In the 18th century the people of Easter Island worked hard

creating the statues that their information showed

were absolutely necessary for their future.

In the 19th century Easter Islanders realised

that statues were a useless waste of effort

and put all their energy into the obvious need

to worship the birdman.

In he 20th century the stupidity of the Easter Islanders

was obvious...

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In poetry, autumn is approaching death.

The mists of receding memory

part briefly in the shortening days

to feed the fruits of wisdom

to admiring young.

The dark night of winter

is a short blight

before life springs forth

again in proud perfection.

Floral beauty and rich crops

have spread their radiance,

fed their progeny, sown their seeds.

Done their job, returned to earth

to ...

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Harry and Morris were together all those twenty years

Theirs was not the Oxford of dreaming spires;

not screaming tyres,

but purring, perfect, permanence.

And then,

and then.......

The legacy of.....

Countless years of........

Stirring and striking,

destructive infighting;

poor Morris died.

No nightmares for the spires,

just Harry pined

No more would his hands

caress t...

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Tiger! Tiger! Taking flight
In the woods at dead of night,
With Elin's fearsome hand and eye
Fixed on your rear end rushing by?

In what distant barmaid thighs
Burnt the fire of your eyes?
On what bed did you perspire?
What the kiss did light your fire?

And what temptress, & what tart.
Did twist the sinews of your heart?
And when your heart began to beat,
What transgression? what rude treat?

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A report has been published today on the abuse of children by Catholic Church organisations in Ireland. In many cases abusive priests were moved on and nothing done to stop the abuse or bring the perpetrators to justice.

For The Love Of Little Children

Hello! I'm Brother Blessed.

I have taken holy orders.

So that I may praise the Lord

and love the little children.

Straight out from ...

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Only 134 people have so far indicated that they will not be coming to Wirral Words Open Floor Evening at the Scouse House tomorrow.

That means that there will be approximately 6.15 billion people present. We have seating for about 45 so it may be wise to arrive early.

See you around 7.30

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The next Wirral Words Open Floor is at The Scouse House on Tuesday 28 April 7.30pm

Hope you can join us. It is a fun and friendly evening with free entry.

Anybody who needs further information or directions please email me:  malpoet@hotmail.co.uk

Cheers

Mal

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Vile parasites.

Your golden,oily skins

oozing with excess.

Drunk in your dry kingdom.

Saud lechers mawling

voiceless, voteless beauties

who may not drive

or leave their homes

without the right man.

This land you stole

in the name of vile Wahhab

bleeds daily.

The blood of lopped limbs,

mingles with the blood

of heads rolling beneath

the sword.

The only voice to be heard

is t...

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Portia knows that life is a pain

just having been out shopping again.

It is a nasty continuous round, of

doing boring things in the kitchen.

Peter comes home from his tedious job.

He cannot help thinking that Portia's a slob.

She's scruffy and tired and, all of the time,

doing boring things in the kitchen.

Portia peels spuds during GMTV

while the window cleaner sees what he ...

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I have just been listening to 'In Our Time' on Radio 4. In it Melvyn Bragg invited a couple of 'experts' to discuss 'The Waste Land by T S Eliot. It spurred me to make a few comments of my own which I have held for years, but never expressed.

After more than eighty years of this poem's existence and endless academic analysis, what their observations amounted to was that they didn't know what...

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Don't forget the OPen Floor Poetry at The Scouse House tonight. It's free, all welcome and a very friendly gathering with drinks and snack available.

Look forward to seeing you.

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In Wooli east of Grafton town

a wedding was proclaimed.

They came from far and near to see

the bride and groom enchained.

The preacher, he was tall and gaunt,

a character for sure.

He took the best man by the ear

and hurled him to the floor.

Standing in his monkish robe

he glowered down and said.

"Any strife from you my lad,

and you'll be good as dead."

The church it was a mig...

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My mate is dead,

I don't know why.

The cancer got him

and he died

though he was younger by far

than me.

My daughter is a grandma,

but I have not grown up

My son-in-law died.

He was a little older than me.

I did the

'when are you going to die?'

quiz and it said seventy three.

I have thirteen years to

get done what I want.

What age did it have in there

for my mate?

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Andy is a rocking horse

He's made of wood right through of course.

This tree born life is very plain,

There is no room for any brain.

Seductive is the pretty horse.

Its movement takes beguiling course.

The graceful trot goes on and on,

But look for progress. There is none.

Look, behind the smiling face

Lie knotted cells in rigid place.

Andy is a rocking horse.

He's nothing ...

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From Eden to Gethsemane,

and lawn beneath my feet.

The serpentine seducer works on now.

There's knowledge deep inside those plants,

to eat and learn what's bad.

Consuming passion

soaks through the senses,

and anaesthetises awareness

of a disjointed world.

“I was riding my bicycle

when the craft landed.

They took me and did surgery on my knees.”

How are conjoined twins

caused...

