Today is August the third
Another day in the quest
To write in a few words on a topic
And try to do our best.
A poem a day can be hard to write
Particularly on a theme
The theme this month is tomorrow
Harder than any that’s been!
To write a few words in a poem
Can be hard for some, don’t you know
You have to think of what to write
So perhaps we’ll wait for t’morrow.
© Nick Rigazzi-Tarling 03/08/2009
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Monday, 3 August 2009
Friday, 31 July 2009
The Mustard Seed
The earth is tilled
To root out weeds
To clean the soil for everyone's needs
The mustard seed is sown
The rain doth flow
To wet the earth
Roots do grow
And weeds do flourish by their mirth
The weeds are strong
And by their hand
Do suffocate the seeds
And the weeds do long for their own land
But man is here
To till the earth
To shed a tear
For the lowly mustard seed
But oh what joy
To hear the cry
Of that farmer boy
Who tilled the earth
For the mustard seed
It has taken root
And has grown a plant
And has grown its fruit
For the fruit of love
Is a mustard seed
It fills our need
Oh! that amazing mustard seed.
© Nick Rigazzi-Tarling 30/07/09
To root out weeds
To clean the soil for everyone's needs
The mustard seed is sown
The rain doth flow
To wet the earth
Roots do grow
And weeds do flourish by their mirth
The weeds are strong
And by their hand
Do suffocate the seeds
And the weeds do long for their own land
But man is here
To till the earth
To shed a tear
For the lowly mustard seed
But oh what joy
To hear the cry
Of that farmer boy
Who tilled the earth
For the mustard seed
It has taken root
And has grown a plant
And has grown its fruit
For the fruit of love
Is a mustard seed
It fills our need
Oh! that amazing mustard seed.
© Nick Rigazzi-Tarling 30/07/09
Wednesday, 29 July 2009
To Rest
To rest - the brain
To rest - the body
Sleep...
To relax - to paint
To relax – to write
Rest...
To work – the machine
To work – the typewriter
Tire...
To live – in peace
To live – in war
Fight...
To live – love
To love – live
To Die...
© Nick Rigazzi-Tarling 29 July 2009
To rest - the body
Sleep...
To relax - to paint
To relax – to write
Rest...
To work – the machine
To work – the typewriter
Tire...
To live – in peace
To live – in war
Fight...
To live – love
To love – live
To Die...
© Nick Rigazzi-Tarling 29 July 2009
Monday, 27 July 2009
The Pigeon
The pigeon seems not a graceful bird
It’s plump and rather clumsy.
In jackboot style it struts its thing
On roofline and amongst the barley!
Its feathers are grey and white
With some green and faun and blue.
It has a yellow eye each side
Stuck on its head with glue.
At night time when one is camping
It doesn’t seem to sleep
It coo’s and ah’s all thro’ the night
Along the boughs of trees,
And in the tent with you!
And if the pigeon goes to sleep
It falls from roosting bough.
It flaps wings as though
It’s in a plastic bag – somehow?
The pigeon flies like Superman
As straight as flight can be
At other times it flaps its wings
Then glides like Bumble Bee.
It does this several times in flight
Its mate, she tags along.
In formation the pigeons fly
And around the others throng!
© Nick Rigazzi-Tarling 27 July 2009
It’s plump and rather clumsy.
In jackboot style it struts its thing
On roofline and amongst the barley!
Its feathers are grey and white
With some green and faun and blue.
It has a yellow eye each side
Stuck on its head with glue.
At night time when one is camping
It doesn’t seem to sleep
It coo’s and ah’s all thro’ the night
Along the boughs of trees,
And in the tent with you!
And if the pigeon goes to sleep
It falls from roosting bough.
It flaps wings as though
It’s in a plastic bag – somehow?
The pigeon flies like Superman
As straight as flight can be
At other times it flaps its wings
Then glides like Bumble Bee.
It does this several times in flight
Its mate, she tags along.
