Welcome to our Poems and Poetry section, where you are free to submit your own poems or samples of your poetry. We will be running on-going competitions with subsequent winners having their work included for publication. You are also welcome to discuss poetry writing with likeminded others and keep us up to date with your personal projects. Share it with a friend - join our online community.

ODE TO A ZEBRA

A blaze of orange and a flash of black,
I think I'll fake a heart attack?

Flutter, flutter, spiral, doof,
Another zebra hits the roof!

Now for my favourite time of day,
A bowl of water, in which to play!

I'll soak my feet and splash my wings,
Do you think he backed that, 'King of Kings'?

Am hungry now, 'n' their memory needs joggin,
But please, no broccoli, cos I think it's boggin!

I'll twitter and tweet and grind my beak,
Who knows, perhaps, one day, I'll speak?

They shout at me, 'SHUT UP!' when grumpy,
But I think it's cos their custard's lumpy!

Nobody wants to read poems any more,
Unless they don't rhyme 'n' are in metaphor.

So put this in your pipe and smoke it,
Cos I'm the little bird wot wrote it!

SPIDER IN THE CORNER
(c)Agnes 'n' Senga
 
Spied hur dain hur writin,
Spied hur ha'in hur tea,
Spied hur in the lavvy,
But she husnae yit spied me!

Am sat up in the corner,
She disnae ken am here,
Fur if she kent a'd seen hur,
She'd hae shat hursel wae fear!

Am only dain ma knittin,
Watchin oot fur aw ma weans,
An aw she's din this mornin,
Is moan o' aches an pains!

Noo she's tappin oan hur keyboard,
The ironin board's there tae,
The clais ur pile't up oan the flair,
Luiks like thur there tae stay!

http://www.agnesnsenga.co.uk
http://www.scottishwriters.co.uk

http://www.eddieelwood.co.uk

IN RESPONSE TO PENDLE GWYNNE

It's kind of difficult to say,
In any certain way,
What qualifies as poetry,
On any given day.

But I really must agree,
With your views on poetry,
It no longer flows or rhymes,
To any real degree.

What happened to rhythm?
What happened to rhyme?
Perhaps it was all phased out,
Over periods of time?

==========

How sad... if rhyming is the easiest way to remember, I guess poetry is becoming a forgotten art form.

Our latest £50 writing competition has been officially launched, details available on our 'COMPETITIONS' link at http://www.scottishmultimedia.co.uk/Writing/Competitions.htm

We are currently seeking sponsorship for future competitions, with sponsors benefitting from advertising within the printed edition of 'Now You Know'. anyone interested in adding to the prizefund should contact NYK Media by mailto:office@scottishmultimedia.co.uk

GET YOUR ENTRIES IN SOON! THIS COMPETITION IS OPEN TO ALL WRITERS, BUT CONDITIONS APPLY.

Back to http://www.scottishwriters.co.uk

PIANO FOR SALE

I have a tale of woe to tell
Of my piano which I must sell
Oh what a tragic sort of tale
Which tells of my piano for sale
For it has to go so I was told
Though I don’t really want it sold

So a new owner I must find
Someone appreciative and kind
Or to the garage go it must
To become a gatherer of dust
But I can’t keep it out of sight
So I’ll bid farewell to my upright

Why must I part with my dear friend?
But part we must though in the end
Creating extra space is sort
But what makes space of such import?
What makes this move so necessary?
Is the room changed to a nursery

The time has come to do the deed
To write the add for them to read
So how to frame the perfect add
To attract the good but not the bad
Piano for sale, is how I began
Piano for sale, only used for Chopin

TIMES UP

To my chest my
Hands I clasp
I deeply breathe
I wheeze and gasp
My temples throb
My mouth is dry
My heart beats fast
I’m going to die
My voice has gone
My throat is sore
My hands both shake
I can take no more
I lay my head
Upon my knee
Now blow the whistle
Referee

Random Symmetry
for S

He sits in one world and I in mine,
beneath us a cheese cloth of furrowed fields
drops from view as our eyes follow
the scattering paths of gulls, disturbed
by a cause outwith the common view
we share. The random symmetry
of their leaving a counter-balance
to our static imaginings, their wings
form signs we cannot read, they sing
of a freedom we can only watch.

My partial sight, his autistic understanding,
between us we see far more and less
than those behind us on the towpath
guiding their dogs away from the water’s edge
or slowing turning the wheels of their bicycles
like windmills against a Dutch sun.

We sit in the silence of our making
attempting to think the unthinkable,
reaching across the distance of ourselves
toward the other, the stranger
whose company we always keep
yet only recognize in the echoed
reflection of friendly eyes.

things change
things move
it's strange
it's a groove
people die
people live
some lie
some give
bombs there
bombs here
you stare
you fear
it's strange
it's a groove
things change
things move

The guilty and the innocent
The hellbound and the heaven sent
They ride the train together

The pretty girl with wavy hair
The unattended luggage there
They ride the train together

The child who doesn’t understand
The sorrow that somebody planned
They ride the train together

The evil mind without a care
The horror and the despair
They ride the train together

The hope that springs eternal here
The victory over those we fear
They ride the train forever

Edited by author 08-01-2005 11:33 AM
En manos de hombres pecadores...en los brazos de Dios


A Brazilian,
with seven holes in his head,
knows that looks can kill.

Jean Charles de Menezes,
our Josef K for the day,
he runs while we prey.

Put down like a dog,
we watch, face at the window,
his trial and our guilt.

A town black with tears,
Gonzaga is not London
but it bleeds the same.

