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martin Jan 2017
Slumping back in your chair
You hardly move your head
Gazing straight ahead you look
Like the living dead

Your feet are swollen like balloons
With little piggy toes
How you stayed alive this long
Heaven only knows

Your belly looks as though
It's about to pop
You're looking nine months pregnant
And about to drop

I'm sure you're very clever
But hardly very wise
When's the last time
You took some exercise?
Thought it but didn't say it.
martin Jan 2017
We all do time in the sweat box
At some point in our lives
The desperate, desperate sweat box
Where we're crucified

It's part of living, part of life
A right of passage, must be done
If you've not been in the sweat box
You've got it still to come
martin Dec 2016
I feel the grief, I share the pain
Who would have thought that loss
Would wash up on our shores again

You slipped away
Did you say goodbye?
We'll miss you and remember
The times you made us laugh
And cry

I'll listen for your voice
Gently by my side
And know you only fell asleep
As we all do by and by
Leonard, David, George, Prince, and so many others this year.
martin Dec 2016
Back in the old days before combine harvesters came in, harvest time was much more labour intensive.  All the crops were loaded by hand on to horse-drawn carts and taken to the stack yard, where an array of often beautifully crafted stacks would be built, and thatched.

It was a very busy time of the year for the thatchers, who would work from six in the morning till nine at night for several weeks until all the stacks were safely protected from the rain. After the last stack was finished, my old boss was paid the overtime due to him. He remembered that one year it was just enough to buy himself a new pair of work boots!

One year, before handing over payment for thatching his stacks, a farmer named Mr Cutting said to Jim;  "That made me sweat to write your cheque this year."  Jim quickly replied;  "Med me sweat fust!"
There are lots of cottages built in old stack yards called Pyghtle Cottage as pyghtle, pronounced pie-cle is an old Anglo Saxon word meaning a small plot of land.
martin Dec 2016
One child, one teacher, one book and one pen can change the world.

I raise up my voice -- not so that I can shout, but so that those without a voice can be heard.

Malala Yousafzai

Such wisdom from one so young
Such clarity for the truth
Such bravery in the face of danger

Dare we place upon these shoulders
the heavy burden of hope, expectation?

Already your name will live for ever
martin Dec 2016
Have you seen the twisted spire?
It is a sight you will admire

They say 'twas when a lass was wed
When not a ****** to altar led

And that one day it will straighten anew
When one there marries a maiden true
The church of St Mary and All Saints in Chesterfield has a twisted spire.
It was originally thought that unseasoned timber used in its construction was the reason, but now the theory is that the lead used to clad the structure expands at a different rate on the sunny side from the cold side, thus pulling it out of true. The spire was constructed in 1362. It twists 45 degrees and is 9ft 6ins off the vertical, quite an eye-catching landmark and easily visible from the train.
Google Chesterfield spire.
martin Nov 2016
Some things are simply understood
Without the need for spoken word
Others better said out loud
So they may be heard

Some thoughts are better unexposed
So not to harm the atmosphere
Others need to fly and soar
To land on lover's waiting ear

Hold the tongue, bite the lip
Let not insults from it trip
But compliments that smooth the way
Let them see the light of day
Really pleased to be the daily.
Thanks to all for reading,
what a great site we enjoy here at hellopoetry.
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