I remember dear Maude Skinner
Who ate beans, every night for dinner.
When she ate enough,
she would start to puff
and everyone was a winner.
limerick by Sylvia Spencer from Everyone Loves a Limerick
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There was a sweet Miss from Kent
who got into trouble with her rent.
she spent all her cash
on nothing but trash
and now she's fasting for Lent.
limerick by Sylvia Spencer from Everyone Loves a Limerick
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There once was a drunk from Dover
who fell asleep in the clover.
he woke up and said,
what's this on my head
The cows had splattered him all over.
limerick by Sylvia Spencer from Everyone Loves a Limerick
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There was a hot lady from Humber.
Who taught her sugar daddy how to rumba!
As he moved his hips
he no doubt had his chips
and became the mortuary's next number.
limerick by Sylvia Spencer from Everyone Loves a Limerick
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The message of poetry
How can I think of serious things,
when the air is alive,
with the flutter of wings,
How can I focus on writing a sonnet
When the lady beside me,
is knitting a bonnet.
How can I think of what comes next
when I am trying my hardest
to put it to text.
How can I feel the words in my mind,
when I am looking for one
that I canot find.
How can I concentrate, grave and subued
Then it's best I try,
and get in the right mood.
So come on you folks,
dont be solemn and glum,
join with me, share your words and jokes.
Lets make a start,
let them come from the heart.
[...] Read more
poem by Sylvia Spencer
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The Wreck of She
The Wreck of She, could be a ship,
that has been cast upon the shore,
but alas she is not, she's part of the street
a fancy English whore
The Wreck of She, has moved around
from war time trenches.
to Hyde Park benches,
down quite back alleys,
and seaside chalets.
Yet she was always there
when Tom came to call
then off they would go,
and have a ball.
The Wreck of She, was just like a night owl.
Out at dusk, and home at dawn,
with grass on her back,
from the golf course lawn.
The Wreck of She, was past her sell by date,
when she was found
crawling in the gate,
[...] Read more
poem by Sylvia Spencer
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Crumbling Chalk
Beneath the cliffs of crumbling chalk was once a path
where you could walk. The walk would take you down to
the sand where fishing boats would come to land.
Now this crumbling chalk falls into the sea, where once
crabs and lobsters were caught for tea.
No scavenging left in this lonely bay even the gulls
have flown away; they have left the waves and the spray
are they to return another day.
Nets and pots have been swallowed up by the waves and
now their left to sleep in watery graves. A fishing village that was
once a boom has now become an empty tomb.
An oil slick just driffted into the shore and took away the beauty
that it had known before. Crumbling chalk that drops like tears
on the sand that's black made from the oil smears.
There is nothing left to self contain, oh will they no come
back again.
poem by Sylvia Spencer
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Crooked Cats
I know of three cats that have eyes of fire
and one of them likes to climb the church spire.
He is a scaredy cat when mum comes a calling
because he is just afraid of falling.
Number two cat with his burning eyes of fire
just loves to play in the mooreland mire.
He never stops to think that some day he might sink
and there will be no one around to pull him to the brink.
Number three cat is wise now aint that a surprise
and she is also keen at telling lies.
One day she told Mummy cat that her Brothers were dead
so she could eat the food that they were to be fed.
Now Mummy cat was also wise and she did not belive
those dreadful lies.
When it was time for dinner number three cat got thinner.
When out came a dish that was full of fish and there was
nothing left for her to finish.
(The Moral of this story is if you play with fire you can get burnt)
poem by Sylvia Spencer
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A House called Lonely (A Trilogy in three parts)
There is a street in every town that owns a house
called lonely. Then when your just passing by you might
just say, 'if only.
If only could mean a life time of thoughts but it does'nt cure
a lonely house and all its faults.
Boarded up windows and tiles gone from the roof, graffiti
painted by a rebelious youth.
Such a lonely house and an oh such a tired one,
one that has lost all it's fun.
Stairs and rafters all gone to pot all that is left
is wood worm and dry rot.
No children playing in the garden, it's just a house condemend
by the council without no pardon. Poor lonely house someones
forgotton dream, now describing lifes social scene.
This lonely house stands in the way because their building
a By Pass or a new motorway.
The house called lonely could be any where, in the town, the
country or city square.
Even in your street there's a house called lonely just waiting
for you to say 'if only'
poem by Sylvia Spencer
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A Cry for Help
Dont keep me hidden,
in this dark room,
please show me the sun,
so that I can bloom.
I know you kept me here,
just to keep me warm,
but now it is time,
to show me the dawn.
I am ready to flower,
I need some light,
and the warmth of the sun,
that shines so bright.
I have been shut away,
all winter long,
my bulb and stem,
are now extra strong.
My date is near,
to join all the rest,
and show off my trumpet
at it's very best.
[...] Read more
poem by Sylvia Spencer
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