Standing tall in Walsall town,
Is our art gallery looking proud.
Visited by a million folk and more,
Flocking through its inviting doors.
Noddy Holder’s in the lift
Welcoming you to this artistic gift.
There’s marvels inside for all to see,
Bring the children, bring the family.
See the celebrated Garman Ryan collection
All lined up for your inspection.
View its famous statues and pictures,
All fabulous artistic history.
Or take in the work of Jacob Epstein,
Walsall Art Gallery is a shrine
To marvellous sculptures and letters,
You’d travel far to find better.
There’s all that and so much more
In the gallery’s many floors.
But this building needs your support,
Or maybe one day it won’t be here at all.
So visit it today, show it some love, come on,
Or one day soon it might just be gone.
A quick note. The Art Gallery and libraries in my home town of Walsall are under threat of closure due to funding cuts. I think it would be a shame to see these buildings shut, so here’s my poem of support to keep them open.
The Wi-fi at home went down the other day,
Then all the phones crashed as well.
So me and the wife had to entertain ourselves,
It was complete and utter hell.
I asked the wife, “what can we do?
I feel like I’ve undergone electronic castration.”
She replied, “well there is one thing,
We could have a conversation.”
“Is that like Facebook?” I asked.
“Think of it like that if it helps, ” she said.
“But instead of typing,
We talk to each other instead.”
“You mean like I’m doing now,” I replied.
My wife nodded, “that’s a start,
But you’ll need to talk more,
To master conversational art.
Try asking me how my day went,
Or let’s talk about what’s for tea.
But you don’t have to text these questions,
All you need to do is speak to me.”
I felt odd, “I’ll wait for everything to work again,
It’s all very complicated, ” I said.
Then I’ll get my phone out,
And comment on your Facebook status instead.”
So the wife and I sat there all weekend,
Struck it seemed deaf and dumb.
Unable to communicate with each other,
Waiting for the Wi-fi to come back on.
Yes at last my Wi-fi is back, thank you for all your messages the blog was just on a technological hiatus, normal service is now resumed. 🙂
Emerging from a phosphorus cocoon,
Comes a crackling blue and yellow moth.
Unfurling flickering wings
It strains to reach the sky.
Flailing, it fails to break free
From its wooden shackle.
The first rider raised a withered hand,
Unleashing infestation non could withstand.
Nations fell at his command,
As Pestilence rode out across the land.
The second rider wanted more,
So unleashed conflict with a mighty roar.
Brother slew the brother he once adored,
Falling before the rider War.
The third rider gave a vile grin,
Crops withered, people grew thin.
Bones pierced skin,
All bought low by the rider Famine.
The last rider was mightily pleased,
With all the destruction he could see.
Those left begged for mercy on their knees,
But Death was immune to their pleas.
Who owns this poem?
Have I without knowing,
Given away I think
This blood, sweat and ink.
When I hit the enter key,
Did I unwittingly.
Sign an invisible dotted line,
Giving away what I thought mine.
So read these words for free
A poetic present from me.
Because I think it’s absurd,
To believe you can own words.