The Three Ravens- A History of Britain

'Come sit awhile' by MR

I Left this Note for You.

I waited truly, for some time, 

hoping you'd arrive.

On partners trust and faith,

my whereabouts contrived.

Our meeting and my presence here

carved with callous guile.

The promise of a face to face,

the forecast of a smile.

I waited long, exhausting grounds

for why you would be stalled!

This is the place we meant to meet,

that certainty recalled.

 

I stuck around for you to come

no longer self contained.

My gift to you, was being here,

my grasp of you sustained.

Watching passers-by, not knowing

that I was so dejected .

Had second thoughts or moral taste

left all our plans rejected?

I waited long, into the day,

past the time agreed.

This wooden bench our liferaft,

our green light to proceed.

I waited, waited for so long,

I counted on your figure.

This seat is weary too,

tired of its sitter.

I left a trial of breath,

that you may follow fast.

I am hoping you catch up to me,

Loves intermission past.

MR

'Bringing Home Bacon'

 

Bacon, bacon please be mine.

I love my pig .... the swines divine!

From bacon back, the flank and snout,

if kitchens bare of Ham I'll shout,

'What on earth am I to do'?

Without some salty rind to chew.

So find a pig, some naked pork,

a streaky friend that I may fork!

In a pan to fry with virgin oil

or under grill so I may broil,

a hefty slice, a rasher grand,

please Butcher be my helping hand.

I'll share with you a trotters deal

to eat some hog with every meal.

I'll cross your palm with gold so bright

that your pigs display be out of sight,

from patrons that might relish swine,

so that I alone might only dine

on favoured  sow or swill fat boar

from sty to market, then Butchers store.

If you think that I'll hog the show,

your right to worry that I may grow,

to such a size ...... just wait and see,

that I am the pig deluxe, a porker BLT.

Of all the meats you sold to me,my fav',

the noble sausage,

my hearts desire, that 'banger' lust

may form a lardy blockage!

Should I succumb to fattened veins,

grunt my last refrain,

to you I leave my body parts ......

let science have my brain.

Place me on your Butchers block .....

one to hold a slob,

pack stuffing up my my backside,

cram crab apple in my gob.

 

M.Rowney

 

 

I

If ever your in Northumberland, in and around the small village of Allenheads try to discover if Phil Ogg is playing and singing. You will be in for a treat. For me Phil is one the best  poetical Guitarists/ songwriters around. Buy him a pint and he may talk to you of Poetry, Music and small kindness's that are the trade mark of this extraordinary Artist.

   SYCAMORE
from this seat I am the archer
the quiet catalyst
a watcher at the gateway
the figure who insists

that all who come acknowledge
the triple headed fiend
whose beady eye is fixed this way
and in the sulphur gleams

with toothy grin and hydra hair
a grizzly bulbous brow
whose gaze I match most every night
before I climb the stairs to slough

mundanity and duty
and take the reaching hand
of an angel in the darkness
by the name of Sand -y- man

and while I drift with Morpheus
to the cry of owl and grouse
the fiend's a friend, a guardian
at the portal of this house

Phil Ogg 2014 

You can see him perform with other greats, follow the link below. 

 http://allenvalleysfolkfestival.co.uk/

'Famous Grouse'

It is the twelfth in August's month,

glorious be thy God.

From London all the lenders come

to form a firing squad.

These Bankers are on pilgrimage

to settle all accounts.

They climb the Moors to reach the top,

the Vermin on the mount.

They aim at Grouse for thrills,

from walls of peat they shoot,

like Priests within a pulpit,

their doctrine, 'game' pursuit!

Twelve bores sat on their butts,

before beaters do their duty,

then blast away, the feathers fall

the Brokers bag their booty.

Its jinking flight the crimson comb,

the Grouse's cry 'go bak'.

Too late for those that seek escape,

succumb to shotguns flak.

They're dealers in death, these Eton boys,

barrels of fun, have shares in noise.

Replenished stocks of birds to kill,

the keepers work the targets filled.

Il nomine Partridge, eat fillet, swig spirit in Sanctum,

Cook Pheasant and Woodcock,

memoriums Anthem.

