Inspired at the point of writing!

A selection of poems from the finest of poets:
(Some good, some bad... all special)

68 POEMS ONLINE!
Top 3 Contibutors: Mike (29%) / Me (21%) / George (11%)

(Winner of the cookie competition: Mike! - who submitted 18 on 25th Mar)
(In an impressive effort of poetic genius, Mike churned out 17 poems in 2 nights, for which he readily deserves the cookie I shall bestow upon him.)
WELL DONE MIKE!

Please do feel free to write your own and send them to [email protected]
Write whatever you like, from Haiku's to Epics, and traditional forms to random gibberish!
They'll all get put up here, whatever they are...

Not reproduced here for obvious reasons is The Longest Poem I've Ever Seen! by George and someone called "Alex". Also to prove that verse
is as effective as (if not more than) prose, in putting an argument forward, here is an exchange that resulted in George's withdrawal from livejournal (temporarily)

Poems from ages ago that I forgot I had:

Untitled
[by Alex - Nov '02]

more coming later

NEWEST POEMS
all by 'Bill Bob' currently

the meaning of life
to ederic
evil words put together seamingly making...

internet coonections
lament of Santa
failure

a mexican bio
Why i hate my name

< the meaning of life >

there is no meaning to life
you come,you live,and you DIE
you DIE a horably painful DEATH
there is no escaping it 
we will all DIE
a dark DEATH no matter what you may think
people think life is like a fairy tale
oh,how they are wrong
truthfully it is dark that the universe started
and so will it end
there is no difference with life
for DEATH will come upon ye
wether there is a meaning to it all 
or not
may you die painlessly,
      sincerly
             DEATH himself

< to ederic >

i like to compose
but not to impose
but please put my work on your site
i realy worked hard and realy can't take any spite

< evil words put together seamingly making something relative to a poem >

i like the dark better than light
and ill will and spite is realy my kind of 
vengence served cold with serving of rice
witch i'll pop out of and go midevil on your @$$

< internet coonections >

why all the internet services here
aol,sbc,yahoo,netzero,peoplepc
i'm sick of them all make them go away
if that were to  happen it would fill me wath glee 
and shout out loud hip hip hooray
but only in perfect yay varely yay

< lament of Santa >

i will lament for only one reason and that is this
while you all dream of sugarplums dancing in your head
i will watch you die
and when you find you don't com to wake on christmas morning
you will think
oh how i've wasted my life imagining the toys and joys of today
and now i say for a fianl time
merry christmas to all,and to all a good night
for it is your last
because i am the one and only Santa Claws

< failure >

oh i'd rather die than to see fly
get high enough to reach the atmosphere
for i've already failed at that task
because my name is lawnchair man

< a mexican bio >

my name is el Paco
i work at del taco
and i make one dollar a day

< Why i hate my name >

my name is Loyd
my friends call me Loin
i live in a place called Beef
when i was nighted everyone laughed
for i am sir Loin of Beef

< poem that i wrote for some reason >

Pom tiddle tiddle. 
The cat played on his fiddle. 
And the dog wanted to play it too 
and they got into a bit of a scrap 
but they're both fine now

< a poem of creation >

Once upon a time, 
A monkey found a spanner, 
But it couldn't do just what he want[ed it to].

So he added a nut, 
And a twiddly bit, 
And thus invented the monkey wrench.

< fantaseh on my first poem >

the dog who once had taken 
a fiddle from the cat, 
had now found it gone, 
and thought "enough of that!"

out he went, to find it 
with hat and scarf and coat, 
and as he was a doggy 
left his owner chap a note.

first he went to find the cat, 
but he was not around, 
and when he went towards cat's friends, 
they all went to ground.

next he stopped and thought a while, 
where had he seen it last? 
cat was in intensive care, 
and dog was in a cast.

while they were both at the vets 
(in seperate rooms, of course) 
the instrument was never mentioned 
and the two had no remorse

in the fight some words were said, 
some he did regret 
it wasn't just all fun and games, 
dog hoped that he'd forget.

but in the rough and tumble 
(that really is a phrase) 
the fiddle had been knocked away, 
and they were in a daze.

the vet who came to help them 
may not have seen it there 
and once it was left all alone, 
it could go who knows where.

quickly dog rushed to the scene 
of that terrible event. 
the marks of bitter battle 
and a rancid, warring scent.

it was there he found the cat, at last, 
who said "we must be mates! 
for the fiddle, it is missing, 
you see the problem this creates."

"for you are good at tracking, 
with your wet and healthy nose, 
and i can climb, and leap and cling, 
thanks to my nimble toes."

