Today's poet

[Nee Bother]

Just found this bit of fun I wrote last year after a day on the North York Moors with my good and very talkative mate...Welsh Tony

The Dragon Slain
(or Welsh Tony silenced)

The mad Welshman and me
We went for a run
It was off road and muddy
to make it more fun

We parked the car and
I gave him the scent
He would lead the way
full of intent

He hurdled the stile and we
climbed the first hill
At the top I looked round but
he looked rather ill

Must give him credit as the
pace never dropped
But an amazing thing happened
His gassing had stopped

We moved very slowly as his legs
were quite weak
But I really enjoyed it 'cos
he just couldn't speak

I played a great game and
slowed to a walk
Then would pick up the pace if
he started to talk

He did speak once as we ran
down a cliff face
But I cannot repeat it as the
language was ace

On that day ground was wet and the
heather was rough
And the the Dragon fell silent when
the going got tough.

Nee Bother

[stevefoster]

Just found this bit of fun I wrote last year after a day on the North York Moors with my good and very talkative mate...Welsh Tony

The Dragon Slain
(or Welsh Tony silenced)

The mad Welshman and me
We went for a run
It was off road and muddy
to make it more fun

We parked the car and
I gave him the scent
He would lead the way
full of intent

He hurdled the stile and we
climbed the first hill
At the top I looked round but
he looked rather ill

Must give him credit as the
pace never dropped
But an amazing thing happened
His gassing had stopped

We moved very slowly as his legs
were quite weak
But I really enjoyed it 'cos
he just couldn't speak

I played a great game and
slowed to a walk
Then would pick up the pace if
he started to talk

He did speak once as we ran
down a cliff face
But I cannot repeat it as the
language was ace

On that day ground was wet and the
heather was rough
And the the Dragon fell silent when
the going got tough.

Nee Bother

Nice poem, constructed with Nee Bother:coollarge:

[Mossdog]

One July Day

I can’t write because
I want to be heading towards Great Dun Fell
In brand new blue Inovs across peat bogs
Dotted with cotton like inflorescences.

I can’t write because
I want to be back to the silence of the mist
And Helm’s wind biting my forehead
Waiting for a poet traversing CrossFell
Weary and proffering mars bars.

I can’t write because
I want to be trudging along
In the cold and poor visibility
with friends who without saying
accept my lack of deftness, stamina
and everything else.

I can’t write because
I want to be sitting in excited anticipation
For the soft whispers of the troubadour
And the opening of more doors
Outside the village hall
and inside my head.

I shall write in the fullness of time
Of the gentle blanket of companionship
That cloaked the path to Garrigill and back,
Escorting the mind, body and words
Of the roaming poet and several souls
one July day.

That's 'delicious' Freckle. Only wish i could have joined you - maybe next time.

[Mossdog]

few remaining swifts
parade gunmetal Dales skies
eternal wheel turns

Nice one DT - don't tell me the swifts are heading south already?????? And the nights are drawing in too !

[Mossdog]

This is my first post - I hope it works ................

Swallows at Chenonceau by John Fuller:

Their building is never finished
Nor their life in the blue air.

Their looping trajectories
Capture invisibility

And return with easy accuracy
To breeding slits and crannies

Clustered beneath the eyebrows
Of these long-suffering turrets

Stone bleached by the sun,
Capped by tented slate.

A tail is seen just for a moment
Before disappearing inside.

No intrigue as patent
In such eager soaring and hovering

Nothing so guileless,
Nothing so anonymous
No calmness nor order of gardens
Could redeem this profusion

Nor effort of history,
Nor stone's severity.

Memory not conditional,
But continual.

This is a new one for me and the particualr lines above are especially poignant. Thanks Sunbeam.

