Month: March 2005

  • She used to be my friend,

    Now she crosses the street when she sees me

    She will not speak to me

    And I don’t know why.



    Won’t she tell me what I said wrong?

    Mummy says some people are like that

    But I still feel hurt.



    —

    Sophie Lucy Morgan (aged 10)


    ———–

     


    Tyler said:

    “I’ve got a lot of ghosts inside me

    and they tell me to tell you

    that if you tease me, they will

    make your life hell when you die!”



    We teased him more after that

    ‘specially after miss had said

    it was the most ridiculous thing

    she had ever heard.



    But I did tell Tyler

    he would make a great poet!



    —

    Sophie Lucy Morgan (Aged 10)

    ———

     


    I dug up an old penny in the garden.

    Grandad said “it’s nowt worth much”.

    But it had a kings head on it.

    I looked the date up

    King Edward the Seventh.



    I had to clean the penny up to see it.

    It may be “nowt worth much”

    But it means a lot to me

    Having found it in my garden.



    —

    Sophie Lucy Morgan (aged 10)

     




    Visit: Three_Headed_Sarahs site and say goodbye to them and watch their sons start a new religion!



    The_Clowne_from_Clown has visited Bleinheim Palace Park, Where Winston Churchill lived and Roosevelt stayed.

  • Link to my NEW book http://www.cafepress.com/assortedfruits


    And from the book: two poems.


    “Raga Kalvati”

    ________________________________

    night-gat swim, the oil-sea

    i dream     i dream

    of the moon shadow

    of a silver shimmer

    singing, singing,

    i dream     i dream

    of the black salt raga

    humming, humming,

    the planet heart ever combing the waves

    starspeck marine of lost souls

    crying, crying,

    i dream     i dream

    of the drut teental salavia water

    my hot fireskin in coolness

    floating, floating,

    song cradling an alap of sky

    in cloud baked stars

    i dream     i dream

    the tala of my icebreath

    will end the sorrow of blackfig purple

    greeting, greeting,

    the ocean without the crunching

    sound of killing tanks

    grinding, grinding,

    the sand-dune drink of dust

    i dream     i dream

    of a land with a god of many hopes

    leading the white rhino to the pastures

    where blood does not drip

    its child-death laughter

    sobbing, sobbing,

    i dream     i dream

    and the fishy depths surround me forever

    singing, singing,

    the moonglow ripples of the hot night

    i dream     i dream

    of the raga kalavati

    sung at my uniting of my soul with water

    longing, longing,

    to take my immortal spores across the sea

    and leave man alone to fight in my name.

    —

    Lord Pineapple

     

    ————-

     


    “I rediscovered the unworn world” (Patrick Kavanagh)



    Come easy to this unworn world,

    where life and death go un-treated;

    but where there is still the freshness,

    where there is still the unstale’d.



    It was never easy to see the world as new

    when one is their-self crusting old,

    when one has drank the wine of it’s soul

    and ate the plants of it’s dying light.



    But I know I have re-discovered you

    whenever I write a poem at all,

    whenever the clouds silk in cold

    or are baked in an oven of suns.



    An unworn world that’s still soaks life,

    billions of people each with different eyes

    that look in wonder out of different brains,

    and all using very different words.



    If I wore a crown every day

    I could not have so much power

    as when I touch a silver leaf

    or feel a redbrick factory.



    After all I have suffered in my days

    I still want to rise up again

    out of the ashes of silence,

    to re-discover the unworn world

    in the evening of my dreams,



    —

    The Poet Known as “Empty Chairs”


    _____________

     

    Link to well…check it PLEASE! For_Terry

  • Link to my NEW book http://www.cafepress.com/assortedfruits


    Link to well…check it PLEASE! For_Terry


     


    I don’t believe, but The Rev. Toby does…


     


    “In Memory of You”



    Photographs can freeze beauty

    Be it the smile of a child

    Or the face of one departed

    Be it a building loved, and gone

    Or a place you shall never re-visit.



    Can memory do the same

    I wonder

    As I think of you now

    In heaven waiting for me

    Year after year after year.



    Will you have changed

    From that body you had

    When you last stepped into your car

    To go shopping in Buxton?



    The years may pass

    But my memory of you will not.

    And it is more than a photograph

    It is everything I do and pray for.



    I walk away from your grave,

    Sometimes I wish I did not bury you here

    In my own churchyard…

      At other times I am glad I did

    As I imagine your soul sitting beside me

    Helping me to write the sermons

    You so once loved.



    I keep your picture beside me,

    It’s beauty is frozen forever.

    And my desk is stained with my tears

    In memory of you.



    —

    The Reverend Tobias Trontby †


    ———–

     


    Still the silent voice remains

    For one who does not believe in ghosts,

    For one who does not see behind their hand

    To look at what can not be seen.



    The truth my friend is nothing more

    Than what the mind alone can judge,

    It defies physics, it defies logic,

    It defies all what can be measured.



    Still the silent voice remains

    Silent to all who can but hear it,

    The picture that is not in a frame

    The book with no words.



