Big Bad Bob

Is God willing to prevent evil, but not able? Then he is not omnipotent.

If he is able, but not willing? Then he is malevolent.

If he is both able and willing? Then from where does evil come?

If he is neither able or willing? Then why call him God? He is nothing

What makes poetry and what does it mean?

Poetry is defined by the Collins Oxford Dictionary as -

The art of rhythmical composition, written or spoken, for exciting pleasure by beautiful, imaginative or elevated thoughts.

And their definition of a poem is:

A composition in verse, usually characterised by concentrated and heightened language, in which words are chosen for their sound and suggestive power, as well as for their sense, and using such techniques as metre, rhyme, and alliteration.

Poetry Forms

Metre is defined as : rhythm as given by division into parts of equal duration

Alliteration is where words commencing with the same sounds are notably frequent. The repetition of the beginning sounds of words, as in “Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers,” “long-lived,” “short shrift,” and “the fickle finger of fate.”

It expresses life through the eyes of the writer.

It stems from an emotion, an inspiration, or from a particular event in the poets life.

Poetry is an art form that uses metaphors to express a certain thought or story, and, whatever other inspiration a person has for writing a poem, poetry is a literary art form that is written with a great deal of sensitivity and feeling. It’s also a way of expressing feelings in vivid and interesting ways: good poetry expresses issues that people remember and think about. It captures something exiting in the essence of the writers intent that the reader can visualise

And what should it do to us ?

Enhances or enriches the life of the reader

One of the functions of the poet is to draw attention to material to which the rest of us are blind, or of which we are only vaguely aware. The poet’s thoughts, feelings and observations may not be more vivid, but they have a clarity of mind and command of language that can trap them and make them come alive for us.

“Free verse”

i.e.- The lines in this form of poetry don't rhyme and the rhythm or beat of the writing/poem (?) is often not easy to predict or non existent.

An example free verse is amply demonstrated by this writing by Alan Sondheim

I deliberately do not use the word poem as I find this form of writing absolute drivel.

This tree which cannot read

i am standing in storm and in sunlight.

i am the writing for this tree.

i am standing here day and am standing here night.

i am standing in storm and in sunlight.

i am standing in snow and in fog and in thaw.

i have never seen the other side of the hill.

i have no idea what is on the other side.

i can't see into the ground unless a squirrel digs a very wide hole.

i can't move to escape the squirrel who is busy with me.

i can't move closer to hear anything on the other side of the hill.

since i am blind perhaps there is no hill.

perhaps there is no squirrel.

when the great winds come i cannot protect myself.

i can only hope when the great fires comes

when i lose a part of myself i do not lose the whole.

i am not sure when i lose a part of myself but i am sometimes strengthened.

i cannot tell what is happening around me nor avoid the axe.

i cannot huddle or mourn and cannot tell you about my children.

if any of them should live i cannot speak.

i am writing this gift for my friend the tree which is outside my window.

my friend cannot hear me and cannot see me.

these many years my friend has not known me.

i am writing for my tree which cannot read.

Aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoetnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be at the rghit pclae. The rset can be a total mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe.

Amzanig eh!? (This just about f*cked my splelchcekre)

The wings of evil overhead,

Fill the air with hate;

They cast their shadow all around

In death it culminate .

Who is it starts this deadly game

of suffering and war,

The killing of the innocents has

Really gone too far.

The deeds and thoughts of evil men

Create a stench of fear,

A hatred lives in each mans heart,

Depravity is here.

This killing in the name of God

Casts a heavy weight,

On those who understand true love

But now its far too late.

The time is here for us to see

All conflicting thought,

But men must fight

to keep their right

of evil to be thwart.

Its greed within the minds of men

Which starts this deadly time,

When called to war

we care not for

Depravity and crime.

Husbands, fathers, sons are gone.

What’s left is hate & strife

These days of conflict overwhelm

The dead who loved their life.

Now children cry and mothers mourn

For those that have been lost

The refugees all flee in fear

Before they count the cost.

On Flanders Field.

On Flanders Fields they gave their lives,

They died for freedoms sake;

This sacrifice was born in love,

That all were proud to take.

On Flanders fields now poppies grow

Fed by young mens blood

They stand up proud and say to all

Beneath us lie the good

On Flanders field the memories lie

Of sons and Fathers too,

The hearts of brave and selfless men

Who gave thier lives for you

On Flanders field this sacrifice

Lies buried ‘neath the earth

A love indeed for fellow man

And country of thier birth

On Flanders field those valliant men

Lay down their lives and more

Such love of life

With pain and strife

But now they live no more

Flanders is in Northern France and for those who are too young to remember, or know nothing about the First World War, it was the scene of the greatest loss of life sustained by the British Army in its history. On the first day of the Battle of the Somme, on the 1st of June 1916, the British army suffered 60,000 casualties, of which 20,000 were killed. I emphasise that this was 20,000 dead on only one day.