Fear is a weapon
with a blade for a handle,
his wounds are our own.


http://www.theseerpress.com

four years now since it all got worse
four years now since osama's curse
four years now since the world changed
four years now has it seemed deranged
and in those years so many have died
and in those years so many have cried
and in those years so cruel and long
and in those years we see more wrong

*
she exploded

she prayed to allah for strength that day
she read the koran as the children played
the flowers pressed into her hair
came from the garden where her father lay

her underwear conveyed her emotions
her clothes were folded to hold explosives
the charge was shaped to mould her waist
her farewell tailored into its resting place

she exploded her final proposal
as the authorities tried to approach her
she lifted her skirts to display her wares
baring her intentions she blew them away

*

70 virgins for each young man
if he follows the leader
ignores the koran
70 virgins the reason why
they chose to kill
choose to die
70 virgins must come from afar
cos there ain't that many
from Hull to Stranraer!

*
tae tak’ the name o’ the lassies in vain
an’ mak’ fun o’ their morality
is fair enough if y’ve a stane fur a brain
and yer heid’s kept up wae y'r galluses

tae say there’s nae virgins atween hull ‘n stranraur
is takin’ things jist a wee bit too faur
hymen intactus micht be a foreign language
its jist a question o’ sexuality

if they’re pittin it aboot whaur’s the herm
it’s better th’n keepin’it ‘n their drawers
gies a swatch o’ yir tartan fanny
mak’ luv ! … no’ wars !

*

What Would Change?

Unblinking, I stare through polished glass,
Watching blankly, as life passes by,
But in my mind, that's not what I see,
For out there, I have no part to play.

Every day I look out, watching birds
As they flutter in the nearby trees,
But I'm not really the one watching,
For I am a million miles away.

I am a child of eighty years old,
Playing alone in summer sunshine,
Counting the magpies, one for sorrow,
Two for joy... I am happy today.

If I could turn back time, what would change?
I am without regret, for I loved,
I lived, followed my destiny's path,
And with fond memories I now stay.

If I could turn back time, what would change?
In honesty, not a single day!

http://www.scottishwriters.co.uk

you have no idea
of the destruction here
no concept of the sorrow
for you it's just another day
for some there's no tomorrow

whole towns erased
whole cities raized
the stench of death abounds
no hope left now for many
as one city slowly drowns

from Louisianne
to Alabam
the storm was so intense
so many places cease to be
the destruction is immense

*
Beslan

Child hostages held in classrooms
covered faces holding guns
wires strung across the ceiling
underneath the Beslan sun

Teachers implore with terrified eyes
their children to try hard not to cry
the pristine appearance of their assembly clothes
fading with the light of summer’s last gold

How to terrify children not to cry
you cause one or two of them to die
and as an example to all of the rest
you threaten to meet them with summary death

The children go where they are
god will love you his reach is great
government soldiers fall in behind
no concession to enemies of the state

the die is cast the dice have rolled
fate is settling the card’s been trumped
the children run from what’s behind them
into the tragedy of what’s in front

*
one year later the children know hatred
there is no god there are only soldiers
they make drawings of the gunmen in order to burn them
Brutalised by memories growing older

The children don’t fight themselves anymore
Even the little boys have become adults
Why is my brother not breathing ?
How to break the cycle of violence

I don’t know why my mother died
The terrorists said they came for revenge
Suffering children drinking urine
God kept the best of the children for himself

The hostages were told
to hand in their mobile phones
One little girl did not
the phone rang
and she was shot
The gun has grown
from what they have known
Revenge is not enough to assuage them

School number one is closed
Rock the world with tears and grief
The children died a terrorist prize
Good is strong bad is weak

*

Edited by author 09-24-2005 03:33 AM

hey bobby dylan
as the ink dries on the page
now that the times have changed
we were left wondering this...

who the fuck do we get in touch with?

Edited by author 10-22-2005 03:45 AM
for christ sake where has everybody gone ?
and why is the moon looking at me like that ?

REMEMBRANCE FOR UNCLE JOHN
John Holt 1887-1916

“Your country needs you”
We heard Kitchener say to us
We took the Kings shilling
Without any fuss

Lads and Pals all marched
Crowds cheering jubilantly
Then crossed the English Channel
To halt the advancing enemy

The distant we gain in battle
Against the loss of a comrade
Is measured in inches at best
As we play out Hague’s Charade

We came as proud young men
To halt the invaders advance
Only to live and die
In the mud of western France

In the cloying mud of France
Once rich and fertile soil
No longer appears like earth
And now is as slippery as oil

The mud colours everything
Even we try and fail to stay clean
Mud has consumed the landscape
And hides the dead unseen

Trenches have become home
Trench foot and rats our companion’s
Shellfire is our music hall
Mortars and rifles our musicians

We escape the daily horror
But only within our own minds
Where we explore familiar places
Far beyond the wars confines
 
The enemy are much like us
Their thoughts take them away
To a peaceful quiet land
On a peaceful quiet day

REMEMBRANCE FOR UNCLE JOHN
John Holt 1887-1916

“Your country needs you”
We heard Kitchener say to us
We took the Kings shilling
Without any fuss

Lads and Pals all marched
Crowds cheering jubilantly
Then crossed the English Channel
To halt the advancing enemy

The distant we gain in battle
Against the loss of a comrade
Is measured in inches at best
As we play out Hague’s Charade

We came as proud young men
To halt the invaders advance
Only to live and die
In the mud of western France

In the cloying mud of France
Once rich and fertile soil
No longer appears like earth
And now is as slippery as oil

The mud colours everything
Even we try and fail to stay clean
Mud has consumed the landscape
And hides the dead unseen

Subtle hints of another time
Some old Tree stumps remain
A jagged piece of wall sometimes
Will it ever be normal again?

