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Jackie Mead Feb 2020


Raincoats and Welly Boots.
Go together like
A pantomine tale and mother goose.

Raincoats and Welly Boots

Little girls and little boys;
playing in natures endless supply of toys.
Walking through puddles, almost knee deep.
Splashing in mud pools, mud covering their feet.

Raincoats and Welly Boots

Wearing Raincoat and Welly Boots
Splashing, laughing not a care in their world
Should be the entitlement of every boy and girl.

Raincoats and Welly Boots

For just 5 minutes
Discard your black shiny shoes and Italian suit
Put on your Raincoat and Welly Boots
Remember when once you were young
Splish, splash, splosh oh what fun

Raincoat and Welly Boots
Lightbulb Martin Sep 2013
Relly?
Relly chelly?
Belly selly smelly.
Telly trelly helly welly?
Melly.
Melly.
Delly selly belly felly
Welly?
Jelly.
Lost for words Oct 2010
Incessent drumming and the roar of raindrops
Keep me from sleeping past dawn
Welly boots step into the cold, wet day
as the sky weeps for the loss of summer.
The wind takes the wheel,
driving water up trouser legs, into socks, under hats
Blown out beş lira umbrellas discarded on the overpass
A graveyard of useless metal spiders.
Still,
Still it rains
Impromptu lakes form from the spontaneous rivers flowing in every street
Bosphorus babies, cleansing the heart of the city
People look like street cats;
Soaked, preening, cowering under any shelter they can find
And still, Istanbul.
Still she rains.
eileen mcgreevy Feb 2010
Now then,(Clicks fingers and stretches out),,,I know you men out there will think i'm all cahoots,But i need to vent my feelings on the, ever, splendid, boot,There,s black boots white boots, really outta sight boots,Baby boots, Mummy boots, ever just so yummy boots,X boots, Y boots, black patent leather thigh boots,(MMMMMM)Flat boots, high boots, heels like a needles eye boots,Work boots, shopping boots, **** , real eye popping boots,Going to visit mum boots, feeling very glum boots,Welly boots, smelly boots," i'm just watching telly" boots,Car boots,"?" truck boots, "come on babe, let's ****" boots,All these boots and more would make a woman want to swear,But guys, you haven't heard me go on about our underwear!!!
Just a wee attempt at trying to help you guys understand the importance of boots!!  Copyright solely by eileen mcgreevy, irish maiden, wiked red witch 2010
Paul Butters Nov 2015
Norman Stevens
Always gets evens:
Reads my stuff on his smart telly.
Go on Norman, give it some welly.

There you have it, a Clerihew,
Oh what an how to do,
Very silly, very true.
Why I love them, I haven’t a clue.
Time now for another brew.

As I’ve said before:
Write a Clerihew:
It’s easy to do.
Two rhyming couplets of any length:
Short and simple, that’s its strength.

Paul Butters
For my *****'s pub drinking-mate Norman.
J Warren Sep 2013
Shards of sail staple sky to sea as fingernail-thin boats lean in to the horizon.
The surge of surf converses constantly with the silent shore, urging its message upon the oblivious beach.
My children scramble on the man-made groyne, a facsimile of wild rock, in which they find caves 'with a proper rock on top' (Bea) and 'a hundred miles deep' (Willem).
We are here on bikes, salt wind in our hair, and my *** slowly absorbing moisture from the almost-dry sand as they unburden their youth upon the rocky playground.
And then come the treasures.
A flat shell the size of my palm and worn pearlescent smooth.
A fossil pebble of concentric ingrained ripples.
'Something amazing Mummy,' comes the cry. 'You have to see this stone; the colour of Coca Cola,' shouts my boy.
More treasures emerge and are grafted on to the sandy pile.
Quartz-like lumps and a mussel entangled with tiny seaweed strands and miniature white shells, like micro leaves and hints of feta in a fancy restaurant.
The boy wears welly boots, no socks, and a plastic medal around his neck. 'Batman, Batman, Batman,' comes the cry, while Bea determinedly scans heaven and Earth for jewels to stud her imagination.
levi Oct 2012
My big headed people said ity, i trusted, 'hiriz' has never dissapointed themy,
my hatred for non conformity, enormous, i surely hated the conformity truly,
i almost lost it for 'hiriz' sakey, **** it, ill never have wanted to lose this beauty,

