Hopeful Athlete

I’m going to run
The Olympic marathon,
I’ve not left it too late.
I’m still fit and fine at age sixty-nine
Though a little overweight.
So I’ll do some easy training
To get me out of this rut,
For today my doctor told me
I’ve got an athlete’s foot.

Moved by Admin. its not considered as a journal

In my early army days (1956) I volunteered for the paratroopers. I had to pass a fitness test, which fortunately I managed to do. A week later, the group of us who had passed the physical had to attend a medical. After the examination, another chap and myself where informed that we had a slight heart murmur, and that we would not be allowed to jump from aeroplanes. I was very disappointed to say the least. Years later, I wrote this poem.

WHERE WARM THERMALS FLOW

Down in the hollow that’s known as The Dell
The ash and the oak are blooming in spring.
Forest floor painted with nature’s bluebell
While high in the branches, birds nest and sing.
Out of the nest there peeks a small fledgling
Not ready for flight though craving to go,
With wings open wide in blue skies soaring
To be in the air where warm thermals flow.

On terra firma where man has to dwell
Stands a young boy, who’s hoping and wishing,
To fly on high with a sleek Philomel
That’s turning and soaring, dipping and gliding.
Facing the sky where soft winds are whispering
He gazes in awe with his face all-aglow,
Feet rooted in clay eternally longing
To be in the air where warm thermals flow.

Descending through clouds he spinningly fell
The wind rushes past him loudly screaming,
With joy in his heart he lets out a yell
Plummeting downwards, no longer dreaming.
Akin to an albatross gliding on wing,
Beneath a white canopy he swings to and fro,
Drifting to earth he’s no longer speeding
To be in the air where warm thermals flow.

Like dandelions’ seeds, he’s parachuting
Floating on up-draughts above earth below,
Ambition at last blossomed this morning
To be in the air where warm thermals flow.

Authors note: Philomel is an old English word for a Nightingale.

Thank you for that it was lovely and I didn't know that Philomel is an old English word for a Nightingale so I learned something new.

Thank you I love a bit of poetry it takes me back to when I was at school and our teacher would read to us all at the end of the day.

Thank you Daisy,

that type of poem is called a ballade and took over from the poetry form called Ballad.

Ballads were a four line rhyming stanza (verse) poem up to 100 stanzas long. They were sung by mistrals to tell people tales of what was, happening in other parts of the country.

There are somewhere in the region of 30 ballads about Robin Hood, who incidentally lived in the 13th century under King Edward the first (Longshanks). Edward was classed as a bad King and was always fighting the Scots. Hollywood didn’t want a bad King in their movie and so they placed the film in the 11th Century with King Richard the first (Richard the Lion Heart).

Today, people believe the movies and don’t know the true legion of Robyn hoode to give him his correct name.

Hello nu2bg,

I too learn poetry at school and the first poem I learnt was ‘The Village Blacksmith’ by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. In my childhood back in Bolton, we had a smith at the end of the street and I would watch him at work. Today there are very few blacksmiths and so I wrote the following poem.

LAMENT
To the Village Blacksmith
By
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Under the spreading Chestnut Tree
The smithy stands no more
His large and sinewy hands
Now sweep rubbish from the floor.

The muscles on his brawny arms,
Once akin to iron bands,
Are now soft and flabby
As by a machine he stands.

No hammering on the anvil
No hot metal being wrought
Stood there pushing buttons
Without any skill or thought.

If anyone else would like to place their poetry here please do so.

John

WALLACE ON DEATH ROW
Apologies to Marriott Edgar and this poem ‘The Lion and Albert.’

There’s a famous place called Blackpool
That’s noted for fresh air and fun
However I’m waiting on death row
For I’m to be shot with a gun.

A Lancashire lad called Albert
Stuck a walking stick into my ear,
I asked him politely to stop it
And go for a walk on the pier.

But Albert being a Ramsbottom
He took no notice of me,
Still poking with his ‘orse’s ‘ead ‘andle
Saying, “Oi, I’m talking to thee.”

I will not let him annoy me
For I’m starting my yoga trance,
I’m oh so calm with my karma
I know that he hasn’t a chance.

Now the wife, she’s getting angry
And building up quite a rage.
Reaching out with her claws
She drags Albert into her cage.

Now that my yoga is over
I’m back in my cage all-alone,
I open my eyes and I’m shocked,
To see a blooded cap and a bone.

I got the blame for eating Albert
Though the wife she cooked up the plan
I know, I couldn’t have ate Albert
For I’m a vegetarian.

This is the original poem performed by Stanley Holloway.

In 1999 a local foster-mother recieved her 100 child to look after. So I wrote this poem for her.

The Mother

(Dedicated to all foster mothers)


The Chinese lad asked the mother, “Please tell me the truth,
Why is Sam so dark, but not as black as Ruth?”
Mother she was smiling, “Now don’t you fret and weep,”
Tucking him in bed that night, staying till he went to sleep.