    We travel long with our eyes shut

    Only seeing what we are told can be seen,

    Never understanding that which

    Can only be seen with closed eyes.



    I can see her ghost beside me now,

    I can hear her whisper her love for me,

    I can also hear the ghost of God

    It too does not understand science.



    Ghost upon ghost upon ghost that leads

    To the finest ghost of them all.

    To Jesus himself that is everywhere,

    A silent voice within us all.



    —

    The Reverend Tobias Trontby †


    ————-

     


    i may be dying,

    but i am not without hope.



    i do not mean for myself:

    the long nights of my soul

    crying over the empty tundra

    longing again to breathe,

    to touch, to smell…



    no, i have hope for my child.



    the war is over

    and peace is so lovely

    and a wonderful family

    is to look after her.



    a doctor and his wife no less

    to look after the little orphan.



    they are people whose own children

    are nearing adulthood.



    they are people that i know

    will love my child

    and give her the things

    i can not give her,



    like breath, and touch

    and smell…



    —

    Ingar Gǿrse

     

    As always The_Clowne_from_Clown site does not comment back much, I have no time, but it’s here if you want to read the real me.

  • Three poets who (perhaps like “Charlie The Copper”) that has never made it in my personae stakes, the failures include a pig, a farmer and a teacher, all here, though the teacher’s poem is not about teaching.


    Three Poems by Buster The Pig.

    ____________________________

    In the mud

    the piglets play,

    their curly tails

    dance and sway.



    Seven piglets

    in the slops,

    one day they’ll be

    sizzleing pork-chops.



    ———–



    Sitting in my sty

    and wondering oh why

    there is no god

    for us poor sods.



    ———–



    Today for food…..grunt

    is mangel-wurzel…..grunt

    can’t the farmer…..grunt

    give us something better?…..grunt

    Clarence (me mate)…..grunt

    thinks the farmer is…..grunt

    a right stupid…..*unt

     

    (end)

    —

     







    After Dad’s Funeral

    __________________

    “I’ll miss him love,

    I’ve glad I’ve got you,

    Put kettle on will yer love

    And let’s have a brew.”



    Aye, we just back from crem,

    Tears an’ sobs from Mum an’ me;

    An’ what’s first thing Mother wants?

    Why, a lovely cup o’ tea.



    It were always thus round these parts,

    If owt wrong at all, nay stew,

    Just put kettle on stove

    An’ t’tea-pot on brew.



    —

    Minnie Minns.

     

    —

    Next poem might “give” to the Rev. Toby.

     


    Go to him. Old Mr. Teasdale,

    Go and see him

    Bedridden in his home.



    But do not take gifts with you

    Like flowers or whisky,

    They will only gather dust

    In a corner of his room

    To be pinched perhaps

    By a less than honest helper.



    No, go and see Mr. Teasdale,

    And tell him how Potts fell down a hole

    And found some old copperware.

    Tell him how Alice is no longer

    That naughty spotty schoolgirl

    But has turned into a stunner

    That moves men’s heads.



    Tell him all the news of the village,

    The gossip, the fall-outs…

    And he’ll smile at you

    Like he rarely smiles today

    And thank you for

    Your wonderful gift from God.

    —

    Farmer Mott.

     

    ——–

    The next site to update? Possb Three_Headed_Sarahs
    Of course, the cricket thing is up. act two has been wrote, but maybe the Sarahs’ will try another sport and wrestle with The Undertaker on World Wrestling Entertainment.

     

    Got a lot for the The_Clowne_from_Clown
    site now, but might leave it for the time being, answer some of my comments on this first!

    Terry

  • cancer-girl



    the pain is there

    everyday it’s there

    eating eating into me

    destroying my body

    and my mind.



    oh little daughter

    how much it hurts me

    to cuddle you,

    to smile at you,

    to write this poem

    upon this page.



    everyday it is there

    it won’t go away

    it has no where to go

    but to attack me

    until it has won

    and i am dead.



    if you ever read this poem

    my little one,

    let me remind you

    that the biggest pain of all

    is the pain of knowing

    i will never see you grow up.



    that is the real cancer my child,

    the real pain.



    —

    Ingar Gǿrse

     

    —

    (Which I suppose leads neatly to..)

     


    “Four a.m.”



    The pain-killer has worn off,

    I make a cup of tea.

    It is just about 4 a.m.

    And on this summer morning

    The first birds start to sing.



    I write my sermon,

    And look up to God in the sky

    For inspiration.



    I drink my tea,

    It has gone cold.

    I sigh,

    There are worse things in this world

    Than a cold cup of tea.



    I hold my back,

    It aches like mad.

    There are worse things in this world

    Than a bad back.



    I have a funeral today

    Of a young mother.

    There are no worse things in this world.



    I make myself another cup of tea.

    I expect this one will also turn cold

    Before I remember to drink it.



    —

    The Reverend Tobias Trontby †

     

    New entry from the The_Clowne_from_Clown site, but will comment from here for now.

  • Blind date. Could it be an unkind fate?



    I wait there trying to look pretty.