Trenches have become home
Trench foot and rats our companion’s
Shellfire is our music hall
Mortars and rifles our musicians

We escape the daily horror
But only within our own minds
Where we explore familiar places
Far beyond the wars confines
 
The enemy are much like us
Their thoughts take them away
To a peaceful quiet land
On a peaceful quiet day

I sit in my muddy trench
My eyes closed to all but my wife
My sweet and beloved Tilly
The most important part of my life

Many fallen comrades lie
Where they fell upon the field
They saw no sense to fight
But still they refused to yield

After three long years
In the vile and muddy hell
I climbed out of my trench
And with my comrades fell

FATHER

I feel his hand on my shoulder
Reassuringly
When I am unsure of myself
Or hesitant
I see him watch me sagely
When I seek enlightenment
I see him smile with pride
When I succeed
Or with head inclined to comfort
When I fail
He is with me late at night
Watching Bogey and Bacall
I see his reflection on the lake
When I am fishing
And I hear him cheering loudly
Whenever we beat Australia
His smile sustains me
His words engage me
His strength supports me
His compassion inspires me
I shared joy with him
When my children were born
And sorrow when
My mother passed away
He stood behind me
In church on my wedding day
And beside me
At the reception when we toasted
At quiet moments I detect
The fragrance of old spice
Or the acrid tell tale aroma
Of his pipe tobacco
He is with me now
As I write these words
Though he has been dead
For nearly thirty years

UNWELCOME NEWS

At once she understood
When she heard the words
Their meaning clear
And in that instant
Her voice broke
And then in her throat
A lump formed
Behind her eyes
She felt the stinging
And a tear formed
Then rolled down her cheek
Followed by another
Then another
The salt taste was in her mouth
Her shoulders shook
Uncontrollably
And her mouth opened wide
But know sound escaped
Tears continued down her cheeks
And her nose
Then her legs buckled
And she fell to her knees
In total despair
Now the sound came
Uncontrollable
With her love lost
Her heart was broken
With her love betrayed
Her heart was discarded
But with all the weeping
She knew inside
That all her tears
Would never extinguish her love

BENEATH AUTUMNAL SKIES

Beneath autumnal skies
The suns strength diminishes
With each passing day
Then foliage turns slowly
From green to gold
And finally to red and brown
Before fluttering to earth
The gentle late summer breezes
Make them dance
And when breeze turns to raging storm
They’re sent swirling
As if court in some frenetic snow globe
The lucky ones escape this chaos
And ends their short lives
Trapped Beneath hedgerows
Or blown into quiet corners
The rest whirl like dervishes
Hither and thither
Until the winter rains
Turn them to mush under foot

PARTYING OR CLUBBING

Saturday night on the town
Either partying or clubbing
The object to get someone into bed
Some sights turn you on
Some just turn your stomach
While others turn your head

Long legged fillies
With a skirt so short
It’s little more than a belt
Loose gaping blouses
And breasts unrestrained
Looking like they’ve just been felt

When alcohol takes over
People are then attracted
To all that comes into view
The good looking and the fit
Say they never bed an ugly partner
But they wake up with a few

Each long slender beauty
Has a man on her arm
Or a short dumpy friend
As alcohol slowly takes its toll
It’s the short dumpy bird
Gets the bloke in the end

Edited by author 10-24-2005 07:45 AM
SIZE DOESN’T MATTER

Gnats as big as Bats
Bats as big as Rats
Rats as big as Cats
Fleas as big as Bees
Bees that eat the Trees
Trees that eat the Cheese
Fly’s that eat pork Pies
Pies that wear bow Ties
Ties that tell you Lies
I see with eyes blinking
Things to get me thinking
God I must stop drinking

Edited by author 10-24-2005 04:03 PM
THE PORT OF CUBAN SPRITES

The port of Cuban sprites
Is I agree
A nonsensical phase
Meaningless and just plain daft
But its is still more credible
And makes more sense
Than some judgements
Reached by
The court of human rights

To Stewart and Paul,
To one and all,
I wrote this poem,
In a shopping mall.

At first it was dire,
No passion, no fire,
So I started to think,
Like a hard-nosed buyer.

Getting paid to write,
That would be alright,
My only problem,
Is I write such sh*te.

So I sat on the ground,
With my last paper pound,
And hoped inspiration,
Was what I had found.

We all want paid,
Or so it was said,
But it isn't the same,
Since we lost McDade.

So I started to write,
Some more of this sh*te,
In the hope that one day,
I might get it right.

Then low and behold,
If the truth be told,
I'd doubled my money,
With a simple fold.

I called up the ed,
Who was still in her bed,
Said, listen to me...
Hungry people need fed!

"What do you mean?"
She asked, sounding mean,
"If it's money you're after,
I haven't a bean!"

No, no, my dear,
Please do not fear,
If I was a drinker,
I would ask you for beer.

Dazed and confused,
She blindly refused,
She misunderstood,
I was mildly bemused.

So, this was my suggestion...

If readers are hungry,
They will read what we write,
If they hunger for more,
Then the price should be right.

By writing our words,
All previously untold,
We print them on paper,
Then the paper we fold.

Dress it up fancy,
Give it a cover,
Fill it with dreams,
Then the costs we recover.

At the end of the day,
So the ed did say,
That's what it's about,
Here at N Y K.

Publishing is all about cost recovery: if writers have no financial costs, there is very little incentive to pursue financial recovery.

