Re: Accrington Poets.
 

I penned this one in 2001 and the disillusionment I felt then has in no way subsided.

Crude Britannia
(The true face of Blair’s Britain)

LAND OF HOPE AND GLORY
Where hope has largely been eradicated,
And glory is something that once was.

MOTHER OF THE FREE . . . and easy.
Where the working man exists solely to ensure
that the criminal and the work-shy attain a better
standard of living than himself.

HOW SHALL WE EXTOL THEM
Whereas fat-cats, pop icons and footballers are lauded;
the real heroes: men and women of the armed forces,
the health service, the emergency services and the
teaching profession, are vilified and castigated by those
that they would deem to serve.

WHO WERE BORN OF THEE
Where the sanctity and values of marriage and
family life seem to have been subjugated by the
immoral preachings of the combined media, with
little or no interference from the sitting government.

End

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Yeh Stumped I agree with much of what you say! People aspire to be celebrities and fail to realise it's all a sham - look how people like Michael Jackson and Elvis Presley ended - these are people that reached the top of the tree in entertainment!:mosher::theband:

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

This one sort of pre-empts my Crude Britannia offering as it shares the sentiment to a large degree.

Politics Apart
©1998

The Town Hall coven huddles nightly in it's grotto,
Chancing council taxes on the civic lotto,
Public needs go out the door
When these dullards take the floor,
On the off-chance of a sly back handed potto!

Building road humps has become a way of life,
Better hump the road than someone else's wife,
Humping tarmac round in barrows
Through daft chicanes and narrows,
Adds little but confusion to our strife!

Doggy pooh bins are erected in the park,
Yet our dogs don't seem to see them in the dark,
It's to many folks distress
That the streets are filled with mess,
Aint it time now that we heard The Council bark!

So they sold off all our buses at a whim,
A decision that still looks distinctly dim,
Robbing Peter to Pay Paul
Is always an own goal,
Now the surest way to get their is to swim!

Yellow lines and orange badges are as one,
Feigning 'bad back' means your parking problem's gone,
Yes, a town once proud and well
Is truly on the road to Hell,
Which goes to show that politicking is a con!

End

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Hi All.

Try this for a little poetry :

lifeinthemix's Podcast

Not your normal poetic dream but important all the same

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

I wonder if my old art college lecturer, Jamie Reid, know his work from the Sex Pistol's record cover is being used by lifeinthemix?

:rolleyes:

Perhaps I'll mail and ask him.

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

The song was nothing to write home about, very banal, but the other recordings, of the young dipstick talking on a radio phone in, were hilarious.

Have mailed Jamie Reid to inform him his work might be being used without his permission.

Perhaps the yound dipstick might phone in the radio show to talk about copyright infringement next.

:rolleyes:

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Just had an email back from Jamie Reid, the artist who did the Sex Pistol's record covers, and his lawyers will be contacting the person responsible for unauthorised use of his work on lifeinthemix's site.

You might want to let him know.;)

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

If anyone would like to start a campaign, to help raise funds for legal costs, that lifeinthemix will incur, please do so in a separate thread.

I don't want my pm box filled up with hundreds of requests of help.

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Readers of The Sun & The Daily Mail, beware.

Media Influence
© 1995

Lichen covered tombstones mark the cradles of the dead,
Silent, weed-strewn plots of earth that conjure thoughts of dread,
A twisted yew tree by the gate sends shivers down the spine,
E’er the full moon breaks the cloud above the lonesome pine,
An owl hoots in the treetops at the distant stroke of twelve,
And a rustling in the bushes makes imagination delve
Into the creepy afterlife we’ve learned to preconceive,
From nasty books and videos our wanton hands receive.

Smashed and bloody corpses lay the trail of men at war,
Mutilated bodies struck by missiles from afar,
Damage and destruction on a scale beyond compare,
Orphaned children begging in a land no longer fair,
Seas and rivers poisoned by an ever flowing tide
Of sickening pollution that man’s crassness has supplied,
Daily through our TV-sets and printed paper news,
Young minds are infiltrated and thus scarred with adult views.

