Originally Posted by merrylegs
Dollywagon Pike, snow field
Descend on rear
Numb bum and bruises
Ouch...hope they fade away soon Merry!
For Valentines day
A boggy fell race, hot bath,
risotto and wine!
Dollywagon Pike, snow field
Descend on rear
Numb bum and bruises
Ouch...hope they fade away soon Merry!
For Valentines day
A boggy fell race, hot bath,
risotto and wine!
I gotta meetthis Dave Parry fellow
Nice one Hes, sounds pretty cool all round (apart from falling asleep in the bath....Oooooo i'll have sleepless nights about that one...be careful!!!!!!!!!)
well done!
x
Bob Graham leg two
Dodds, Helvellyn and Fairfield
on Valentines Day
Poacher turned game-keeper
Aw how lovely........you are a lucky young man!.....and now we all reap the benefits of a very considerate admirer!Today I had the good fortune of receiving Carol Ann Duffy's Rapture poetry book as a Valentine present
Ship
In the end,
it was nothing more
than the toy boat of a boy
on the local park's lake,
where I walked with you
But I knelt down
to watch it arrive,
its white sail shy
with amber light,
the late sun
bronzing the wave
that lifted it up,
my ship coming in
with its cargo of joy
Now that's what I call a valentine's day run.....Bob Graham leg two
Dodds, Helvellyn and Fairfield
on Valentines Day
Sounds a good day out
Apart from falling asleep in the bath, bloody cold when you wake up!!!
Last edited by stevefoster; 14-02-2010 at 11:27 PM.
Lucky, correct
Considerate, correct
Young, it's all relative
Poacher turned game-keeper
....me thinks young of heart (and legs...if today's acheivements are anything to go by!!!!)Lucky, correct
Considerate, correct
Young, it's all relative
don't think we have had anything by this poet yet...i like this one....
On Raglan Road
On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue;
I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way,
And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day.
On Grafton Street in November we tripped lightly along the ledge
Of the deep ravine where can be seen the worth of passion's pledge,
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts and I not making hay -
O I loved too much and by such and such is happiness thrown away.
I gave her gifts of the mind I gave her the secret sign that's known
To the artists who have known the true gods of sound and stone
And word and tint. I did not stint for I gave her poems to say.
With her own name there and her own dark hair like clouds over fields of May
On a quiet street where old ghosts meet I see her walking now
Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow
That I had wooed not as I should a creature made of clay -
When the angel woos the clay he'd lose his wings at the dawn of day.
Patrick Kavanagh
A Subaltern's Love Song by John Betjeman
Miss J.Hunter Dunn, Miss J.Hunter Dunn,
Furnish'd and burnish'd by Aldershot sun,
What strenuous singles we played after tea,
We in the tournament - you against me!
Love-thirty, love-forty, oh! weakness of joy,
The speed of a swallow, the grace of a boy,
With carefullest carelessness, gaily you won,
I am weak from your loveliness, Joan Hunter Dunn
Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,
How mad I am, sad I am, glad that you won,
The warm-handled racket is back in its press,
But my shock-headed victor, she loves me no less.
Her father's euonymus shines as we walk,
And swing past the summer-house, buried in talk,
And cool the verandah that welcomes us in
To the six-o'clock news and a lime-juice and gin.
The scent of the conifers, sound of the bath,
The view from my bedroom of moss-dappled path,
As I struggle with double-end evening tie,
For we dance at the Golf Club, my victor and I.
On the floor of her bedroom lie blazer and shorts,
And the cream-coloured walls are be-trophied with sports,
And westering, questioning settles the sun,
On your low-leaded window, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.
The Hillman is waiting, the light's in the hall,
The pictures of Egypt are bright on the wall,
My sweet, I am standing beside the oak stair
And there on the landing's the light on your hair.
By roads "not adopted", by woodlanded ways,
She drove to the club in the late summer haze,
Into nine-o'clock Camberley, heavy with bells
And mushroomy, pine-woody, evergreen smells.
Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,
I can hear from the car park the dance has begun,
Oh! Surry twilight! importunate band!
Oh! strongly adorable tennis-girl's hand!
Around us are Rovers and Austins afar,
Above us the intimate roof of the car,
And here on my right is the girl of my choice,
With the tilt of her nose and the chime of her voice.
And the scent of her wrap, and the words never said,
And the ominous, ominous dancing ahead.
We sat in the car park till twenty to one
And now I'm engaged to Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.
http://www.poetryarchive.org/poetrya...do?poetId=1536
Last edited by freckle; 14-02-2010 at 11:50 PM.
Nice one freckle, a fallen angel ending, it must be hard being an angel, then again, nobodies perfect, days out on the hills with friends can be pretty perfect though
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZgiNN0iv3jo
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