Stripe Me Pink
We have to be careful
with whatever we say
as it might happen to us one day.
I knew a fellow once
who had a saying that entered
into every conversation that he made.
He would say quite loudly,
well, stripe me pink.
One day he woke up
and found he was striped pink
but the joker didn’t stop there,
he gave him green and purple spots as well.
He went to his doctor
who was quite mystified
with having a man come into his surgery
with pink stripes and green and purple spots.
He asked what he had been eating,
nothing unusual the fellow replied.
The doctor frowned
feeling there was nothing he could do
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poem by David Harris
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A Australian Rose
For Betty Backhouse
Where ever you may be.
Way back in 1959
my parents, my sister and I.
Sailed from New York harbour
passed the Statue of Liberty
on an ocean liner called the RML Ivernia.
It was on this liner I met a girl slightly older than me,
who completely captivated me.
She was travelling with her parents and her brother.
They were from Australia
and her name was Betty.
She reminded me so much of my Canadian rose,
and the resemblance was uncanny.
The trip to England took seven nights and seven days.
Within those days,
she swept my heart completely away.
My biggest regret now is
I forgot to ask them where they lived in Australia.
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poem by David Harris
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Coloured Roses
As we stood solemnly
looking down at that deep hole
each of us tears held in our eyes.
We bowed our heads
and a prayer to say
when someone placed a bouquet
of coloured roses on the ground
before they buried you away.
A stranger whom we did not know
smiled and serenely said to us
that these flowers represent their life,
and what they gave to us.
Red roses for the blood
that pumped around
a kind and generous heart.
Yellow roses for the smile
that they gave us
whenever we were around.
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poem by David Harris
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A Rose With A Tinted Past
A wind from the north country.
Blows through the tapestry of my mind.
Like flowers in the wind.
I sway like a silver birch.
Winging high I soar though the sky.
A bird of tell tale feather below.
Ah, a rose with a tinted past.
A tear of dew on each new petal.
Shadow of sky I see.
A big yellow eye that warns me.
Spring has fallen by the way side.
Summer warms each small bed.
Sleep eluded the dreamers head.
Days hark of summer sandwich paste.
Eaten down in gulps of haste.
Gone are the winter winds.
Replaced by summers warm rays.
Ah, our rose with a tinted past.
Born out of a refuse tip.
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poem by David Harris
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A Doctor’s Waiting Room (Fun Poem 40)
Sitting in a Doctor’s waiting room,
is enough to make you feel more ill than what you are.
As I sat patiently waiting for my number to be called,
when Mrs Johnson came in.
She went on to explain,
the threshold of her pain,
and all the times for this and that
she had been under the surgeon’s knife.
Mrs Peabody was the next to sit.
She told everyone she had a dose of chills,
and that she came by to see the Doctor
for a top up on the magic pills.
Next, to arrive was old Jimmy Farnham
with a sauce-bin stuck on his head.
He had been demonstrating to his grandchildren
how he fought off a brigade of Japanese soldiers single-handed.
However, the truth is he was only a cook in the Army catering corps.
Then in came Mrs Hallam a little slimmer than she was before.
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poem by David Harris
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A Journey Of Confusion (Fun Poem 90)
It stared like any journey
with expectations running high,
a two hours journey
from one point to another.
Nothing complicated in that.
Just over an hour in
and the journey goes to pot,
you drive passed the turning
that you were suppose to take.
You turn around midst honking horns
and go back again.
You think you are on the right road,
and then you find you are not.
Being a man, you are too proud
to ask the directions to where you are going.
You drive around in circles
and the hours tick on by.
Four hours later, you are confused and totally lost.
You pull to the side of the road
and all you want to do is cry,
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poem by David Harris
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Our Hell
It started with pebbles at the window,
when no one was in sight.
For about a week this went on,
at 8pm precise every night.
Then came the opening and closing doors,
by some unseen hand any hour of the day.
Furniture moved around on it their accord,
then the voices came,
arguing from somewhere.
Continual searches of each room,
but nothing was found there.
Suddenly it stopped, and harmony reined.
There was a rest bite for what was yet to come.
Several weeks passed peace and quiet remained.
Then as suddenly as it had stopped, it started up again.
Lights switched themselves on and off,
object flew across the room of their own accord,
small and large.
Pictures flew off the wall
and smashed to the floor.
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poem by David Harris
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Nightriders In The Sky
T’was a night for dreaming
as I lie there looking at the stars.
My head rested against an old oak tree,
as I lie on a bed of heather new.
I could hear the ghostly breath
of the nightriders in the sky.
Their fiery steeds were like shooting stars
racing across the black velvet heavens,
as they rode their eternity quest.
I closed my eyes to dream of glory
just how they may have done.
Riding a white charger full gallop
to save a maiden fair,
to scoop her up into my arms
and into the sunset fade.
Rescuing this beautiful maiden fair
from the lustful clutches
of those who would do her harm.
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poem by David Harris
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A Little Cottage
A little cottage nestled in the hills,
its roof is thatched
and it windows carry Georgian squares.
In its garden pretty flowers grow;
while in the fields,
seeds of corn are sown.
Snug within its stonewalls
lives a family,
husband, wife and their two sons.
Sadness filled the cottage one day
when the sons were called to war.
Candles were lit; prayers were said
for their safe return.
Years rolled by, paintwork peeled,
but the little cottage was still a home
with its fire warm.
Day after day, year after year
they waited for their sons return.
Then came what they dreaded most,
letters laced with black
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poem by David Harris
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Early Works - Our Love (The Ending) Part 3
The climax I fear is close
the end will proceed today
even though I am prepared
I am unconsciously not.
Even though they say
for every ending, there is a beginning
who is to over sight this saying.
Even though the end is near
who can tell what will happen tomorrow
unless one can see the future
one cannot predict it
for tomorrow lies beyond
the boundaries of our senses.
No one can supersede the lord
in the prediction of tomorrow,
though in ways,
we try to change
the course of time,
but we can never change
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poem by David Harris
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