Poetry

I apologise for several typos, and for not signing off on my last, Ray.  I was working on my laptop, and my wireless connection continued to drop out.  I then decided to type it in Word, and failed to check it.

Regards,

Harry

THE DEMISE OF HOPETOWN POST OFFICE

I'm leaving the P.O. tomorrow,

thirty two years I've accrued,

giving pensions, selling stamps and a listening ear,

oh! the tales of woe I've endured!

Folks have told me their deepest of secrets, 

which, of course, I would never reveal.

They've brought me sweeties and biscuits, and even a fish and chip meal!

I'm leaving the P.O. tomorrow,

they don't want my type any more...

all they  want is a salesman,

to sell, sell, sell by the score-----

phonecards, insurance and currency,

or a credit card  if you please,

motor-bike cover, pet insurance.

or phone top-up---what a wheeze!!!

I'm leaving the P.O. tomorrow,

I hope I've been helpful throughout,

and given you all the service you need,

with a cheery smile---not a pout!

I'm leaving the P.O. tomorrow,

and I really do'nt want to go,

but Gov'ment is closing Post Offices down

so I'm out on my ear ......OFF YOU GO!!!

I'm leaving the P.O. tomorrow,

and I just want to say "THANKS" ,

to all those of you who have made my work fun,

now I'm joining the unempleyed ranks!! 

This poem is for the customers of Blackwell, Harrowgate Hill, Mowden Park  and Hopetown--thanks for making my job a pleasure. 

You know, Lorraine, it is said that poetry is a way of telling a story, in many cases based on personal experience, in few words.  You have succeeded in your objective here with flying colours.  Well done!

With your sense of humour you will find alternative employment.

Regards,

Harry

Speaking of demises, Lorraine, here is a poem I wrote many months ago ...  not that you should take it personally!!??

                                    The Demise Of Wild Bill Hickok


                                    Wild Bill Hickok were his name
                                    Never shot just to maim
                                    Born into the Baptist word
                                    The Lord’s prayer he often heard
                                    His ma would dress him in his Sunday suit
                                    She guessed he looked kind’a, neat’n cute
                                    Before takin’ him to church to kneel and pray
                                    And hear what the Lord Jesus had to say

                                    At eighteen years he took his leave
                                    Vocational talents he would weave
                                    He up and took work on the overland stage
                                    Just to earn a meager wage
                                    He'd become a sure sharp-shooter
                                    Takin' down many a prospective looter
                                    On passengers wealth they’d encroach
                                    And try to rob his horse-drawn coach

                                    Tired a' travelin’ the open plains
                                    He gave up holdin’ them leather reins
                                    Took to playin’ the wicked cards
                                    A real smooth dealer in them regards.
                                    One day, while sittin’ in Number Ten Saloon
                                    He counted his cards a mite too soon
                                    In walked a fella’ named Jack McCall
                                    A-swaggerin’- colt forty five, an’all

                                    Bill sits at a table in the middle of the floor
                                    His skinny back towards the door
                                    Somethin’ he was never used to
                                    But empty tables were far and few
                                    He held his hand of aces and eights
                                    Close to his chest, from his drinkin’ mates
                                    McCall takes aim at the back of Bill’s head
                                    Wild Bill Hickok lay on the floor. Stone dead

On the subject of poetry, which is of course, what we are! here is another:

An Ode on Dead Poets

I often think that reading Shelley
Is far more interesting than watching ‘telly

As for Edgar Allen Poe
I think you should all give him a ‘go’

Wilfred Owen writes of war
Leaving the reader wanting more

William Shakespeare asks - “To be?”
But it’s not everyone’s cup-of-tea

Perhaps you prefer Alexander Pope?
His hymns of praise will offer hope

If your preference is John Milton?
He should be read with wine and stilton

Dorothy Parker writes with passion
In fact, she writes in any fashion

Andrew Marvel’s hyperbole
Is written with intense fervour

If then, your taste is for T.S. Eliot
You’ll enjoy his offerings quite a lot

John Keats writes on a “Grecian Urn”
He’s a poet from whom we all could learn

“The Little Old Women,” wrote Charles Baudelaire
A poem of sadness and despair

Alfred, Lord Tennyson includes a choric song
In “The Lotus Eaters.” But I find it rather long

Walt Whitman’s “Why I Am Not A Painter” is unusual
Perhaps it may not appeal to all

Emily Dickinson, a romantic Poet
But while she lived, no-one knew it

A.E. Housman has a way
With words that I’ll read any day

Finally, there’s William Blake
A page from his “A Poison Tree,” we all should take.

Harry,

I have enjoyed your poetry and story about the policeman 'sent to Coventry'. You are a very talented and prolific writer. thank you for the entertainment.

Ray 

Hi Lorraine,

I did enjoy your poem about the 'Demise of the PostOffice.'

How sad and true that these smaller, personalized businesses, which were once so characteristic of Britain, once described as a 'Nation of Small Shopkeepers' have now all but disappeared.

Ray. 

Hi Ruth, Thank you for your kind words, I am glad that you appreciate these  tales. I think we all have such stories to tell.

Ray. 

....and finally to Maria, my wonderful friend.

I just want to say to you that no one can put things better than you.

I know you struggle to find the words in English. I know too that no-one forgets that this is not your native tongue.

I am sure that others on this forum admire and appreciate how you are able to join in and express yourself so  well in this language of ours which we, as native speakers, find so difficult at times.

I wonder Maria, how many of us could contribute to an Italian forum, speaking Italian, but making ourselves understood, as you are able. What an achievement!

Ciao.

Ray. 

A personal message to Lorraine.

Harry