Just a suggestion

Protest with a spring in your step with a free gift from your favourite unpaid unrecognised poet, march to this my chickens:

 

One at a time

One at a time

One at a time

Etc [NB: Insert moans as appropriate]

March to this and you will get whatever you want provided you split any profit with your own top moaning moaner, who hopes the above image of the toughest mini moaning moaner in cinematic history, Mr James Cagney, puts extra snap in your spine.

Yours truly, with a hearty thanks for following yours truly,

Mr JPF Goodman

Love between Magnets

I loved it when my North Pole touched your South Pole
When your North met my South
But alas, our Souths and Norths can never touch
That's the pain of two magnets in love

If we could touch in such a way
We would not be magnets, or two, or in love
This separation is essential
Keeps us afloat and moving in the right direction

So, though I am repelled so cruelly
I will use my iron qualities
To embrace our magnetic love.

Change British History!

Although only a humble and rarely celebrated poet and writer, I have a plan which may change British history for the better in a single click, if enough millions click it. It’s simple, so please read carefully:

We the following propose that the new Prime Minister of Great Britain resigns as soon as he or she announces his or her self.

[Please add to the pressure by liking, loving or sharing the above, and whatever may follow]

I Was a Poet

I was a Poet

I was an excellent poet

Read one of my poems once and

You won’t need to read it again

I was a fine poet

Read one of my poems as often as you like

You still won’t know what it’s all about

I was a harmonious poet

Ignore the words’ meaning

Just listen to the music in them

I was a didactic poet

No doubt you’ll agree with all my sentiments

I was an engaging poet

If you like my poetry

You must like me

I was an incomplete poet

Lacking in originality,

Vivid imagery or new ideas

I was a love poet

Return my tender love

Or screw it up and throw me away

I was an online poet

Better uploaded, tagged, liked, shared. tweeted

Than read

I was a discursive poet

My words are just a part of your conversation

I was a protesting poet

Who hoped my words might change the world

Or at least topple the government

I was a meaningless poet

Give my words what meaning you will

I was a poet

But I was also a man

Who didn’t want to die or be forgotten

JPF Goodman

April 29^th 2019

Poem for Mothering Sunday

My mother

Was a beautiful dancer,

By the time she was seven

She was so lovely

A famous artist painter her portrait.

She was aristocratic

(She wanted me to call her ‘Mummy’)

And sang ‘Golden Slumbers’ to me

Until she was put into prison

For not being able to walk.

She faded away as fast as she could

So we’d have time to dry our tears

And now all that’s left of her

Is that portrait, a silver ring with a blue stone

Which she never saw,

And her son’s distorted memories.

Look, Mummy, look!

I’m going to dance just for you

Universal Credit

That thing inside your chest

Throbbing and pounding

Is not a parasite

It is your heart.

While you’re living

The world owes you

And so your heart should be light

Even when you have to put up a fight

When it seems part of the world you find yourself in,

Would treat any lightness in your heart as a sin

And yourself only fit for the bin.

So you don’t need to feel your heart as a weight

It’s your priceless gift to the world, to love and share, your fate.

A Little Learning

Could it possibly be

That we are just like dark energy

That our existence depends

On moving apart with incredible speed

Obeying gravitational law so we may expand

Though that is the very force

That fills us with longing to be closer together

So we are doomed to greater ignorance

By reason of our becoming ever more clever?

Well, I don’t like metaphors, or similes

Just want one tiny answer

To life’s big mysteries

So we may agree, yes, this is what actually matters

This love will keep us going till the universe shatters.

Peace on Earth

[In other news, here’s this start of a poem]

 

Peace on Earth

 

All this time I thought it was me

When it was them

Now I’m inclined to think it was me again

So smug and slow and so wrong

 

When nothing changes or it takes too long

The anger rages inside

So it’s hard to believe Peace on Earth can ever be here

Though you are holding onto it so tightly

 

 

 

 

 

 

Peace on Earth

So, are we all agreed that to mutter towards the Prime Minister, a phrase such as “Stupid Woman” or, before too long, such as “Stupid people” is now to be considered beyond the pale and illegal?

 

Wishing you are Cary Grant

A lovely account of this great star’s life, aspects of which sound like a fairy tale – grim but ending happily.

https://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b0bqqhkw/imagine-2018-becoming-cary-grant