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Tapestry of Poems.

A collection of poetry from you. Please email your submissions to me here.
To start us off I will post a couple that I have written over the years for my own pleasure: -

Sharing Troubles.
When trouble finds me, I need to say a prayer,
I speak to my God, and he’s always there.
I look towards the darkness, way up in the sky,
Tell him all my worries, I sometimes ask him why. 
If hope seems forlorn, it’s his help I seek,
For the Lord is strong, and I am weak. 
Yet when things are fine, and going to accord,
I tend to forget that he is there, my Lord. 
So when things are good, and life is appealing,
I promise my Lord, I’ll still be kneeling. 
I’ll thank him for listening, tell him I’m so glad he cared,
My troubles are halved, when I know they’re shared. 
webmaster 2002
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=\

Autumn. 
Leaves, that on the wings of breezes float.
As autumn sheds its rusty coat, 
Carpets of gold they’ve started to weave, 
Furnishing the ground in winter’s eve. 
What beauty, what colour, doth autumn bring, 
Just as magical as new life’s spring.
webmaster 1999



Imaginings. 
Imaginings of wonder, Echo through my mind
Like flying slender fingers seeking out to find
The things that put your mind at rest, and settles you down to lay
In dreams you haven’t had yet, or words you’ve yet to say.
 
A stretched imagination, a vision that will not be
message in a bottle, in the middle of the sea,
Swirl amongst the rollers, float through space and time.
You reach to grasp the bottle, as it sinks beneath the brine.
 
The tree of life stands waiting, the trunk so round and straight
The answers to life’s questions up on high can’t wait.
The branches reach out left and right, but which one should I take?
Life hangs in the balance on the decisions that I make.
 
I climb the tree with purpose, for the answer to my prayer.
Eeny, meeny, miney, mo, which way should I go there?
The branch’s end is waiting, written on a leaf.
You reach to grasp his holy word, it drops and falls beneath.

Are the answers out there? Illusive hints and clues
Of things you think you might have been, of things you think you may have seen,
Of dreams you dreamt while in a dream, of thoughts you thought were pure and clean,
Do we really say just what we mean, as we go on our way?
There seems to be confusion in our lives from day to day.

              We punch the air and thrash about, seeking the answers from without.
We seek the words to say and hear, to wash our minds and make it clear
And find our temple free of sin, the answers sought come from within.
John Farley - ex Indefatigable Anglesey 1959/60
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There is something that bothers me even yet
That cruel and awful cigarette.
My mummy begged me, “Please don’t son.”
But I’d already been and had me one. 
Me, a kid on me bike, going down to the creek,
I used to do it regular, almost every week.
I sat on the bank, watching my float,
When a bloke came past, in a wooden boat. 
I pulled in my line to let him pass,
When he tossed a white packet, onto the grass.
I got up to look at this thing he had thrown,
Looked around, made sure that I was all alone. 
I picked it up and realised, what I had in my hand,
An empty packet of Styvesant, and threw it on the sand.  
I wish that were the end of it, but I guess that it was not,
A ciggie rolled out on the sand, my first fag I had got. 
There would be many ciggies after that, I guess my goose was cooked.
My fish float bobbing up and down, but I’m the one that’s hooked.  
I calculate over forty years. Why did I ever start?
Nearly four hundred and forty thousand, doing damage to my heart.
And that it did, two times it stopped, and warnings from the Doc I copped.
I tried all ways, I failed I flopped, I nearly died before I stopped.  
So now I’ve given the smokes away, I never thought I’d see the day.
No smelly smoke in house or car, but I’d still sneak the odd cigar.
The price I’ve paid is gone and went, that rotten “Peter Stuyvesant.”
John Farley - ex Indefatigable Anglesey 1959/60.

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