h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

There will be oil,
The lifeblood of the industrial machine,
Where as cogs we toil,
Wiping greasy hands on our overalls, but never clean.

The fumes from smokestacks
In this land, no country for old men,
Sspread out in grays and blacks,
Simmering quietly then erupting again.

Lofty

Though there's nothing bad about it. You're really getting good!

A bit below par for you, Paul. Am I allowed to say that? I'd rather not have, but it would have been rude to have skipped over you without comment. Especially as it's you, and I feel able to say it because you've set such a high standard.

I think we do better without such comments, so I'll quickly take it back if it upsets you.


Jabs

BRILLIANT POETRY!!

I Love you like a schoolboy loves his pies
I Love you like a girl loves chocolate and perfume for first prize
I Love you like a jackdaw loves to peck out both our eyes
I'm Sorry the Dog Died. You must have cried.

Bambi-Lou Morgan, with thanks to Elizabeth Anderson, who gave me the idea for such a great poem!!!

A words is such a lonely thing
Bring them together and different meaning they sing
Eyes are messenger to heart and brain
Such is a waste if the brain is a drain.

"A words is such a lonely thing"
word is so lonely that "s" wished to join it

correction-A word is such a lonely thing.

That's Elizabeth Alexander of course, who gave me the idea for such a great poem! Elizabeth Anderson's my lovely room-mate, who I love madly, and I got them mixed up as usual.


Autobiographical, Winternights? Or on the prowl?


Bambi-Lou

Prowlth not my poet friend
My words are not of despair I send
Frosty words are mine you’ll find
Your thread I like I can be kind

I thought you were sayin'
Your brain was a drain
An' tho'it's poetry
It worried me
And I thought that it
Would be a shame
If you were in pain
I was multi-taskin'
Writin' a brilliant poem
And also askin'
As a friend of Jab's
And you so kind
I knew you wouldn't mind.
I'm glad you're not sad
And nothin's made you mad
[Downhome meanin'
- angry not insane]
And it's cool - hey!
That you're OK.

but prowith I've never heard
It's a dictionary-bustin' word
oh -
Unless it's a typo
or the code of a secret sect
Or a word of dialect.

Bambi-Louxx

Thanks winternights

Loftyskywalker a touching tribute - poem in honour of your Dad.

When Terry had finished work at the dairy he met up with Jerry.
Terry said to Jerry lets have a few sherries and get merry.
I will drink to that replied Jerry lets go to my flat to have a chat.
Mat will be there along with the food and the drink and his friend Nat.
Mat came out of the kitchen and said to the others, lets shake some welly and put on the telly.
Nat was feeling hungry and he helped himself from the buffet table to jelly and pork belly.
Jerry had brought some homemade smelly cheese which he made with great ease.
Everyone at the party praised his efforts and he said it was a breeze.
As they ate, drank and chatted, they all thought about going to see Kerry.
They all decided that on the next day they will take the ferry to Derry where they will see Kerry.
When they saw Kerry she told them that she found a cure for baldness.
There is fairy who lives in a small village and her name is Jess.
She has cured many who have come far and wide and all those who know her call her the hairy fairy.

Prowith? Her eyesight's going I'm afraid.
Prowlth giveth no problem, even to an ageing (almost 20) maid.

Jabs

Inspiration sits, haggard and half-frozen,
At the grease-specked counter, her hair frazzled,
Circles under her tired eyes, half-dozin',
Remembering sadly the days when she dazzled.

"I'm not a cold-weather muse," she plaintively explains
To those well-wishers who stop to chat and schmooze.
Her coffee has gone cold, and of her pie too much remains.
Her friends suspect she's living on butts and booze.

She scrawls a note on a diner napkin, drains her cup,
And leaves a meager tip, then goes to pay a call
On the one she must inspire, the late-sleeper who is not yet up.
She rings his doorbell, and hearing no answer, says "Are you there, Paul?"

One of your very best yet, Paul. Bad Poetry it is not.

Jabs

Thanks, Jabs.

My muse is very uneven right now. This is the winter of my discontent.

here is one of mine from nearly two years ago :

Dads in the happy hunting ground
Where peace,and joyful freedom abound
I often wish he were still around
But with a celestial horse and hound
Where harps and trumpets do resound
There with friends he's to be found
Dads in the happy hunting ground


there was about another half a dozen poems about dads on this thread-i had to add one a few were quite sad, i thought i'd cheer them up - the best one of the lot was written by my friends daughter ( her mum wrote one about her dad too )- a cracker: some kids can write poetry - thats all i can say.

In my village there is a man called Paul.
He is very tall and he lives in a large hall.
Every day after work he goes and plays football.
When he ever passes the local pub he often sees a brawl.
Paul used to go to the pub and often he went on a pub crawl.
But he does not drink anymore, as he had too many falls.

Paul is a Star Wars fan and his favourite character is Darth Maul.
He would meet sci-fi celebrities and listen to their stories which would enthrall.
He was trying to find Jedi robes without success which drove him up the wall.
He went to a Star Wars fan club where he made friends with a man called Raul.
They went to a market where they bought X-Wing collectables from the movie stall.

"You did *what* with our perfume?" the magi's wife said.
"You suddenly left, and we thought you were dead.
And now you are saying you gave't to a baby?
You're out of your mind, and I'm not saying maybe."

A gentle hand as travelled far
Began deep within a distant star
At speed of light it raced through endless night
As it passed ,its touch gave blind their sight

Once cold corners now bask in chance and hope
Weary souls begin to march in hope
Look up and rejoice , feel the warmth from sun
For today many seeds there journey has just begun.

If man of fifty did drop his head
Its not the words that people said
Nor likely the look in childish eye
Just the dread of saying goodbye

Two family’s now I have sown and grown
Yet shortly I will live alone
The pain is like that of bullet from gun
You hear the bang the deed is done

But heart of mine as been hurt before
First wife turned out to be a wretched whore
Its timing now that ate our love
That fluttered in on wings of dove

Yet even in my darkest hour
My chest may hurt but my minds not sour
I have a dream and a some place to go
Next 10 years are mine now, I definitely think so.

I liked then both, Winternights...they were clotted here and there, but like with mine once, a smooth narrative would have been out of order.

These poems were deeply felt, and expressive. I enjoyed them a lot.

Again, not Bad Poetry - but I can take care of that stuff if /when needed. As you and Paul can too of course.

Jabs