'Tis true, 'Tis true.  I do I do
He has a vocabulary of a hundred words
And speaks to me inspirational verse
Which I write down to share:-) with you
This bird I own showed me the way
To verbally destroy and then to slay
The poetic pathetic lesser men like you
Oh bow before me bow you serfs
For I are your artistic master here on earth
I are the greatest living man
As artistic brilliance from my pen doth flow
And inspirational words do poetically grow
All this from a parrot gilded bright
Lyrical inspiration into the night
And who here can compare

My bird as yet has got no name
Please peasants give a name
That all men here will recognise
As belonging to the best bird
In the land

Oh wonderous poet (oops got that bit wrong)
Thou doest fine deeds on this great site
Give us belly laughs into the night
and yes even unto dawn
And as ink from your artless pen doth flow
our admiration ever grows
for the great man that is you
Humility is in your soul
fine penned words you have for all
who could never aspire to be
as great as you
Shakespeare would never have a chance
against your worthless art
for surely he would be the lesser man

So oh oh oh great Logbrain pen the words
that fill our mundane lives with so much mirth
Dogbrain write for us

The truth is he laid beside me on the firing line
my brother
No race or colour came into it
He shaved one day and cut his chin
and the blood flowed deepest red
And so I said "my brother let me bleed instead
I care not from where you come
the colour of your skin
You are the brother whom I love
on the fighting line
The deadly day the bullet hit
I shed the tears for you
It was me who cleaned the blood and ****
from the body that once was you
You see, you were black,  I was white
but our blood ran the deepest red
And for me you took the round
and so my dear brother died

Loghain,  having reread most of your beautiful works on numerous occasions I have come to realise that you truly are one of the worlds greatest:

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ARSEHOLES

The devil came in depth of night
to stop the beat of Loh Chaenes heart
and thus he did the world deny
the art that from the pen did flow.

No more, no more
the gift of flowing verse
will we now have chance to read
we are now left here to grieve
the loss of his great mind

Loh Chaene gave us oh so much
with his great great artistic touch
the fluid flow as the words did grow
from the pen of this great man

Humility was in his soul
with oft encouragement
for young and old
who tried to pen the verse like him
but our poor works cant compare

And so the worlds become a better place
now that Loh Chaenes soul has gone
for the lesser man now can shine
as we pen both verse and rhyme
be as great as him perhaps

R.I.P Loh Chaene

His life was in the city spent
But 'twas into the hills he went
In his pocket lighter and small knife
He never knew they could save his life
Alas he knew not what to do
And perished in icy mountain dew
With a knife he could have a shelter built
Of branches twigs and mountain grass
A lighter is the soul of life
The ultimate giver of life and fire
So as they lowered him to the grave
They learned the harsh lesson of the day
If you wish to the mountains go
Then learn thd lesson of what to do

Brilliance in 5 words


Answers
               on
                   a
                      postcard
                                ­     please

And so my garden I did fill
with nasturtiums bright and  clear
they did with colour fill the space
they did not my eyes disgrace
Black fly is their only foe
and so the black fly have to go

I'm going to ****** them

And so with a bottles deadly spray
I did deluge them, end their play
I did with soapy water end attack
By those who would drink the sap
of the plants I so admire
Yes nasturtium is a simple plant
unlike the rose not worthy of a second glance
but it belongs to me

You see.... the fresh young leaves are a tasty treat
even the flowers are a tasty treat
In a salad for your tea

Oh mindless beings bow low before my superior art
For I did have a poetic ****
In that rippling tearing noise I detected beauty and artistic poise
Because the **** was I and therefore art
Who of thee could even start
To view the art in a morning ****?
Thou art lesser beings,  an artless mob
Whilst I are a poetic god
Men bow their heads, doff their caps
In the presence of I
Oh Oh Oh
Art in a **** penned by I
Even Shakespeare could not compare with I

Me: Logbrain why do you continually abuse the work of other members

Logbrain: Simply because I am a superior being in the world of art

Me: I would suggest inferior would perhaps be a better word to describe you

Logbrain: Oh Oh Oh

Me: Surely that should read ** ** ** because most people laugh at your pathetic poetry.... No, pathetic attempts at poetry

Logbrain: PATHETIC!!! I, but but but Oh

Me: There we go again Logbrain,  Oh. Is that your favourite word?