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Ali was an agitator.

All around her grew to hate her.

A shrieking, scowling, grim dictator,

she drove quite mad her poor dear Pater

his heart became a palpitator

fluttering, then stopping later.

As Dad went blue, the perpetrator,

horrid Ali, devastator,

switched off his defibrillator.

Ali's Mum then met a waiter,

he loved her and he had to date her.

Sad mistake for Ali's Mater,

Ali ...

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Birth was unexceptional

although exotic.

Happening as it did

in the Far East.

An exuberant early life

attracted many glances

and some comments.

Stripped off

in a few interesting places.

But then greying,

wrinkled, sagging.

Nothing more these days

than a bit of gardening

and occasional walk

to the shops.

Now though,

blotched and fading,

it is the end.

Twenty one.

Good ag...

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I remember

the terrible news from childhood.

Agadir destroyed.

Fifteen thousand dead

in fifteen seconds.

An earthquake

tore the town apart

and consumed it.

So much later

there is no

talk here but

that earthquake,

the heat, and sardines.

Fat, pink travellers

hustled in a smelly souk.

Fifteen thousand ghosts

mingle in the beach bar,

glad they are dead.

A single toothe...

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The Ring Mistress

cracked her whip.

Puffing out her crimson chest,

and with a sweep

of her turquoise tail,

she let out a shrill whistle.

The lion holding back

a small shame of primates

with a chair

was so skilful.

I couldn't believe it

when he put his paw

in the beast's mouth.

They are so well trained.

The troupe

of health and safety inspectors

were very entertaining.

Jumbo...

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How do you get Englishmen

and sometimes Russians too,

to talk of mice and sheep's insides

in words they cannot say.

Just give them a malt whixky

with a screeching piper's tune.

Tell them they are cultured

and speak of Rabbie Burns.

Another glass of whisky

and they're waxing lyrical

with a gallic twang as broad they can

while chomping haggis down.

Another day they all will say

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Winters

Dark, dismal, dreary days.

Short, sharply shivering days

Sleet slaked and sodden days.

Days sad with savage chill.

Days filled with feeling ill.

Days grey and brooding still.

Weak, watered sunlight brief.

Grim trees bereft of leaf

lost to the daylight thief.

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Her in reception, he service,

main dealer life

brings solid living.

Long held dream redeemed.

Honeysuckle cottage,

rose bed rich.

Goodbye dismal council flat,

parent pride

drives moving van.

Loving effort, mighty loan

freshly fitted

lovely home.

Credit died and dealer crashed,

tear stain faces

bailiff's knock.

Dismal, dreary council flat.

Parents, disappointment hid,

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Tear stained,

mould grained

grey, green walls.

Too small for one,

but foetid cage

for three.

Cloud high flat

a piss stink lift

from ground.

Back soon

Fifty yards of

fresh clean air,

fags or maybe bread.

Past the shabby,

shuttered shop

the city centre calls.

Not long

Cash for one pint,

a walk and think..

Hitched rides then

shivered, shelter sleeps.

Growling guts

fr...

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The plexus of poetry,

perpetually beautiful,

eschews a land

brought barren

by the bland and

simple self.

The little one looks on

a small, dark stream

and makes

beautiful connection

with the glen

chosen by a God

free of envy.

Praised by sea laurels

through etto false,

to meet a rocky

crumbled town.

Who is Sylvia?

What is she?

That all our swains commend her?

Holy, fair...

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Who is Sylvia

when her own path

she hews,

Teddy in hand?

The little one looks on

a small, dark stream

and makes

beautiful connection

with the glen

chosen by a God

free of envy.

Praise comes when

laurels from the sea,

though etto false,

meet the rock

of bowed and crooked town.

Who is Sylvia?

What is she?

That all our swains commend her?

Holy, fair and wise is she.

She...

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The woman

in teenage goth

was not wearing

her forties well.

Her hard black hair

complemented

the harsh makeup.

Alleging food down her cleavage,

she leant forward

to demand his gaze.

Her loud and ceaseless talking,

interrupted only by

finger sucking,

mock fellatio.

The much younger man

with Elizabethan beard

makes only an

occasional grunt.

Their frequent disappearance...

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Mighty David strode out

and his footsteps settled

across the land.

His challenge roared

over the desert.

“My Father's House

bequeathed by Abraham,

given by God,

reclaims the heritage

of 3,000 years.”

Fractured Philistia was

without a champion

to match David.

From among their

shaken, squabbling number

tiny Goliath came forward.

With his home made slingshot

Goliath grazed

D...

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What happens in the old bore's head?

Dreaming of the old whore's bed?

Enjoying when the old whore moans

to stimulate an old bore's groans.

Are poems in there still unread,

or hungry thoughts as yet unfed?

No, brain cells drowned in cloying wine

and turgid thoughts more coarse than fine.

The shame inside this old bore's head,

a path in life that none should tread.

Though gleaming ...

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