Kids in cardboard boxes line the inner city street,
An underclass of people that the rich are loath to meet,
Some turn to prostitution as others embrace crime,
Life for them is meaningless and endless as is time,
Stripped of inhibitions in a grasping welfare state,
Reduced to drugged existence by the quirky hand of fate,
Tho’ the influence of the media is the present wherewithal,
It’s message mocks our dignity and damns us one and all.

End

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Reckon all us red blooded males have come across 'her' at one time or another!

The Modern Miss
© 2006

She posed on the beach in the sunlight,
Her body in stunning repose,
Scantily clad in chic swimwear,
And sunglasses perched on her nose.

She warranted admiring glances,
From young swains who wandered her way,
Avidly scanning her assets,
To covet the goods on display.

She rolled on her stomach demurely,
Enticingly plying her wares,
Vampishly snaking her body,
To glory in admiring stares.

She simpered and turned her head coyly,
Seducing the hot blooded males,
With feminine gestures intended,
To fire up the blood in their tails.

She stretched her long legs most divinely,
Disturbing the sand with her toes,
Exploiting her wherewithal grossly,
With little more flesh to expose.

She garnered the boys in her aura,
Seductively baring her soul,
Wantonly testing emotions,
Her antics devoid of control.

She patently toyed with the congress,
Increasingly stirring the pot,
Instilling the crowd with such passion,
That rendered them blind to the plot.

She openly flouted her aptness,
For teasing and winding up men,
Whose weaknesses craved exploitation,
Whilst palpably lacking in yen.

She raised herself up on one elbow,
Commencing a search of her bag,
And unable to find what she wanted,
She said: ‘Any o’ youz gotta fag?’

End

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Lovely stuff, Stumped.....I know of a similar one on a bottle of bitter ale.

But perhaps now is the time for all those Kiplings, Wordsworths,Tennysons, Hughs and Plaths amongst us to start putting quill to parchmant and penning our deepest and most romantic thoughts on the trials and tribulations of our beloved Stanley

(11pts and still going strong)

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Fairly good Poem there Stumped did it come out of your gray matter?

Cheers,

Kestrel X

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Absolutely. As have all the poems that I have posted.

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Here's one I wrote for my granddaughter's amusement way back in 1999 - not long before she passed away at the tender age of 13-years. She loved my 'Faerie Poems', and I still picture her giggling at them every time I read or reproduce them. Enjoy:

The River Goblins
© 1999

In the ruins of a cottage by the river,
In a corner where the staircase rots away,
Wooden timbers, strangely twisted, bent and broken,
Cling to darkness where the sunshine dare not stray;
Hungry vermin scavenge daily through the ruins,
But at night-time, when the moon is on the wane,
Rats and spiders scamper early to their shelters,
Whence the River Goblins hear the sound of rain.

Musty ruins are the River Goblins sanctum,
Where he steals himself beneath the rotting wood,
None else moves but to catch upon his senses,
And nothing stirs him more than human blood;
The elusive River Goblin has no equal,
None so fierce as he will ever pass you by,
'Ware these ruins strewn with damp and musty timbers,
Or you'll likely catch the River Goblin's eye.

Moonlight shrouded by the rainfall is the summons,
To the wart-skinned Goblins of the turgid stream,
For these toad-like beings relish recreation,
That humans wouldn't want in their worst dream.
River Goblins venture to the land with rainfall,
Eyes alive with fire to guide them in the night,
Tread but lightly should this vision come upon you,
Or you'll likely feel the River Goblin's might.

Razor teeth and beetled eyebrows mark the demon,
That the River Goblin deems to represent,
Forked tail, and hairless pate complete the vision,
Which, believe me, is far from heaven sent;
Only sunlight - bright and pure, will quell his passion,
For the culinary items his kind crave,
Best you shun the river banks afore the moon shows,
Or you'll like as not be digging your own grave.

End

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

That ones alright restless... here's one that I just knocked up in about 5mins over the weekend...

Rainy night in the North.
I’ve been round the pubs on a mid week night
The grind on my mind, I needed to drown
Now I lost the frown I’m in Accy town
It rained while we were laughing,
Tears from the sky.

Out in the street the air is fresh
Neon lights from the shops,
reflect in the rainy soaked pavement
We walk to the chippy, everyone’s laughing
Amazing what a night out can do to take away the blues!

A few jugs of booze and a late night snack – guaranteed to put the freshness back!

By Kestrel X