Logbrain: It's the only one I can spell and anyway I can put more artistic expression into Oh than most people can write in 40 lines

Me: Oh Oh Oh how sad ** ** **

and thus the conversation went on

T Rex thought he was the king but truly he was no such thing
he was a bully sad and weak who prayed on those to young to speak
Then came the day when baby Trice
got to close to Rexies lair
Rexie thoughg his luck had changed and now would play the Rexie game
Which was to take the young and weak
so soft and tender, good to eat
Rex thought I will have some of that
the baby trice will be quite a snack and fill a corner of my tum
But Rex had made a big mistake, oh dear a grave mistake
For round the corner came trice's mum weighing a bit
more than about three tonnes
Three big horns upon her head
One jab from those could leave Rex dead
She gave poor Rex an evil stare
said "Bite young Trice if you dare"
Then I will deal you a mighty thump
and I promise you your bone will crunch
Poor Rexie backed away in fear and in his eyes salty tears
People thought for many years that Rex was king and had no fear
But they didn't know Triceratops,  the bravest dinosaur of the lot

I cant do this anymore
words no longer flow
the mind is now an empty place
the words no longer flow

I loved to write poetic verse
but recently I've lost my nerve
because
the words no longer flow

I used to write of birds and flowers
of time spent in tranquil hours
Writing of the spume capped waves
writing of the things I love
but the words no longer flow

I've had my ups had my downs
been serious been the clown
but now it all has got to stop
because the words no longer flow

Loghain is the lyrical artists voice
He has to be the artists choice
His words are read throughout the world
Though they do make the fresh milk curdle
He only has *** with the lights turned off
And never will he his pyjamas doff
Never to his socks remove
As his lover is subjected to poetic abuse
The time then comes in his ecstasy
When Loghain shouts with vervant glee
Enough woman enough of this
It was fine for the thirty seconds that it was stiff
I now must pen about this act
My worldwide following expects more crap

Not yet a poet familiar
But so far I'm impressed
So lets give him our full support
Just as we support the best
All I ask is this of you
Read what he displays
After all its up to us
To make new poets days

For fifteen years it served me well
through rain and wind and snow
But I decided that it was the time
and the poor thing had to go
I think of all the miles done
in its company
Fishing trips
and foreign trips
and holidays at home
But it had reached its sell by date
its usefulness expired
So I threw it in my fire pit
onto the funeral pyre

Thus I bid my old hat a last farewell

On this day 70 years ago they stormed across the sand
Boys of many nations to remove the tyrants hand
Heros all those boys so young who shed their blood for us
In that ****** fight for freedom

Across the sand they struggled neath a hail of shot and shell
Never glancing backwards as around them comrades fell
Fear was in their eyes, terror in their hearts
Many never made it and twas on foreign sand they died

Yes they died to give us the freedom that we have got this day
They died to free the world, for us they made the play
Boys from ever walk of life crossed the beaches there
Office clerks and farmers and the ones who cut our hair

Yes they were heroes all who gave their lives for us
But lets not forget the few who made it possible
The girls who made the shells, the men who built the tanks
They were the unsung heroes
They have also have earned our thanks

Without their dedication to the task they had in hand
Many more would have lost their lives on that shell torn blood stained sand
They to can hold their heads up high, they knew they did their bit
In bringing freedom to the masses when they broke the tyrants grip

