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

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

INSANITY-one persons interpretation of another persons state of mind

Just sitting there last night by the fire watching the sunset over the trees
Another pleasant evening,  a cool breeze, peaceful.  Or was it?
A few dark clouds overhead,  they'll come to nothing
But then....Patter patter patter down came the rain
So what, I've experienced worse
So into my shelter snug and warm, a little rain will cause no harm
But then came the wind, not just any wind but a tearing screaming gale blasting the rain with the force of a bullet.  Tearing at the skin, numbing the flesh
My firepit now a pool of ***** grey sludge,  cooking kit scattered far and wide
OK, drop the sides so I'm watertight,  one last warming scotch then I'm in for the night
Close my ears to that wild banshee screaming out there in the dark
0545am
The wind has lessened but still the rain is pouring down,  a muddy swamp where was once hard ground
The gentle stream where I keep my beers cold now a raging torrent of ***** brown water
(I never lost my beers though)
I have a routine I rarely miss, a hot mug of tea after taking a ****
And I won't be beaten by a small summer storm
So into a dry bag where I keep some stuff,  a few bits of wood and tumble dryer fluff
Between the roots of a tree a fire soon takes hold, on goes a *** and soon steam arose
On goes a pan with some bacon and beans

And then, out came the sun

To be caught in a storm like that isn't much fun but it's all part of the wild camping game

My scratchy old pen
And watery ink
I offer you
And just simple words for I am but a simple man
A lesser poet
But none the less a lover of words
In my simple way I a non believer
Give YOU my prayer
Don't hate the man beside you
Though his skin is ebony black
Because when his blood mingles with yours
It's the same deepest red
My muslim brothers in poetry my doors are open to you
I embrace you without judgement
For you are a poet to

Yes just being honest
I cant write poems in the way that most of you can
I'm pretty much self educated
so forgive the errors in punctuation and prose
I write as I see and feel,
nothing fancy.
My very first poem on this site (Tranquillity)
was written while sat on rocks overlooking the sea
That is how I write. No sitting down with capacious notes
and a week to make it sound right
No thats not my way, not what I do
I just write as the words fill my mind
Give me a subject, I'll give you the words
But please never mock what I write
I do my best in this wonderful place
Please understand what you've read

Oh wonderous poet (oops got that bit wrong)
Thou doest fine deeds on this great site
Give us belly laughs into the night
and yes even unto dawn
And as ink from your artless pen doth flow
our admiration ever grows
for the great man that is you
Humility is in your soul
fine penned words you have for all
who could never aspire to be
as great as you
Shakespeare would never have a chance
against your worthless art
for surely he would be the lesser man

So oh oh oh great Logbrain pen the words
that fill our mundane lives with so much mirth
Dogbrain write for us

A work of pure fiction, a message to all the thousands of young men who chose to flee from a Syrian mother*

All of you who've turned you backs and left to leave us to our fate
Like cowards you have run while we have enemies at our gate
YOU, yes you who could have taken up the gun
To fight for those who have already given sons
Does our country mean so little, the heritage you have left
Is now living in a foreign land better than honourable death
Yes, you now sit in a tented camp, while world news shows our death throes
Do you not now sit in deepest shame
As at home the death toll grows

Where ever I go she goes
All those fantastic days and nights in the wild
Cold nights when she sneaks into my sleeping bag
And curls up against the back of my knees
But my Mollie is now eight years old
A good age for a Patterdale Terrier
They dont live that long
They spend their lives at ninety miles an hour
And never know when to give up
About four years ago she chewed up a six stone Boxer dog
He just wanted to play
But she didn't, and she only weighs 22 pounds
BUT like me she's getting old
And I have to accept that soon Mollie dog will be gone
Maybe one more trip into the wild in September
Then it will just be lonely nights

