Silly Poems Triangles I love to collect tri-angles, Files My Favourite Things The chimes of Big Ben and Blue Peter on telly
Pantomime Cow How, now, back end of a cow Roy There was a young fellow named Roy He created the whole thing from scratch The bushes were made from oasis
InterActive Rap The InterActive site is all the rage
Hungry Limerick for Helen Another Limerick Rain Squash Squash, squash, wonderful squash A Christmas Poem Cooking
A Love Poem Banana Tree Crunch Crunchy things.....Mmmmmm....Things that go C-R-U-N-C-H. Feelings Sometimes I feel RAGE Jane's Panda We know that you were very pleased Knitting One of the best things to do when sitting Is to indulge in a little bit of knitting Get yourself a ball of wool Give the end a good old pull Get your needles out and – hey! You can start knitting right away It’s so satisfying to hear that click As you move the needles nice and quick Make sure you don’t drop a stich But if you were to hit a glitch You can always unpick it With one of the tools in your sewing kit You can knit so many things From animals to queens and kings Or teddy bears or bits of cake Or a gardener complete with rake There’s no limit to your creation Only your imagination!
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Poems Anonymous Somebody made her a cup of tea. Somebody was also at the station that day, carrying a heavy bag onto the platform. Somebody announced that the train was delayed, over the loud speaker. Somebody's cousin was waiting for that train. She would need to 'phone somebody to tell them she would be late. She sat at her desk by the window. Somebody was walking a dog along the pavement outside. She wrote a letter that somebody would deliver to somebody's cousin, perhaps next week. © Anne Witton, 1994 Saturday Morning Music from the boy upstairs. Outside the distant sirens, Sighing of bus brakes, Rumble of delayed Metros, Clatter of shopping trolleys dragged over uneven slabs, Friends shouting at the bus stop. Thud of bills landing on the carpet. Different music from the boy upstairs, slightly louder now. Makes me think I've woken up to something. © Anne Witton, 2005 Advice My best friend told me Don't talk with your mouth full So I never filled my mouth As I had a lot to say My mother told me Get plenty of sleep So I nodded off on the bus And missed my stop My father told me Always be prepared So I prepared for everything And most of it didn't happen My sister told me Invest all your money So I have And I'm leaving a lot to the cats' home My brother told me People with ginger hair look like orang-utans He's funny, my brother. © Anne Witton, 2005 Your Faith Or Mine? Stick a fish badge on insanity And call it Christianity Stick embroidered scriptures on the wall of your mortgaged treasure on earth Tithe your vulgar incomes Pat yourself on the back You've done your duty Sing songs with actions One Big Happy Family While people who need the Fire of God Look for the fire escape Hand out pretty invites For your well-marketed course If they don't come - that's their sin You did everything you could To help them fit in Go to Spring Harvest to top up your faith And convince yourself that you're keeping the pace with the whole host of saints (Hebrews 11? or 12?) Fix your eyes on Jesus But not for too long Because soon you might find that your life will be gone And you're living for Him And not for yourself And that would be hard It might come at a cost - Giving up everything And carrying a cross. Better, really, to stick a fish badge on insanity And call it Christianity © Anne Witton, 2005 Early Hours Breather Peace. The air is sweet and fresh, Like the poems, but sweeter because It exists. It reminds me of camping, Or the country come to visit Suburbia. The stale air in buildings, That has not seen The light of day; And the fumes in the streets, The noise and confusion, Fast food, Diesel, Sewage Congregated in a morbid reunion Day by Day. All evacuated. Synthetic air from heaters and vents, Packaged and recycled Never smelt like this. Fresh and exciting. Cold. Breathing more at each go. Stillness and Rest meet to Exchange whispers before The fumes return with The morning dust cart. Suspended in time, Without bells or alarms. Nothing can disturb the Tranquillity of the Early Hours Breather. © Anne Witton, 1995 Legal Drug Swizz in a Fancy box. Ninety-nine pounds, Ninety-nine. You told me I was Buying shares in the World's future. You didn't tell me I was Selling my own. For years I believed Your binary logic, Off or on, No in between. Then came the Power Cut. Inconvenience. And suddenly, In the dark, I was able to see again. Next time you try To rule me I know I will succeed over you, Because I have the Power to turn you off. © Anne Witton, 1994 Love Thy Neighbour Thick mist. I think it's morning, But I couldn't be sure. I wander, unsteady, Groping the air with my hands. Rubbing my eyes, As if to clear the fog. Dad's back, Unmistakable, Bending down, I think. Relief. I run towards him, shouting his name. He turns slowly, and I see It is not him at all. "Sorry. I..er.." "I know" says the stranger, And returns to his shoe laces. But then, my brother! Leaning on a tree. Doesn't hear me approach. I surprise him with A friendly punch on the shoulder, Like I sometimes used to do. He too turns as I Smile expectantly. His body, his stance, But not his face. I stare. Disbelief. But embarrassment moves me on. Stumbling forwards, Or backwards, I don't know which, I come across my friend, Walking the same way as me. I hurry alongside her, ask her "How's John?" She is puzzled and asks, "Who's John?" I look at her face but It is not her face. This time I panic and run. I punish myself for this Strange place I am in. I pull at my hair, Bite at my lip, Rest my head in my hands, And wish it were over. I look up. Towards me, out of the fog, Comes my worst enemy, A