North from Thames, the South in tweed,

dethrone the 'King of Game', the loader's creed.

Alumni of the trading floor, investors to impress,

lets shoot a brace ...Hell, kill the lot.....

et gloria in excess.

The mathematics of slaughter,

the sum of us employed,

a sacrifice of feathers

our overdraft made void.

Keepers, Beaters, Loaders, Weavers,

Gunsmiths, Painters too,

not forgetting Chefs and Angel,

all must pay for brew.

If some birds need to die 

so plutocrats have pleasure

its safe to say....money grows NOT on trees

but in the burnt-out heather.

When those 'Savile Row Slayers' hit the road,

returned to London's scene,

let THEM become the target,

inspect their Bonus Scheme!

 

 

publish and be loved

Hooray...I am happy to say that for some time now I have been working on a collection of children's poems. It is so satisfying to free ones mind of the pressures and everyday worries that 'grown ups' endure. To explore a time when the Box hedge was a giant Redwood and caterpillars were snakes and our swollen stream the mighty Nile. I was delighted to have my poem 'This seats Reserved' accepted for publication  in the anthology 'Poems For Children', published in October by 'Forward Poetry'. Such a wonderful new way to express what I see and feel....I need a brand new gigantic pair of specs.

This Seats Reserved

This garden seats reserved, so please move on,

don't give your feet a rest.

It's not for you, but border Snails,

some Beetles and their guests.

Move on! don't sit, this seats reserved

for all the garden beasties,

they've signed accords to eat just fruit,

the Spider chaired the treaty.

Some orchard Plums and cherry ripe

are entrees for their feast,

they even eat the pips and stones,

the seeds on winds released.

Move on! don't sit, they're like the birds,

they scoff their snacks quite early,

for if you sit, you'll squash the lot,

their garden gate be pearly.

"Move on", I say, this seats reserved for

insects to have luncheon,

for Roses foe, invited Gnat, it's

Aphids private function.

If your standing reading this and

think the seat is vacant ....remember that

the last to eat are Mites, their

presence latent.

On cloudy days, DO take a pew and

rest your weary feet,

please cover up and wear some cream,

you could be Midges sweet!

So best to let these living bugs

have their meal in joy,

don't interrupt .....keep walking on,

this bench is their Savoy.

'White Flag'

Nine months rain,three months snow,

the frigid air, winds biting blow.

A fog of war, breath that hides ones gloom,

those drawn in days and darkened rooms.

The snow-line buttressed into sculptured drifts

that hold us bound,

by weight of fall, hermetic grasses to deep

to surge through solid ground.

we're put on ice, our lives on hold,

no draft deterred, the beds too cold.

Dear God! This farm, exposed and bare,

battered in a blizzard siege its  ordnance

the frozen air.

Assaulted roads, blockade of ice, 

an Arctic barricade, hostage to winters vise.

We wither and shake to bear the brunt,

captive of the battle-line, this polar front.

The shortest days and longest nights,

as power struggles, the current out,

extant in candlelight.

The wild things forced march in frigid lofts

blocked by solid spouts,

in search of spoils or hardships feast, aid

starvation's scouts

and grounded birds use wings to plough

through seas of squall, 

their breast like prow

to part the harshest snowy swell,

marooned in fields and sunk on fell.

The Evergreens, bleached and cloaked,

a Satin line of pregnant brides, the groom, SPRING,

his vows revoked.

The last gasp Birch that clings to banks

and bursting cracks,

hang solemn, the vigil stands with

fuel starved axe.

Cobwebs draped like sugared lace,

with pearls of frost adorned,

retreating spiders wrapped in silk,

its brittle net, quite scorned.

I'm minus ten and six foot deep,

no mirth in comfort food,

I'm fodder for the forecast

when snow and wind collude.

I'm mired deep, its 'white out',

no distant point to view,

I'd integrate my mindset,

if only snow were blue.

As these raw weeks, those days of storm

begin to lift their bind,

my melting mood, the Crocus head

and Snowdrops Spring defined.

At last the Norths retreating winds,

the winters cold supply.

The circle closed ....begin afresh,

when Lapwings fill the sky.