"between us we can find this thing, 
and once we have it back, 
perhaps we can decide to share 
that which caused you to attack."

the dog, of course, was pleased to hear 
that cat felt so inclined, 
and so the pact was sealed 
and written and stamped and signed.

the two set off together, 
who knows what they were to find, 
with dog's nose pressed down to the ground 
and cat following behind.

the fiddle it had made its way 
into a nearby wood 
but dog knew he could track it down 
or at least he thought he could.

all the while, the cat's sharp eyes 
were studying the scene 
looking for a track or trace 
that dog may not have seen.

suddenly, cat gave a yelp, 
a terrible thing he saw; 
a mighty beast jumped from a tree 
and gave a powerful roar.

before the beast was fully landed, 
dog was at its neck, 
he knew if this thing got the chance 
the vets work, it would wreck.

the cat jumped on, and scratched and bit 
the beast it gave a scream, 
it had not expected such resistance 
from this weak looking team.

in not too long, the creature fell, 
cat and dog were now united 
there was no challenge they could not face 
and their goal, cat had just sighted.

up in the tree, the beast was hording 
a pile of long lost treasures. 
the fiddle, some books, some toys and games; 
the beast had many pleasures

the cat ran up and brought them down, 
their rewards, the carried home 
and now they are the best of friends, 
and together, they like to roam.

but just for now, we'll leave them, 
we may go back, some day, 
until we do we can be sure 
from friendship, they'll not stray.

Kev's Poems
poem that i wrote for some reason
a poem of creation
fantaseh on my first poem NEW
by Kev

A poem on or about the things in nature and/or natural things - written 7th June 2002
A poem based exclusively on a school English trip to the local graveyard (across the road). The title above is what we were told to write,
and it had to be in the style of Wordsworth (basically an unhealthy love for the natural world and written in iambic pentameter).
Therefore, what is transcribed below is an accurate transcription of the events of our trip as they unfurled:

< A poem on or about the things in nature and/or natural things  >
(In the style of Wordsworth and EJ Thribb) (and supposedly Larkin�)

Sitting on the clean (slightly newer) bench,
Than the other one, its opposite, which
Had been liberally painted-in bird crap.
Yes sitting, observing natural things
Above someone�s permanent resting spot,
Unless he is a bloodsucking vampire.
After just a few moments I realised
However, that even in this so-called,
Area of serenity and beauty,
Lay a bottle here and-a used condom there.

So farewell then unscathed natural beauty,
You were taken for granted and destroyed.
George says nature isn�t interesting.
I think this is the kind of attitude
That has let nature become what it has.
Casting right to the back of my mind, the
Black Orange TangoTM bottle on the ground.
I searched the area for natural things.
Panning from left to right, just looking for
Something that had occurred naturally.

This local graveyard isn�t natural.
Newly planted trees in an ordered line
Bear witness to what is essentially 
A wholly created environment. 
An escapist�s paradise, possibly, 
Yet its very essence is something fake.
I reach down and pluck a daisy from its 
Surroundings (held correctly, I can flick 
My thumb upwards, shooting the daisy�s head
Directly at Arthur, for amusement)

After failing to hit at point blank range,
I notice that the now headless daisy
In my right hand was a natural thing.
This weed grew where it wasn�t wanted, yet
By its very nature it�s natural. 
Then I saw everything much more clearly;
The varied wildlife on the ground was a
Part of nature. The sun�s soporific 
Effect (as skilfully pointed out by 
Our teacher) was in itself natural.

However, (I ask myself as we wait 
Patiently for someone to locate Rich,
Who has been declared missing, presumed dead)
What is it that we all seek in nature?
For if it is simply just a change of 
Scenery, we desire, from our grey and
Lifeless urban backdrop, then this graveyard�s
Inbuilt serenity and ordered beauty
Is, as I believe, satisfactory�
I pick up my bag and walk back to school.

To all those concerned about Richard's fate, he was found eventually. Under a tree, staring up, claiming that he was searching for his muse.
But! We never got our poems back marked :(

< The Fox and the Mouse >

Deep within the forest it was darker than the night,
All the woodland creatures trembled with fright.
Except for one poor mouse that left his nest,
He wanted to explore, to embark on a quest.

Upon finding a spot where the grass was lush,
He felt quite safe, no need to rush.
However one small detail had escaped his mind,
Suddenly, there was a noise from behind:

Our mouse turned round as fast as he could,
And hidden inside the shadows of the wood,
A red and golden fox, he spied,
Stalking closer - he had to hide.

With his little legs, he ran and ran,
His brain worked fast, he had a plan.
He ran towards the long grass, so fast,
It fooled the fox who bounded past.

So he escaped, but to no avail,
A silent owl had spied his trail,
He did not live to tell the tale.

----------------------------------------

< bubblebees! >

Arn't bumble bees great?
they, or so I recall,
featured in a poem by Tennyson.
it wasn't very good at all.

"and the murmur of innumerable bees,"
it went, with all the ems sounding
a bit like bees, I expect.
or at least that was the idea. astounding.

No, but anyway- I love bubblybees,
they're big and fat and funny,
and I've never been stung by one at all.
AND, least we forget, they give us honey.

yeah, all in all, I think we can safely say
that bumblebees and honey and things
are all in all a good idea, and they are so round!
and have teeny tiny little wings.

I think, actually, that they arn't supposed
to be able to fly at all, being far too tubby.
and they should fall out of the air, or something,
because they eat too much honey.

Frankly, and I expect you can tell
that I'm not so good at the biology of bees,
bumbly or otherwise, but I do know that they
do little dances. which is quite cute, I think.

----------------------------------------

< I am a squirrel >

I call it "I am a squirrel"

I am a squirrel.
I live in a chimney.
I asked for a referral,
they said "by jimminey,

could you have chosen,
squirrel my dear,
two words whose rhymings,
were so very unclear?"