    Men pass by, look at me, and pass on

    As if I was a weedy old cow

    In a cattle pen.



    I stand outside

    The posh bar

    Look at all the drinks

    And at all the men.



    He said he’ll meet me here,

    He promised.



    I keep looking at the photo

    And at any man carrying flowers.

    I keep looking

    As time alone screws on.



    I could have had two drinks by now

    And a splended meal.



    I began to realise no one is coming,

    That I have been stood up,

    I had guessed after that half-heartily

    Yahoo-messenger message, that mister

    Was not going to master me.



    After a hour of feeling a prune

    I find a quiet pub

    And sit alone and drink

    Like an old bag lady.



    Blind date? Bloody great!



    I look at the wrinkles on my face

    Through my powder-puff mirror,



    And I start to cry.



    —



    “Good night last night Tiff?”

    “Yeah, he was a splended guy,

    But I am choosy I am afraid.”



    The beer tastes bitter,

    I must wash the pipes out.



    At least some old pipes get filled

    With creamy liquid!





    —

    Tiffy Witherington

     

    —-

     


    “Time to wake up Toby,

    Rise and shine my lucky lad!”



    I curse the new clock I bought,

    The pre-recorded voice is so cheerful.

    Why didn’t I stick with a buzzer

    Rather than join the fad?



    I feel a pang of guilt too,

    For the vicar over at Bentley St. Martin’s

    Has on his clock

    The Lord Prayer!



    —



    The Reverend Tobias Trontby.

     

    —

     


    My sweet tooth

    is so sweet

    that all of the others

    have fallen out

    over the years

    just from eating

    too many sweets.



    —

    Tiffy Witherington.

     

    —

     

    to come:

    The_Clowne_from_Clown on Sunday night: “The Clowne in London”  Read about me hoping to meet an xanga person in the flesh, but them not turning up. Read also about St. Patrick’s day parade. The site won’t get many comments as I refuse to comment using that blog.

  • The sky fell on my head.



    Damn, I had just washed my hair!



    And as for my suit!!!

    The stars look like dandruff on it,

    And the moon must make me look a right freak.



    The sky fell on my head.



    “Sorry” God said.



    —

    The Poet Known as “Empty Chairs”

    —

     

     


    Two poems about Martin O’………



    We got tired of Martin

    stinking in class,

    so one day

    14 of us

    gave him a present

    though it was not his birthday.



    We each gave Martin

    a bar of soap.



    Of course he

    threw them at us,



    but it was worth the laugh!



    —

    (Martin is always throwing things.)



    Martin put stones

    inside the snowballs

    he threw at us.



    He made Charlotte and Vikki

    cry.



    Of course teachers are not allowed

    to smack children now,



    so we all got together

    and beated Martin up.



    Martin’s sort-of-dad came

    to the school

    and threatened us,



    but teacher

    called the police



    and we beated Martin

    up again.



    —

    Sophie Lucy Morgan (aged 10)


    —-

     

     


    It is easy to enter

    one’s second childhood,

    when one’s first

    was the last time

    that you were happy.



    When you cursed the fact

    that then

    you had wanted to grow up

    so quickly.



    When I had my first bra

    I told everyone in school.



    My parents were good to me,

    they did not know

    that childhood would be

    almost the last time

    I was happy.



    I wish I could enter

    my second childhood,

    be like like Jenny Joseph


    and wear purple

    with a red hat…



    It will be wonderful

    to be happy again

    for only the second time

    in my life.



    —

    Tiffy Witherington.

     




    (note: the second Sophie poem perhaps I did not truely create from nothing, as it’s very much like what my eight-year old grand-daughter and her friends did to a stone-in-snow bully at her school!)

     

    an apology is on my Clowne site. The_Clowne_from_Clown

  • Thank-You.



    I’ve had my engine stoked now

    for many years

    by a grateful God.



    I have seen life

    and lived from it.

    I have seen death

    and learnt from it.

    I have seen happiness

    and I have seen grief.



    I thank Him

    that I am here right now

    starching my dog-collar,

    cooking my little dinner

    and holding my faithful bible.



    I know I could have done more,

    what honest man can say otherwise?

    What man can sit back and reflect

    that he had done it all?



    It is snowing outside,

    I see each unique flake

    as a reminder of Him,

    and I thank him for my living on

    when so many,

    so much more deserving than I,

    have passed away.



    I have my faults,

    I look at pretty women with lust,

    I do not always say my prayers…

    but what man can look in the mirror,

    and see the reflection

    with the perfection

    of a small child?



    I must go to bed now,

    perhaps I can make a sermon

    of these thoughts

    for my faithful flock

    of 37.



    —

    The Reverend Tobias Trontby. +

     

    ———-

     


    Cursing All Bar One.

    _________________

    We curse the stones

    that move.



    We curse the wind

    and rain.



    We curse very time itself

    and entrophic pain.



    We curse the seas

    and the skies,



    And we curse the heavens

    too.



    The only thing

    that we can not curse



    Is our special love

    for you.



    —

    Marie St. Denis.

    ———