The attack was organised to take the pressure away from the French positions at Verdun where they were struggling to resist the attacks of the German offensive.

You'll never make a referee as long as I've got a hole in my backside

In the beginning when God was creating the world, he was sitting on a Cloud telling his pal the Angel Gabriel what he planned for Wales. "Gabby" he said. "I’m going to give them soaring mountains, purple glens. High flying eagles, streams laden with salmon, golden fields of barley from which a whisky coloured nectar can be made, green lush spectacular golf courses, coal in the ground, gold slate and tin... "Hold on" said Gabriel "Are you not being over generous to these Taffies. "NO" replied the Almighty "Just wait till you see the bloody neighbours I'm going to give them.

Written after a visit to Hexam Abbey in the North East of England. For more info on the Abbey go to

http://www.hexhamabbey.org.uk/visits-history/

It's a fine building in the Early English style of architecture built around 1170-1250AD,

Hexam Abbey

Bring homage to this holy place;

This ancient site of Christian grace,

Devotion steeped in sandstone walls,

Draws faithful to these hallowed halls

These wooden doors so bold and stout,

Which keep the evil serpent out;

Beckon to the righteous fold,

Enter, and the Lord behold.

This transept tall with gallant stair,

And Acca's Cross, a noble heir;

To Wilfred, leader of the meek,

A saintly guide to those who seek -

Solace in this holy shrine,

This tranquil place of Love devine.

These vaults and freises carved with skill,

Stand aloft in air so still,

'Till organ sounds with enthralling power,

Which serves to guide the princely choir,

To sing aloud with one accord,

Their voices high to praise the Lord.

This ancient seat of Priors fine,

Had stood the noble test of time;

With Saxon Crypt of ancient year,

Built to house those relics dear;

With altar and the Tree of Life,

That serves to show the love of life,

That God impart in man.

The last line has no rhyme but I think finishes it off nicely. I reckon it's one of my favourite writings and possible one of my best. But you decide........

For those who think I'm someone else, I live in North East England but my family is from South Wales and I consider myself Welsh, so this poem was a bit strange for me to write. In fact I wrote it for St George's Day (the patron saint of England) celebrations and my mind was on medieval England.

THIS ENGLAND

This land of true and valiant men,

This England fine and fair,

With freedom of its own desire,

And justice as its heir.

A land of truth it is no doubt,

Of hope and freedoms' fire.

A land where all may live in peace,

With men of free desire,

These lionhearted men of old,

Will fight for justice here,

Where lies and evil deeds may die,

And truth be always dear.

These stout and stalwart Englishmen,

Fear nought and stand bold fast,

That they may quell the evil of,

Their enemies at last.

An Englishman is true indeed,

True to each and all,

He fights for justice and the rights,

Of men to stand up tall.

These lionhearts of England,

Are kings in their own right,

Fear nought thou valiant Englishmen,

For truth you'll always fight.

A soldier for the rights of folk,

The same as you and me,

Protects those innocent and pure,

As babes on mothers knee.

As England shall again begin,

To rally to the sword,

Vanquished all the enemies be,

Of people, and the Lord.

Hold up your heads O, Englishmen,

Stand tall and never flinch,

For the rights of each and everyone,

Don't ever give an inch.

The Rambler

I walked alone through forest damp,

Passed trees that towered high;

'Mongst tall imposing growth I tramp,

And see the world pass by.

The miles go by at easy pace,

O'er stone and granite slab;

With natures wondrous course I trek,

'Cross path and rocky crag.

This trail worn by a thousand feet,

I follow without care;

Amongst the dale and hillside glade,

In England fine & fair

Passed sagging limbs and severed branch,

I ponder as I stroll;

This broken wood from trees extinct,

That death hath taken toll.

By riverbed with pebbled shale,

Where water babbles free;

I spend my time and rest awhile,

Beneath the shading tree.

Then clouds eclipse the golden orb,

And sombre it become;

The rustle of the leaves reveal,

The coming of the storm.

With blowing wind, rain stings my face,

Chills me to marrow deep;

I huddle to the shelter of,

The cliff side sharp and steep.

I wait awhile for calm to show,

The end of howling rage;

Then sun peeps forth between the clouds,

To smile on natures stage.

Primrose, Broom & Bluebells show,

A carpet of delight;

Resplendent plants display thier charms,

In evenings tranquil light.

When walking this virginal earth,

These wondrous things behold;

Its one of those most precious things,

To see new life unfold.

I'm not Pete ..... No idea who he is!

I don't particularly like this one so what you say?

The Bride, resplendent in her gown,

A smile upon her face;

Bridesmaids flutter as time draws near,

Arranging dress and lace.

The taxi's here, its time to go,

The church awaits the bride;

Whilst groom is greeting guests and shows

his nerves - though full of pride.

Here’s the Bride the word is spread,

The guests all looking round;

The organ plays the wedding march,

As two hearts start to pound.

Exchanging rings and making vows,

The happy couple stand;

Together at the alter steps,

In love, and hand in hand.

