The message of poetry
How can I think of serious things,
when the air is alive,
with the flutter of wings,
How can I focus on writing a sonnet
When the lady beside me,
is knitting a bonnet.
How can I think of what comes next
when I am trying my hardest
to put it to text.
How can I feel the words in my mind,
when I am looking for one
that I canot find.
How can I concentrate, grave and subued
Then it's best I try,
and get in the right mood.
So come on you folks,
dont be solemn and glum,
join with me, share your words and jokes.
Lets make a start,
let them come from the heart.
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poem by Sylvia Spencer
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The Wreck of She
The Wreck of She, could be a ship,
that has been cast upon the shore,
but alas she is not, she's part of the street
a fancy English whore
The Wreck of She, has moved around
from war time trenches.
to Hyde Park benches,
down quite back alleys,
and seaside chalets.
Yet she was always there
when Tom came to call
then off they would go,
and have a ball.
The Wreck of She, was just like a night owl.
Out at dusk, and home at dawn,
with grass on her back,
from the golf course lawn.
The Wreck of She, was past her sell by date,
when she was found
crawling in the gate,
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poem by Sylvia Spencer
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Crumbling Chalk
Beneath the cliffs of crumbling chalk was once a path
where you could walk. The walk would take you down to
the sand where fishing boats would come to land.
Now this crumbling chalk falls into the sea, where once
crabs and lobsters were caught for tea.
No scavenging left in this lonely bay even the gulls
have flown away; they have left the waves and the spray
are they to return another day.
Nets and pots have been swallowed up by the waves and
now their left to sleep in watery graves. A fishing village that was
once a boom has now become an empty tomb.
An oil slick just driffted into the shore and took away the beauty
that it had known before. Crumbling chalk that drops like tears
on the sand that's black made from the oil smears.
There is nothing left to self contain, oh will they no come
back again.
poem by Sylvia Spencer
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Crooked Cats
I know of three cats that have eyes of fire
and one of them likes to climb the church spire.
He is a scaredy cat when mum comes a calling
because he is just afraid of falling.
Number two cat with his burning eyes of fire
just loves to play in the mooreland mire.
He never stops to think that some day he might sink
and there will be no one around to pull him to the brink.
Number three cat is wise now aint that a surprise
and she is also keen at telling lies.
One day she told Mummy cat that her Brothers were dead
so she could eat the food that they were to be fed.
Now Mummy cat was also wise and she did not belive
those dreadful lies.
When it was time for dinner number three cat got thinner.
When out came a dish that was full of fish and there was
nothing left for her to finish.
(The Moral of this story is if you play with fire you can get burnt)
poem by Sylvia Spencer
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A House called Lonely (A Trilogy in three parts)
There is a street in every town that owns a house
called lonely. Then when your just passing by you might
just say, 'if only.
If only could mean a life time of thoughts but it does'nt cure
a lonely house and all its faults.
Boarded up windows and tiles gone from the roof, graffiti
painted by a rebelious youth.
Such a lonely house and an oh such a tired one,
one that has lost all it's fun.
Stairs and rafters all gone to pot all that is left
is wood worm and dry rot.
No children playing in the garden, it's just a house condemend
by the council without no pardon. Poor lonely house someones
forgotton dream, now describing lifes social scene.
This lonely house stands in the way because their building
a By Pass or a new motorway.
The house called lonely could be any where, in the town, the
country or city square.
Even in your street there's a house called lonely just waiting
for you to say 'if only'
poem by Sylvia Spencer
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A Cry for Help
Dont keep me hidden,
in this dark room,
please show me the sun,
so that I can bloom.
I know you kept me here,
just to keep me warm,
but now it is time,
to show me the dawn.
I am ready to flower,
I need some light,
and the warmth of the sun,
that shines so bright.
I have been shut away,
all winter long,
my bulb and stem,
are now extra strong.
My date is near,
to join all the rest,
and show off my trumpet
at it's very best.
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poem by Sylvia Spencer
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A Lonely Heart in a Thunderstorm
A lonely heart sets the table but is she a Milly,
a Betty or a Mabel. Tea, coffee, cakes and ale
but outside there blows a gale. Sash cord windows
rattling like chains, thunder and lighting tormenting her
brains. A frail old lady who always lays up for tea but no
one comes not even her family. As the rain pours down she
gives a little frown as she looks at a photo in her wedding
gown. A picture of love on her wedding day, a day she
never wanted to go away.Now all that's forgotton as the
clouds roll together, will her lonely heart stand up to this
gale force weather. She draws the curtains and says
goodnight to the storm then sits by the fire where its
cosy and warm.
No visitors tonight she says to the cat who lay curled up
on the fireside mat. Again she views her wedding day and
asks the Lord to show her the way.Then she holds the cat
to her lonely heart so that they will never be apart. The dear
old lady died that night and the cat now sits on her burial site.
poem by Sylvia Spencer
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A Winter of Discontent
I remember a winter a few decades ago.
Where our dear England was covered in snow.
It started on Boxing Day with a blizzard from hell
then in the course of a week the snow just fell.
This once green paradise was now a shroud of white
and everyone was suffering from chillblains and frostbite.
Outdoor life was like an indoor fridge
where everything had frozen like a mountain ridge.
Abandon lorries on the side of the road
men were freezing even their load.
Villages cut off all over the land
so in came the troops to lend a hand.
This was the winter of discontent that lasted from
Christmas, and way past Lent.
As one lot of snow cleared, it would return again
to bring freezing cold tempretures and a lot of pain.
Wind would blow both night and day, and still the snow
never went away.Drifts of snow standing six foot high
just being topped up with snow from a winter sky.
So what of this winter of ice and snow
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poem by Sylvia Spencer
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Where is Christmas
Where is Christmas that holy night when a star shone out
so clear and bright.
Where is Christmas when a child was born and there in a
manger he lay meek and forlorn.
Where is Christmas with sherpherds and kings with beautiful angles
on silken wings.
Have we forgotten this Christmas story or do we just think it is full of pomp and glory; yes a king was born but he had no crown and his palace was a stable in Bethlehem Town.
There were no trumpets to the sound of his birth, although he was king of all kings to rule over the earth.
He had no gifts of white steeds to ride, just a lamb and a donkey
that lay by is side; with Christmas tidings brought from a far by
by kings and sherperds that followed a star
So where is Christmas this one of long ago, is it forfotten or do we really want to know.
We light up our homes with celebration in mind and every year we
think is Christmas becoming a bind.
We must stop and think and show some compasion and stop
spending money as if it is going out of fashion.Lets look at
Christmas and set this story in our hearts
before it is lost forever and it's meaning departs.
Christmas is a time for giving because the Lord gave us his son
so let the celebration of his birth be second to none.
poem by Sylvia Spencer
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A Tall Story part two
There is a bridge that crosses over a river
A river that is eerie and makes you quiver
With the light of the moon the river will gleam
and a boat will go sailing, on its own down
stream. The mist will come from out of the trees
and horrible sounds can be heard in the breeze.
It sounded like cats caught up in a fight a claim
for territory in the dead of night, but cats never fight
on the waters edge just in case they fall over the ledge.
A river bank full of matted reeds where plants had died
without dispersing their seeds.A man dressed in green
who paddles the stream who can be seen clear in the
moonlit beam.Sometimes you hear him digging on
the side of the river bank, could this be true or is it
some sort of a prank
A river full of alge green and that's how it had
always been. No carp, no bream no fish to fish not
even a place for a secret wish.
No river bank wildlife to give it grace, just run over the
bridge and get out of this place.
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poem by Sylvia Spencer
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