CHELSKI

Chelsea have won another match
They beat city two goals to one
They were a goal down though
Before they got the job done
Joe Cole scored the equaliser
Shot form twenty yards or more
It took one or two deflections
On the way, well actually it was four

Then Frank Lampard struck
From well outside the box
Wrong footing the keeper
After hitting the full backs buttocks
The ball deflected past the keeper
It hit both posts and the bar
Would it go in no one could see
until it hit the head of the referee

TO DRY GREENHOFF’S TEAR’S

1976, in May
Doc’s red army
Witnessed the young guns
Fail at Wembley
To that iffy goal
Scored by bobby stokes
When Coppell hill and co
Failed to beat McMenemy’s men
A motley crew
Of has-beens and nobody’s
The sick, the lame and the lazy
Won the day
2005, in May
The red army
Witnessed fergies men
At St Mary’s
By two goal’s to one
Relegate them
To the championship
The old division two
Almost thirty years
The saints were a thorn in United’s flesh
Finally the ghost of 76
Has been well and truly laid

sit down
sit down
if you're white
take a seat
stand up
stand up
if you're black
use your feet

but Rosa didn't want to stand on the bus
she didn't fight and she didn't cuss
she sat

thankyou Rosa for that.

WHAT DOES IT TAKE

Does it take the fuller figure?
To help you pull your trigger
Or is it those who kiss and tell
You require to ring your bell
Or does it take a total bitch
To really flick your switch
Perhaps its nurses on the ward
That actually pulls your cord
Is it lamb that’s really mutton?
You need to push your button
Must they wear the briefest thong?
To make you bang your gong
Ought they dress in something tight?
To really light your light
Must they act all prim and proper?
To help to pull your stopper
Must they wiggle when they walk?
To make you pop your cork
The truth is, unless I miss my guess
They need only answer yes

MISS RIGHT

I've been searching all my life
For miss right to be my wife
At last I find the one, I think
I’m wed before I’ve time to blink
Alas, regret for all my days
For her first name is always

GIRLS WHO WEAR GLASSES

Its said “that men seldom make passes
At girls who wear glasses”
But what if the girl is wrapped within
Such soft velvet like skin
Or she is full of vitality and vigor
Or has an hourglass figure
With a pinched waist and curvaceous hips
Or moist pouting lips
Perhaps she has milky white thighs
Or maybe come to bed eyes
What if her blouse struggles to repress
Her large heaving chest?
Maybe she has a dazzling smile that wins
Or has long slender pins
Would men ask out girls who wore glasses
If they had really nice arses?

*
Poor Wee Michael

His mother lies still and very quiet
He doesn’t know why she doesn’t talk
The postman’s hand so near so far
If he sends him a letter maybe he’ll come back

He’s too small to reach the lock
Why does his mother not respond
No one hears his cry at night
Its cold and dark and the heating’s off

Were the curtains open or closed
Was the power card in credit
Had the fridge melted to the floor
When sleep came what did he lie on

Surviving on pieces of fruit and crisps
and orange juice left in the fridge
the contents of which give a hint
about mother and child and care and provision

with nothing but bluebottles to keep him company
should he be worried about the smell from his mummy
why does he not want to lie beside her
why does he not want to give her a cuddle

one two three four
five six weeks alone
forty days and forty nights
left to fend left to fight

*

*
to eddie elwood the poet of the mall

to the poet of the mall you’ve said it all
the best thing to rhyme with sh*te is sterling
and when it comes to football or any kind of sport
profound is the word to best describe my ignorance

a simple fold can manifest
an idea worth six figures - no less
a load a’ money a treasure chest
a concept designed to write its own cheque

but resign yourself to being poor
don’t give up your day job yet
to make any money out of writing
you need good fortune and a modicum of wit

your wit you have already displayed
in the excellent reference to origami that you made
but in the words of the blues man after the fall
if it wasn’t for bad luck I wouldn’t have no luck at all

like a whore paying to sleep with a client
we come to the subject of vanity publishers
scribbling your missives on the toilet wall
doesn’t make you blind and exercises your muscle

*

THE TREATY

The eleventh hour
The T’s were crossed
And the I’s were dotted
The eleventh day
Books were balanced
Of the butchers tally
The eleventh month
Seeds were sown
For the Second World War
By the French at Versailles

REMEMBER, REMEMBER

Guy Fawkes and his friends
Despite meeting sticky ends
After a treasonous endeavor
They were the only men ever
Who entered our Parliament
With real and honest intent

Edited by author 11-01-2005 04:36 AM
THEY FELL

They fell
Like ripened corn
Cut with scythe’s stroke
In seasoned hands
They fell
Like cherry blossom
Set free
By an April breeze
They fell
Like skittles toppled
By a wooden ball
Skilfully played
They fell
Like mighty English oak
Cut in thousands
To build the mighty fleet
They fell
Proudly and unwavering
Before their enemy
Uncompromising in their duty
They fell
Like the valiant
Cut down before their time
A generation forever lost

HAS ANYONE SEEN BERNARD?
 
I can’t remember the last time to be truthful
I heard Mr. Matthew’s say they’re “bootiful”
You never see him smiling broadly on the TV
As he express’s the virtues of bits of Turkey
It’s not even Bernard’s voice on the Turkey ads
No it’s one of those clever impressionist lads
So then what’s become of the Turkey magnate
The police don’t suspect foul play at any rate
His tones still tell us his products are the best
But Mr. Matthew’s himself now has foul pest
Bernard no longer has any hair on his head
But a bright red comb grows on there instead
A crop grows on his chin and he even has a beak
He goes “cocka doodle” if you hear him speak
He rarely goes out and that must be quite hard
Unless it’s to have a scratch in his own back yard
So now he has feathers sprouting from his belly
And that’s why we never see him on the telly

I'VE SEEN BERNARD!