i had it  weirdly thinking ablazey, loozing?, no, i hadnt  and  you n they didnt realize fastly,
loosing soo fast  about  lowly sinking sinly,curse all day i ,ever had thee meeting to lyfy,
wit all the  a vitue TRUELY INVESTMENT **** no lievly, forget me darl; once and  for ever dony

one more what you  waznyt quetly, cool openly, man must lively sweetly
that a day woud spoily truely, madly mey, sooooooo losty i had made a choisy,
refusing my being theiyyyyy, lucky  me doing, buty,  i love thater that am no longy

your timey was wanting by virtuey,  truey. luck **** spyty this shiety oul
endy began truely sure truelly, fukciey, its thats badyy, me lost it shortlley
man must livevy or diiey, truely, gotta  ity, man look for bread i wannaity


withought even hiriz it all worked welly, herey,  i am.  fu** like ity
dead
Yenson Nov 2018
The black women laugh sometimes even with other white *******
it's the joke they all know, a funny problem they all share
when together the stories are told in droves galore
much mirth, side splitting laughter ringing out
Weii, what do you say, those wigga dudes are something else

I can't stand them the chorus goes, bless their poor hearts
No, don't get me wrong, in the bedroom I mean
OK for a few dates, just let them pay for meals and drinks
One thing though, they are fine for fetching and carrying
but in bed, *** don't waste your time and try not to laugh
pale and patchy, gangly legs flat *****, hairy as ****

Who in throes, fancies a thimble or a two minutes frolick
They reveal their mini ugly chipolatas hidden in wiry brambles
Flaccid and limp, quite a bother to get it to rigid attention
Put it in and it's like soggy mash in an underfilled ******
***, give it some welly, show some passion, stoke my fire
No tight fit, no friction and no va va vroom, few jerks 'n over
Seconds, you must be joking, light is out, the droop is here


Ok, Ok..they can do the licky licky till tomorrow and next
slurping away like their lives depends on it, all spit and fumbling
But take me with fired passion, slam me down with rhythm
Burn that garden, mash me down and ride the waves
Get that hard poker stoking and hot, no! that ain't their forte

Oh..how they hate those tooled brothers with iron magnums
Those MEN Amazonians who enter hard and dance for the gods
Give me that lover with the slow hands and easy touch
Lynnie says, you are amazing, the best ever without a doubt
Hear, hear says all the others, that brother sure has the moves
and a hard big glorious tool fit for the job

Pale face hate simmers like roast, smarting with condensed anger
If they could, they would castrate all the brothers no exception
Ban them, block them, poison them and lock 'em up for ever
Biggest threat ever is that ****, charming intelligent brother
Just too cocksure, too cocky and silky smooth - the *******!
Make sure you lock yer mums, sisters, daughter and grannies up

