This limerick plays with the idea that expertise isn’t always the key to success. After all, the ark was built by an amateur, and yet it survived, while the Titanic—crafted by professionals—met its doom. With a humorous twist, it reminds us not to despair at being an amateur, as even the experts can falter in the face of fate. The lesson? Sometimes it’s the passion and drive, not the credentials, ...

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In a world where you can't escape judgment, this limerick tries to dive deep into the absurdity of trying to please everyone. Even if you perform the impossible—like walking on water—someone will still find fault, questioning your intelligence and abilities. With a touch of irony, this piece wants to highlight  the endless nature of criticism and the futility of seeking universal approval. It’s th...

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If you want to know what God thinks of gold,
Just look at the wealthy, the brazen, the bold.
For riches, you’ll find,
Go to quite the odd kind,
And that’s all you need to be told!

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One who wish to die

Must have a reason to live

To be worth his wish

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Oh women
They kill a man
Who could die for them
And die for he
Who could kill them! ///

(A remark by a woman about women )

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Patriot?

Young Tommy didn’t get irony, cross,

he set off with the boneheads and boots

to guard statues of old Winston Churchill.

Signalling intent with their Nazi salutes.

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This isn't the last train. But the late train

has no quiet cars. If a baby squalls no conductor

shushes her. You must shush her yourself.

The late train has no dining car. So board

this train now, or pack a picnic, your own

tablecloth, napkins, napkin-rings, silver,

porcelain. The late train has no schedule.

Depends on how many girlfriends the brakeman

wants to vi...

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Come down from among the Clouds

Come down from among the clouds and seat yourselves.

I will set plates for y'all. There will be no wooden flatware,

no metal cups, certainly no raggedy napkins. The ceramic

made in China, flatware in the USA, tempered glass in 

Argentina, and napkins cut and sewn by a little old colored

lady in Little Rock, Arkansas, while her great granddaughter

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The sharp-toothed skirmisher of January past

passes its knives by her cheeks;

the hillside heralds its shredded brown visage,

winter’s wolf howls the bitter conquest of the moors.

The season of concealing crowns and faces,

of cautious feet across the maze of wilted souls

to reach the lone tree, grey lightning petrified in time.

Frozen into the bark are age and time.

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He believes her to be beautiful beyond compare

She knows him to be as slow as a brain-dead hare

He believes she is a goddess wrought in alabaster

She knows him to be a servile fool under a master

He believes her to be witty, brighter than the sun

She knows him to be one with brains next to none

He believes her to be as precious as the furthest star

She knows him to be as dumb ...

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They can now breed blue roses, and breed blue violets too;

Horticultural references don’t quite fit the array of hues.

Yet they are not concerned with, perhaps never knew

Of the silent ones whose spouses leave them black and blue.

https://parliamentofowlsblog.wordpress.com/2016/02/14/happy-valentines-day/

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And the troops go marching proudly by

as she wipes a tear from her weary eyes,

the one that she seeks, she will never again hold

for he died at his post; he was thirty years old.

The colours fly high on a cool autumn breeze

as man and boy march with well practiced ease,

so glad to be home after being so brave,

with flags overhead and not covering their graves.

She...

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Here's to all Performing Ranters

The whoopers', and the waving panters

Stuff academics licking asses

Scowling through rose-tinted glasses

Before I get my recompense

What is a 'Poet in Residence'?

A girl who writes

Lives in a tent

Is she a  'Poet With Intent'?

Let's have a workshop.

Make a bid

Then charge the punters all five quid

Liquid lunch and ...

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Everyone's a writer 
These days
Poet, playwright, scripted scrawler
5am, cigarette, red wine bawler
Everyone's a writer
These days
It's the craze or just a phase
I don't know
But it seems knee deep in the linen of our lives
And the answer to any creative 
without a clue
who doesn't know what to do 
Or who rides the wave
in a depndent haze
of the ones who script our days
when they ha...

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