man I both hate and fear, As he does me. I get up as relief Surges through my veins. I stretch to embrace him, But, once there, Now he's gone. I look at my hands, As if they know where he is. A voice through the fog, Not human, I'm sure. "You should have done that When you were alive. Welcome to hell". © Anne Witton, 1995 Mount Everest You could go and climb Mount Everest Without a rope or a guide Who knows the area, But you admit that would be foolish. You need guides and a rope to Give you confidence, Knowing that If you fall, There will be someone there To catch you. Why then do you insist On struggling through life Without a guide? © Anne Witton, 1996 Shoes "Wait for me I've got a stone in my shoe" She stopped and undid the laces, Removing the Offending object. She caught up again And continued her journey With them. They could not see The child behind them. No one waited for her They could not hear Her shouting. Her shoes were Too small. They were rubbing her feet Raw. Sitting on a bank She carefully Untied the laces And removed Her shoes. She continued down the path. The others Were long gone. The stones on the path Were cutting the young flesh. He looked down On her; and he Sighed for his Lost child. "You never really Understand a person Until you step into His shoes and Walk around in them." © Anne Witton, 1994 The Cross It is green on the side Of an ambulance. Or white on a First Aid kit. It is red at the side of An erroneous sum. Or cold granite saying RIP. It is the point where Two roads meet - Which way do I turn? Or it fills a neat box On a survey. What does a cross mean? On a hill, 2000 years ago, My Best Friend hung Dying On a cross. © Anne Witton, 1996 The Forest of Twisted Dreams I stand on the bridge And wonder why It rains And day turns To night and Back to day. In five years I'll stand again Amidst the rain And think in vain About the past. Toothmarks in my skin Where the animal Within has bitten me Again. What is the difference Between circles And lines That mark the boundaries And say "thou shalt not cross"? Think hard about The part you Never played The job you Never had The girl you Never saw Again. In the forest of Twisted Dreams I will cut trees Until I bleed. © Anne Witton, 1998 Comm.On Sense Http: hate, terror, tedium, panic // Back-slash, Back-slash www. what went wrong? e-mail me @ wherever I am B4 it's 2 late © Anne Witton, 1998 Making Tracks (see the photos) Trains, tunnels, tracks Ten destinations in every hour Taking people home Or away. Reunions, farewells New ends and new beginnings Fused into one journey. North and South Mapped out by track Connected by metal. Past gardens, garages, greenhouses Arrival, departure, connection Lives joined fleetingly, randomly Making tracks Through life. © Anne Witton Here you are, Lord God - you can have my heart - What's left of it. It's not particularly great. It's not very good at pumping blood. Even the blood's not up to much - The National Blood Service has refused it 3 times. But it's all I've got. And it's yours, Lord. © Anne Witton, 2003 The Invisible Congregation The invisible congregation Slip in at the back Try not to make eye contact Cos the eyes are the window of the soul And no one wants to see our souls. © Anne Witton, 2006 Coming home If I'm always travelling I don't have to be upset That I haven't arrived yet. I said to the city "Hi honey, I'm home", But it didn't appear to give a shit Because it didn't say anything back. I came back to find the lights were on but there's nobody home. © Anne Witton, 2006 Life with a Grammar Obsession All those misplaced apostrophes getting under my skin. Itching like imbedded iron filings I'm using a giant magnet made of 5 years of Latin To get them out. 'Myself', reflexive - that's ok. 'Myself', emphatic - that can stay Any other 'myself' can go away The cabin crew disease has become an epidemic. Nouveaux intellectuals - CEOs, HR, PR, blah, blah Ex-plebs with initials for brains, for whom ignorance is bliss. 'Myself', reflexive - that's ok. 'Myself', emphatic - that can stay Any other 'myself' can go away So what has happened to the language I learnt? No one cares, except pedants like me. I sit fuming silently With the world unawares And occasionally I mutter to myself: 'Myself', reflexive - that's ok. 'Myself', emphatic - that can stay Any other 'myself' can go away © Anne Witton, 2006 Read more about language abuse here. Screwed up world From the Gods of Our Time in the Department of Bureaucracy, Postmodernism, Consumerism and Individualism. To the people. (1) Thou shalt not smoke at bus stops But you can lust over the adverts displayed there (2) Thou shalt not eat food unless it has been purchased here But you can eat chocolate made by child slaves (3) Thou shalt not use cameras, mobiles or laptops in the designated area But you can download porn at home anytime you like (4) Thou shalt not run, divebomb, pet heavily or swim without showering But you should try to enjoy exercise nevertheless (5) Thou shalt not walk on the grass, fly kites, play ball games, sit on the wall, rollerblade or cycle But you can bleed just to know you're alive (6) Thou shalt observe all health and safety procedures But you can get wasted in the evening to escape the boredom and frustration (7) Thou shalt not talk to strangers, make eye contact on the tube, or get too close to people But you can sleep with anyone you like to try and fill the emptyness (8) Thou shalt be politically correct at all times But you don't actually have to care about people you don't like (9) Thou shalt NEVER claim to know the truth But must tolerate lies, selfishness, greed and anger (10) Thou shalt not gently tell others they are wrong Because it might just save their life and we'd rather they died slowly and painlessly End of transmission. Please circulate to all for their own good. © Anne Witton, 2007 |