As one black sister puts it, "they are *****, talk **** and lick **** from my fine behind, eighty-five percent of them would always
hate the brothers, because they don't measure up"  
The ***** will do anything, anything to destroy a brother's lovelife
Why should them **** ebony stallions have fun,
They are horses not humans, so rope them down and let us
go save for that enlargement job!
a fun poem written when I was in nursery school...hahaha
Grace Oct 2017
So you’re clearing out your room,
clearing out more of yourself,
because it’s the end of the world, isn’t it?
The end of an era anyway –
the end of the bad decision to paint
your room pink.
You never really liked the colour pink.
Your old room had been sunshine yellow,
that bright happy colour of raincoats
and welly boots and sunflowers
(and yellow was still my favourite colour
when i painted my room pink –
yellow rubber in my pencil case,
yellow bow in my hair –
a sunshine happy kind of child
but not really. i painted my room pink
just because).
You wanted the new room painted a shade
called jazzberry but you were told it was too dark.
You wrote in the card to your dead great grandmother
that you were having your room painted jazzberry
and then you didn’t.
The card was placed in her coffin and cremated with her,
and you experienced that strange sensation at the funeral
of not feeling what you were supposed to be feeling.
I should cry, you told yourself, I should feel sad,
but you had cried all your tears in advance
and you’d cried them all for dead grasshoppers
and the old house you were leaving behind.
(always the same with me, isn’t it.
tears over everything except the things that matter.
i’m crying on the floor over lino, over my bedroom,
over a dress that’s in the wash and not my wardrobe)
The new bedroom had wardrobes you loved,
mirrors you loved and hated and it was pink.
It was your safe place, the space that wasn’t
really made for you, but was the one place
in this world where nothing could get you
(except me and yourself, but that’s another story).
Anyway, let’s get back to the point.
You’re clearing the room out because it’s the end of the world
and you’ve been putting it off for three years,
but you’re a crumbly cliff and waves are strong.
You’ve been thinking of train tracks
and gosh aren’t you dramatic,
but you’re finally clearing your little self out.
The toys are easy – you keep a couple whose names you remember
(Tallulah, Alfie, Tilly, Phillipa, Clementine
//oh my darling, ruby lips above the water
and the dream of kissing your best friend
that will forever be connected to
oh my darling, Clementine//),
the clothes are easy – in fact,
it’s all easy when you start to let go
of that nasty little girl from the sunshine yellow
and from the pasty pink.
You bundle her off into charity bags and bin liners
and then you find it – the Special Box.
It was your treasure trove in an
orange Jacobs crackers box  so you open it,
thinking you’ll keep everything, and then,
well then it’s a box full of *******.
Not just ******* things that once mattered,
but real ******* – broken pens, meaningless rocks,
used rubbers, crumbled tissues, incomplete
gifts from Christmas crackers
(and how very like you and me – to keep
things that go in the bin. we cling
to the sadness and the guilt and the fear
just because).
You throw away your special box
and you throw away all your junk
(except your new junk –
every train ticket you’ve bought
since the First)
and then the room is empty.
Were you ever here, you wonder
(and what toys will you have to give to your children?
you get asked, and you say you won’t have any.
i won’t because how would i, for one?
how could i, for another?
how could i put them through all this?)
and then you remember, that yes,
you’ll always be there – sunshine yellow,
pasty pink, nasty little version of nasty bigger you,
but for now, you’ve cleared yourself out a bit.
The new room will be blue
and one wall will be papered with books
(and i see what you’ve done –
you’re using the imagery of your own poetry,
because it’s easier to live inside of your own imagery
than deal with anything else, isn’t it)
and maybe, you think and the others think too,
this is a good thing, the sign of a change to come
(but your Special Box was full of *******
and what other evidence do you need
to know that you will never change or move beyond this?
this is as good as it gets).
a poem (kind of - i don't know if this is really poetry or just strings of thoughts to be honest) that i wrote today. not my best but i'm back at uni and not doing poetry this year
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2015
by the time malachi wrote of elijah's half, god split too, and then the embodiment happened on two roundabouts worth of twirl: god was a third's worth of christ's trinity talked about, recognising india in a symmetrical summery of applause for anglia's capital norwich - exchanged in overcoming autumn into similar wobbly within grasp - stornoway - to pinpoint an x for some lapsed tongue twirling less hollywood and more of the towing dimensional twins: diaper dipped innocent and sunk into welly fudge wet sludge slurps of onomatopoeias, exchanged to boot pivots for the weatherman handling insignia of coordination with a queen's lazed approach to care for the public's handy utility: shaken the plumber shaken the electrician, but gloved the hand ordinating trickles of tubular artery and sparks of the veiny rarity skidding into pressurised suicides named.*