Yes I write for fun be it good or bad
but I seek not the vanity of every single add
ok occasionally I'll pul a poem from the pile
And add it to a collection only if it is worthwhile
Yes according to the rules vanity its called
To add everything you write to every collection called
So interpretation of collection well for me a message clear
if I write of love add to a collection very dear
I see writers here who are very very very good
but please dont add regardles of collections writ for good
You write the words of brilliant prose, others cant compete
but why add a thousanc times the daily poem you do seek
Please, let others be the judge,  let others cast their vote
Lets start to be more sensible,  lets no longer gloat

SO say goodbye to those who hold you dear
tell them you dont really care about the pain that
you will cause

Think carefully about how you'll end your life
be it drowning gas bullet or knife because some poor
souls gonna have to clean the mess you leave behind

Carbon monoxide in the car now that could be the way
to pass,  ah but then some poor over worked mortuary
guy has got to wash the **** stains off your ****

Perhaps from 40 stories up might be the best for you
but then you might **** some one else and that would
never do

Right so its got to be the bullet through the head but if
you don't get it right, you'll end up in a wheelchair,  a
vegetable for life

You know I dont realy care if you want to end your
life so just get on and do it but just dont be so melodramatic
and on this site about it write

OK lads and lassies we're going to take a walk, just 10 short miles
in that forest over there
WHAT!!!! Yes I know its dark and gloomy but then some forests are
but there's nothing there to harm you, nothing there to fear
I see you have the rucksacks I told you all to bring. Right folks
open them up and we'll see whats contained within
Ah theres no surprise at what you've got in yours, a tiny flask a magazine and your lucky rabbits paw.( Obviously it wasnt lucky
for the rabbit)
In yours just a make up bag now that'll really do some good,
at least you'll still look beautiful when your dying in the woods
Right lets take a look at what I've got in mine, a 10 x 8 tarpaulin
and a ball of nylon twine
Ah yes a survival knife the handle holds a flint for striking fire,
and in this bag 3 snares each 18 inches of supple wire
Now this small tin contains my means to stay alive, 2 small containers of lint from in my tumble dryer, perfect tinder for
making fire
This little brass things with holes in the top is my small trangia
cooker
2 ounces of spirit poured in there gives 15 minutes of fire
A picnic blanket aint much use if your stranded in the woods, well this one is because the underside is completely waterproof
This old tin mug has served me many times as a makeshift
cooking ***
A litre bottle of water and it weighs 15 pounds the lot
So heed the lessons carefully,  it might help you to survive
Carry the 15 pounds that I do and you might stay alive

Yeah these days they use the fancy term
But for us it didnt exist
Yes we killed and were killed
But who really gave a ****
Our therapy,  lets go and have a fight
With those who were fighting on our right
Yes, strong words were used, hard punches thrown
But they are my brothers, we are one
Our rules were simple
Watch a brother die
Then smack another brother in the eye
By birth or *** a brother not
And yet a brother never forgot
Yes, he gave his life for me
Just as I would have given mine for he
We answered when our country called
Take up arms lest we should fall
And for that my friend did die
But never did he hear the battle cry

The battles finally over, the deck is rent and torn
By the shot and shell that struck us in the battle storm
So sew him in his hammock lads, put the last stitch through his nose
Place a roundshot at his feet then over the side he goes
This then is the way we say goodbye to our comrades of the ship
We never knew their real names, maybe Harry Tom or ****
Yes we gave our mate the deep six, he's now six fathoms down
Lying on the bottom on his final resting place the sand
No time yet to ponder on his untimely death
We must make and mend and make our ship the best

He fell 70 feet into a crevasse in Nepal
The amazing American Dr John All
Decided to film his own dying
But decided against and kept trying
This man decided it wasnt his time
And so with broken ribs, broken arm
Started out on his greatest climb
Over six hours on that ice slick wall
Six agonising hours expecting to fall
But John is a man of courage and strength
He kept going on even though he was spent
And so there's a lesson to be be learned by us all
Taught to us by Dr John All
Never give up when you think all is lost
Fight for your life no matter the cost