Since 1950, with a dozen eggs in a box,
Bernard Matthews has worked off his socks.
But since the turkeys satisfied that need,
(Thirteen million is a lot, indeed)
Mr Matthews is launching his quest for speed.

'Bootiful', she's called, named after his fame,
And beating 'Endeavor'has become his new game,
Chasing the speed record off the Norfolk coast,
Whilst languishing in profits from his turkey roast,
Speedy watersports is now what Bernard likes most!

A sixty foot cataraman with carbon fibre hulls,
Two cockpits, no rudder, at sea with the gulls.
Now here is my promise, made specially for you,
You can check the facts... they're all 'bootifully' true.
But perhaps this was something, you already knew.

http://www.nowyouknow.co.uk

To Stewart Findlay

Sometimes
It rhymes
Other times
It doesn't

Mostly
It's sh*te
Other times
I'm right.

Football's a game of two halves and he who pays the piper calls the tune...

This is an example of a 'Pro Fun Ditty' :)

http://www.nowyouknow.co.uk

all this talking of turkeys
it's so absurd.
who were the writers?
give them the bird.

Hey Derum...

That wan disnae rhyme right,
When ye spaik it in Scots,
An' it wisnae aw turkeys,
It wis catamarans an' yachts.

:-P

Senga,
Catamarans and yachts are fine to see
but not all of the time
and turkeys too are fine with me
but put them in poems that rhyme.....

What's all this fuss,
Over turkeys and boats?
Is it anything to do
With your sad lack of votes?

VOTE FOR EDDIE ELWOOD

http://www.eddieelwood.co.uk

if I had one vote to use
I would select,
yes I would choose,
with conscience clear
without regret
not a single poet here.

FOR DERUM

In response to your provocation,
I have interupted my vacation,
To join in this altercation.

From the story of boats,
Elwood mentioned the votes,
Through the Turkey King's abdication.

============

OK, that rhymes I think.... do I get any votes?

============

The writers' poll is live on several of the websites and has also been added to individual writers' pages. To vote for Derum, Paul or Eddie, see http://www.nowyouknow.co.uk

============

For The Ed

for wannabe witers
throughout the nation
don't rhyme like the ed
and end each word with "cation"

*

My head is full of last night’s bangs
And I am not alluding to sexual congress with my woman
But that useless bastard who couldn’t do the job
Whom the children in rhyme refer to as guy fawkes

*

*
a’m confused a dinna ken who’s who
an’ a dinna ken wha penned whit
a’ a hear is gobbledy gobbledy gook
an’ an asterisk that stauns fur shit

bernard bumpkin wis a wee roly dumplin’
that did everythin’ tae keep the unions fae his work
an’ the wey things’re goin’ wie the bird flu an a’
its gonna be cauld xmas turkey fur bernard an’ his chums

*

PIANO FOR SALE

I have a tale of woe to tell
Of my piano which I must sell
Oh what a tragic sort of tale
Which tells of my piano for sale
For it has to go so I was told
Though I don’t really want it sold

So a new owner I must find
Someone appreciative and kind
Or to the garage go it must
To become a gatherer of dust
But I can’t keep it out of sight
So I’ll bid farewell to my upright

Why must I part with my dear friend?
But part we must though in the end
Creating extra space is sort
But what makes space of such import?
What makes this move so necessary?
Is the room changed to a nursery

The time has come to do the deed
To write the add for them to read
So how to frame the perfect add
To attract the good but not the bad
Piano for sale, is how I began
Piano for sale, only used for Chopin

IS IT URGENT?

I awake unwell with swollen glands
With fevered brow and sweaty hands
I shake and shiver and cough and sneeze
I sweat and flush and choke and wheeze
I mutter and mumble and grunt and groan
As I struggle downstairs to find the phone
I first call work to let them know
To the office today I will not show
And then the doctor’s line I dial
A stern voice answers in a while
 “What name”? Is the curt response?
An appointment please I say at once
Well is it urgent? She retorts
Well I’m not dying just out of sorts
You can see a doctor in three weeks time
I hope to be better by then I chime
Shall I book you an appointment then?
No if I’m not better I’ll call again.
But I'll say to you without offence
If I’m still ill in three weeks hence
I’ll eat my hat till I eat my fill
For I will never have been so ill

IS THIS ART?

 
Martin Creed or Damien Hirst
Collins, Gormley which ones worst
A pickled sheep in formaldehyde
A light goes on and off inside
The truth about salt and paper crumpled
Painting by numbers and things untitled
A pile of bricks an unmade bed
Is this art or is art dead?

A poem about a piano
posted twice no less
it didn't make it better
i'm sorry to confess.

IN DEFENCE OF A PIANO

Apparently I have double posted
A fact, which did not go un-noted
For this error I humbly apologize
I was unaware, I did not realize
But then the poem itself was abused
Which on this site I was unused
The criticism levelled was not relative
And tended greatly to be negative
However while trying to be funny
He missed the mark considerably
I have broad shoulders though for that
But should I respond tit for tat
Normally I do not like to be offensive
And it’s in my nature to be passive
Perhaps to get a response was the intent
Maybe that was indeed what he meant
But this may reveal an insecurity
Saying more of him than it does of me

insecure?
fiddlesticks!
shall we be men
and compare dicks?
I simply wondered
how someone could
re-post a poem
that was not very good.
Only my opinion
worthless, yes I know
so respond to this with humour
let your writing flow!

