Old Mother Hubbard

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Words and pictures ©Colsibabes 2015

to view the PhotoPoem please visit:


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Also by Colsibabes:

Lowku Supper | therapy | The Lowku Arena | boxes | headshot | paperlust |

the bus trip

The Bus Trip

We are driving to Cascais on Sunday my wife wants to take

the bus she thinks we are too old to drive 300 miles.

On the bus you might risk sitting by someone who can`t afford

water or soap that is a low grade working person on his way to

use a spade and whatever to build a trench that keeps the water

away when it is raining


I`m  a tonic water socialist and rea...

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Also by jan oskar hansen :

a reflective moment | not a writing day | not a writing day | end of democracy | forgotten lives |


he eats an orange
every night
before going
to bed

early morning
fades into
the stagnant
ache of summer
he waits

the pitted reflection
of the kitchen window
parts like skin
along the edge
of his knife

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Tags: oranges


Home from home  motorhome

Eric has cashed in his assets

greedy for tea rooms    vistas

dawns and sunsets in shorts

(we're bloody good sports)


stick like glue in our pod on the move

in the groove

going north west south east

as we please it's like a disease!

no sooner a sneeze than we make the decision.


Home from home        motorhome

motorway strip searche...

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Tags: travel

Also by ray pool:


No Answer

Should I knock

On the door

With my fist



Should I Rat

A tat tat

With my list

Of questions



Should I pause

Do I want

An Answer

I’m not sure


I should go now

I’m quite sure

Unclench my fist

And let this door



On questions

That will not

Be answered


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Discount blusher

Only covers

Half the bruises

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Tags: short but sweet

Also by Stu Buck:

pang | Arlo #1 + #2 |

All she wanted

I hear it, the silence

It's all around me

Waves of energy

They keep haunting me


Dragging my sorrows

They can't seem to leave me alone

The dust is flying

My eyes are crying


If only they knew

How badly I want it

If only they knew

I'd risk my life for it


Dear beloved, how are you today?

Very well, she said

While all she wanted to do was cry


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Also by The Dumb Genius:

Ready to fight | I have found a place |


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Coming apart like stitches
Memories break off
As you grow older
Dissolving into skeletons
Drained of fact.

Stripping emotions
Into stark instrumentals
Confusing Sian
The first girl you kissed
With Helen, the second.

Diminishing the 8 years
Working at Great Universal
Your first job
When then you wondered
If it would ever end.

Padlocked in broken gasps
All the way out

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(Fed up with the barrage of bad news, disruption and violence)


A grassy knoll,

favourite book,

a trout stream close

should I care to look,

buttercups, daisies

carpet my feet,

new born lambs

squabble at the teat,

ewes stare blankly

and amble by

like fallen clouds

from the azure sky,

the gold of rape

dark green oak

ash in bloom

time for a soak,


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A Lover's Touch

His fingers dance in darkness on her spine
Each movement seeking virgin skin to touch,
An architect of gentlest design
A rhythmic masterpiece, almost too much.

Strong hands caress the softness of her back
As chess-like tactics keep her senses high,
She melts like liquid gold, cannot keep track
If this is heaven then please let her die.

She feels the tingle from collar to hip
Electric curr...

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Mill House Cottage

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Between the pastures runs the path

Its hedge rows reaching tall

And opens to the Mill house weir

Where babbling waters fall


The willow dips its weeping leaves

In to the silent pond

Whilst lovers sit content around

To pledge eternal bond


The meadow lies still in breathless air

As England passes summer

And life goes by without a care

As one day becomes anot...

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Tags: England

Also by David Moore:

Moon washed | Temper tongue | Slabs |


When I of solitude's measure drink

And of your precious person think,

I wish my lonely loving cup

Was with your own sweet self filled up.


But hearts' desires with passion sought

Are always better won than bought

So I consent to be content

With consolations I am sent.


I live this life with you in mind

And from your treasured image find

Sweet solace for an emp...

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Not the TV host with a brazen giggle
Winding up the gormless on ‘Blind Date’
Or tugging tears on ‘Surprise Surprise’
Nor the glittering star, clutching champagne
In morose interviews after Bobby’s death
Her grief bubbling up
Pressing behind aching eyes

But the fragile, stick thin girl
Trembling on stage
Warmed only by a single
And cruel spotlight
Picking out every contour

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Tags: Cilla Black.,David Subacchi.Welsh Poetry,Liverpool poetry

QUI ES IN CAELIS (...who art in Heaven...)

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I'm amused by a number of friends who delight in ridiculing Christianity.  Certainly they question the veracity of other religions but ridicule is reserved for Christianilty.