as i said it once: by the time of malachi elijah was half of what jesus became,
a trinity of thirds; but by a polytheistic nitro of interests reincarnation
was not much for the oneness: with malachi in oath
to claim elijah in half, while jesus stole a prophet's book,
which endowed a testimony, such that much of the greek "god said"
was roman "let me ease into it and regurgitate."
so while malachi wrote of elijah's re-incarnation and spoke heresy on
the pulpit of polytheism for a crowd of monotheists
not allowing a seventh of the same pool draw
of sunken chlorine breathed as a matchstick sparked,
it was malachi so many years prior
anticipating the many gods ridiculed by a singled out earth,
while jesus stole isaiah's book and hiding it near the dead sea,
and having his own testimony
of being integrated into egyptian alimony
sold and paired revealing the sorrowful desert winds that the desert
in toadish engulfed the nearby architecture. so i tell you: jesus stole isaiah's testimony,
was crucified for it, because within the penta- framework moses wrote
like a true outsider - and we prefer narcissists holding a mirror rather
than gripping a nail to a placard of steadied wood of ennobling statues
of geometrics. why then the many narcissist messiahs empowered by posing
into a polaroid fake and the lost oedipus plural theorised?
once malachi came with the heresy elijah was halved with god,
and once jesus came and the people began deciphering babylonian madness
so that the hanging gardens were architecturally sound
and the pyramids were proven higher than the eiffel:
without a sweaty wrinkles' river taken aqua vivo, we thus conversed.
elijah was a third in the form of jesus who begat one as a trinity
to further the heresy of malachi.
Thrystan Tate Aug 2019
Bands a make her dance.  
A dollar will make her holler.
So she must be worth a pretty penny,
to flip open your wallet just to call her.
"Hey baby, how much for a dance? Oh slow motion, yeah I like it like that."
Her stripper name must be Visa for her rewards and her cashback.
She can flap her wings to get your mind on track,
of you spending your money all Welly-Nelly,
and swiping your card down the crack.
She's got you running to the private room like she's running game.
If you fall in love with these strippers that's a tale of Two-Pains.
How could a dime be worth a stack and arouse your spending range?
I mean her game so tight she has your whole money roll entertained.
And all she has to do is something strange for you to come out your pocket change.
By: Thrystan Tate
Olivia Kent May 2014
His name,
well it is Dominique,
wants to be a woman,
perhaps,
as he slips into his plaid skirt,
thought it rather itchy,
he could be rather ******,
Starts off in high heels,
yes,
Then he dons his rubbers,
I said Dons,
not Dom's,
then feeds his fetish,
pulls up his welly boots,
into rubber you know!
He traipses to the shop of ***,
there he buys a gimp suit,
gives his girlfriend whips and chains,
she locks him up in the cellar,
he's a really funny fella,
I'm sure he is okay,
but, I guess I'll never know!
(C) Livvi
LOL at Dom!!
Many apologies to my friend, just thought I'd take the mickey ** he is sweet really **
Lindsey McCarty Jun 2010
Will we ever see eachother eye to eye?
Or will everything you told me turn out as a lie?
Everywhere I turn, I see your name, it's on the wall.
Too weak to bear this heartache, my hope begins to slowly fall.

Hope for happiness has vanished, nothing to look forward to.
Wearier to discover my love was but a joke to you.
My whole body begins to shake as I imagine a life without a guide.
I still feel the spark between us, even after you cheated and lied.

I'm beginning to notice all of this is a game you've created inside your head.
I set my heart to every lie you fed me, believed every 'I love you' said.
As I wollow, becoming more hopeless with every shortened breath.
To careless to live, awaiting for the day of my welly yearned death.

My dripping wrists are being scraped with this tiny shard of rust.
So this is my alternative to our passionate lust?
If pain is all that gives me drive to live.
I'll pick up every scent of my blood and breathe it all in.

I've replaced the moaning and pleasure for sobs of agony.
If only you did care that soon, you'll be the death of me.
Exempt from a heart beating in my chest, I start to drift away.
Her whole body, numb and broken, getting sicker everyday.

No one cares for her goodbyes, as she prepares to leave.
Her only choice was to die without love, or so she did believe.
With bloodshot eyes, and her soul still shading rotten.
Her red blood goes out to the girl this cold world has forgotten.
Justine Louisy Jul 2020
Welcome abroad Thameslink.
Grab a camera a wink at
Shaftsbury’s bootylicious dancers.
Pen in gear and know the answers to
the parade of pub quizzes.
Let your strands of raw seismic frizzes scream
on bonds lightening Thames RIB.
The Louis Vuitton wallet ‘on fleek’ for that crib inside
the Shards slender diamond belly.
Feet stay in groove with that Kidston welly against
the roaring mud at the wireless festival.
Pre dem soulful struts of de Notting hill carnival spicy
spirits, nani wines and **** kisses.
Safari hunt watch out for those hisses on
centre stage of the primeval in the zoo.
Grab my hand and come on boo steady
your bags and steady your feet on the thrilling
ride of Oxford street.
Reminisce its entirety and say goodbye.