*

Piano for Sale part 2

You should have thought about your eighty eighter
Before you played the Friday night creator
Piano for sale might consider exchange
A second hand fingerboard for a brand new wean

No more Polonaise
No more Polish mazurkas
But a Symphonie fantastique
Delivered in the form of your wife’s wee bundle

*
p.s.
To attract the good and not the bad
Try using one `d` instead of two when laying out the ad.

*

*

november

poppies gorged on the blood of the brave
The serried ranks of soldiers’ graves
Standing to attention as the bag-pipes play
the arbitary nature of the meaning of war.

A wreath of flowers for a life not lived
memories that keep those remembered within
november, november, hour day and month eleven
remember remember our deeds and just endeavours

The battle that rages on those saddened faces
eyes to the sky as the flags are raised.
The remembered faces of those faces
diminishing with each remembrance day.

Straining to find and comprehend
the meaning of war and what it all meant
november november hour day and month eleven
remember remember our deeds and just endeavours

*

A FURTHER DEFENCE OF A PIANO

I did say it was insecurity
Perhaps it should have been immaturity
“Shall we compare dicks?”
I haven’t done that since I was six
Posting twice was not my intent
And a repeat of this I’ll try to prevent
I didn’t think the poem was a bad one
I liked it well enough when it was done
If you don’t like it that’s alright
No need to bitch and moan or start a fight
I write for my amusement
Not to provoke an argument

this verbal jousting can be fun
but my words go over your head
If you want to know whats behind it
you'd better speak to the ed.

DERUM

Derum, sorry if I’ve caused offence
I will desist from this moment hence
I received instructions from the Ed
“Give as good as you get” is what was said

TURN ON COUNTDOWN DEAR?

I was watching Carol and "Twice Nightly"
Countdown with Vorderman and Whitely
When I told my wife where I am housed
That when watching Carol I got Aroused
I could tell that I had let down my guard
Her instant response was to slap me hard
She slapped me unconscious how absurd
And all I did was get a seven-letter word

(For Richard who's memorial service was held today)

paul curtis, glad you got the plot
instead of fighting like old tarts
let's kick some life into this board
and liven up these old farts.

ODE TO THE BOYS

Dear boys,

I would just like to say,
That, as of today,
I have invited the girls,
To come here and play.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++

Dear Derum and Paul,
You two can be a hoot,
But that poor Stewart Findlay,
Disnae ken whit it's aboot.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++

Dear Stewart Findlay,
These 'poems' are like a game,
LIke a literary 'stand-off',
Despite the words being lame.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++

Dear readers,
These 'poems' are just for fun,
Please vote for their writers,
And decide who's number one.

=========================

PS: VOTING FOR THE ED IS NOT AN OPTION AS I HAVE NEVER, EVER CLAIMED TO BE POETICALLY INCLINED.

VOTE HERE >>> http://www.nowyouknow.co.uk

Wee Allie's playing, wee Allie's back ; Boy's yer as gid as an empty tattie sack!
Do what you want, do what you can...Poor the words make them rhyme but Ed & I will beat you hands down...Every time.

girls on top
girls underneath
girls from london
girls from leith
girls all curvy and inviting
girls good at talking
....not at writing

Edited by author 11-15-2005 04:31 PM

GIRLS ON TOP

Derum, I got YOU once before
Yes, you know it's true
I say, 'yer rubbish wae yer rhymes'
A sorry, is long over due.

One day you ran off in a huff
You were gone for months
But honey, you see my talent
And you're the classroom dunce.

Try and get me, oh try again
I'm laughing while you strain
You know it is so pointless
The girls will ALWAYS reign.

Don't make me laugh boys....literally!!!!!!!

Ladies, ladies......
stop your bitchin'
get your arse back
in the kitchen.

GILL 1 DERUM 0?

Dearest Gill,
I think you jest,
For Derum still,
Thinks he's the best.

============

IT'S SHOW TIME

Daggers drawn,
Verbal show downs,
Words at dawn,
Verbs and pronouns

Gaining votes
To win some fame,
Rocking boats,
To win this game.

===========

VOTE FOR EDDIE ELWOOD - http://www.eddieelwood.co.uk

Gill Gill Gill,
still.
you haunt me
Gill Gill Gill.
still,
you try to taunt me
Gill Gill Gill.
still,
you can't defeat me
Gill Gill Gill.
still,
need Eddies help to try and beat me.

Competitive poems to read
are interesting indeed,
but as far as I can see,
the only poet here


is me.

Edited by author 11-16-2005 06:23 AM
DERUM LUVS GILL!!


You jest, you think I need some help?
To bare my brilliant talent?
Your really are a mummies boy
Run off you naughty varmint.

My looks and genius won you o'er
Not all that long ago
Regretfully, you gave up then
For months you sat and mourned.

So give up while you can wee man
Before you will lose face
Face facts, you love me, don't deny
Move on loser in hast!

Took the bait....hook line and sinker honey :-)

WHIT A SCUNNER!

Whit the hell's goin on here?
Dis Agnes ken aboot this?
Am away the noo tae phone hur,
Fur this she shouldnae miss!

Derum an' Gill ur gaddin aboot?
This surely cannae be true?
Who has stertit sic a tale?
A heard it doon the b'roo!

A'll need tae tell oor Erchie,
Fur he aye likes tae ken,
Who's dain whit...
And where... and when!

Dinnae gang too far, noo,
This puzzle a must crack,
Jist as shin as a tell Agnes,
An' she gits aff hur back!

Derum, ur ye mad, man?
Yur droolin efter Gill?
An here we wur thinkin',
That you were ower the hill!

If a tell oor Agnes,
That Derum's fightin fit,
She'll slap oan hur lippie,
An efter him she'll git!

