Monthly Archives: November 2016

Chalk it up to experience.

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We are walking
We are talking
We are chalking up experiences
Upon the blackboards of our lives

And as our future lessens
We must cast away digressions
With our selves we seek expressions
And not all that cut are knives.

Nil By Mouth

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Nil by mouth
No words
Neither North nor South
No sense
No sentence
No sentience
No conscience.

And that’s not saying much
If anything
At all
And there is no writing
Written upon the wall
And pride doesn’t come before fall
In my dictionary.

A small offering

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You are having a laugh
That’s not my giraffe
It’s not even a real giraffe
And that tacky enamel
Is upsetting my camel
And here I end this paragraph.

A record up the pop charts

I shall put this here and see what happens. G:)

hangerfarmpoets

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I wrote a song about a pop tart
To try and get into the pop chart
The song wasn’t very good
It was not about the hood
And so it didn’t really sell

I changed the tune a bit
To try and get myself a hit
And added some cool words
To try and win some cool awards
But, that didn’t work too well

I got a girl band to sing it
For so emotionally they’d wring it
But, we didn’t make a video
Which, made the song a no go
And as current as William Tell

So, we made a video and mimed
And a few lines never rhymed
With poor lip-sync it was a crime
And we shoulda coulda woulda took our time
But we rushed
And were singing when we shoulda woulda coulda hushed.

So, we gave it up
And we all got proper jobs
And kept…

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Your Poem?

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Consider the possibility
That this poetry
Was written with you in mind.

You may find that the words
Don’t fit
A bit
And some of the sentiment
May be more sediment
Than is usual
But, at a casual glance
There is a small chance
That the poem may bear a vague resemblance to you.

But, put all that to one side
And think with pride
That you have been written about
And should be smitten
No doubt
Even though the poem may be without
The style and pout
That is your calling card.

Look what you have inspired;
I hope that it is all you desired
Or, perhaps I should be fired.

Just a thought…


I don’t know whyBut it seems to me

(And perhaps you agree)

That German children are kinder nowadays…

Or is that how things always used to be?

Moving Voices on a Friday Night

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I move my voice
On a Friday night
Any other night
Just don’t seem right
And I move it here
At this Art House place
And whilst moving my voice
I also move my face

Move those voices
All around
If there weren’t any moving Voices…
There wouldn’t be a sound
Chorus:
Moving Voices (make a sound)
Moving Voices (in the round)

In a Round:
Moving Voices falling
Words and songs are calling
Poems, stories, dialogues
Use that voice to
Move them all around.

Wilting Sunflower

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She is the wilting sunflower
Limp in the sun
Though not my son
My daughter
Being limp
Is not what she oughta
Be.
When, usually,
She is like a bee
Around a sunflower
To me.

 

NB from a comment by Luke Norman, Concierge.

I Must Feed the Inner Poet in Me

Is it tea-time yet? G;)

Graeme Sandford

inner poet

I must feed the inner poet in me
Or he will fade and die
And I will lose him for all times
There will be no more whimsical rhymes

I must feed him the choicest words and phrases

That he can use to build his poems as he goes through phases

Of creating nonsense verse and haiku

Limerick and the mighty narrative poems that take an hour or two

To waffle through.

I must feed him; him in his horn-rimmed poet’s glasses and button-down clothing

Even though he is held up like this to the fear and loathing

As in Las Vegas; Staying in Las Vegas on a poet’s wages;

Which are said to be as thin As sin

I have to feed the poet inside of me

With the fuel for his rickety-finickity poetry vehicle

Or he will break down

And cry

He will cry out:

“Oh! Muse, thou…

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Rednax (a possible story) please feedback G:)

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Rednax flicked a switch. A dull red light lit up. Rednax considered the reasoning behind his having flicked the switch in the first place. He flicked the switch back. The dull red light dimmed and went out.

Rednax was half way through a work-station shift. However, manning Auxiliary Control Station 4 meant that the most he could hope for would be an internal fire from the ancient wiring and dusty components.

The contents of his third paper cup of coffee had congealed due to a lack of interest in the turgid axle-grease that was pumped out for liquid requirements on a shift. Rednax wandered over to the coffine (a shortening of coffee machine and that stuff was likely to speed one’s demise) and thumped the only button that honoured the fascia. Some time later a ‘fresh’ cup of coffee was provided along with the sweetened chemical aroma of Sachro – the ubiquitous sugar substitute that was as tasty as a chewed wasp.