Flat Stanley's Visit To England
A little friend came to visit one day
And I said, 'Fancy that! '
He said his name was Stanley,
I said, 'How come you're flat? '
He said it was an accident
A board fell on his head;
But he'd been lucky really, 'cause
It could have killed him dead!
He also said, 'It's easier now
To get around so much'
And he doesn't need a passport
To help him keep in touch.
He slips inside an envelope
As easy as can be,
And travels with the mail
Until he's where he wants to be.
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poem by John Carter Brown
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Getting up?
After I'm out of my bed in the morning,
After I've finished my stretching and yawning,
I open the curtains to peer at the day;
If blessed with a voice, just what would it say?
'John, I'm so sorry, but things are not right,
The sunshine and rain-clouds are having a fight;
I'll give you three guesses who's come out on top,
That's right, you've got it, the rain will not stop.'
In England this news is no shock or surprise,
On other horizons, the good weather lies,
Oh well, not to worry, I'm fat and well fed,
I'll leave on my P.J.s and go back to bed.
(Written Oct 2012)
poem by John Carter Brown
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Poem for Karen
Please be patient
Please be kind
Try to understand,
This little child so very young
Who's life is in your hand,
Is like an empty vessel
Waiting to be filled,
Like an empty plot of land
Longing to be tilled.
As a page within a book
Is nought without the word,
As a song is meaningless
Until that song is heard,
So a child must have it's heart
Replete with all it needs
To live and love, and find it's way
Among these earthly weeds;
Give your little girl your best,
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poem by John Carter Brown
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The Beach
The only thing wrong with a trip to the beach
Is the fact that the sea's sometimes way out of reach;
With miles and miles of endless sand,
Just why we go there I don't understand.
It isn't as though it's a whole lotta fun,
When you're picking out sand from your toes and your bum;
Eating your 'cheese and grit' sandwiches too,
And fighting off kids 'til you're black and you're blue.
A nice caravan would be better by far,
With so much more room than an old Renault car;
But what can you do when that's all that you've got?
Nothing at all... no iota or jot.
(Written Aug 1994)
poem by John Carter Brown
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War
Peace is so boring
Let's go have a war,
That's just what the guns
And the soldiers are for;
Who cares if the country
Is not under threat,
Let's pour out some tears
And some blood and some sweat.
A pity to waste
Every bomb, every shell,
Let's prime every warhead
And blow them to hell;
So what if the U.N.
Has told us 'No dice'
We couldn't care less,
And cannot think twice.
We know that we know
What is best for the world,
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poem by John Carter Brown
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An Alliterative Lament
One March Monday morning
A dark dismal day,
The snow slowly sleeting,
We wending our way.
Just two tired tradesmen
In life's lonely lanes,
Both thoughtlessly thinking
Of bed in our brains.
Temptation entreating us,
'Wait a wee while...
Why have you to hurry? '
It says with a smile.
But we will not wait
Or sit silently still
'Til the day's deeds are done,
We must make to the mill;
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poem by John Carter Brown
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How Slow
How slow the time passes
On hot summer days,
How heavy the air,
And the heat, and the haze.
How slow the sun's creeping
In reaching for noon,
How long now the day-time
Belonging to June.
How dry lies the earth
In the farmer's old hands,
How slow plod the herds
As they stroll off his land.
How sweet the bird sings
In the old apple tree,
How slow the leaves falling
O'er pathway and lea.
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poem by John Carter Brown
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No Smoking
My wife became a smokeless-zone,
October ninety-four;
She said: 'I've had enough of these,
I'm smoking them no more.
They haven't done me any good,
And cost me lots of money;
To work out the exact amount
Would not be very funny.
To smoke like all my mates
I thought a clever thing to do;
We laughed behind the teacher's back
While puffing in the loo.
But in the end, just like they say,
The last laugh was on me:
I'm only thirty-two, and yet
I feel like forty-three!
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poem by John Carter Brown
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My Adopted Home
A northern town of character
I bravely left, to southward roam;
To relocate my family
In Dunster, my adopted home.
It's medieval majesty
And beauty far beyond compare;
A slice of rural Somerset
This Dunster that we came to share.
An ancient tiny hamlet
Recorded in the Domesday tome;
The river Avill winding through
This Dunster, my adopted home.
Resplendent in it's castle tall
Beside the working water-mill;
A piece of perfect England
Where time is still a standing still.
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poem by John Carter Brown
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The Sunflower
The sunflower,
Lord of the annual bed,
Rising alone and aloof;
Tapping the earth
By the old garden shed
And peering out over the roof.
My sunflower,
Grown from a small and striped seed
I saved through the cold winter days,
The seasonal race
You did easily lead
My prize then your bright coloured gaze.
But sunflower,
King of the colourful crew
Straining right up to the sky,
Please whisper to me,
And answer me true:
Why have you to grow Oh so high?
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poem by John Carter Brown
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