As we take in our final view on the London eye.

Justine Louisy
Copyright ©Justine Louisy 2016
All Rights Reserved
Happy Friday folks!! Hope you have a great weekend planned and are keeping safe during these times!! Here’s something to cheer you up... my poetic vision of LONDON 🇬🇧.... if you are planning to go (once COVID restrictions are fully lifted) hope this gives you a good sense of things to do and places to visit 😁🏙😊
Olivia Kent Mar 2015
He is nice.
What a description.
Nice as sticky rice.
What a depiction.

He's soppy as a bubbling puddle, overflowing.
With leftovers of muddy welly boots.
Very shortly she'll be going.

He's in a muddle.
He's set down his boring roots.
He sobs as he steals the stars from up in the heavens.
So he can give her a present.
That she may not relate to.
He doesn't have a clue.
His only real interest.
Football team elevens.
Boredom is his kingdom.
His crown covers a frown.

Long may he there in peace be dwelling.
Under her nose this fellow's,  a little unpleasant smelling.
His sword is made of whale blubber.
Borrowed from a passing mammal.
Like his personality...just a little rubber.
(C) LIVVI
Olivia Kent Feb 2014
To walk on water could there only ever be one?
Was it not Gods only son, who strolled in Galilee, with the fishers on the sea?
It has been disputed that another fella, name of Blaine, gentle strolled upon the river of grime, a.k.a the River Thames.
Obvious illusion, well at least that's what I'm guessing.
Now however; a change in  the weather, provided squelching mud cover, engorged the fields of mud with water.
Mud supports those who walk, in squishy, squashy welly boots, fighting through, unholy mud.
Hereby, I now pronounce out loud, more than Jesus, an entire crowd.
(C) LIVVI 2014
They are coming to take you away

I dislike corners I know he will be standing there
A real Parisian apache one leg resting on a wall of a closed down factory
he is sharpening his stiletto and cleaning his fingernails
Or a farmer after digging stony ground has had enough cuts my throat
With his *****, a spray of blood and the land will be fertile again
I could also walk home after an evening in the pub fall face down in
a rain puddle where a yellow welly floats
it could be so banal falling in the night when going to the loo
a broken nose and no one can hear my muffled screams dying and  
and not saying anything divine.
I have to buy a coffin it must be wide sleep in it every night wake
up in the morning dead with sunlight on my face.
Paul Butters Jan 2023
Vic Davies
That Davies bloke called Vic
He showed he isn't thick.
His table tennis can get bad,
Especially when he gets mad.

Liz Conolly
Mrs. Conolly, first name Liz,
Really, really is the biz.
Loves a seat at the front table,
Always gets there if she’s able.

**** Staples
Ah, here is **** Staples:
Loves his football from Grimsby to Naples.
Could be a pundit on the telly,
Always gives it plenty of welly.

Phil Sharpe
Mister Sharpe, first name Phil:
At table tennis he knows the drill.
Master of defensive ploys,
Wins his matches with lots of poise.

Ron Dawson (added 9\1\23)
Cider and Ale to Ron Dawson known as Rocket.
He has the whole World in his pocket.
Knows the routes of all the trains:
Lots of knowledge (on brewing and trains) fills his brains.

Paul Butters

© PB 6\1\23.
Risteard o'C Jun 2019
I’m a ten digit
fidget; a cluster
****** mind.
a sand-hopping
hopper of the
trampoline kind.

I’m a bouncing-
bounce bouncer,
with cerebral jelly.
I’ll tap, tap, tap.
fidget finger, knee
or welly.

talk ten steps ahead,
talk five steps back.
roundy roundy garden
like a teddy-cadillac.