In formation the pigeons fly
And around the others throng!
© Nick Rigazzi-Tarling 27 July 2009
Wednesday, 22 July 2009
The Unforgotten?
The unforgotten stand
With heads bowed to the ground,
All through the long year,
The seasons do not fail them,
Rain and snow and wind and sun,
Beat down for all eternity.
Their names are written in rough-hewn blocks
John, David, Paul and Saul.
And upon these souls an angel stands,
For the soldiers, who were smitten?
And then there are those men,
They’re dead before their time,
They were only 18 years of age,
When the sting, was felt by them.
They’ve been left in no-mans land,
Between the rows of troops
Scattered in the holes of war,
All buried in their boots.
Oh! What price war or skirmish?
There have been many since,
Korea, Vietnam or Afghanistan
These are but a few.
Where man and boy were sent,
They said for ‘just’ intent!
To shore up ailing governments,
Their names we’ll never know.
Among the carnage of the war
These are the forgotten soldiers, few.
So when we pass those men,
With heads bowed down so low.
We say a silent pray,
And we think of those that died.
On rough-hewn blocks of stone, they’ll stand,
To hear ‘Last Post’ and ‘Buglers Call’.
But please remember who’ve fallen in their prime.
Around this world, so blue,
For all those men and women,
Who died through curse of war?
© Nick Rigazzi-Tarling 16th July 2009
With heads bowed to the ground,
All through the long year,
The seasons do not fail them,
Rain and snow and wind and sun,
Beat down for all eternity.
Their names are written in rough-hewn blocks
John, David, Paul and Saul.
And upon these souls an angel stands,
For the soldiers, who were smitten?
And then there are those men,
They’re dead before their time,
They were only 18 years of age,
When the sting, was felt by them.
They’ve been left in no-mans land,
Between the rows of troops
Scattered in the holes of war,
All buried in their boots.
Oh! What price war or skirmish?
There have been many since,
Korea, Vietnam or Afghanistan
These are but a few.
Where man and boy were sent,
They said for ‘just’ intent!
To shore up ailing governments,
Their names we’ll never know.
Among the carnage of the war
These are the forgotten soldiers, few.
So when we pass those men,
With heads bowed down so low.
We say a silent pray,
And we think of those that died.
On rough-hewn blocks of stone, they’ll stand,
To hear ‘Last Post’ and ‘Buglers Call’.
But please remember who’ve fallen in their prime.
Around this world, so blue,
For all those men and women,
Who died through curse of war?
© Nick Rigazzi-Tarling 16th July 2009
One Small Step
"One small step......" Buzz Aldrin said,
as he left the module
"One small step......" the doctor said,
when the lame started to walk
"One small step......" the mother said,
To the baby crawling on her knees.
"One small step......" the father said,
holding on to the bike, before the child started to ride.
"One small step......" the General said,
to his army before they left the trenches.
"One giant leap......" Mankind whispered in return.
© Nick Rigazzi-Tarling 20 July 2009
as he left the module
"One small step......" the doctor said,
when the lame started to walk
"One small step......" the mother said,
To the baby crawling on her knees.
"One small step......" the father said,
holding on to the bike, before the child started to ride.
"One small step......" the General said,
to his army before they left the trenches.
"One giant leap......" Mankind whispered in return.
© Nick Rigazzi-Tarling 20 July 2009
To Think Another Thought Today
To think another thought today
My mind's on other things
Shall I write just now
or see what writing brings.
My thoughts are muddled
They're thinking of -
All manner of strange things!
To fill out forms
To make some tea
To think of poetry.
To have a bath, in
hot water, glea.....
I think I need some tea.
I've had my thoughts
Some words it's brought
But not my poetry.
I feel so glum
I thought I'd have fun.
Oh! Another cup of tea!!
© Nick Rigazzi-Tarling 22-07-09
My mind's on other things
Shall I write just now
or see what writing brings.
My thoughts are muddled
They're thinking of -
All manner of strange things!