OK lads and lassies we're going to take a walk, just 10 short miles
in that forest over there
WHAT!!!! Yes I know its dark and gloomy but then some forests are
but there's nothing there to harm you, nothing there to fear
I see you have the rucksacks I told you all to bring. Right folks
open them up and we'll see whats contained within
Ah theres no surprise at what you've got in yours, a tiny flask a magazine and your lucky rabbits paw.( Obviously it wasnt lucky
for the rabbit)
In yours just a make up bag now that'll really do some good,
at least you'll still look beautiful when your dying in the woods
Right lets take a look at what I've got in mine, a 10 x 8 tarpaulin
and a ball of nylon twine
Ah yes a survival knife the handle holds a flint for striking fire,
and in this bag 3 snares each 18 inches of supple wire
Now this small tin contains my means to stay alive, 2 small containers of lint from in my tumble dryer, perfect tinder for
making fire
This little brass things with holes in the top is my small trangia
cooker
2 ounces of spirit poured in there gives 15 minutes of fire
A picnic blanket aint much use if your stranded in the woods, well this one is because the underside is completely waterproof
This old tin mug has served me many times as a makeshift
cooking ***
A litre bottle of water and it weighs 15 pounds the lot
So heed the lessons carefully,  it might help you to survive
Carry the 15 pounds that I do and you might stay alive

So, we know beautiful people are leaving
Just as a crab with a soft shell hides under rocks
But the Debs and Donnas only have to hide for a short time
Because we are the rocks of safety
The hate mongers are not poets
Not inspirationalists
They are the ones with a one inch *****
Those who desire the fulfilling *** of poetry
But cannot achieve the ******
And so you who write
Be it good or bad
Ignore the poison barbs of bitterness and hate
Just be yourselves

Forget your childhood dreams for they are lost
Evaporating into the thin air of history
There is no fairystory ending
But death, destruction, ******
And there the fairystory must end
Reality, yes reality
Blood stains on the streets
Because the barons of the drugs decide
Supremacy must meet
It's become so easy to point the gun
Without thought to extinguish life
But they in turn must answer
And they in their turn must die

There has to be a common bond that joins us all as one
That is the poetic glue that forms the common bond
I think of names that stand out proud here  on this fine site
The names who write the words to be read into the night
Sverre,  Billy, the Petal Pie to mention but a few
And lets not forget the lovely Sye
One of our poets new
So many contribute to make this site what it is
So many words do cross the world
To make our poetry live
I applaud you all, mediocre or poets of note
The good who offer wisdom here where so few do ever glote
Never stop the flowing words my friends, never stop the flow
Your fine words can take us
To places where so few will ever go

I dedicate this to every member of Hello Poetry

Ebola
Aids
These are now but minor things
There is a cure for these
But
Islamic State
The pandemic is here
Here in your small peaceful American townships
Creeping insidiously into our English villages
And we know not when the disease will strike
Soon, all to soon you will be looking over your shoulder
"Is my Muslim friend of many years
one of them"?
You don't know and I don't know
And so suspicion invaded our minds
Where now is the peace we were promised
Seventy years ago?
Where now can our children, grandchildren walk in safety?
Governments are hamstrung
After all it's against a person's human rights
To arrest and gaol them on suspicion alone
But what about our human rights?
Should we not be free to walk our streets in safety?
The disease is spreading
But the political antidote provides no permanent cure
The good people of the world now must make their voices heard

When I die as all men must
Just turn my body into dust
There's only one place for me to go
That's into the furnaces fiery glow
I'll then have the chance of one last good deed
My ashes will give a rose bush a lovely feed

In the memory of those who gave their young lives for our freedom

In Flanders fields red poppies grow
To line the graves of boys so young
Who lie in thousands buried in Flanders clay
Boys whom for our tomorrow they gave their today
Now just memories but kept alive
By the blood red poppies of Flanders fields

Though you be many miles away we'll never be apart
I just reach out across time and space and feel the beating of your heart

What can we tell of this eloquent man
Of the way the words flow from his magic pen
He writes of history, of legend and myth
Stories of family, of kin and of kith
Tales of the fields,  the forest, of sea
He pens the words  that we all love to read

Sverre never stop writing

When you take your first steps on that far distant shore
You might be hesitant,  nervous and wont travel very far
But people there will welcome you with warmth and open arms
So look at poetry as your way to open wide the door
And let this become one more step on another distant shore
No one here will mock you or cover you in scorn
If you hesitate to wander round new streets in early morn
Language is no barrier to want you want to do
Because poetry is our language so we will understand you
And so as the number of stamps in your passport grow you might become the one
To hold wide the door for the new and nervous poet first on a distant shore

