#poem #poetry #amwriting #beehive #beehivepoets #digest #compilation

 Don't mind me...

 I'm just putting some poems together for my trip to the Beehive tonight....

White Field Green Sheep

he's gone wandering again yon down by the river
she think fear knows when the dog come back
with lead and red collar but no four fingered hand

the special is up calming her down nodding
whilst them as nosey agree to casually look 'afar
as they brave twice daily rain on the school run

he's gone yon again wandering lost int' a river
of landmarks and place names and places and
oh it's too much to be here he parks on a bench

waiting the brass bronze river is the same yet yon
dog is gone thither daily rain remind him of mother
to get up school gates for help for Julian and tea

wandering lost again by the yon river bank gone
away in a fairy ring yonder away with the tide
over not yet until a face he half recall greets him

takes him by the arm to yon waiting white car
bids the uniformed children shush talks all the way
friendly everyday familiar until they got home

.....

 eating cakes in coffee shops

this is not
 cicero
or yates
or the turn
down the open mic
glottalstopped
or frightened
this is not
drifting into rap
 this is not

 eating cakes in coffee shops

 this is not
red bricked boredom
in provincial northern towns
 nor
back stitched
scissor cut
dressing
 this is not
shadows in shade

  eating cakes in coffee shops

 this is not
why should it
for to see
and to hear
will not bring on the spring
only rain
can bring
this is not
why should it

  eating cakes in coffee shops

.....

 Third Party

Please ignore my age, my receding hair,
beneath these teeth I'm debonair;
take my hand and I'll take you there
on a dirty weekend in Brighton

Across this partition my love has grown
whilst settling insurance claims by phone:
if not Brighton - Nice or Rome
would be the place for us.

 You really are the sweetest thing
 I'll rent an MG, wear threads and bling
 and if the hotel has Karaoke I will not sing
 Sweet Caroline - a song I know you hate.

 Oh please Miss Munt ,Oh please Miss Munt
 I will not to rhyme your name with pudendum
 I know I am a terrible runt
 but I promise to change my underpants.

Your centre parting, the top of your head,
your glimpsed camisole lace, my lust has fed.

You, in your headset, I dream of in bed
whilst sleeping with my wife.

....
 Departed

 she longs once more for the evening gent
top hatted in spatted of literary bent
of warm summer sunsets and picnics in kent
     as she waits for the nurse to come

for the carefree days for the strolls on the moor
for the suitable suitors who knocked at her door
when everything stopped at a quarter to four
     as she rings for the nurse to come