A'll be richt back... efter ma phone call!
(Dis the ed ken aboot this?)

http://www.agnesnsenga.co.uk
http://www.nowyouknow.co.uk

VOTING POLL UPDATE

The voting poll has now been updated to reflect the names of those actively participating in our poetry, riddle and rhyme boards 'show down'.

Both Stewart and Gill have both made it into our polling chart but it's still early days. Keep those votes coming and don't forget that anyone can take part online.

Also, please don't forget to add a link back to a voting page when you leave your message. The following is the main 'Now You Know' magazine page.

http://www.nowyouknow.co.uk

Calm down Senga, don't be concerned
it seems that Gill has still not learned
that casual conversation, fair and just,
should not be mistaken for lust
and then it became plain to see
that she had the hots for me
but in my heart, and yes its true
theres only room for Agnes, and you.

WHAT SMALL FEET

Why do women have smaller feet?
Smaller than men, small and neat
Why are they smaller do you think?
So they can stand closer to the sink

APPEAR EDUCATED
 
Women it is said
Pay far more attention
To their appearance
Than to their education
They don’t care about
Improving the mind
For many men are stupid
But very few are blind

HOW ABSORBING

Sponges are females I’d say
And the reason is this way
Because they’re squeezable
And soft and compressible
Come in all sizes like as not
And retain water quite a lot

LIGHT SOUND

Light travels faster than sound
A fact you simply cannot balk
This is why some people appear
Bright until you hear them talk

A WORLD OF MY OWN

I live in my own little world
Yes I do I’m quite sincere
I live in my own little world
It's ok though they know me here

THE BEST YEARS OF MY LIFE ARE BEHIND ME

I’ve just suffered my first mid life crisis
And its something I found quite profound
When I stood naked in front of the mirror
I could see my bum without turning around

DON'T DO IT DERUM!!

Lust is what you have for me
Don’t deny it's true
Those letters, mails and *smilies*
To name but just a few.

Valentines, you remember?
The card too big to send?
The Postie nearly popped his clogs
His life was going to end!

And the texts you sent to me?
Hundreds o'er the weeks
The mmmwaahhhh's to me (that's kisses)
That gave me such red cheeks.

Derum don’t deny, please no
You'll only break my heart
Agnes will give me an earful
Don't say we have to part?

You’re so harsh you sexy beast
Text me, email please!
We’re meant to be together
But make it private at least!!!


*Sobbing into my handkerchief*

Gill,
your words are sweet,
though a little twee,
but did not originate from me
I will search
to stop this aggravation
to find out who is doing
a derum impersonation

THE REAL TRUMPTON

There is to be yet another reality show
Including many celebrities we all know
With for example Bishop Desmond TuTu
Reg Varney and the myopic Mister Magoo
Little Ronnie Corbett and Dibble the copper
Keeper Bruce Grobelaar the shot stopper

The show will take place in a fire station
With a huge audience across the nation
It’s to be called Trumpton its been decided
And more names will no doubt be included
So I must recap the names, which is my job
Tutu, Varney, Magoo, Corbett, Dibble and Grob

I HOPE I’M A CELBRITY WHEN I GET OUT OF HERE

This Ant and Dec as far as I can tell
Are on TV a lot and doing quite well
I don’t really watch them much you see
Because they’re not really my cup of tea
Recently they were called in the press
Something that causes me great distress
The claim that has caused such concern
“Ant and Dec are the new Eric and Ern”
Well I’m sorry but I simply must disagree
There can never be a new Eric and Ernie
They won’t even replace Cannon and Ball
Little and Large or any double acts at all
It wont ever happen no matter who tries
But they may be the new Little and Wise

Gob smacked!!!

derum wins,
but there's no shame
just because your words
are lame
but now you know
it's plain to see
the only poet here
is me.

nope...just dont have time to play games this weekend. Will be back on Monday.....you haven't won yet sweetie :-)

DEAR DERUM

Dear Derum, now we know it’s true
Impersonations, another like you?
Never in a hundred years!
But, loving words are over due.

It broke my heart to hear the question
That anyone could teach ME a lesson
I’ll always win; it’s plain to see
But each day I’ll keep you guessin’

You’ll never win this game of words
I’m the best you’re so absurd!
Admit your love and my skill
Then you won’t look like a nerd.


*You know what I meant to write but I am a lady, and chose my words wisely :-)* lol Dear, dear Derum....

Help ma Boab!

Whit's all this hulabaloo
Wae Derum and ma pal Gill
Jist wait till ah get haud o' her
She'll get a earful, so she will!

Ah thought ah kent everythin
But naw she dinae tell
Aboot this wee man Derum
and aw their poems and hell.

It's like a daisy flower
He loves me, he disnae at'aw
Hell lassie, yer mental
Um share it's against the law!

Does Derum ken she's meerit?
Wae twa big laddies, it's true
They'd squash this wee crap poet
Leave him black and blue!

Ah tell ye Derum be careful
Bob u'll go bananas
When ah tell him of yer love fur her
Aye, OMG must tell Senga!

Oh Gill ye silly lassie
There's mare tae life than him
Get yer glasses oan hen
Yer better aff wae Jim.

(No that um tellin tales aboot Jim n'aw, but just rhymned; um rubbish at poems like.)

HELP YER BOAB???

Haw Agnes, whit ye oan aboot?
Gill an' Derum? A hae ma doots!
A cannae see it, ne'er a kin,
Fur Gill goat fat an' Derum's thin!

Well, noo a'll git it, wait an' see,
Fur Gill, she wull be mad at me!
An' as fur Derum, michty me...
Ye think he'll pit me ower his knee?!!!

