Paul Hansford: Favorites

May 2016 Paul Hansford

kath otoole

A poem is grand
that's got summat to say.

But if it says nowt
it still passes
the time o' day.

Never disparage
another mans writing.
He may be twice your size
and good at fighting!!!!!

May 2016 Paul Hansford

I Miss You

May 2016 Paul Hansford

kath otoole

I Miss You

I miss you.

While reading Wordsworth in the sun,
those woven words I would have spun,
I wonder if you're having fun?
and still
I miss you.

Three words I swore I wouldn't say,
for they give all the game away
though now I have no hand to play
yet still
I miss you.

I wish that you were with me now
you made the best of me somehow
caused me to laugh at every row
and so
I miss you.

I wonder what you did today
and if you're happier this way?
Or do you think of me and say
sometimes
I miss you.

No other words can quite convey
that part of each and every day
is yours. The only thing I pray
is not to
miss you.

(c) kath otoole september 2010.

May 2016 Paul Hansford

If I were a poem

May 2016 Paul Hansford

Stephan

If I were a poem

.

*If I were a poem
I’d ask you to fold me up
and put me in your pocket,
then at the end of the week,
toss me in the wash
with the rest of the clothes

And when you find me later,
smudged and smeared,
ripped and tattered into
little unrecognizable pieces,
don’t worry about it,
I was already like that

I have been notified that this poem was plagiarized and posted on Poetfreak by someone using the name Blurry Face. I can assure you, this is my poem.

May 2016 Paul Hansford

The Sludge

May 2016 Paul Hansford

Stephan

The Sludge

-
**Sinking slow the mire
Of touted soldier’s stare
Blindfolded, seeing inside
Stood straight of knotted shame
Condors perched waiting
My last cigarette damp
Lips nicotine cracked
Useless circumstances cry
Unforced tears fall
Guns raised and aimed
Bayonets point a finger
Discharged of itchy indexes

Ripping antique flesh
Puncturing vital statistics
Sorrow in tattooed blood stains
My dense skull explodes
Shards of bone fly
Dotting soiled landscape
In a mosaic of lost dreams
Shattered with one foul mouth
Loose like the cannons
Flanking the homeland
As I consume the sludge
Of final foolishness

May 2016 Paul Hansford

A Day-Dreaming Kind of a Day

May 2016 Paul Hansford

Tom Balch

A Day-Dreaming Kind of a Day

The bowl filled with hot water,
the dishes and cutlery from lunch
await my attention;

But back then
in the days of sixties summers the
beaches beckoned

The glasses first
followed by the plates, careful not
to over-do the coarse green back
of the sponge on the china;

And us
hand in hand in our rolled up jeans
strolling where the sea meets sand

Knives followed by the forks followed
by the spoons and as I look out of the
window the martins fly to and fro
feeding their young;

I can still hear the noise of gulls
and the whooshing of
waves as we ran sideways up the
pebbles trying to avoid getting soaked

“Where are the clean tea towels” I ask
and you call out
“In the top draw on the right”

When I´ve finished this we´ll sit outside
with a glass of red;
Funny how our taste changes over the years,

in those days of sunshine
and sand in toes it would have been
Blue Nun or Mateus Rose
and the washing up
was probable the last thing on our minds...

May 2016 Paul Hansford

Saffron Days

May 2016 Paul Hansford

Tom Balch

Saffron Days

We touched upon it briefly
in a moment passing swiftly
on a breeze so many years ago,

the words I whispered softly
drifted to you oh so gently
as the sun set on an ocean all aglow,

we were really young and carefree
we were that naive we could not see
that life would take and shake us to and fro,

those saffron days, those summer dreams
the plans we made alas it seems
had faded long before the autumns glow,

but at least we felt it briefly
for a moment that passed swiftly
on a breeze so many, many years ago...