The Bag Of Bones
When first I dug my garden I thought I heard a groan,
but I continued digging and found a bag of bones.
I emptied the bag of bones cautiously on the ground
and from the human skull came a sighing sound.
The bones moved slowly before my astonished eyes
and took the look of a skeleton of a taller larger size.
The incomplete and missing grew to form a connection
and this completed a full skeletal resurrection.
It stood up tall and strode over to my garden hose,
sprayed water over it’s his head and down to it’s toes.
It grabbed hands full of soil and made a sticky mud
and plastered it’s bones all over the best that it could.
As the brown mud dried it turned to a hard flaky skin
and then a pair of white eyes appeared from within.
Curly black hair grew and features formed on its face,
and it wasn’t by far the prettiest of the human race.
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poem by Orlando Belo
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Louisa And Nanny
“Come on, ” said Louisa to Nanny,
“let’s go for a walk before it gets too hot.”
So off they went towards the forest,
on a path they had trodden a lot.
Without giving a thought about the season
and the beginning of the monsoon.
They walked and talked for an hour
on that pleasant early afternoon.
Without warning the heavens opened
and it poured with driving rain.
A ferocious gust of wind blew them
towards the dense bamboo cane.
It came unexpectedly from nowhere
its ferocity almost swept them off their feet.
Holding onto each other they found shelter
behind a huge tree trunk of teak.
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poem by Orlando Belo
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The Vanishings
For me, this happened four months ago
when I was walking into Derby Town.
Before my eyes a man just disappeared
in an instant, and without a sound.
One minute he was there, the next he wasn’t.
In disbelief I stopped and looked around,
to see if anyone else had seen what I had seen,
but no one had, so I continued to town.
As I walked, I thought about what I saw
and whether I could be wrong,
but I was sure the man did disappear,
as he walked innocently along.
Throughout the day and night this troubled me,
and I began to question my sanity.
I concluded that my mind was playing tricks,
no one can vanish so inexplicably.
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poem by Orlando Belo
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My Legacy
My great aunt bequeathed me her wardrobe;
hand carved and made from oak.
It matched the chest of drawers my mother had,
which my ancestors had made bespoke.
We washed, cleaned, and wax polished it,
and placed it where our old one used to be.
It had a distinctive smell of moth balls,
but we were overwhelmed by its history.
My great aunt believed it to be sixteenth century,
and was built especially for the church.
Any further information that we could glean
would be well worthwhile search.
After the smell had gone I filled it with my clothes,
but then it began to smell of church incense.
It wasn’t bad enough to make the clothes smell,
but why it did, made no sense.
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poem by Orlando Belo
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Friends For Tea
Friends For Tea
This morning by the river I saw an enormous snail shell,
and no one was at home as far as I could tell.
Anyway, I knocked three times and then twice more,
and then a sleepy lob eared rabbit came to the door.
“What do you want, ” said rabbit, “Snail has moved on.”
“Oh, I was just curious to know where he had gone.”
“The snail had grown too large for this humble abode,
so now I live here, with my friend King Toad.
I believe Snail has moved much closer to the wood,
he said a tree house would be better, in fact twice as good.
To be honest I think he’s made a terrible mistake,
if he should fall his shell would surely break.
My good friend King Toad and I most certainly agree
that life shouldn’t be spent on the branch of a tree.
You weren’t by the way thinking of moving in here
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poem by Orlando Belo
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A Bedtime Story
It was just after midnight and I’d been reading in bed for an hour
when a sweet sickly smell wafted in, which turned horribly sour.
Cursing, I got out of bed and opened the window some more,
which seemed to cause a draft that slammed shut the door.
I reopened the door much wider this time and returned to my bed,
a draught blew the pages losing the place to where I’d read.
The temperature dropped so I again got out of bed and closed the door,
and also the window slightly, but it was still cold, so I closed it more.
Large goose bumps formed along my arms as I got back into bed,
I picked up the book and tried to find the last page that I’d read.
It was warmer now, but I still pulled the covers up to my chest;
I found my page and carried on reading with keen interest.
The atmosphere in the room seemed somehow unusual and strange
with an unpleasant smell and sudden coldness change.
Above the top of my page I saw a movement at the foot of the bed
and I saw someone standing there, so I raised my head.
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poem by Orlando Belo
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The Toad And The Crocodile
“Good morning, ” said Toad, as she rested on a lily pad burping bubbles.
“Good morning, ” said Crocodile, looking disturbed and troubled.
“I don’t suppose, ” said Toad “that you saw two toads pass by this way? ”
“Let me think…” said Crocodile “oh yes, I saw them earlier today.”
A tear rolled down the cheek of the crocodile and splashed into the pond.
“Why are you crying Crocodile, what could’ve possibly gone wrong? ”
“I’m sorry, ” said Crocodile, “I’m an emotional old crocodile and often cry.”
“What a shame, ” said Toad, “you say my husband and daughter passed by? ”
“Oh… I didn’t realise they were your family, they were so nice,
I gave them a helping hand and some very good advice.”
“Thanks for your time and trouble; you’re a very considerate crocodile,
so unlike the ones I’ve heard about that live in the Nile.
Can you remember which direction they went, ” said Toad full of hope.
“I can, ” said Crocodile, “they slid down a very slippery slope.”
“But did they seem alright, I mean did they look safe and well? ”
“Yes they did, but I don’t really know, it was hard to tell.”
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poem by Orlando Belo
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The Underground Carpark
This place is the darkest of dark and the blackest of black
as I look all around after just reversing back.
I parked here because it’s usually a secure well lit car park,
but the lights are off and I’m in the dark.
I’ll switch off my lights I don’t want to cause undue attention down here,
and I’ll just sit back and wait for the ceiling lights to reappear.
I’ve been waiting for a good fifteen minutes and still there’s no light,
isn’t it odd how these things always happen at night.
With my window half open I can hear unusual noises that I haven’t heard before.
Now I can hear something heavy being dragged along the floor.
How can the makers of these noises see what they are doing in the dark?
It’s certainly unnerving; I wish more vehicles would enter the car park,
I feel tempted to turn on all my car’s lights and the main beam,
but that would show my whereabouts, and allow me to be seen.
I think that I had better shut my window and secure all the doors
I don’t want to end up being dragged across the floor.
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poem by Orlando Belo
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The Lemon's Quest
The whole of the fruit world were assembled
to hear what the lemon had to say.
In anticipation the fruit sat and trembled,
would it be the lemon’s day?
“Why can’t there be a sweet tasting lemon? ”
Said lemon in a tone of revolt.
To the fruit world this was open rebellion
and had to be brought to a halt.
The atmosphere turned sour towards lemon,
as he said, “This is not a lot to ask,
it’s a reasonable enough question,
and I’m sure not a major task.
I cannot understand your objections
about a fruit that wants to progress.
I’m open to all and any suggestions,
but until then I’ll sit and digress.”
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poem by Orlando Belo
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Boxing Day Blues
My dad got on his bicycle to ride to Spondon village,
to say Happy Christmas to his dear old mum.
He rode across the fields and by the River Derwent,
it was a frosty morning, but bright in the sun.
He left the riverside and climbed up by the bridge
onto the carriageway and along the cycle path.
At the railway crossing he cut off down the lane,
by the scrap dealers and an old tin bath.
Across the level crossing by the side of the station
over the canal bridge and pass the Moon Hotel.
Onward towards Lodge Lane and his next turn right
where he hit the pavement and very nearly fell.
Number two Willowcroft Road was his destination,
he wasn’t expected, so his mum would be surprised.
Catching his breath for a second at the open back door,
his mother said, “Well, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”
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poem by Orlando Belo
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