Inscribing now the marrage lines,

Both bride and groom partake;

Countersigned by vicar too,

Now neither can forsake.

At the doorway of the church,

Standing arm in arm;

Waiting for the photographs,

So patient and now quite calm.

The celebration time's arrived,

When all the guests can meet;

They wish the couple lots of luck

To make their day complete.

I hope you lot realise your challenge is costing me points for posting "questions"....... LOL

Please note also that my poems have rhythm and also rhyme. Writing without such is, to me, not a poem but just a collection of phrases or sentences of connected (or even unconnected words i.e. without meaning or significance) within the overall text and has no soul. No matter how good the writing, without a soul it is only a narrative or story. I'm sorry if you disagree, but to me "free verse" stinks (in the nicest possible way).

This was also done for a bit of a laugh when on a trip on a vintage 1960's stream train on the North Yorkshire Moors Railway. It took about 40 minutes to write during the trip.

THE TRAIN JOURNEY

The fireman shovelled on the coal,

The driver blew the whistle;

The coaches lurched and away we went,

Through heather and the thistle.

The rain was cold and bleaching down,

Though I didn't have a care;

The countryside was flying by,

And wind blew through my hair.

The speed amazed me as we went,

The way we travelled on;

In the fields the sheep looked up,

And scattered all as one.

Clickety clack the wheels went round,

Driven by the power,

Of steam and smoke - and wheel and spoke,

At sixty miles an hour.

A mile a minute traveling now,

Speeding forth with grace;

My heart stood still,

As we climed the hill,

To the crest at such a pace.

Down the hill we went this time,

Full speed and going with ease;

The driver blew the whistle again,

As we travelled through the trees.

Past the level crossing gates,

We flew with such a pace,

The children stood and waved at us,

A smile upon each face.

Slowing down apporoaching now,

The platform of the station,

The thrill had gone-

When the brakes came on,

For the journeys termination.

I wrote this as a bit of fun whilst on a day trip to the seaside.

THE SEASIDE HOLIDAY

The sun shines down upon the sand

Lovers walking hand in hand

Foaming surf licks at their feet

It's such a lovely place to meet

Each other when in love so true

Beside the sea so clear and blue.

The children chatter, laugh and play

Spending their time here during the day

Upon the sand they love to run

And play in the sea whilst having fun

To them a day upon the sand

Is nothing other than rather grand

But the tide comes in and washes away

Castles of sand that took all day

For children to build and dads to help

With dogs running round with a bark and a yelp

Deck chairs set out all in a row

With Colourful patterns all of a glow

Filled with old ladies taking a nap

With handbags and brollies clutched close to their lap,

Hubbies are snoring along by their side

Head hanging back and mouth open wide,

Passing the time as thier life ebbs away

dreaming of times when they used to play,

Cricket and football and all other games,

Like darts in the pub and chasing the dames

The noise and the bustle from funfair rides,

Ghost train, dodgems and helter skelter slides;

Screams from the ladies riding the dipper

Fun while it lasts for the seaside day- tripper.

Mothers with kiddies and babies in prams,

Stuffing thier faces with ice cream and jam

Theres also floss stuck to a stick

and the ice lolly that just needs a lick

These are the things that go on all day

Here By the seaside in one holiday

Translation for you Americans:

Floss = cotton candy

Jam = Jello

Here's a poem which tells a story. And don't accuse me of plagiarism again Butthead,

THE SEASONS

The snow is melting quickly now,

The joy of spring draws near;

The sun shines from the clear blue sky,

Now winters end is here.

The crocus shows it's budding head,

All swiftly growing on;

New growth speeding forth ahead,

The freeze now having gone.

The seasons change and come and go,

Summer follows spring;

Soon we'll see the blossoms show,

And birds upon the wing.

The musky scent of life once more,

Fills the air again;

A time for praise & giving thanks,

For flowers and the rain

Summer's nearly here again,

With daffodils in bloom;

Honeysuckle starts to show,

Then months pass into June.

Time passes on so quickly now,

The summers really here;

Roses start to show their heads,

With days all bright and clear.

So many colours fill our eyes,

It's natures precious things,

With flowers bending in the breeze,

Such life to all it brings.

The summers growing to a close,

With Autumn just ahead.

The leaves are turning bronze again,

and soon they'll all be dead

To fall to earth and give next year,

The earth a special power,

To bring forth life again once more,

In next years early flower.

Autumn shades are all around,

Giving colour a subtle hue;

Nature does such wondrous things,

Bestowing life anew.

Autumn now is all but gone,

And winds bring colder rain;

The dormouse sleeps away the days,

'Till springtime comes again.

The winters really here once more,

With wind comes sleet and snow;

And all is still again this year,

Till next; and spring doth show.

A Tribute to the fallen.

Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there. I did not die.

Wales 22 - 10 Ireland.

Cymru am Byth

If Wales play like that they can beat ANYBODY. It's our turn this year.