She’d over one hundred children, loving them all the same
Though not a single one, from her body came,
When she acquired the children, some were underfeed
Others beaten black and blue until they cried and bled.

She tries to make them happy, playing games and having fun
This is the first step, the lessons have begun.
They learn to wash behind their ears and clean their teeth each day
And when they skin their knees, she wipes the tears away.

She likes a tidy bedroom, including all the boys
Before they go to bed at night they put away their toys
The girls have pretty dresses;
each dress has its place
Teenage girls try make-up, painting up their face.

Names are on a roster, for each one has to learn
How to wash and iron and not to singe and burn,
Working in the garden, planting flowers and veg.
“I want to be like Titchmarch.” cries out little Reg.

She tells them they must learn. “That life isn’t always fun”
Try to forgive others, no matter what they’ve done.
She teaches them hygiene, and social etiquette
Saying please and thank you, your manners don’t forget.

When it near to Christmas, the old-ones hire a hall
Holding a party for Mother, a real Cinderella’s Ball
Mothers sit upon a chair, grandchildren by her knee
She tries to count them all, gives up at seventy-three

Small ones they play games, while big ones sit and talk
ting about their children, now little Johnny can walk
They talk about the good times and not the bad old past
When they all came to mother’s house to find true love at last.

A love that they will cherish, until their dying day
It was given freely, to take the pain away
They try to pay her back, they do not understand
Her payment is before her, on their own two feet they stand,

When she’s old and grey, and cannot mother no more
She’ll have a thousand children, knocking at her door.
They’ll give her hugs and kisses and sweep her off her feet
Rolls are now reversed... It’s their turn to give a treat.

Thank you, that was lovely!

silky4015 wrote:

In 1999 a local foster-mother recieved her 100 child to look after. So I wrote this poem for her.

The Mother

(Dedicated to all foster mothers)


The Chinese lad asked the mother, “Please tell me the truth,
Why is Sam so dark, but not as black as Ruth?”
Mother she was smiling, “Now don’t you fret and weep,”
Tucking him in bed that night, staying till he went to sleep.

She’d over one hundred children, loving them all the same
Though not a single one, from her body came,
When she acquired the children, some were underfeed
Others beaten black and blue until they cried and bled.

She tries to make them happy, playing games and having fun
This is the first step, the lessons have begun.
They learn to wash behind their ears and clean their teeth each day
And when they skin their knees, she wipes the tears away.

She likes a tidy bedroom, including all the boys
Before they go to bed at night they put away their toys
The girls have pretty dresses;
each dress has its place
Teenage girls try make-up, painting up their face.

Names are on a roster, for each one has to learn
How to wash and iron and not to singe and burn,
Working in the garden, planting flowers and veg.
“I want to be like Titchmarch.” cries out little Reg.

She tells them they must learn. “That life isn’t always fun”
Try to forgive others, no matter what they’ve done.
She teaches them hygiene, and social etiquette
Saying please and thank you, your manners don’t forget.

When it near to Christmas, the old-ones hire a hall
Holding a party for Mother, a real Cinderella’s Ball
Mothers sit upon a chair, grandchildren by her knee
She tries to count them all, gives up at seventy-three

Small ones they play games, while big ones sit and talk
ting about their children, now little Johnny can walk
They talk about the good times and not the bad old past
When they all came to mother’s house to find true love at last.

A love that they will cherish, until their dying day
It was given freely, to take the pain away
They try to pay her back, they do not understand
Her payment is before her, on their own two feet they stand,

When she’s old and grey, and cannot mother no more
She’ll have a thousand children, knocking at her door.
They’ll give her hugs and kisses and sweep her off her feet
Rolls are now reversed... It’s their turn to give a treat.

:Clap:Really nice

Haven’t placed any poetry on here for ages, so here one I wrote about 10 years ago.
John

GRANDMA’S WAR

On Mondays
Attired in
Floral pinny,
Knotted headscarf,
Sleeves rolled to elbows,
Grandma prepared for war.

Armaments consist of;

Dolly tub,
Posher,
Washboard,
Scrubbing brush,
Long green bar of Fairy soap.

The war zone,
Was steaming hot water,
Fired by coal
Ladled from copper boiler.

Woad…
In Dolly Blue Bags,
Prepared the battleground.

Arms aching from mangle turning,
Grandma brush back wisps of grey hair
With wet forearm.

Battle over,
The enemy surrendered to the clothesline.
Awaiting torture
By hot iron on Tuesdays.

:Thank you:John I love reading this post.

That was lovely thank you for the share

RECIPE FOR A POEM
by John A Silkstone

Weigh a few words of two or more
Add breaking lines to tease
Stir in a message or metaphor
Plus a rhythm that rhymes with ease
Bake with mental expressions galore
Then serve with a blending to please.