Shared Poetry

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Post old Gray Mare Today at 1:09 am


Where is a real man when
you need him to
cut hay string or sharpen a pencil?
Where is he when you get
a splinter or need to open
a can of pork 'n' beans?

Real men carry pocket knives and
they know a dull blade can
cut you quicker than a sharp one.
Where are the real men
when you need them?

I am wonderful, popular and loveable with it
I am brilliant at everything I do
But make sure you tell me again and again
Or I might just get angry with you

Oh Mistress so brilliant,
Let me lay at your feet
Let me praise you and worship your talent
For we are not worthy
Of someone so swarthy
So clever and witty and gallant

You can tell me you love me
As much as you like
I can use all the praise I can get
For I am the best at whatever I do
But I need to be told more yet

Oh wonderful poetess
You are truly the best
The rest are but pale imitations
Your words are not rivaled
By Byron nor Keats
You show up their limitations
Let me lick at your feet
Let me suck at your soul
Let me fawn over all you survey
For I know your worth as
I know your soul and
I relish the stench of decay

Oh flatter me more my lapdog please
I deserve all the praise I can get
Applaud me and stroke some warmth into bones
That have little of honesty left
For I am alone with no talent at all
And all I can do is rave
So flatter me please, give my ego the boost
Drip the honey of which I so crave

I will praise the afflictions
You sling at the world
I shall stoke up the fires of descent
I shall spread your disease
Across all seven seas
And belittle all those who are decent
For I don’t have the brain to think for myself
I don’t have much of a life
Your lavatory wit makes me quiver and shake
You charm me with all of your shit
You can stroke me too because I am you
I haven’t the wit to be pleasant
And when you have done we shall
Look in the glass and
see if we still have reflections.

Sam had joined up one morning
Though his name would not remain Sam
His sergeant would call him many things
but it changed once the fighting began

A few would call him a hero
But two would call him their son
No-one would ever call him daddy
Not once the fighting’s begun

An easier life than back home, he’d read
Within weeks he’d be marching through France
A boy with a gun is a man they’d said
just point it and shoot to advance

The enemy eat babies they’d told him
He believed them and why should he not?
He was perfectly willing to take the kings shilling
But soon his would wish he had not.

The fields of France were no picnic
What with the bullets and all
But the enemy ate babies they’d told him
And he believed, as he watched his friends fall

The trenches were cold wet and miserable
The bullets flew thick night and day
The shelling was constant and terrible
And peace was a long dream away

It would all be over by Christmas
That’s what they told them back home
but home was not here and they could not hear
the screams and the bombs and the fear

As parts of his friends fell about him
The screaming of all filled his ears
Sam prayed to his God to spare him
Or at least make it all dissapear

A dignified death was denied him
But death indeed he did gain
And Sam was just one amongst many
To die in the mud with his name

John Doe he is now amongst thousands
And thousands of comrade in arms
Row upon row upon row upon row
Upon row upon row of Johns Doe.

I dreamed I was dancing,
And all the while
I knew she watched.
Sat in the corner
Sad face on
And watched.
I kept on dancing
Knowing I didn’t belong.
Didn’t belong in that dream.
It wasn’t my dream
It was her dream
Sad, sad eyes.
Looking past the dream,
Her dream.
I kept on dancing
It felt good
And bad
All at once,
Dancing in her dream
Where I didn’t belong.
Dancing over and under the moon,
In and out of her sad eyes
To her dance music.

Play the music louder
So loud I can’t hear it.
Swirl and take me
Down the vortex,
Down the drain
With hair dyed red,
Gray soap bubbles,
And filthy grim.
Take me down.
Take me down
Spinning out of control.
Dancing alone,
Spinning down,
Catch me before
I finish falling,
Down Alice’s rabbit hole.

WOW!! wow that was great donna im... im speechless (for once)

I am glad you liked it.

and just as good on the second read. Always a good sign.

I love your poems, do you ever put them to music? Its almost as if I can hear the guitar strumming and see the balladeer and hear him sing and strum his guitar.

old Gray Mare wrote:I love your poems, do you ever put them to music? Its almost as if I can hear the guitar strumming and see the balladeer and hear him sing and strum his guitar.

its really hard for me to picture daddy dearest singing. lol