It's poetry to entertain you this week. Enjoy.
A calves life by Tara Turner
It was like a jamboree
Except it was not jolly
For this is my end
And that of my friend
We were born together on the same farm
But torn from our mothers and put in a barn
We did not get to feel the warmth of our mothers love
We are the ones to be disposed of
We can hear our mothers call
The pain of loss hits like a wrecking ball
I want the hermit of a farmer
To look deep inside and take down his armour
We are as delicate as an orchid in the morning sunrise
We want to enjoy blue skies
We want to live our lives
Not come under humans knives
We think, we feel, we communicate
We don’t deserve to be classed as freight
But alas the end is near
I try to control my fear
One last look at my friend
We nuzzle as we get shoved round the bend
Further down the killing shute
This human is a brute
I call for my mother I call for my friend
I'm only a week old, I panic I don’t want my little life to end
I get prodded and poked
It hurts, I'm held fast, I'm choked
Henry V111 – by Rick Haynes
Henry the eighth was a nasty old king
Full of spite and rotten to the core
He’d make many a choir boy sing
But you’d never see him anymore
Henry would smile and then he would glower
For his lust was endless, his size twice as big
As he’d wander around his greatest tower
And waddle and reek, as fat as the fattest pig
None of his wives were particularly happy
For he promised much but never delivered
Like a smelly child with a well soiled nappy
Henry would cry out as he dithered and slithered
His gout was a problem, the pain out of control
His mind often wandered, his eyes would close
Yet we must never forget, the terror in his soul
As he tried hard to sleep, yet could only doze
A king of mighty England, a man of massive bulk
Often evil, often sly, but never ever his fault
He’d spend so many hours with one big sulk
And all the time was thought after thought
Which girl would he take to his very large bed
And which one would become his new radiant queen
So many were chosen, a few lost their head
And some disappeared, were missing, never seen
And when Henry died from a wound in his leg
His body was laid in a huge wooden coffin
Much relived, his friends did smile over a keg
But no hats were thrown, nor even were doffing
For the King had died, yes, he was dead.
But who would now dare to rule in his stead?
Long live the King.
NEVER TOO OLD by Rick Haynes
It’s summer, and the day was long.
Too hot to dance and sing along.
The tune so loud, it hurt my ears,
The memories, from all those years.
I wandered empty on a whim.
My head well down, my chin tucked in.
The past has gone I breathe a sigh.
My dreams are lost I wipe my eye.
With leaden feet I take the walk.
Too old I shuffle, too weary to talk.
The sky is bright, I see the sun.
My days are gone, I cannot run.
The light retreats, I say a prayer.
I’ll defy you god, I stand and stare.
The dark can wait, I feel my power.
I’m not dying yet like a wilted flower.
My life is long I’ve reached the ton.
So stand aside, for there’s more to come.
As all I need is a little fun.