Noo then, tell me, whit's the score?
Is it jist that you want Derum more?
A think masel, it's plain tae see,
Ye huvnae a chance wance he's seen me!

PS: How is Boab? Dis he need a wee haun?

PS - Dinae furget tae vote fur us at http://www.nowyouknow.co.uk

BARKING MAD!!

Oh Senga hen, you've done it now
How could you tell the truth
About my size, my weight, my girth
About my vast sweet tooth.
Okay I like my choccies
The odd poke of 'Soor Plumes'
But to spoil my chance with him
My grab at fading youth.

If that's not bad enough hen
It seems you want him more
The thought of you upon his knee
The man I truly adore.
How could you do it Senga
My buddy, best old friend
Okay I'm fat, but truth be told
He loves the e-mails that I send!!!! ;-)


Boab was fine last time I saw him; no doubt Agnes will be getting in touch!!!

GILL AND BOAB??????

Quote - Boab was fine last time I saw him; no doubt Agnes will be getting in touch!!!

===========

Michtie me, whit huv ye done?
A thocht these poems wur aw in fun?
But noo ye tell us Boab's there tae?
Nae wunner Derum's kep at bay!

If a wiz you, a'd stert runnin,
Fur efter you, Agnes is gunnin,
A've telt her time an time again,
Boab's nae guid, he's aye oot playin!

But a didnae ken he'd played wae you,
Thank Goad oor Agnes hisnae a clue,
Fur if she'd kent, a ken whit she'd say,
If she hud kent, a ken whit she'd dae!

Mind yer back, lass, it's plain tae see,
Derum disnae want ye, he jist wants me,
An if am wrang, a'll admit defeat,
But if a'm richt, ye'll ken yer beat.

Help ma boab, me'n' Boab?
Are you off your trolley?
With Derum,Jim and Bob taboot
Now wouldn't that be jolly!

I know there's loads of me to share
But then it gets confusing
With who and where and why me thinks
It would be so bemusing.

Derum is mine and not to share
Do come forth just tell me
If you don't I'll not sleep tonight
Come now Derum, don't feel guilty.

Just tell oor Senga where to go
Please say you love me still!
Before our Agnes gets mixed up
And starts sleeping with Gill!

AND by the way vote for Gill on www.nowyouknow.co.uk

:-) LOL

CAT FIGHTS?

What happened to Derum?
Have you chased the poor chap?
I really don't blame him,
After reading this crap.

What happened to the poets?
What happened to the others?
Have they all gone running,
Straight back to their mothers?

You folks should behave,
You folks shoud agree,
That less of the scrapping,
Causes less misery.

Sure, I cannot write a poem,
For all, that's clear to see,
But I'm pretty good at riddles,
And a riddle this may be.
========================

The ed, she said, that poems we must write,
Riddles and rhymes, they are also alright,
But working them out, that's what it's about,
So, I'm playing to win, that's without a doubt.

Paul is quirky, Derum is daring,
Gill excels, whilst the ed is despairing,
Agnes and Senga, those two are quite good,
But the one who will win, is Eddie Elwood.

VOTE FOR EDDIE ELWOOD AT http://www.nowyouknow.co.uk !!!!!

A PUBIC APOLOGY!

Dinnae fret yersel dear Ed
U've sortit oot ma friends
A call fae ma pal Jessie
and it's sortit my auld friend.
 
U've screamed at oor Senga
U've fallen oot wae Gill
Ma Boab's noo goat a shiner
Ma score is now three nil.

Um sorry dearest Durum
Fur the teasing we huv done
But in your hearts of hearts
You know it was just fun.

We've dun it wans again ye see
The Ed she isnae pleased
U've chased awa dear Derum
Um doon on bended knees.

U'll have to make some new friends
Let's see now, hoos here
Paul Curtis and Stewart Findlay
Naw, the willnae play....or wull they?

Hmmm time will tell :-)

disappeared? me?
you should all be so lucky
I watch with unabated glee
at your fighting, rather plucky
and still nothing to make me whimper
your words could not produce a simper
fight over me all you will
I guess that it's your only thrill
and ladies, take me one by one
you'll be in heaven before i'm done....

YES!! :-)

Oh My God Derum's here!
and I thought he was crumpled
With all our laughing and hee-haws
Instead he had us rumbled.
I do declare that he's no fool
Instead he's sitting watching
Waiting for our next daft move
While vying for affection.
Beware my love I must tell you
You must be told the truth
That Senga's not 'quite right'you know
You'll see she's so uncouth.
How can you tolerate Agnes
With her fags and has no teeth?
My Derum - tell the tale of love
of Gill, she is so sweet.
I cannot, will not share my love
you are my only one
take me to heaven 'n' back again
We'll have such naughty fun....

Slightly Risque...
ha ha


Senga, not quite right you say?
I think that may be true
'cos i've had her in the bedroom
and I know what she can do...
Agnes, toothless? no!
it makes it all the better
when she gives a blo. ...
Gill, you must compete,
learn a naughty trick or two
give me some excitement
tell me what you can do......

YOU WANT TO PLAYBOY??

Alas my drooling Derum
it's true my skills are many
but for the whole wide world to see?
Alack they are not ready.
Our world of gibes and taunting
make many smile and roar
but risking my probity
I'll sound just like a who...
So using 'a priori'
I choose my words with care
and compete with tender words
I feel it's only fair.
Since Agnes and fat Senga
will 'gutter talk' with glee
Therefore I win hands down my love
They can't 'talk proper' like me!

Hell that one is a sure thing for a vote, come on you guys vote for Gill!