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2016

Richard Archer

Poets Don’t Carry Cash
 

Poets don’t carry cash,
Instead they carry words.

 

Words stuffed into pockets, mixed with fluff.
Words forced into wallets, alongside old receipts.
Words withdrawn from dusty old accounts.
Words gathered from faded ashtrays on windowsills.

 

Poets should be rich,
But they can be careless.

 

Because as they fumble for the right word,
They spill out like so much loose change.
Which rolls around the floor, unwilling to be caught,
Lost, until found and read by puzzled strangers.

 

Ask a poet and they will swear they have words on them,
But when they check they find nothing.
The words have tumbled into sofa like cracks of their minds,
There to gather dust along with other lost ideas.

 

A poet’s words start promisingly sharp and crisp,
Until they are nibbled by literary moths.
So they become tatty and unrecognisable,
Unaccepted and unusable.

 

Anyway as I said,
Poets don’t carry cash.
Instead they carry words.
Which in spite of all the trouble they have with them,
They love to spend freely.

 

RICHARD ARCHER

Unstructured
 

I'm an unstructured poet
Writing words
That I stretch to fit
Indeterminate subjects.
These are DLO words
Often failing to deliver.
Ideas lost in translation
Between brain and pen.
Part digested themes
Regurgitated as concepts.
Luckily I cherish all
My warped offspring.
Nurturing them
Until they are ready
To breath, leave and
Finally live.

 

RICHARD ARCHER

Obsessive Compulsive Poetry
 

I'm writing this poem,
While on the bus.
Disturbing commuters,
Creating a fuss.

 

I'm writing this poem,
While sitting at work.
Ignoring my in-tray,
Its contents I shirk.

 

I'm writing this poem,
Perched on the throne.
Using loo paper,
If I run out of my own.

 

I'm writing this poem,
Even while asleep.
I dream more verses,
On to pillows and sheets.

 

I've been writing this poem,
All of my life.
Everyone has left me,
Including my wife.

 

I'm still writing this poem,
Just ignore the knocking.
I can't stop now,
Even in my coffin.

 

RICHARD ARCHER

Machine Gun Poetry

Poetry is a weapon that I always have ready.
My brain is fully loaded with verbal ammo,
My tongue is always keen to open fire,
I'm ever ready to deal out poetic justice.
I know my combat drill, let's do it.

 

I visualize my verse.
I ready my rhyme.
But most importantly,
Once I pick a target,
I don't recite until I see the whites of their eyes.

 

Then I never hesitate to unleash poetry,
I let slip my words of war,
Savouring the impact of each phrase fired,
I empty my verse into the target.
Watching them fall with a poem between the eyes.

 

As my mouth begins to smoke I halt,
Then I flick the safety catch on my couplets.
Pausing my performance,
But remaining vigilant,
Poetry is a weapon and I always shoot first.

 

RICHARD ARCHER

Ron Savory

Attenuating Circumstances

 

Full of grand thoughts

Bones of fear knit together 

All sinew strong Death’s Soft touch hands

Quiet refrain Sown in every nerve ending 

Deftly Scythes the attention poised

 

# Terry Pratchett 1948-2015

 

RON SAVORY

LEFT in DUST

 

Left in dust

The rusting tricycle

Triangle kite mark

Abandoned

Pock marked tyred

Peeling

Gathers silence

Ron Savory

Jumble Sale

 

No thing can buy

What she gave

My Mother’s son

I am un done

Love is free 

 

# Ivy Hannah Hicks 1930-2015

 

Tin Plate Poet Ron Savory

NEXT

 

In the waiting room

Invisible, I remain an empty chair

In search of a corner, full of awkward

With a need to avoid stares

Even though not far away the door is always open

Maybe tomorrow will be different

But not today

 

      Ron Savory

Tom Higgins

Blessed are the Meek

 

He awoke under the rubble 

 the weight pressed down

 his breathing laboured,

 he tried to move

 but he had trouble

 feeling his legs

 or his arms or hands,

 only his mind was not numb

 he could hear the screams,

 and he could see the flickering flames 

 and he could taste the dust,

 and smell the blood,

 and the bitterness of burnt meat

 rising from below him

 within the smoke and

 the heat.

 He tried to shout

 he raised a squeak

 he was six years old,

 "blessed are the meek."

 

Tom Higgins 20/07/2015

It's a Hard Life

 

How hard it must be

To make your living from

Making bombs, and missiles

and planes,guns and shells,

and mines, and tanks

and helicopter gunships, and drones,

and rpgs and nerve gas,and training mercenaries,

and marketing them

as if they are as harmless as sofas,

but selling them to every thug and

murderer, and gangster and dictator

on the planet.

It is obviously difficult for you to make a decent living,

but very easy to make a killing, or two, or three, or...

 

Tom Higgins 22/09/2016

Book of Memories

 

I look forward to the future

 I look back upon the past,

 And I hope I’ll keep remembering

 For as long as my life may last

 

And I hope that the album of my life

 Will have an expanding trend

 And that my ability to refer to it

 Will stay with me to the end.

 

 I hope its colours never fade

 Or its bright reflections dull

 For from these is the person made

 And a life can never be full

 

Unless the memory stays clear

 For those remaining days

 Without fading into the mists

 Of an autumnal evening’s haze

 

 To gradually disappear

 Into a wintry fog-bound Hell

 A man without a memory

 Is a mere empty shell.

Tom Higgins

If I Could Achieve The Impossible

 

If I could stop a river's flow

Or reverse a waterfall,

If I could make light be slow

Or cause the wind to stall,

 

If I could make men see sense

And refuse to go to war,

If I could stop the pretence,

That money's worth dying for,

 

If I could build a better world

Where everyone could thrive,

Or stop the flags being unfurled,

And let the innocent stay alive,

 

Instead of being bombed and burned

Before they've had a chance

With history's lessons left unlearned,

As death's macabre dance,

 

Once again takes to the floor

As so often throughout the ages,

The martial music plays once more

And we quick step into the pages,

 

Of new history as it is written

Never knowing who,or when,or why,

Which of us are to be smitten,

Who amongst us doomed to die.

 

If I had such powers under the sun

I would be sure to use them to

Change our world so it is run

For the many, not just a few.

 

Tom Higgins 24/05/2014

Clive @ Kinmos

Life is short

Life is sweet

Life is neat

Life is so complete

 

Clive @ Kinmos

Andrew Hider

Strawberry Flowers in the Wind

 

Strawberry flowers bow their heads,

To their lord and master the wind;

Who cruelly whips them,

With his grey and sullen lashing rain,

Suppressing them with depression and anxiety.

To him they display subservience,

Praying to him with whispered words,

Singing soft his pious hymns.

 

And soon they die.

 

But from their corpses grow their fruits of red,

That resurrect them from dead,

That through scent and taste and colour,

Comfort the mind of each lost soul;

And make dreams possible,

That the broken can once again be whole.

   Andrew Hider 

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