rounds,’

She says. But this lady is quite manly,

‘Call me Sheila,’ she says. She gets the drinks.

Joan suddenly realises she’s John!

‘What’s this transformation? A lady too?’

 

John makes clear Joan shall call him Sheila too.

Joan knows Sheila is not so similar

To the boss she thought she knew. She’s not John.

Sheila’s hands tremble as she gets the rounds.

In Joan’s eyes, the way she handles the drinks,

Still makes Sheila appear very manly.

 

But Sheila is still so very manly,

When Joan calls her, she can’t forget John too.

Yet every time Sheila handles those drinks,

Sheila and John are someone similar.

She can’t get over him calling those rounds.

She can’t see Sheila, she only knew John.

 

Joan is always very surprised that John

Feels this way about himself. So manly

Was he, she thought. As Sheila calls the rounds,

The staff are surprised about Sheila too.

Yet she always thought it was similar,

The way he knew her, how he issued drinks.

 

John is Sheila, Joan figures, as she drinks.

The two are compatibly similar.

As he orders rounds, he still sees her too.

 

 

 

 

Tear_Jerk

 

Logging on to my computer I see

That ass is online – calls himself Tear_Jerk.

It is never the first time he insults

Me. Practically every other line.

‘How are you Fiona?’ He sends. He knows

My name’s not Fiona, but it’s the troll

 

From the movie Shrek. ‘Quit calling me Troll,’

I type. ‘I’m calling you princess, you see,’

He sends. No, he’s calling me Shrek and knows.

‘Got low confidence levels?’ Says the jerk.

Grrrr… He’s always teasing me every line.

The low level of his shallow insults.

 

I have to get away from these insults.

I’ll be meeting a friend today – no troll

With Chris – at the coffee shop. I now line

My eyes and beautify me, so he’ll see

Me well. Far away from that low-life jerk.

I haven’t seen Chris for ages. He knows

 

I might not recognise him and he knows

He may not recognise me. Jerk’s insults

I’ll be away from, for Chris is no jerk.

When I enter the coffee shop, I troll

Around looking. Eventually, I see

A man who looks like Chris waiting in line.

 

‘Hi, Chris,’ I smile and join him in the line.

‘Hi, Anne,’ he says. ‘You’ve not changed much.’ He knows

Me well. Neither has he, I gladly see.

He buys me tea, we sit down. His insults

Are none. We talk, he does not call me troll.

I like him. He is so unlike that jerk.

 

As we chat, I tell him about that jerk

Who calls me ‘Fiona.’ It’s out of line,

I tell Chris. He spits out his coffee. ‘Troll?’

He says, ‘Today?’ He asks as if he knows

Jerk.. ‘Was the word ‘Princess’ in his insults

By any chance?’ Chris asks. I quickly see

 

Why. ‘I’m Tear_Jerk,’ Chris admits. I now see

The man who’s out of line with the insults.

‘Troll?’ I’m outraged! I slap Chris.. for he knows.

 

 

 

 

 

The Missing Phone

 

One bright day, Andrew loses his mobile.

Over hundreds of numbers he has lost

That also includes his girlfriend’s number.

How else will he be able to contact

His friends or any of his work-based mates,

On incidents regarding scheduled dates?

 

Only on his phone had he saved those dates,

Where in the world has he placed his mobile?

One day, Andrew hears that one of his mates

Receives a call from the phone Andrew’s lost.

Andrew must identify the contact,

For who’s employing Andrew’s phone number?

 

Someone is using Andrew’s phone number

And he needs to know. All his scheduled dates

And his girlfriend he cannot now contact,

Since he cannot remember her mobile

Number – in its memory it is lost.

Yet someone is contacting Andrew’s mates,

 

Putting Andrew in trouble with his mates.

They thought that since it was from his number,

They suspected Andrew his mind had lost

When he failed to attend appointment dates

Arranged by the stranger with the mobile,

It threatened him with more than one contact.

 

He tells the police about the contact

That’s getting him in trouble with his mates.

The police stop the outgoing mobile

Calls from Andrew’s phone and track the number.

It turns out to be one of his ex-dates.

This ex-girl of Andrew’s her mind had lost

 

And was bitter – he was not all she’d lost

When she’d took Andrew’s phone so she’d contact

People through texts and reschedule the dates

He had arranged with his pals and work-mates.

He should have never given his number

Out to a girl who would snatch his mobile.

 

The mad, lost ex- is charged for her mobile

Antics. He won’t share his contact number

With dates again, only with fewer mates.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Villanelles

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Farm Wife

 

The farm wife is up before the cock crows

The farm is looking pleasant in sunrise.

***

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The Valley that Calls

The Valley that Calls is a collection of one hundred and twenty poems divided into sestinas, villanelles, pantoums and sonnets. The poetry uncovers extraordinary themes including through an exploration of nature and a narration of personal tales. Not only are the stories told guaranteed to captivate readers but you are sure to be stunned by the grace of the valley and the beauty of the poetry narrated. Each and every tale told is remarkable and designed to be cherished.

  • Author: Deniz Besim
  • Published: 2016-05-20 20:20:11
  • Words: 22335
The Valley that Calls The Valley that Calls