But i did ignore them,
because, don't you see,
I was stuck in a chimney,
With this damned bumble bee.

Aware of my plight,
they could hardly CONTAIN,
their glee. I, for my part,
shall always remain,

A squirrel. who lives in a chimney.

THIS, dearest reader,
is my story of woe.
stuck in a chimney,
a quid pro quo?
I rather think not.

the end. a lot.

----------------------------------------

< A squirrel orientated sonnet. >
 
Once upon a time, in a land a-far,
Lived a chappy both strange and reclusive.
He lived in a tree, which is quite bizzare,
And carried out acts which were collusive 
in the extreme. This hermetic villain
had a small army of squirrelly beasts
he'd bred in a dish- like penicillin.
He and his band were set upon by priests,
Who had just found the smell too abhorrent
for their delicate sensibilities.
They all charged at the tree in a torrent
of incense weilding liabilities.
We shall gloss gently over the result,
and learn: don't attack a squirrel-based cult.

----------------------------------------

< Detailed Exposition on 
Constrictor Snake vs. Little Mouse >

eek!

Poems About Animals...
among other things
The Fox and the Mouse
[by Ed - Feb '99]
bubblebees!
[by George - Fri. 23rd May '03]
I am a squirral
[by George - Tue. 27th May '03]
A squirral orientated sonnet!
[by George - Fri. 17th Oct. '03]
Detailed Exposition on Constrictor Snake vs. Little Mouse
[by Ed - Wed. 7th Jul. '04]

Mike's Contribution
aka Michael 'Flash Gordon' Bennett
Most written 24-25th Mar '04 (unless specified otherwise) - Read them here, or go here instead

My Ponderence
The Simple Art of English
A heartfelt tribute to street cleaners
Therapy
The Many Whys of Women - and answers to a few
Ugly Man Meets Mr Bush
Goodo

Cincinnati
"French Milatary Victories"
Endangered Languages
Las Vegas - "The Strip"
Soon I'll Get My Cookie

Too short to care. [Jun '02]
To The People I Love
Hitler Bad
Beer or cake
I have an iPod
An Ode To Coffee - "Sober"
Ink and Paper

< Too short to care >

life flies by

fast, like pie

pie can fly,

don't ask why,

just sit there and enjoy,

the lovely pork pie.

----------------------------------------

< To The People I Love >

To the one�s I love
a small plucked dove
not a great sign of love,
cos it�s a naked dove,	
but then u tell me how many words rhyme with love,
none but dove.

----------------------------------------

< Hitler Bad >

Mr Hitler tell me why,
Why�d you have to be so bad?
Why�d you have to be so mean?
Did you mean to make me cry?
Did u mean to make me sad?
Cos I think that�s just mean!

----------------------------------------

< Beer or cake >

The epic question that I pose
is, beer or cake?
What do I mean you might suppose
Is it which in preference u might take?
It�s a simple question that I make
But a million more soon arose

----------------------------------------

< I have an iPod >

I have an iPod
It is white and sleak and sexy
Every night I lay it down
And in the darkness snuggle

----------------------------------------

< An Ode To Coffee   -   �Sober�>

�Suppose it stands to reason
That, last resort, I find I turn to you
My friend� smooth Canadian blend
Last night�s alcoholic treason,
- and with it the abuse of more than one fine Ewe-
All these thoughts you�re soon to mend

�thank you

----------------------------------------

< Ink and Paper >

When once the topic arose,
Of writing my memoirs in prose
I laughed! I laughed and scoffed and scorned
For you see, my life was more than dried up ink

But was it? What had I achieved?
So swiftly, as a ghostly visage, leaved
And to my room I went
And sat
And pondered

----------------------------------------

< My Ponderence >

to my room I went
And sat
And pondered
I didn�t know what, to others, I ment
And I really couldn�t go on like that
So I rose, and hence the beach did wander

As I sat and thought, passed an elderly gent
Alone, with a furrowed brow hidden only by a thin tweed hat
Would this be me? These thoughts I wondered
So, this man I approached, but only quicker on his way he went
I laughed and went on my way� found a cat� I kicked that cat
I felt a lot better, no more my life I pondered.

----------------------------------------

< The Simple Art of English >

Some people study English as a degree
Others do things more worth while
Like street cleaning,
Why go to uni to waste a degree
For something that�s such a pile
Of ****� now where�s that street cleaner?

----------------------------------------

< A heartfelt tribute to street cleaners >

Oh Mr cleaner man
How do you make my street so clean?
Oh Mr cleaner man
What gives it that brilliant Sheen?
Oh Mr cleaner man
Is it some derivative of benzene?
Oh Mr cleaner man
I�ve got you sussed! It�s a phosphene!
Oh Mr cleaner man
How do you stay so keen?
Oh Mr cleaner man
Is it an excessive dose of morphine?
Oh!! Mr cleaner man
How could I have doubted your love for caffeine!?
Oh Mr cleaner man
Why don�t you just use an F-in machine!
Oh Mr cleaner man
Don�t you realise how much that would ease your routine?
Oh Mr cleaner man
Imagine the extra time u can spend with your underage teen

----------------------------------------

< Therapy >

This Girl I knew, well she was dating me,
Been nine months and all seemed fine,
Things were going swimmingly,
Things seemed so grand, she was divine
But then one day it struck me. This girl needs therapy!