A whiskey and ginger she had before bed
Alas the alcohol fumes went straight to her head
A  wobble in her step  as she crossed the room
Humming to herself a romantic tune
3 steps sideways and 2 steps back
She stood on the dog then sat on the cat
She turned to me with a smile on her face
Said why dont you come and visit my place
Ive got a present for you if you come to my room
But you'll only get it if you get there soon
So I entered her room, heard gentle snores
The present she promised now locked behind tightly closed doors

Cast it off you temptress, cast off that lacy thong
******* must be made of cotton
thick and white and long
They must reach above the navel
Descend below the knee
The bra, oh yes the bra designed to assault mans eye
Yes it has a purpose but should not **** thoughts inspire
It should be thick and full of cup enough to give support
To hold the ******* in comfort but it
should not push them up

Why Sye?
Well Sye was the first of my rosebuds
She can be witty
Passionate
Romantic
Even child like at times
Sye belongs not to me
But to us

The devil came in depth of night
to stop the beat of Loh Chaenes heart
and thus he did the world deny
the art that from the pen did flow.

No more, no more
the gift of flowing verse
will we now have chance to read
we are now left here to grieve
the loss of his great mind

Loh Chaene gave us oh so much
with his great great artistic touch
the fluid flow as the words did grow
from the pen of this great man

Humility was in his soul
with oft encouragement
for young and old
who tried to pen the verse like him
but our poor works cant compare

And so the worlds become a better place
now that Loh Chaenes soul has gone
for the lesser man now can shine
as we pen both verse and rhyme
be as great as him perhaps

R.I.P Loh Chaene

They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn
At the going down of the sun, and in the morning
We will remember them
The wonderful words of Robert Binyon written 100 years ago


The great war, the war to end all wars....but still it goes on
The weeping mother, the sob of a wife and still the dyings not done

I've seen it and done it, left mothers to weep, left a wife with a fatherless child
But!!! I was quicker on the trigger, he's dead and I'm still alive
There's no glorification in the things I have done, no poking my chest out with pride
I had to do it, it had to be done or I was the one who would have died
Can we still squander the youth of our lands in a fight not even our own
Why must we still kneel to the political will?! Why can't we have minds of our own
I'm not proud, don't boast about the things that I've done but I'm nstill alive in the place I call home...

He was just a boy
Yes, just 16 years of age
But he wanted to follow the colors
Just to prove that he was brave
But he was just a man child
A rifle in his hand
Yes the rifle gave him manhood
But the mind was still a childs
In Flanders field he learned the truth
Of the transition to a man not youth
But the mind was left behind
Wounded by a shell by enemy fire
And all around him men did die
His courage was spent and gone
Scared, in pain
His shell shocked scrambled brain
He wandered from the field
In tears, in fear he cried out for his mum
Battered in body, battered in mind
The boy could take no more
Three days later they found him
Hiding in a farm
At rifle point they took him
With biting ropes around his arms
Poperinge was the place the courts martial
Then took place
The boy just stood there silent
Shaking, ashen faced
The fateful words were spoken
All cowards have to die
'Thus before the firing squad
You must say your last goodbye
And so on that fateful morning
In the stable yard
The young boy in tears was tied
To the post by previous bullets scared
They pinned a white card upon his breast
For the firing squad to see
The command to fire was given
And a sixteen year old boy
Met his final destiny

The trees stand stark and bare gainst winters lead grey sky
The snow lays cold and deep and the earth asleep doth lie

No bird song heard no little things move across the land
The earth in hibernation, a long sleep as winter makes its stand

I wake one morn in early dawn and warmth has come once more
A small bird sings, a green leaf springs from natures open door

Once again the land awakes and life begins anew
And the bitter cold of winter has vanished like the dew

Well the last two challenges, The Story Of You and Creativity produced some diverse and very interesting results for which I thank all participants.

This time back to something very very easy

WORDS

Now its an open field but I do want to see word/words there somewhere.