[freckle]

Just found this bit of fun I wrote last year after a day on the North York Moors with my good and very talkative mate...Welsh Tony

The Dragon Slain
(or Welsh Tony silenced)

The mad Welshman and me
We went for a run
It was off road and muddy
to make it more fun

We parked the car and
I gave him the scent
He would lead the way
full of intent

He hurdled the stile and we
climbed the first hill
At the top I looked round but
he looked rather ill

Must give him credit as the
pace never dropped
But an amazing thing happened
His gassing had stopped

We moved very slowly as his legs
were quite weak
But I really enjoyed it 'cos
he just couldn't speak

I played a great game and
slowed to a walk
Then would pick up the pace if
he started to talk

He did speak once as we ran
down a cliff face
But I cannot repeat it as the
language was ace

On that day ground was wet and the
heather was rough
And the the Dragon fell silent when
the going got tough.

Nee Bother

I love this nee bother made me laff out loud!!!!!

Mossy, I hope you can come to the next one ideas welcome! anything involving a combination of running and poetry will be considered by the collective! :-) x

[freckle]

Touching the sky with one finger.

I came here a young man in 1958
Being "out" in Naples was not a good idea at the time
And anyway, what a wild time I had when I arrived,
I mean wild.

I was never a good looking guy, no,
Now don’t try and contradict me!
But they say with youth comes the hide of a donkey.
Then I met him, and Oh- I was so happy
I mean Happy.

I was so happy I could have touched the sky with one finger.


This little poem was inspired by an elderly gentleman I heard on Radio Two this evening, he just had bags of charisma and I loved that line about touching the sky with one finger!!!!

[Hes]

Nice one Freckle! I like it and what a great inspiration for a poem.

Touching the sky with one finger.

I came here a young man in 1958
Being "out" in Naples was not a good idea at the time
And anyway, what a wild time I had when I arrived,
I mean wild.

I was never a good looking guy, no,
Now don’t try and contradict me!
But they say with youth comes the hide of a donkey.
Then I met him, and Oh- I was so happy
I mean Happy.

I was so happy I could have touched the sky with one finger.


This little poem was inspired by an elderly gentleman I heard on Radio Two this evening, he just had bags of charisma and I loved that line about touching the sky with one finger!!!!

[Hes]

Ok...this has taken far too long and I need to be working so apologies for it being a bit corny in places but I did enjoy writing it. I nicked the title from the man himself as I think he's a bit of a star.

Seeing Stars!

It was a Thursday and a grey day
But the runners were excited
A band of friends in inov8s
Fell poets reunited

They headed out from Dufton
From a campsite near the ghyll
along an avenue of lime trees
Swallows swooping down the hill

The pace was slow to start with
Time for thinking and to walk
The dogs weaved through the mist
As the runners slowed to talk

We were heading on a mission
A poet was our quarry
A man who walked the Pennine way
And hoped to write his story

The rain it lashed, the gales they howled
The sights they seemed untrue
We saw two sheep stood in the mist
Their bodies striped with blue

It was heading for the afternoon
And time was passing by
When we saw a shape ahead of us
Against the glowering sky

Thank goodness it was Simon
He seemed to be most glad
To see his sodden entourage
After the morning that he’d had

He hugged our Harry Howgill
And shook us all by hand
We stood about him grinning
And introduced him to our band

Flame-haired Freckle gives the glamour,
Old Whippet the wit and food
Harry knows how to navigate
And Hes’s bog diving is good

Together we headed off the fell
One dog got rather rude
He clung on to our poets leg
as hilarity ensued

The weather was still awful
But we really didn’t mind
Simon was great company
Wit and friendliness combined

At last we reached the village pub
Our journey’s end in sight
We said adieu to Simon
To get ready for the night

Before he left he asked us
Is there anything you lack
Harry wangled Hes a Mars Bar
From Simon’s stacked backpack.

Then back at Howgill Mansion
(a four man tent for one)
Whippet’s stew and homemade bread
Was perfect post the run

The women scrubbed up finely
Swapping pertex for a dress
The lads were also mudless
And both ready to impress

Heading for the village hall
The sun would soon appear
As a crowd of people came along
A troubadour to hear

The man himself was weary
But his reading was just great
His anecdotes in Marsden tongue
And poems were first rate

When the evening ended
A sock was passed about
Appreciation was expressed
of that there was no doubt

The poet and the runners
Then headed for a beer
That Thursday may turn out to be
The highlight of the year!

[Stevie]

Good one Hes, a nice story-telling poem. I like the way you have worked the incidents from the day into the general feeling of things.