You ask me now why I think therapy,
Well, the days were dark and weather alpine
December time and children queued behind me,
And that�s when I got these thoughts of mine
As she sat there on Santa�s knee

She sat on his knee, with unimaginable glee,
A smile that warmed the soul, but soon sent shivers down my spine,
She twirled her hair and fluttered her eyes as she sat there placed upon his knee
He talked with her for days it seemed, this girl I loved, so divine
She stroked his chest, and sat there still never once looking at me

Ok I didn�t want to sit on his knee
But much crying and screaming from the kids in line
With mothers quite contently blaming me
But have some consideration please. I�m beginning to suspect its not quit so benign
My girl loves Santa� now that�s gotta be bad for me

My next words for hours in my head refine
Waiting for when she finally leaves and comes back to me
My thoughts on this I�d need to outline
But to say that I�m jealous of Santa? She�s going to think I�m touchy!
How do I tell her and it not seem like a whine?

�You need help, you need therapy�
She stares at me, hands landing firmly on her waistline
My heart stops, hands damp with worry
Did I just say that?! Oh man, look at that frown!
Why did I speak so frankly?!

�This about me being on Santa�s Knee?�
How could she be so abrupt? My thoughts racing I try to confine
�You sat there and stroked him, flirting, with a face filled with glee.
Wrapped up in your own special world, with me left distant on the sideline
Three months down the line and Santa kills any thoughts you may have for me�

�Girl I love you but you need therapy,
Helping you with this I�m going to have to decline,
You can�t get that kind of help from me.
I�m sure things will work out just fine
With the help you get laid out on a settee�

She smiled and placed her hands on me
�There�s something I haven�t told you. A secret I�ve kept for a month� or nine,
Santa there, the man I stared at with eyes so dreamy
He lives at that little house of mine.
We�re married you see�

�Sorry�

----------------------------------------

< The Many Whys of Women - and answers to a few>

Women have many whys about them
Things that few can grasp, least of all us poor men
So some help I�ll give in this short poem
And soon the house shall one again be filled with karmic Zen

Question one:
Does My Bum Look Big In this?
This one truly makes our heartbeat run
How to give an answer and not take the piss

A good starts always just not tell the truth
But then where�s that ever gotten you�ll
Remember back to your sprightly youth
Say yes and run you fool

Question two:
You love me right?
Won�t a simple cuddle do?
You better answer well, or it�ll be the settee tonight

This one�s never easy
And you know she won�t settle for anything less
She�s staring, watching your eye�s closely
Looking for any signs of distress

Maybe you�re best bets to lie
Or maybe you should say she�s swell
At least that�s an honest reply
But don�t expect any answer to not make her yell

Question three:
And this one�s usually not given much time to consider answer
You want to come in for coffee?
With alcohols help, through the door you�ll inevitably sunder

But is it wise? What the heck�s this broads name anyway!
The coffee�s probably a good idea in your state mind,
And its probably best to avoid a discussion and just say OK
Anyway, its just coffee and she�s just being kind

�You�re an ugly bugger after all, its JUST coffee.

----------------------------------------

< Ugly Man Meets Mr Bush>

Imagine the fun that would be had
If Mr Bush met Ugly man.
The pure genius of a trip to Baghdad
Well done Mr Bush. So far that�s your finest plan!
I doubt anyone could stand the presence of you or ugly man� oh this is going to end bad!!
Oh look. Here comes self exploding fanatical man!

----------------------------------------

< Goodo >

The English Language was a wonderful art
Back in the day when you went to war with tea in hand
Chocks away, jolly good show old chap�ah, it warms the heart
But recently I�ve heard it mistreated firsthand
By some knocked up gipsy tart
Why can�t such use be banned?

----------------------------------------

< Cincinnati>

I went for a drive, of all the places to Cincinnati
Came as a slight surprise, living nowhere near Ohio
It really was a slightly worrying puzzle to me
Last I knew was a rolling Dorset meadow
Well, I guess it�s a nice holiday for free
It�s just the return journey may be slightly slow

----------------------------------------

< �French Military Victories�>

A search once done for �French Military Victories� was done
It all worked fine and results abound
But hidden away with a little bit of immature fun
Google�s �I�m feeling lucky� was used, and the result I�m sure won�t astound
French military victories probably already strikes u as a silly notion
�No standard web pages containing all your search terms were found.�
A corrections given however, that I wish to share with fellow kinsmen

�Did you mean: French military defeats�

----------------------------------------

< Endangered Languages >

Has the world gone mad seems a daily question
When new research sheds light on endangered languages
Now was there really any need to mention?
A language is lost to the world every two weeks? At this the mind races
Is this a cause for concern? Is that such a misfortune?
If we try and save them now, how will we ever erase French?

