Night time

Abraham Tolley and Nicholas Wiseman

 

Blackness filled with white lights

Your surburbs glistening in the gloom

Windows lighting up the night

Shadows lodging where there's room.

 

Streets empty but for the tomcat on the prowl

Alleys tighter than in day

The night is a face with a deep scowl

Be cautious, lest you lose your way.

 

Time ticks on and dark become absolute

The night sky, a bright spinning clock

The owls soon fall asleep with one final hoot

And await dawn: the night sky's final "tock."

 

Like always night must end

From day it cannot its denizen shadows defend.

 

 

 A Pantoum For Hughes

By Alive Poets Society

 

Pantoum for Mr Hughes,

Not a sonnet, not a muse.

We hope not to abuse,

Just to amuse.

 

From what does it ooze?

Frightening the class,

Mr Hughes, Mr Hughes,

Making us all laugh.

 

Frightening the class,

Wittily pontificating.

Making us all laugh,

Utter nonsense, us debating.

 

Wittily pontificating

From what does it ooze?

Utter nonsense, us debating

Mr Hughes, Mr Hughes

 

 

6th June 1944 

Adam Jones, Jacob Wiseman, Nicholas Wiseman. A reverso.

 

On the beaches of Normandy,

They piled in their thousands,

Choosing their path,

Making their way,

Dictated

by Dictators.

By Dictators

Dictated,

Making their way,

Choosing their path,

They piled in their thousands,

On the beaches of Normandy.

 

 

Come Live With Me and Be My Wife

Milo Rees Roberts, Joey Levin, Aidan Harradence, Emmanuel Inglessies, Abe Tolley, Matthew Johnston, Nicholas Wiseman

 

Come live with me and be my wife,
And we shall some new pleasures prove,
With me you can spend your life,
Your arms my enflamed bosom soothe.

 

Our relationship as a tree shall grow,
Nothing shall faze us, nothing abuse,
Dragon`s teeth we shall not sow,
My sheep, my shepherd and my muse.

 

If a wind, `twould be a gentle zephyr
On which we glide without a care,
Our love a cheese, `twould be a cheddar,
Our love a fruit, `twould be a pear.

 

As the pear shall rot and the cheese shall mould,
Our love will die as we get old.
Or perhaps mature, or ferment into wine,
`Cos even if you`re old, all love`s divine.

 

 

For next time:

Who pinched our clock?

 

 

 

AUTHORS WITHOUT PAGES

 

This part of the page is dedicated to those authors that have written poems for the site but have not been able to get their own page.

 

 

Nighttime by Milo Reece Roberts, 13

            Now it is time to go to bed, fall asleep, but something is stirring...

            It spreads its wings and leaves its lair.

            Gone faster than a fleeting thought.

            He hunts for its sleeping prey.

            Tiny objects miles below are being stalked,

            Tired, weary, oblivious.

            Inside flimsy homes of brick and mortar.

            Men cannot save themselves from their imagination -

            Everyone fears their own mind.

 

 

Nighttime by Jamie Stuart, 13

As the car speeds through the shut down city,
Reflecting broken street lights and closed shops so pretty,
Pipelines shine on the stuttering bonnet,
The windows choked by industrial vomit,
I stared out the window of my weather beaten car,
Blinking as absently as an arctic charr,
At what I saw in the street ahead,
The sun will rise again, as a wise man said.