There has to be a common bond that joins us all as one
That is the poetic glue that forms the common bond
I think of names that stand out proud here  on this fine site
The names who write the words to be read into the night
Sverre,  Billy, the Petal Pie to mention but a few
And lets not forget the lovely Sye
One of our poets new
So many contribute to make this site what it is
So many words do cross the world
To make our poetry live
I applaud you all, mediocre or poets of note
The good who offer wisdom here where so few do ever glote
Never stop the flowing words my friends, never stop the flow
Your fine words can take us
To places where so few will ever go

I dedicate this to every member of Hello Poetry

Just been out in my garden for a cigarette
Stood there facing east
Two stately oaks stand over there
Sillouted against a rain filled lead grey sky
Behind me the westering sun sets
Throwing its last dying rays
To fall against those stately trees
Green they stand there
Ever changing minute by minute
Lime green to olive,  to almost black
So many differing shades of green
How can any human stand there
And not see the beauty in those trees?
They started life as such small insignificant things
More than eighty years ago
But look now upon the statuesque beauty standing there
Eighty years standing against all that nature threw
Those mighty ever changing royal oaks

On on, ever onward
There's no end to this ***** dusty road
Behind, in the distance but still to close
The machinery of war rumbles on
My once beautiful home now a dust filled ruin
My children crying, hungry but what can I do?
I don't know how to survive, I've had no training
But I have to for my family
What is the future, what does it hold for us?
Perhaps a corner of a ragged tent



A thousand miles from home
Yes I could have joined my comrades
But I don't know how to fire a gun
I'm a doctor, supposed to save lives
Not take them
All we have left is what we carry on our backs
I don't know what to do, I just don't know
How can I explain to thd children that there is no food?
How do you try to tell a five year old the reason
The reason why we walk down this endless ***** road
And yet still the flashes fill the sky
And more young men will die
In this so called fight for liberty
Yes we are now modern refugees
Because of a struggle that isn't mine
This then is Syria

I'm sitting outside my tent in a meadow verdant green
Just sitting, listening, dreaming
Surrounded by stately trees Sillouted
against an azure blue sky
Tall hedgerows filled with blossom
White, like drifts of new fallen snow
That's why I'm just sitting, listening,  dreaming
The storm we had an hour ago long passed by
Now I sit and watch white wispy clouds floating there on high
Why am I sitting,  listening, dreaming
Do you really need to ask?
If I truly believed in God then I've found heaven here on earth
I've no TV or radio but music fills the air
Leaves rustling in the gentle breeze and bird song near and far
And so I'm just sitting,  listening, dreaming

I'm an avid reader of books,  many different books
Tolstoys War And Peace took me seven days to read
Lord Of The Rings Trylogy just 3 days
One of those books I've read just once
The other I could almost quote
word
for
word
I read some truly great works of poetry here
Some simple with a message loud and clear
easily understood
Some long but with a rhythmic flow
the sort of poem where you cant let go
Then there is the long drawn out dirge
full of metaphors and unusual words that I don't even understand
I might read it once,  try to understand then file it under done
I just write the simple stuff,  that's what I do best
But, no matter how or what you write its all good.

                           After all, poetry is not a test ~
                      it is an expression of our humanity.

Ooooh no I don't want that, the **** thats growing there
Oh, and why not? Surely it has a right that piece of earth to share
No it's such an ugly thing growing with my plants
No its not and you should give every **** a chance
Look at my rose, that beauty growing over there, are you telling that  that **** really can compare
Friend that rose is man made and I agree a work of art but that fair rose so beautiful from a **** did make a start
I dont agree I dont agree how could my rose have sprung from that
Oh thats quite easy friend scientists did that

But how can you just stand there and say a weeds a lovely flower
Well why not take a closer look at sometime in this sunny hour
Sorry I cant go with that its a **** its not a flower
Well I cant make you believe but every beautiful garden flower
Started life as humble **** as did the vegetables you devour