----------------------------------------

< Las Vegas � �The Strip�>

With a pocket of notes, and the limo waiting,
It�s a matter of fatigue as you set of for the eve.
Driving down an illuminecent stretch of road, cruising
These sights you can hardly hope to conceive
No newspapers line the streets, just call-cards, ladies waiting
Not a place for children, for the na�ve
You call to the driver and up to the sidewalk you pull-in 
You exit and though the street a line to the casinos cleave
Immersed in the atmosphere, the sights, smells, sounds of winning
You sit at the tables, $100 minimum; guess this is your only reprieve
The night blurs past, drinking, gambling,
Every moment hidden from the outside, a plan to deceive
There are no clocks, no windows, no way of knowing
Guess it doesn�t matter now anyway, you may as well not leave
Your flight left two days ago, let�s hope you book another before u start losing

----------------------------------------

"All these poems helped me to submit the
50th Poem to Mr Ederic's Site and secure 
my place in Ederic History as the receiver 
of the cookie. In honour of this the following
jubilant poem was written"

< Soon I�ll Get My Cookie >

Soon I�ll Get My Cookie 
When I next meet Mr Ederic
With chocolate chips all soft and gooey
Though do I trust him to not lace it with arsenic?
Hmm... with my craving this may be tricky
Why do u test me so Mr Ederic!

< Cheese cheese cheese cheese >

On a fine winters morning,
As day was a-dawning,
I suddenly rose with a shout,
For I had forgotten,
My cheese was all rotten,
And mould was beginning to sprout.
 
I was up late last night,
When, to my delight,
I smelt a smell most distinctive.
I felt like Ceaser,
As I leapt for the freezer,
My movements were instinctive.
 
And there in the light,
Twas a heavenly sight,
Twas all wrapped in polythene.
And as I drew closer,
I remembered my grocer,
With his marvellous cheese routine:
 
"There aint nothing fresher,
Than out Cheshire,
And our Limburger can't be beat,
Or try something new- 
Like our Lou Palou,
The supermarkets can't compete."
 
As I recalled his song,
I sang along,
As I started to slice the cheese.
And as the smell grew stronger,
I started to Conga,
In spite of my dodgy knees.
 
And what with the cheese,
And my heart disease,
I begain to feel quite queasy.
But I carried on eating, 
And my heart kept beating,
In spite of the fat all cheesy.
 
My cheese I disguarded,
My arteries bombarded,
With fats, oh, all unsaturated.
And as I fell to the floor, 
I could no longer ignore,
The problem that I had created.
 
And now I see red,
The doctors had said,
That cheese was alright to eat,
"But they were wrong,
They were wrong all along,"
I gasped as I stood to my feet.
 
My love for the cheese,
Shall go unappeased,
For I can eat it no more,
But I shall still wonder,
If life is worth living,
Without all the cheese I adore.

----------------------------------------

< Cheese Cheese Cheese Cheese! >

As the sun set slowly,
I was eating spognoli,
Outside on the veranda
When upon the breeze,
came the scent of  cheese,
like subliminal propaganda.
 
I arose from my seat,
my dinner complete,
To find this smell most divine.
with the smell ingrossed,
I felt I must post,
this story on cheesenet online.
 
As I crept round the house,
I remembered my spouse:
Cheese he was not meant to munch.
It made him feel ill,
just to think of the thrill,
of having some cheese for his lunch.
 
He had once passed out,
it was following a bout,
Of illicit cheese consumption.
and now he's resorted,
to a plan I have thwarted,
Thanks to his lack of gumption.
 
And so, sure enough,
He was there with the stuff,
Trying to be discrete.
But he had reconed without,
the smell it doled out,
Twas reminicent of his feet.
 
He had eaten it all,
he'd been caught in the thrall,
Of a very gooey brie.
And so twas quite sad,
cause of the cheese he'd had,
It'd blocked up his artery.
 
The cheese in his heart,
Caused him to part,
this world when he was so young,
Life was so better,
with chedder and feta,
melting upon your toungue.
 
From this we can see,
one should not marry,
A man who eats too much cheese.
Because he will eat
overt or discreet.
And die of a heart disease.
 
And so he had died,
I had hardly cried,
Twas cheese that had taken his life,
and who can compete,
with something so sweet,
as cheese, when you're only his wife?

----------------------------------------

< Confessions of a Cheese Lover >

Twas early one morning,
as the day was a dawning,
When I should have been abed
Something was wrong,
and it didn't take long,
To remember the things that I'd said:
 
I had been out to dine,
and over some wine,
The topic of cheese had arose.
When cheese is debated,
from my head, unabated,
comes a torent of lyrical prose.
 
But it was trasparent,
as it soon came apparent, 
that my companions did not favour cheese.
And so with remorse,
I skipped the cheese course,
In order to put them at ease.
 
As dessert arrived,
I was feeling deprived,
I could almost stand it no longer.
I needed that curd,
like a dung beetle needs ... oxygen,
And my craving slowly grew stonger.
 
It soon became clear,
that it would not dissapear,
I had been eating cheese for too long.
And as the evening wore on,
The conclusion forgone;
To skip the cheese had been wrong.
 
I suddenly cracked,
my intestinal tract,
was in dire need of some cheese.
And so I went mad,
enough, I had had,
Of terrrible evenings like these.
 
I fled from the room,
some cheese to consume,
In order to ease the pain.
having eaten my fill,
I knew I was ill.
And that this could not happen again.
 
And so you find me,
I think you'll agree,
With a terrible cheese addiction.
Thought it appears to me,
that line number three,
is rather a contradiction:
 
Because though I am cursed,
with a terrible thirst,
for all the cheese in Britain.
It's always so nice,
to take a bite from a slice,
Of cheese when you're so smitten.

"Poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese"
- G.K. Chesterton

George's Cheese Series
written in November 2002
Cheese cheese cheese cheese
[Thurs 7th - Kev's B'day!]
Cheese Cheese Cheese Cheese!
[Fri 8th]
Confessions of a Cheese Lover
[Fri 15th]

Poems about Famous People
THE SKY AT NIGHT (an ode to Patrick Moore)
24th May '03

< THE SKY AT NIGHT (an ode to Patrick Moore) >

The night in question: The twelfth of March/two thousand and three.
Black Black Black Black Black Black, as far as the eye could see.
The wind in the valley was howling, the trees on the hill did scratch themselves into wounds.
The crows were crowing, the dogs were barking, and the cows went "Jibber Jabber Joo".
Stark starlessness (black-black-blackness) streaked as far as you, or I, could see.
The stench of the dark dark storm clouds overhead, the dash to the nearest tree***.

How all that twinkled so brightly, one day, will die.
How all those that once 'Rocked on the Road' so optimistically
Have long since lost their kazoos and (more tragically) the road.

Patrick Moore sits, his fingers shakily lolling.
The cameras, once full of life, have long since stopped rolling. 
That famous monocle has dropped and smashed beside his feet.
That new series they promised, has not been mentioned in weeks.
How can he sit there, how on earth does he cope.
In his famous garden, by his famous telescope.

Don't drive at night! (if you can help it). I vaguely recall, 
That you are 10x less likely to spot a potential pitfall.
One fatal mistake or unseen problem, and you're screwed.
And the next thing you know, you're eating Hospital Food.

So now, I'm lying next to a man who's got an operation in 5 minutes.
Not the most delightful dude I've met, if I really have to be honest.
He's always got a problem, he's a very bitter dude.
And now he is complaining about his Hospital Food.

Then, surprisingly, an unexpected tangent brings a novel conversation to the fore,
He'd been searching through his video collection, just the night before,
And who should he come across but his teenage Idol, Patrick Moore,
Oh no! It's become some deep personal bitterness, this man is such a bore:

"They promised him another series of his famous show
I waited and waited on tenterhooks for it to come. But no.
The goddam BBC folk say the ratings will be too low.
I really want it to return, it's more entertaining than the nurse
The only problem is that I've been waiting now for years.
It really wouldn't surprise me if I die..."

***
> Please note that the people who stood under trees, 
> when the storm was imminent, in this poem, 
> were trained professionals. Don't try this at home. 
***

< My Radiator >

Life is like a box of lemons
sweet and sour and yellow
They don't sell them in yemen

My radiator gets quite hot
If i leave it on all day
In my room i smoke pot alot

I give you an orange
No cutesy card or gift
Because nothing rhymes with orange

Except door hinge
Or possibly
Lozenge

Note to self
Now must be sentimental
Like an elf

Life is like poo
Smelly, gooey and brown
You! Who is dr. Who? And who are you?

Bonhoeffer

Who am i?
Rob.........duh!

----------------------------------------

< The never ending story by cs lewis >

Fee fi fo fum i smell the blood of an english man
Im An english man in new york
Woah, im an idiot, im a legal american
Im now living my time....... in new york

Nick my back paddy snack whack
Give a dog a home
At least tic and tac
And roll the dog a bone......

Er, mary mary quite contrary
I'm looking for a fertiliser
On the contrary my dear mary
Youll be lost after one budweiser

Humpty dumpty sat on his balls
What are they getting at
These twisted nurseries subtle the fools
Maybe the cat at on the mat

Now i guess ive made my point
Youd like that wouldnt you
Now i guess i should smoke a joint
And maybe take apu

----------------------------------------

< Orange >

It�s all happening in the orange peel,
Or so I�m told, from the word, on the street.
It may not give you a proper meal,
But, killing? To get some meat?

Meeting people is a lot of fun,
But only if you know how:
�Hey, you have nice buns!�
�You�re not like them other cows!�

�Do you come here often, frequent like?�
�Do you have time?�
�That weather�s crud! Alright for pike�
They�re confused when you rhyme;

That must be typical for a poet.
I�m deep and engrossing.
I have the knowledge and they don�t�. know it.
I�m drinking while their toasting.

----------------------------------------

< The Arabian Knight >

Right, said fred, the arabian knight
As he went to the battle that day
Just think of the money itll be all right
Said fred on his way that day did say

Fred was arabian by reputation
Not by choice was he an arabian knight
Nor nature fear, or exultation
Did he gain the much prized sensation.

He died
On Tuesday

----------------------------------------

< British Empire >

Rule Brittania, Brittania rules... what was it?
A distant memory, i forget to remember
Like that gay guy in the closet
We cant let go of it
No longer a superpower contender
God! our gracious Queen is dead,
Long live the Queen- our queen is dead.

----------------------------------------

< "look out! he's going to blow!" >

Each and everyone is ignorant when-
Their booze is bled and crumbs are shed away
Blind faith in those around them say to me,
"We know what's what...s going on," said big ben.

rinse and repeat Wicky wicky wah wah

Rob's Contribution
written between '01-'03
My Radiator
The never ending story by cs lewis
Orange
The Arabian Knight
British Empire
"look out! he's going to blow!"

