The Shop of Lost Poems


the shop of lost poems

Have you ever woken from a dream,
With a poem vanishing from your sight.
And as you struggle to remember it,
It fades, along with the night.

Or have you ever been on the bus,
And felt a poem creep up on you.
But had no pen or paper ready,
So the poem just fell through.

Do you ever stop to think,
Where do your lost poems go?
They don’t just fade and vanish,
They have a home you know.

Somewhere in a dark street,
In a long forgotten part of town.
Stands a small crooked shop,
All battered and run down.

And on its dusty shelves,
Are found lost poems and ideas.
Sprawled in disorganised piles,
Gathered over the years.

How the poems got there is uncertain,
Why they come here none can explain.
All that’s known is here’s their home,
As they wait to be found again.

Now say you stumble on this shop,
And find a poem you thought lost.
You wish to buy it back,
And you’re willing to pay the cost.

The charge on a sign reads,
If you want back a poem never spoken.
Then the price is simple,
We charge a poem for a poem.

Be careful before you pay though,
Make sure you’re willing to give up.
That thing you cherish the most
A poem you’ve written and love?

You might think the deal worth it,
But beware on leaving the shop.
You may find your returned poem,
Is once again easily forgot.

The shop offers no refunds,
It doesn’t allow you to return.
So perhaps here’s a lesson,
That we all could learn.

Cherish your new poems and ideas,
Don’t chase those you lost and regret.
Just enjoy and continue with,
Whatever poem you think of next.

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The Man who Death Forgot


death

This is the story of the man who Death forgot.
A man who lived his life in such an inconsequential way
That he slipped between the cracks of existence.
So that when it came time for the man to die
Death just overlooked him, then forgot all about him.
Now the man continues with his grey life
A life so devoid of feeling and colour
That even his rainbows are black and white.
Now he waits patiently
But for what he’s not sure.

This is the story of the man who Death forgot.
Who often sits in silence
Watching time ebb slowly around him
While he remains untouched by its waves
As they smash against the cliffs of reality
Slowly crumbling the world pebble by pebble
Until only dust remains
Before the wind scatters it.
As the man watches despite his jealously
He finds he cannot turn his eyes away.

This is the story of the man who Death forgot.
Whose eyes are drawn towards a silent forest.
A forest he remembers planting as acorns
Then tenderly walking among the growing saplings
Caring for them until
They became mighty oaks whose branches challenge the sky.
The man’s critical gaze spots the first trace of decay
He knows the forest will fall
Then the mighty oaks will be left to lie and rot
While life moves on without him.

This is the story of the man who Death forgot.
Who has outlived everyone he ever knew
But still hopes that one day
He will feel a hand touch his shoulder.
Then he prays he will be released from his half-life
So that the waters of time will wash him clean
And that the forest will outlast him
As he becomes dust.
Finally becoming
The man who Death remembered.

Is Friday the Thirteenth unlucky?


friday-the-13

Should a nation quake in fear,
As it’s Friday the thirteenth today?
Should I worry about bad luck,
And wish this day would go away?
Who chose Friday the thirteenth anyway,
Why is this day such bad news?
Well we need to go back in history,
To see why this day gives us the blues.
Supposedly many many years ago,
Eve on this fateful Friday.
Chomped on an apple and caused the curse,
When she was only eating one of her five a day.
And now you can’t go out for lunch,
If there’s another twelve going, but still
This might only be unlucky,
If you’re landed with the bill.
Thirteen has a lot of bad press,
Unlike its close friend twelve.
As we’re happy with twelve months,
And that a clock has twelve hours.
But just add one and we’re on the edge,
That little addition makes us stop.
Thirteen can cause heart attacks,
And make us think we’re for the chop.
How badly are we affected by thirteen?
Well just think on this.
How many buildings are there,
Where thirteen doesn’t exist.
They have no thirteenth floor,
There might not be a ward thirteen.
There’s no thirteenth room,
Lifts go straight from twelve to fourteen.
Should I care about this?
With this bad karma am I stuck?
I’ll tell you all tomorrow,
When I should have better luck.

 

Red is the Colour of Remembrance

Image


Red is the colour

 

 

Waiting for the Bonfire Flames


bonfire night

I’m just a poor old guy on the bonfire,
No firework watching for me.
I’m waiting to be burnt alive,
While you watch and eat your tea.

I’m loaded with your memories,
I wear your granddad’s hat.
I sport your dad’s old trousers,
My hair’s your old bath mat.

But you don’t care for this,
You’re just here to see me burn.
I fry for your delight tonight,
My fiery demise isn’t your concern.

The bonfire starts to flicker,
And then the flames draw closer.
This is your prompt to rave and cheer,
Soon for me it will all be over.

Finally the fire catches,
I’m burning oh so bright.
Joining all the other guys,
On this flaming bonfire night.

And in the morning I’ll be ashes,
To be quickly tidied and cleared.
Or scattered gently by the wind,
Until I’m resurrected next year.