Gather round my fellow poets, please hear what I do say
I noticed very many things because I'm here each day
Here we have collections of on many varied themes
Collections for romance, collections for your dreams
Please forgive me poet friends if I'm speaking out of turn
Surely the idea of collections is to read and post the poems that we yearn
My collection is simplicity but tis swamped by other works
Yes, some of those writes are beautiful but my collectiond not there for that
And so I've had to make it private because its sinking in the flood
Sorry if I've offended some of you but that is how it is
Please add to the collections but post them in their place
Then readers who crave romance aren't searching a dark place
So I leave you with these thoughts,  the rest is up to you
But I implore you fellow post post the poem where it should go

OK so this isnt poetry in the true sense

When I go on my trip next week and if I get a sunny day I want to find a place in the woods just to sit

The idea is to sit in one place facing south west from 1030 until 1330
and then about every 15 minutes paint a pen picture of the changing perspective

Then try the impossible and turn it into a poem. Call me crazy if you must but then I probably am

This is fact not fiction

Malta in the second war a target of both Berlin and Rome
For months upon this burnt brown isle the vicious bombs rained down
Then came the time in Mosta town a miracle occured
A bomb went through the historic dome of Mosta's famous church
Yes, through the dome it hammered, hit the wall, rolled out the door
But god was kindly on that day as the bomb lay on the floor
600 souls were in that church on the day the bomb burst through
Not a single person hurt and so the miracle grew
I don't believe in god, they had someone on their side
Without that famous miracle 600 might have died
I have been in that church seen the patch in the famous dome
Seen the scar above the door, the damage the bomb had done
Tis now a place of peace the famous Mosta Dome
But I have been in there my friends and seen the replica bomb

Thus was the miracle of Mosta

Yes tis just a simple stew cooked six hours in the pan
But a hearty filling meal and I hope you find it grand
Diced beef, lentils, pasta to mention ingredients but a few
All of them do have their place when I cook up a stew
Tomatoes in abundance I have placed in there
Carrot and potatoes diced with precision and care
Sliced green beans, leeks and onions play their part
Its lucky I was trained a chef so I knew where to start
All slowly cooked in a succulent gravy with added rich beef stock
As well as button mushrooms simmering in the ***
This stew to be served with a crusty roll, food so very fair
I invite you to my table,  and I will serve you there

He raised the scissors high, I felt them pierce my brain
I shouted out in agony," I came for a short back and sides so man what is your game"
Don't worry son the man replied I'm an expert at my trade
If I'm to truly cut your hair I must expose your brain
And so I surrendered to his skill and the scissors went in deep
Don't worry son the expert said, the incision will be neat
So he slashed and and cut and hewed threw pieces in the bin
I thought that he had finished but still the blades cut in
At last the expert stood aside covered in blood and gore
He said my name is Sweeny Todd as he showed me to the door
As we walked across the room he said that will cost a five pound note
It would have been much cheaper if I'd just cut your throat

You know Sverre I visited Norway once as high summer had begun
I stayed at a place called Avia (I think that was the name)
4am in the morning when we watched black rabbits play
At least I think  they were black,  possibly dark grey
I climbed the barren rocks, collected samples by the score
In that short time I learned to love Norways rugged shores
Sverre dear friend in two short weeks I came to love your land
I reach out cross time and space to take and shake your hand
I've climbed the Vidas rugged rocks and trekked your complex land
I envy you my true friend, you have a country wild and grand

We search once more for the crystal stream
Where poets wrote and young lovers dreamt
Of the beautiful years to come

But no more now is the crystal stream
Where poets wrote and lovers dreamt
Of the beautiful years to   come

The crystal stream now a fetid place
Of sewage and industrial waste
The hedgerows long ripped out and gone
The once green fields now barren ground
What legacy do we leave to our unborn sons
Now that the beautiful years have gone

But we poets still can sit and dream
And write of things that might have been
In our minds we still see the crystal stream
And dream of the beautiful years to come