Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Joe Cole Aug 2014
From my southern hills
I see creeping pollution far below
Not the fragrance of wood smoke
But the stencid rank smell of coal
Why can't people stop and think
About the damage they can do
When this fair land they do destroy
The death of me and you
Joe Cole Aug 2014
Under loved
Underfed
Under paid
Under wanted

But hey life's good
Joe Cole Aug 2014
Slowly slowly, silently almost panther like
He moves through the darkness
His prey oblivious to the menace
A quick rush, screams tear apart the darkness
Another victim of the night
Dark blood, hot, steamings pools on the city street
No remorse from the vicious killer
No pangs of concienceness
Swift, merciless, in cold blood
My cat has killed again
Joe Cole Aug 2014
I grew up in a family of nine kids
Yes nine
Times were hard then, not much money
So nothing was ever wasted
My school uniform was so warn patched and darned
That you could almost see through it
Its lucky the three below me were girls
Or next year one of them would have been wearing that uniform
Sunday lunch and we always had meat
So
Cold cuts on Monday and stew on Tuesday
Because unlike today nothing was ever wasted
We didn't have the fancy toys or expensive holidays
Our summer holiday highlight was sleeping on the ground in an old tent on my aunts farm
But you know we were so happy with what we had
During those holidays in the tent we would go out and collect mushrooms
Bacon,eggs and fresh mushrooms for breakfast
What a way to start the day
Then ragged and almost bare assed
Off into the woods, building camps, bows and arrows
Oh yeah with bare feet most of the time
I look at kids these days, miserable with all the latest gadgets and still wanting more
When I was that kid with nothing
I was happy, I had all I wanted, all I needed
YES I was happy
Joe Cole Aug 2014
Seriously I do carve walking sticks
Always an eye for what's growing in a hedgerow
Professionals use fancy ways
Every shaft arrow straight but that's not my way
Nature gives the wood the form
So why abuse it
Shaping and carving wood is a bit like poetry
It can be stilted and formal or it can flow
Like volcanic lava finding its own path down the mountain
Who the **** is stupid enough
To try to write a poem about a walking stick?
Me
Maybe I'm not normal
But
I sell the sticks I carve
And most sticks take me about fourty hours
Start to finish
I sell on average four a week, simple you pay a pound an hour
When you buy one of my sticks
Not a bad return for something from the hedgerows
Joe Cole Aug 2014
You know I'm in the twylight of my years
Not a problems, I will keep writing for one year or ten
It doesn't really matter
We have kids here who write
I ask you to encourage tlhem
Because they once were you
Nervous, uncertain
Me, I don't care just as long as they write
Young poets are the future of this site
Young people are the future of our countries
Joe Cole Aug 2014
Yes, a hundred years ago they crossed those ****** fields
Boys of many nations
British, French,Germans, Indians, Africans. Eventually Americans
Did they fight for patriotism. No. For most the army was the only job they could get
And so it is today
Next page