When Snails Cry

How do!  I think this is the only poem I’ve got that rhymes.

 

When snails cry

You can see tears

From their tiny eyes.

Eyes out on stalks

Eyes out for walks.

Behind those eyes

Lies a surprise.

No one knows

Their silent pain

But no one is to blame,

Fate plays a cruel game,

The shell of a snail

Makes it lame,

Weighs it down,

Like a pound

But makes no sound.

The voiceless cries

Of snails,

Their sticky membrane trails

Bring shame

Upon their kind;

But never mind.

So many healthy greens

Have been left behind.

The snail can pick and choose

Which makes up for its ooze.

snail_has_a_stick-s500x375-43805-580

 

By Daniel Tavet(c)

( image from maniacworld.com)

 

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Shiny Boots of Leather

Aside

Hello again.  On this dark wet afternoon, here’s a dark poem!  Some of you might be familiar with the title

SHINY BOOTS OF LEATHER

The only men

Who are fully grown

And never childish

Are evil men.

I watched a film

Made by Hitler’s chums.

They thought the Aryan man

Was a macho man.

But in the discos

Of San Francisco

A moustachioed Nazi

Flecs his pecs

Admires his glistening chest

Scans the club

For the submissive.

Some ladies in the corner

Wearing stupid wigs

Just laugh at him.

‘Not to my taste darling,’

‘The seventies are over honey’

But the Nazi does not

Go home alone

He’s got himself

Something nice and naive

Who wants to see his camp.

Call it youthful folly.

But the folly

Is shocked

By the Iron Crosses

And swastikas.

‘Don’t worry,’ says the Nazi

‘It goes back to my punk rock days,’

‘We all used to do it.’

‘Before my time,’ says the folly.

The Nazi grinned, showing gold teeth.

‘Your my time is now, my love.’

Daniel Tavet (c)

bridge

( image from http://www.howardmodels.com)

Pecking Order

Aside

Just at home, got a bit of internet time, which I don’t normally have.  Thought you might like another poem.

Pecking Order

George,

A forty-something male

Gave a patronising smile

To Dean

A twenty-something male

Smug in his belief

That his age made him wiser

And his class

More human.

Dean covered up his indignation

At the staid hoary suit.

Behold.

The grey pinstripes

Of a man with no blood.

See him tower

Over the powerless

Or those with wide eyes

And lolling mouths.

“Automatic good manners

Serves a purpose,”

Says George,

“It goes back to the Normans

Kept the peasants in check.”

Dean was a stranger here

And thought best to do as the Romans.

Once business was done

He’d soon be home

Playing computer games

And smoking dope.

But George

Had a hard day’s work ahead

And was dependent on trainees.

“Where’s my temp with the nose stud?”

He muttered.

She was in the car park

Smoking roll-ups

Wondering

What to make Dean

For his tea.

Daniel Tavet(c)

More Blogging at Swarthmore

More Blogging at Swarthmore

We met up again at Swarthmore to discuss our blogging experiments and the Love Arts Festival and using the bloggies, small cameras that are surprisingly user friendly.  I have another poem.

Shaking Hands

Shaking hands

Grip tight

To a Big Mac

And medium fries.

Behind a large coke

Someone hides.

By Daniel Tavet

More learning about blogging about Swarthmore

Today at Swarthmore John Baron, one of the founders of the Leeds Wellbeing Web and reporter for The Guardian taught us about community reporting.

We learnt the basics in knowing how to find a story, write the story and how to add links and images.

At the moment, I do not have a story but I do have another poem.

ZIGGY’S RIP OFF

Sigmund sniggered

In a schoolboy manner

Spellbound

By a dirty book.

When I told him

Of the dreams

It was like

Staring with love

At the ceiling

Of my mind.

But his response

Was disappointing.

‘When you were small,

Was your mother pretty?’

I soon tired of this farce

My temper was provoked

So I picked up

His dirty book –

And had a snigger

Myself.

The consultation was done.

A waste of time

And a waste of money.

My friends had warned me.

These crackpots –

With their godless ideals.

My dreams were still

A mystery

And the daylight visions

Of the angel Gabriel

Hanging from a tree.

By Daniel Tavet

Writing Poems

  I’ve always enjoyed writing and the creative urge.  I like poems for a few reasons.  I  like choosing and arranging the words and the rhythm of the poem.  It’s good when people relate to the poem.  I find writing poems can express inhibited emotions and opinions.  I go to a good creative writing class at Inkwell in Chapelallerton.

CHRONIC

Chronic,

Long term,

Boredom.

That

Is the diagnosis.

Your thoughts of violence?

Boredom.

Your lurid fantasies?

Boredom.

Your misanthropy?

Boredom.

Get a job.

Go see a nice film.

Buy a Top Ten single.

You won’t be bored then.

In the interim, take these tablets

To be somebody else.

No, they’re not drugs.

They’re special tablets.

They won’t affect your body

It’ll just feel like somebody else’s.

Least you won’t be bored though.

Don’t take them with drink,

Unless you’re with friends

And in licensed premises.

Another appointment?

Good.

Take this.

You know the way out.

By Daniel Tavet

A Hot Day at Swarthmore

DSC00332  My name is Daniel Tavet, I live in Armley, Leeds.  At the moment I am doing a training session with Leeds Wellbeing, learning about their web site and about blogging.  I took this photo with a Sony bloggie camera.  It was the first time I’d used these kind of cameras.  I took this photo outside Swarthmore college, today, on this hot Thursday.  Supposedly this is the hottest it’s been for seven years.  I think it’s been longer.