More of the same?..
Read some of Rob's Stories!

George's Holiday - written 7th August 2003
This poem is contructed solely from a brief conversation with Liz Challis about the reason why George was not online.
It is apparent that George did not actually go to France, rather Kenya instead.... he lied! Note: it has come apparent that George did go to France... he lied!
My Holiday - written 25th August 2004
...in response...

< George's Holiday >

It was a hot, sunny day in late July,
I was not online to say "byebye!"
To George who, by some happy chance,
Had taken the opportunity to skip to France.
Precisely which day it was, I can't recall
Or, for that matter, whether it was sunny at all.

However, nevertheless, it does not matter
I'm sure that even if the rain did splatter
That George would have had the most excellent day
As he sailed the two hours from Dover to Calais.
Though p'aps he rode the Channel Tunnel
Its 30 minute sprint would beat Ms Gunnell.

But let's not get stuck on the way he travelled,
We really want to know how the time unravelled.
Did he seek great monuments and other urban sights?
Or watch (and p'aps bet on) the illegal cock-fights?
And what about the world-famous French cuisine?
So many things he could have done and he's not yet eighteen.

Author's Note: Since, from France, no postcard was sent,
The details of your holiday I will have to invent.
When you get back, correct the bits that are wrong,
But since I wasn't there, it'll probably be quite long.
And so, the rest of this poem to you presents
George's Holiday... and it's three main events.

On the slopes of the French Alps, the family learnt to ski,
Except, sadly, George's Mum, fraught by her injury.
Meanwhile, George had realized he was vexingly bad
And observed rather cross-makingly, that so was his dad.
Only Robin had got it sussed, but though this was quite clever,
He then skied too fast, could not stop, and was lost forever.

The second event happened quite by chance.
And because, at this time, Liz was also in France.
She'd been trekkin' and camping and stuff
And hadn't really enjoyed it, interestingly enough.
So to dine that night, in your hotel, was welcome relief
But faced with a week of more backpacks, it was all too brief.

By the time of the third stage, of fun they had had a lot
So much infact that of poor Robin's fate they had actually forgot.
As it turn's out he was in bad shape, but crucially still alive.
Forced to turn to brutal crime, he had just managed to survive.
When George & Company found out, the situation was surreal,
Caught, he now faced death row, inside the great Bastille.

But since this is a happy poem, he was saved from the Guillotine,
Thanks to some clever Diplomacy, and a grovelling apology from the Queen.
So all returned to Blighty, quite safely and all-round fine.
It was agreed by everyone involved that their holiday was sublime.
Not just the main events, but the whole caboodle was divine.
So much was seen and done... A postcard? There simply wasn't time!

----------------------------------------

< My Holiday to Kenya >

T'was early one morning, late in June, 
that we set off to Gatwick, humming this tune. 
The roads were crowded, the weather hot, 
we discover too late; our sunhats forgot. 
But nevertheless, on we press; 
forgotten headwear'd not hamper our progress.

Lest we get distracted from my exciting tale, 
By my disturbing over-attention to detail, 
We shall turn our attention towards the flight; 
We're all aboard and soon the engines ignited, 
The entire world was spread out below me, 
And in no time at all we arrived in Nairobi.

Author's Note: Because, I'm afraid, I didn't feel so well, 
I spent much of that week asleep, in the hotel. 
However, a full recovery soon was made, 
The doctor merely advising I stayed in the shade. 
And so, the rest of this poem to you I present, 
My holiday, and its sole (alas) main event.

On the slopes of the Mount Kenya, deep in the forest, 
We went On Safari, with a family of florists. 
Quite what they were doing there, I wasn't sure, 
But they seemed to revel in the flora obscure. 
Each to their own, as I always say; 
Revelling, as I do, in that sort of clich�.

After merely a day of trekkin' and stuff, 
We'd reached a concensus; enough was enough. 
Our feet were sore, our legs felt tight, 
We were absolutely covered in mosquito bites. 
Unhappily, and feeling quite down 
We reminisced over the Hotel Food (the talk of the town.)

But disaster! by the end of the third day we were somewhat mislaid, 
Our map eaten by a hungry Robin, which rained on our parade. 
By the end of the week, we were barely alive. 
But, crucially, had managed, somehow, to survive. 
Every muscle from head to toe was aching; 
We agreed that this was all rather cross-making.

Fortunately (and because this is a happy poem) 
The florists got us down safely (go them!) 
And so, coated in foresty slime, 
We arrived at the airport, just in time. 
And I can reveal now that that ordeal is over, 
In future we'll be going to France, from Dover.

~ by some chap... ~

Writing a poem
Seventeen syllables long
Is very diffic...

~ by Ed ~

< Deep & Meaningful >

Sitting on the beach
Looking at our Sand Castles
Waiting for high tide...

Stupid Smiling Souls
Oblivious to my loss
Thirty-Two, Seventy

----------------------------------------

< The Childishly Aggrieved >

We're going to Stroud
To go to the Swimming Pool
But we find it's shut

On our way to France
My family gets sea sick
And it gets boring

----------------------------------------

< The Desperately Dark >

Surrounded by death
Buildings completely destroyed
People's hopes have gone!

