Poems Archive


Words are my canvas

Words are my brushes

Words are my paints

Words are my knife

Words are my easel

But words float off in the air

As soon as they are spoken

Words float into others minds

Words that are spoken

Create an image - a painting in the air

A feeling, a spark, a memory, an emotion

These words that are spoken.

Words are our medium

Words are our tools

Words create magic

Words portray our innermost thoughts

Enjoy our words today

Varied and heartfelt

Funny, dramatic and descriptive

Words of all shapes and sizes

Our Spoken Words.

Donald James Dolby ©2020

A Place I Knew

Never again shall I go home to the place I knew

For it has changed, 

And all is strange

In Melton Town where as a boy I grew.

Melton Mowbray, you are never so forlorn,

Pall Mall and Timber Hill

A street called old Beck Mill

From deep within, your heart has now been torn.

I remember many wet feet, now where to look

From side to side

In one big stride

We’d try to jump, of course, the brook.

The cattle market every week on Tuesday morning,

A rabbit, a sheep, a bird,

And, of course, cows by the herd

Suddenly a bull is loose, “”Look Out”” goes up the warning.

So sad to see as building after building tumbles down,

Here a house, there a shop

No cobble stones on which to clop, 

No I will never go back to Melton Town


November Forest Frost

The early morning forest glistened in its coat of white,

Shining frost, sparkling, quiet, hiding all its life;

Fox, well-filled, stealthily seeks its warm den

Young rabbit scampers, skates, tumbles down a hole

Deer, deep in to the trees, huddle together

Seeking shelter while the dawn brings light.

The sun shines in, still cold, but what magic it betrays

Webs of spiders, silken threads, moistened, brightened, jewelled in the rays

Of golden wonder coming from afar

To give the icy crust an illuminating glow,

Crowning the glory of the morn.

Gaining warmth, the sun climbs high,

Slowly melting away the earth’s white coat;

Thus revealed are greens and browns, scattering the 

six-legged miracles

Of many hues, rushing, pushing, swarming over the ground

Teaming food for hedgehog, badger and hound.

The day is short and dusk comes early 

Casting a misty grey cloak, descending low, 

Hiding blackbirds roosting deep in the dense hedgerow. 

Darkness hastens, coldness grows, 

Forest prepares 

To don again its cloak of white.

For Dad - he loved the forest

Ringwood, November 1987

Do They Play The Blues In Heaven?

Do they play the Blues in Heaven?

Is there a need

Even in the Promised Land?

Is the promise empty,

As earthly promises are.

Or do they play the Blues in Hell?

As maybe you’d expect.

Expectations are not met

But then they never were.

If they play the Blues in Heaven and Hell

Then what has life been for?

The Blues helps you through

But through to what?

High Wycombe, 1987




This World Is Not My Home

This world is not my home

This world of greed and money,

Ambition is no god to me

When ambition means to tread

On others to achieve success.

Success, success, what a mess

This world has become because

””The top”” is where you are told

You have to be

No where else will do.

Top, bottom, black, white,

Right, left, skilled, unskilled,

Why do we divide

This world into its segments

In this unnecessary way.

There must be somewhere

A world for you and me

Where other values rule

Perhaps one day I’ll find

This world to call my home.

High Wycombe, 1987





No one to talk to

No one to upset

No one to love

No one to hate

No one to pacify

No one to argue

No one to shout

No one to listen

No one to lie

No one to deceive

No one to disbelieve

No one to pretend to

No one to pretend to me

No one to misunderstand

No one to be unkind to

No one to worry

No one to worry about

No one to forget

No one to remember

I like being Alone.

High Wycombe, 1987





It was in 1986, the end of January I think

That changes came,

In job and name,

And the ship began to sink.

The first name in, no great surprise, was that of F.O.C.

Always an ambition

To Ôimprove’ his position

Forget his name, but his initials were B.D.

Another name, of Deputy,  followed close behind

Now this was strange

A major change

As we were soon to find.

Now were these men of such great vision

That jobs were found

To go around

And give them both a position.

Uxbridge, 1987





The blossoms of life are falling now

 Faster than ever they have,

Though the leaves are still green

 They fail forlornly to conceal

Time racing by to the end of the day

 When they too will fall

Leaving nought behind but stark branched wood

 For the winter of man comes quickly to some

Who have had hope strangled from their future.

Pachacaid, France, 1987




Ball of Snow

Christmas is a time of profit, a confidence trick

 Played on the conscience of the world.

Spread the goodwill, spread the cash

 Give presents more expensive than you will receive

And you can feel good for five minutes at least.

The snowball rolls along

 Getting bigger and Ôbetter’ as the years go by

Perhaps the giant ball of snow

 Can one day perform a service to mankind

And flatten the hypocrisy that damages our mind.

This cannot be the way,

 Goodwill for a few days to last the year through

Is not reason enough

 To feel good, to feel happy, to feel pleased

We imprison ourselves and there is no release.

High Wycombe, 1988




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