I’m a remote zapping addict;
buttonitis of the soul.
and finish your sentence…
I’m a pain in the whole!
... yeah... explain this one... where would I start? AD-what?
I go to your garden to plant trees
A nice day sings itself into being.
As we welly-up
A woodpecker arrives
On wavey flight.
Gets busy on a rowan branch
Its smart black, red and white message
Stops us
Like a catchy short story.
Holds us softly
In a glue of wonder.
Donall Dempsey Sep 2023
BE THOU MY VISION

"Be Thou my Vision, O Lord of my heart;
Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art."

On a bitter winter morning we stand and sing
an old Irish hymn

I in my wellies giving it
as much welly as a little boy can.

I hold my father's hand.
He squeezes mine.

But it is not to Him I sign
but to my own Da.

My father is my heaven
here on the earth I have

known for
all my seven years.

I close my eyes and sing
with everything I got.

"Thou my great Father, I Thy true son!"

I understand the words
from the inside out.

"Thou and Thou only, first in my heart,
my Treasure Thou art."

The winter of '63
lost in the blizzard of time.

Now I hold my father's hand
as he lies dying.

He squeezes mine.
I sing to him in my mind.

"Thou my best Thought, by day or by night,
Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light."

He lets go
of my hand.

His little boy still sings for him.
"Heart of my own heart, whatever befall."
They are coming to take you away, aha.

I hate corners know he will be standing there
A Parisian Apache, one leg resting on a wall
Of a closed-down factory.
Smoking Gitane a cigarette.
Sharpening his stiletto, cleaning his fingernails.
Or a farmer, stony ground fed up, takes his *****
and cut my throat,
A geyser of blood that will fertilize the floor
it could also happen walking home after an evening
at the pub, falling face down in a puddle where yellow welly floats.
It could be so banal, as falling when going to the loo
with a broken nose, no one hears the muffled screams
dying and not saying anything divine.
I have to buy a coffin it must be wide, sleep in it every night
wake up in the morning dead, with sunlight on my pale face.
Donall Dempsey Sep 2020
BE THOU MY VISION

"Be Thou my Vision, O Lord of my heart;
Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art."

On a bitter winter morning we stand and sing
an old Irish hymn.

I in my wellies giving it
as much welly as a little boy can.

I hold my father's hand.
He squeezes mine.

But it is not to Him I sing
but to my own Da.

My father is my heaven
here on the earth I have

known for
all my seven years.

I close my eyes and sing
with everything I got.

"Thou my great Father, I Thy true son!"

I understand the words
from the inside out.

"Thou and Thou only, first in my heart,
my Treasure Thou art."

The winter of '63
lost in the blizzard of time.

Now I hold my father's hand
as he lies dying.

He squeezes mine.
I sing to him in my mind.

"Thou my best Thought, by day or by night,
Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light."

He lets go
of my hand.

His little boy still sings for him.
"Heart of my own heart, whatever befall."
"Be Thou My Vision" (Old Irish: Rop tú mo baile or Rob tú mo bhoile) is a traditional Christian hymn of Irish origin. The words are based on a Middle Irish poem often attributed to the sixth-century Irish Christian poet St. Dallán Forgaill, although it is probably later than that. The best-known English version, with some minor variations, was translated by Eleanor Hull and published in 1912. Since 1919 it has been commonly sung to an Irish folk tune, noted as “Slane” in church hymnals and is one of the most popular hymns in the United Kingdom

English version by Eleanor Hull (1912)




Be Thou my Vision, O Lord of my heart;
Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art.
Thou my best Thought, by day or by night,
Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light.

Be Thou my Wisdom, and Thou my true Word;
I ever with Thee and Thou with me, Lord;
Thou my great Father, I Thy true son;
Thou in me dwelling, and I with Thee one.

Be Thou my battle Shield, Sword for the fight;
Be Thou my Dignity, Thou my Delight;
Thou my soul's Shelter, Thou my high Tow’r:
Raise Thou me heav’nward, O Pow’r of my pow’r.

Riches I heed not, nor man's empty praise,
Thou mine Inheritance, now and always:
Thou and Thou only, first in my heart,
High King of Heaven, my Treasure Thou art.

High King of Heaven, my victory won,
May I reach Heaven's joys, O bright Heav’n's Sun!
Heart of my own heart, whatever befall,
Still be my Vision, O Ruler of all.

— The End —