Shot down from the sky
Disgraced in their home country
Dying far from home

----------------------------------------

< The Optimistically Jovial >

A Great State of affairs!
All round nice chap made PM
For fifth time running.

All-day bowl was cool
Seven game win, ego boost
Blister has popped

----------------------------------------

~ by Kev ~

This is a haiku,
At the bottom of the page.
It is great, though no

Haikus
mostly written in 1997
(part of a Year 7 introduction
to poetry thing, for English)
some are later...

Intersillent Metrophobia - written 18th January 2004
by George, naturally.
Incipient Plasmolysis - written...
by Gustav, obviously.

< Intersillent Metrophobia >

Twas- and it's not surprising, considering- a dark and stormy night.
The rain was all wet and damp, and thunder and lightning was charging
around the place making a nuisance of themselves as one might
expect. Naturally, this is the sort of night one would anticipate things
of a suitably eldritch and downright strange nature to occur.
And one, in this case, would not be disappointed. 
Having, then, established this somewhat melodramatic scene-
but I feel that's rather my prerogative, with being the one appointed
to tell you all about it, and all. So. What I really mean
to say is that it wasn't actually that dark or stormy at all.
And the whole point- if you'd not already noticed- of this account
is to indulge in hyperbole at the expense of plot. There was a slight squall,
if you must know, but nothing really noteworthy. It doesn't mount 
up to much, does it? Never mind. Undeterred, we shall press on, I feel,
and see what is happening upon this vaguely windy afternoon. 
To be honest, I think that it would be a mistake on my part to reveal
what actually transpired, so I shall just keep this up and soon, 
no doubt, you'll get bored and trundle off in disgust. I am sorry.
But it is this flagitious nugacity- which, I fear, seems to be ingraviscent-
at which I seem to be quite good. Did you notice that I just found my
thesaurus? Anyway, I have little left to say- although it's relatively evident
that I had nothing to say when I started. So! the lesson that we can all learn
from this is what happens on dark and stormy nights is none of our concern.

----------------------------------------

< Incipient Plasmolysis >

Twas- and it's a good word, twas, that gets better, unsurprisingly and inconsiderately, the more times you say it in quick and spontaneous succession, especially, um, if the night upon which you say it is, er, both dark and stormy, because it all adds to the atmosphere, really - a downright discusting sort of an union peel, that was also accompanied by a beaker of sucrose solution of suitably unspecifed and thingily thingified molarity, which was more than a little bit wet and damp, along with various other unmentionable pieces of equipment, whose very nature successfully prevents an appropriate desription being rendered, which is a good thing in my opinion, and the whole lot was downright ELVISH, due to the fact that those involved suspected that there was, in fact, a rather incomplete absence of correct grammar - made up for, however, by what could undoubtedly be described (as one might expect) as a rather more complete absence of full stops, as one might expect. As one might expect, it was a bit of a nuisance. Ahem. One. Sorry. One might ex.p.ec.t. h.e..l.p....!!....!....!........!.....1.......1.........1...............................      ...                 .
        ..
 .         .
ahem. One might expect something to occur in such a situationm it having been established and all, and since i put so much effort into doing so, I'd better ACTUALLY tell you. Plasmolysis of the incipient variety soon began to occur amoung both the plasma membranes of both the greater and the lesser epidermal cells the onion peel in question, which was, I'll assure you, of great significance as regards calculating the water potential of the internal solution of the protoplasm. In other words: nothing happened. Other than the rather necessary utterance by the aforementioned Those Involved of the phrase "Oh Poo"

(although you probably got so bored that you, in fact, left entirely at the start, which is why you are reading this, ISNT IT)

And so after that they went to Norwich
Pumpkin pumpkin pumpkin pumpkin porridge.

< The minds of mortals >

A bold warrior he strode out
Across the endless plains
Steaked by the sun
On the sides of the hills
Glowing as it sets

Sinking over the horizon
The last shafts light the plains
His shadow lengthens
Towards the dark side of the earth
And the dark places grow

He stands on a hill looking out
Out across the rolling land
Turning beneath his feet
Waiting for the wind to blow
And show him the way

As the dusky clouds sweep across
From the dark side of the earth
Still he stands silhouetted
Breathing the fast-cooling air
As the night arrives

Then the wind blows
And it takes him on his path
With every step he leaves the past behind
Heading straight for strange lands
Far away and hidden

He will take himself to his own life
In new cities and foreign lands
He will fight his own battles
Away from the dark caves
Where he was made

As he walks in his eyes are pictures
Of swords and weapons clashing
Of men with fire running and shouting
Of dragons wings sweeping over villages
Of adventures lying ahead

He looks ahead with his eyes
He does not even look back with his dreams
He is alone but he is free
And one day he will be no more
Than a dream in the minds of mortals

Apocryphal Poems:

The Banteer of Sir Welkin
by George and Alex
The minds of mortals
by Anonymous

Miscellaneous (Random) Poems:
since there is no better way to describe them

now i'll write a song
by Munchkin

"... [ed's] website is dedicted solely to pictures of Mr. Men and links to toothpaste places..."
George - quoted from our Hergest Ridge / Staunton Proper exploits.

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