To fill out forms
To make some tea
To think of poetry.
To have a bath, in
hot water, glea.....
I think I need some tea.
I've had my thoughts
Some words it's brought
But not my poetry.
I feel so glum
I thought I'd have fun.
Oh! Another cup of tea!!
© Nick Rigazzi-Tarling 22-07-09
Tuesday, 21 July 2009
Routine - a poem
Routine, on Monday, I thought, my
routine is pleasurable
my tasks are so small,
clean, polish, for some,
book meetings for others.
Routine, come Tuesday, I thought, I
am getting on well, my
work is progressing, my
tasks have been, well?
Routine, come Wednesday, I thought, I’d
change my old habits, the
Sun it did shine and
I thought I would grab it, and
Oh! What a tan.
Routine, come Thursday, I thought, if
I rush this small job
Some time I could make up, but,
Oh! !****! Hell!
Routine, come Friday, I thought, the
end of the week, my
boss has gone anal
He will see me next week!
Routine, come Saturday, I thought,
I would be with the kids
Go to MacDonald’s for burgers,
then out to the flixs.
Routine, come Sunday, I thought, there’s
so much to do.
I’ll leave it till Monday,
Let’s go to the zoo.
© Nick Rigazzi-Tarling 21 July 2009
routine is pleasurable
my tasks are so small,
clean, polish, for some,
book meetings for others.
Routine, come Tuesday, I thought, I
am getting on well, my
work is progressing, my
tasks have been, well?
Routine, come Wednesday, I thought, I’d
change my old habits, the
Sun it did shine and
I thought I would grab it, and
Oh! What a tan.
Routine, come Thursday, I thought, if
I rush this small job
Some time I could make up, but,
Oh! !****! Hell!
Routine, come Friday, I thought, the
end of the week, my
boss has gone anal
He will see me next week!
Routine, come Saturday, I thought,
I would be with the kids
Go to MacDonald’s for burgers,
then out to the flixs.
Routine, come Sunday, I thought, there’s
so much to do.
I’ll leave it till Monday,
Let’s go to the zoo.
© Nick Rigazzi-Tarling 21 July 2009
Monday, 20 July 2009
Our Wonderful Gardener
The gardener comes just once a month
To tidy up the plot,
Roses, weeds and camomile
She certainly trims the lot.
The grass is cut with mower,
The edges are edged clean,
And when it comes to weeding
She really is the queen.
The two hours that she toils
Is really not quite long,
She bends and kneels and crouches,
She cuts and trims and digs,
And quickly gets the job done
And then off to home she ‘jigs’.
The gardeners name is Carey,
She really is the biz,
She wears a leather belt
For all her tools she needs.
She wears her shorts in summer
They’re in shades of green or brown,
Her hair is bright and curly
As she potters out of town.
I hear that she is busy
Other gardens she keeps clean,
She is very nymph like
And looks fit as a new pin.
But talking to her daughter
Last night upon the ‘phone’,
Gardening is not her only pleasure
For she toils down at the gym!
© Nick Rigazzi-Tarling 18 July 2009
To tidy up the plot,
Roses, weeds and camomile
She certainly trims the lot.
The grass is cut with mower,
The edges are edged clean,
And when it comes to weeding
She really is the queen.
The two hours that she toils
Is really not quite long,
She bends and kneels and crouches,
She cuts and trims and digs,
And quickly gets the job done
And then off to home she ‘jigs’.
The gardeners name is Carey,
She really is the biz,
She wears a leather belt
For all her tools she needs.
She wears her shorts in summer
They’re in shades of green or brown,
Her hair is bright and curly
As she potters out of town.
I hear that she is busy
Other gardens she keeps clean,
She is very nymph like
And looks fit as a new pin.
But talking to her daughter
Last night upon the ‘phone’,
Gardening is not her only pleasure
For she toils down at the gym!
© Nick Rigazzi-Tarling 18 July 2009
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