And when I ask myself, “Why?” I reach the conclusion that it's because it's easy; it’s a cheap shot.

Christianity has its zealots, of course, and its wisdom is often questionable but it doesn’t indulge in the types...

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"Oh you are a mucky kid"

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Our Cilla (your Cilla) is dead!

For Gods sake what is

this world coming to?

A dead Cilla is no Cilla at all.

Jesus Christ Almighty. Amen.

words and foto Tommy Carroll

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Oh, England,

you green and pleasant land,

your beauty never ceases to instil

a calmness in my hands.


A sense of peace; contentment

within my wandering mind,

a fulfilling feast for longing eyes

that seem always looking behind.


The golden greens of your pastures

covering long and rolling hills,

the succulent scent of your flowers

tickling senses to smile at...

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Performance (notes to my self)


Engage in preamble,

And ramble a bit until you see fit to begin.

Draw deep, close your eyes to speak.


Begin with thin withered lines,

Telling tales of times when life was worth living.

Don’t shuffle into nostalgia.

Still, throw in that line that tells how you used to be a free spirt,

Not a bogged down middle aged git

Unfit to wield a mic and talk like this,


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Also by dazzer:

Late Meetings |

Elijah The Prophet

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Elijah - the Lord of storms, 
Dew, hail, rain and thunder,
Today rides a chariot.
The Prophet with an effort
Breathe the autumn.

The days are shorter
The nights are longer
Warm days linger.
Two hours Elijah has taken.
By August He was awaken.

Water becomes overgrown
In the lakes and local ponds.
Our Lord agrees and nods, 
Summer has no more odds, 
It can't argue with Gods


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Tags: Ilijah,Lord,Sunday

Also by Larisa Rzhepishevska:

Elijah The Prophet |


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I slipped out of


When Thatcher

Digged in her heels


Ripped the heart out of my life

“Can you spare a cigarette please?”


I slipped onto this park bench

When Cameron rode into town

Guns a blazing

“I’m taking the poor down “

“Spare 50p for a can”


Spare a thought

 For those ...

Born, growing, hoping

This is a fair world


And then,


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Form and function

Speaking of form and function. Helen, on here,
recently made a very respectable attempt at a
`modern` version of the Sestina. 

It caused me to look at Ezra Pound`s version of
the form for comparison. (this is it below).

A sestina is basically six stanzas of six lines each
normally followed...

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Two Formal Poems (re-posts)


                                        Upon the Winds of Change


Upon the winds of change our courses flew

And us across the heaving seas did send.

It mattered not what dreams each would pursue

For Fate decreed what we could not portend:

That once again our raging hearts should blend

In Youth’s enduring spirit which does flow

Between us still, steel bond of lustful f...

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Recipes From The Happy Hippy Cook Book

A plate of scattered crumbs is set
Beside my comfy chair,
And drowsily I quite forget
Just who I am and where;
For something here is not quite right,
I feel it in my bones,
Which oddly seem so very light
For reasons unbeknown.
I find it hard to concentrate
On tasks of high demand;
My brain would like to relocate
To airy fairy land.
And as the mist descends to blur
An ever-changing sce...

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Also by Jonathan Humble:

Extreme Yorkshire Pastimes |

echolocate (08/01/2015)

a magazine filled with glasnost bullets;
a body drawn in dots.
a truth cut deeper and harder
stillness painted in red and black.
placidity before pain
lucidity in the rain
washing away ten thousand drops of me
all bearing my name
none bearing my face.

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Tags: wash away noir dames black and red jack and queen


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Poem 86 of 230:  ROBOTS 

In factories,
    I've spent sometime
Working machines
    Whose goods should rhyme -
Moulding machines,
    Whose plastic shots
Are sorted by

Well, now robots -
    Before ‘twas folks:
Process workers...
    Employment hoax?

(C) David Franks 2003; from - 

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I still remember the meagre collection
- shirley bassey tihuana brass neil diamond's greatest hits -
and a couple of 45s
- one of which - tommy steele's confession - we never played -

but we would stack the rest
and dance until they dropped
- then dance some more

flared trousers swinging
- the green patterned pile carpet -
and my sisters osmond lp

later I asked my mother
what she did in the sixties
and where ...

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I am Cassandra

I found out yesterday that all this time

I've wasted my focus on things I am not

For I am a poet however unorthodox and unsound

I am a poet, whether I want it or not


So yesterday I began to write

My words in short phrases and lines

I ignored punctuation and laughed at rhymes

I made a point to trust my mind


Now I know, bad poet or not, 

A poet I am for better or...

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