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Ah, yes, the Chibes (not a mis-spelling, it's what my 4 year old called them). The same child who found a dead mouse in the garden. I saw him poking it and saying "Come on old vole, walk for me".
Wow, that's over forty years ago; he now flies a Lockheed CP 140 maritime patrol aircraft with the Canadian Air Force.

The Skink by Ogden Nash.

Let us do justice to the Skink
Who isn't what so many think.
On consultation with a wizard
I find the Skink a kind of lizard.
Since he is not a printer's whim
Don't sniff and back away from him.
Or you may be adjudged too drunk
To tell a lizard from a skunk.

Can i call you ying. You can call me flo its easier.poem comming up later cheer you all up haha

Haha love it Chris.

I’ll always decide
To eat beans refried
I put ‘em away by the pound

After a plate
I just sit back and wait
For that beautiful sputtery sound

If I bend over just right
And use just enough might
I propel myself right off the ground

By Toots McAnus

.......and I thought we had a budding poet in our midst Candlyfloss !
Slightly disappointed but does it relate in any way?

Oh dear, that's a bit of a blow!



Toots has farted for quite a few years & the passion he has for it grows

His farts are the cause of millions of tears, so he decided to write what he knows

poemsaboutfarting.com



https://twitter.com/TootsMcAnus

Maybe, it's just me
But it sound quite absurd
To have letters in words
That are seen but not heard.

I have this idea
Which can't be dispelled,
That those aberrant words
Someone long ago misspelled.

These misspelled words
Before anyone could sight'em
Throughout all the years
Were repeated ad infinitum.

So words now have letters,
That seem quite out of place
And serve no other purpose
Than taking up space.

The silent letters
Where ere they occurred
I now gather up
To make the first silent word.

So watch real closely
The reason's because,
I might be using that word
Whenever I pause.

Silent sentences or paragraphs
I would like to convey
But the problem arises,
That I really can't say.

Haha i didnt say i written them.Sorry for the disapointment xx

When I read this, I always think of the blacksmith's forge in Thornton Hough. The chestnut tree is sadly no longer there.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 1807–1882

The Village Blacksmith

UNDER a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms 5
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can, 10
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge 15
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door; 20
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And watch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church, 25
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice. 30

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 35
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close; 40
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life 45
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought!

I want this read at my funeral.

Crossing the Bar

Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809–1892)


SUNSET and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar.

The latter is one of my favourites Chris, very emotive and quite a popular one for the funerals.
I like another by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, titled:
The Psalm of Life.

Also, Psalm 139 v 1-18 (NIV) love it. Means so much.. well, it does to myself.

Can't post them here , machine unable to do so, but as it happens, I'm not planning on going just yet, so all things could change.

Black Friday


When Black Friday comes
I'll stand down by the door
And catch the grey men when they
Dive from the fourteenth floor

When Black Friday comes
I'll collect everything I'm owed
And before my friends find out
I'll be on the road

When Black Friday falls you know it's got to be
Don't let it fall on me
When Black Friday comes
I'll fly down to Muswellbrook

Gonna strike all the big red words
From my little black book
Gonna do just what I please
Gonna wear no socks and shoes

With nothing to do but feed
All the kangaroos
When Black Friday comes I'll be on that hill
You know I will

When Black Friday comes
I'm gonna dig myself a hole
Gonna lay down in it 'til
I satisfy my soul

Gonna let the world pass by me
The Archbishop's gonna sanctify me
And if he don't come across
I'm gonna let it roll

When Black Friday comes
I'm gonna stake my claim
I'll guess I'll change my name




Okay, it's not a poem as such but a song lyric from Steely Dan but I'm just trying to be topical!

Nothing to do with retail or discounting either... lol!

Since you're unable to post it; (why not?), I'll post "The Psalm of Life" for you.
I know Psalm 139 well enough, but in general I prefer the King James Version.

A Psalm of Life

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,— act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o’erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

A Cheerful Heart
by Jill Lemming

To make our lives more meaningful,
it takes a cheerful heart...
and loving life and living it
each day as a brand new start.

It takes a positive attitude
when trials come our way...
and having the strength to carry on
and taking the time to pray.

Life is what we make it,
for the time that we are here...
so start each day with a cheerful heart
and see miracles appear.

Having received three pieces of bad news this week, I thought this poem may just make us stop and think, how special we are to each other.

This poem is about the value of friendship and priorities. Even while working, take the time to chat with your friend, the work will still be there when you come back. Friends and family are what is important in life.

A Time to Talk by Robert Frost

When a friend calls to me from the road
And slows his horse to a meaning walk,
I don't stand still and look around
On all the hills I haven't hoed,
And shout from where I am, 'What is it?'
No, not as there is a time to talk.
I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,
Blade-end up and five feet tall,
And plod: I go up to the stone wall
For a friendly visit.




Family Friend Poems