The Pothole Man**

That's what we used to call him
Although I'm sure he had a proper job title
Brown weather beaten face and tar stained hands
Always a greasy old flat cap on his head
Always a shabby old army great coat
To us kids he was very old
In reality probably in his fifties
Anyway
His job was to repair the potholes in about
Ten miles of country roads
He always carried his tools in a wheel barrow
Rake, shovel and a heavy flat bottomed piece of metal
On the end of a stout pole
Every couple of miles there were a few sacks of tarmac
Beside the road
He was meticulous in cleaning out the potholes
Every loose stone, dust removed
Then he'd fill his bucket with tarmac and heat it over
A wood fire
Overfill the hole by a couple of inches and rake it level
It had to be just right, maybe add a bit more
Perhaps shovel some out
Then the heavy metal plate would rise and fall
With a slow steady thump
Beating the tarmac flush with the road surface
He always finished by pouring tar found the edges
Of the new patch
Round holes, square holes, rectangular holes
Holes of all shapes and sizes
To us he was just the pothole man
Now looking back he really took pride in what he did

It flows
It grows
(Yeah **** flows and mould grows)
Oh, oh my mother spread her thighs and birthed a genius
(Not sure about that, I think she was taking a dump)
I belong, I belong among the greats artistes
( At last we agree, Shakespeare and Keats are dead)
Oh foul foul world, those who cast scorn upon my wondrous talent
( SCORN!! Would I waste perfectly good scorn on you)
WHY do you hate and despise me so, mock me?
(Same as scorn, why waste a perfectly good mock)

When you stumble on the cliffs of life
Cruel seas rage far below
Just reach out and take my hand
I wont let you fall

When your lost in the wilderness
Fear and danger on every side
Just reach out and take my hand
I will be your guide

Afraid and lonely in the darkness
Can see no hope in sight
Just reach out and take my hand
I will be your guiding light

Sorry if I ofend

but

yes religion is a joke
I must the man next door to choke
for he hath other beliefs than I
That means he is corrupt
In my god he believeth not
and so he has to die
Jehova knocks upon my door
outcast the street corner *****
who her trade she does apply
And yet they do the blood deny
the blood to keep a child alive
better to let the child die
I am Shia you are not
you are Sunni therefore not of God
and so you have go
Well my friends I'm none of these
I have got the birds and bees
I have got what she supplies
I've got nature.  The only god I need

Like I said there's to much going on
You know Mucro not everybody can be as good as you
In fact not everybody wants to be
I read here that quality is not what it used to be
So what! Surely the fact that people are posting is enough
Criticism well we all know my views about that
I would much rather read twenty poems
Simply written, easily read
Than one poem with words I barely understand
People write, people read and therefore become better
Writers in time
I have never have made any pretence that I'm a brilliant poet
Simply because I'm not and I know my own limitations
And some people enjoy what I write
Its not all about getting a following, popularity
People I've never heard of comment on what I write
We don't all have the brilliant education
We don't all have the flare and gift of language
What we do have is the right to post without undue negative criticism
That is what democracy is all about
Obviously the bigger following a poetry site gets
Then the greater the differential between the brilliant
And the not so brilliant
I have to be honest, I get fed up with reading about self mutilation
About people wallowing in the depths of despair
But I accept that it is their right to write and post
I've had my say

It rained again last night
The flooded trenches alive with rats
Behind us pigs from destroyed farms
Feast on the bodies of French long dead
Shell fire ceaseless
Machine guns sing, men die
Yes men die
Just a mile away, a gentle *****
Leads to Pachendale ridge
Just a gentle walk in peacetime
With slow meandering streams
I am long since dead, destroyed by
Shot and shell
I gave my life for you my love
For you, for you not for my country that I fell
Out lads out and the whistles shrilled
Out lad out 'this your time to be killed
Robots of old, numbed, scrambled minds
We left the safety of this place
Into the holocaust of *******
To be mangled and destroyed by burning
Shot and shell
Keep going boys, keep going
There's just a mile to cross
But a mile of mud and devils hell
And for every yard a man was lost
Cleanly killed by the bullets bite!!!!
If he was lucky yes
But more likely to drown in mud and blood
As the gory shell hole ****** him down

Ypres 1915

Clear blue sky
Just a slight early morning chill in the air
But the hedgerows tinged with fresh green
Highlighting the gold of the daffodils
Bluetits flit and flutter
And here and there the early bee
My seed trays showing signs of life
Of what is yet to be
My south country hills
Have come alive
After winters deadly hold
Daffodil and crocus
Now in colors oh so bold
Lovers walk now hand in hand
Now winter gloom has passed
Sad grey faces now tinged with a pink glow
Spring gladness
Reborn at last