Tag: Guest Post

GUEST POST: A BOTTLE FULL OF BOTTLED UP EMOTIONS

The Sicilian Storyteller

It’s been too long since we heard from my friend Paul Griffiths,
The Birkenhead Poet. It’s about time.
Please take a moment to bask in the sublime words of The Poet.

I’ve bottled up all my feelings of inadequacy.
Then I cast the bottle adrift down by Moreton shore.
Setting my feelings adrift in the great blue yonder.
I’m not in need of such emotions any more.

Sitting by a lighthouse bathed in the darkness.
With not another soul about.
The sound of sound waves breaking comes crashing in.
As all my angst starts pouring out.

Standing at the water’s edge.
With a bottle of bottled up emotions in my hand.
As the sea gently erodes away my fading footprints.
In life’s ever shifting sands.

Encased in glass, trapped like a genie in a bottle.
I cast away the best and worst of me.
As I stand here drowning on dry land.
Yet feeling all at sea.

A bottle crammed full of mixed emotions.
Goes bobbing off to who knows where.
I watch as the bottle drifts off to the far horizon.
But I’m too numb inside to care.

There’s no message in the bottle.
Just a bottled up primal scream.
Full of anger, confusion and resentment.
And every mixed up emotion in between.

A primal scream trapped in a bottle.
With the lid sealed nice and tight.
I sit in silence and watch my bottled up emotions.
Disappearing into the silence of the night.

A primal scream encased in glass.
Full of sorrow, woe and pain.
Cast adrift into the Sea of despair.
To be never seen again.

Will the bottle be swallowed by an ocean of tears.
Or will it reach some far off distant sandy shore.
Either way or neither way.
I’m passed caring anymore.

No tears shall I weep for I’m emotionless.
Nor words of regret shall be spoken.
As long as the glass bottle remains intact.
Then my new found resolve shall remain unbroken.

Time and tide wait for no man.
As I watch the turning of the tides ebb and flow.
I’ve bottled up my feelings for so long.
The time has come for letting go.

As the darkness of such lost feelings fade,
Today seems to be a brighter day.
As my bottle of bottled up mixed emotions.
Drifts silently further and further away.

PTG © copyright

GUEST POST: TWICE AS SLOW AS MOLASSES

The Sicilian Storyteller

TODAY I AM FEATURING A NEW GUEST ON MY SITE – ROBERT CAMPBELL. HIS POEM IS ONE OF THOSE PIECES THAT REACHES INTO YOUR CHEST, GRABS ONTO YOUR HEART AND WON’T LET GO. IT PIERCES THE SOUL AND WRIGGLES INTO THE BRAIN TO MAKE YOU FEEL AND THINK AND PRAY FOR CHANGE. THIS POWERFUL HOMAGE TO ALL WOMEN EVERYWHERE IS APPROPRIATE AND NECESSARY EVERY DAY, PARTICULARLY NOW AS WE CELEBRATE MOTHER’S DAY. THANK YOU, ROBERT, FOR ACKNOWLEDGING THE PLIGHT OF WOMEN AROUND THE WORLD. IT’S AN HONOR TO SHARE MY SPACE WITH YOU.

AND THE MUSE CAME AGAIN AND SAID,

“Bard, Mother’s Day is this Sunday. It
should make us ponder how our mothers
lived and died to determine if our society
should look for ways for it to improve in
regard to their welfare from the cradle to
the grave, improvements in areas such
as education, gender equality, and health care.”

AND THE BARD REPLIED,
“It would be wonderful if we would all so
ponder and make vast improvements.”

How Can You Call Yourself a Woman

***Oh Yes***

For to truly be a woman,
Is to get your joy from serving others,
And to be a beast of burden,
To your husbands, fathers, and brothers.

But, it all really comes down to,
Just kissing a lot a asses,
And watching your life go by,
Twice as slow as molasses.

***Yes***

How can you call yourself a woman,
If you weren’t molested when you were young,
And you haven’t been told by everyone,
That you are ugly, boring, fat, and dumb.

How can you call yourself a woman,
If you’ve never been asked to be nice,
Or reminded to keep your nose clean,
And not have to be told anything twice.

How can you call yourself a woman,
If you’ve never been taught how to cook,
To get up at four in the morning,
And be pretty for all who want to look.

How can you call yourself a woman
If you have never been told a lie,
And how you must learn to live with it,
To suck it up, and never ever cry.

***Oh Yes***

For to truly be a woman,
Is to get your joy from serving others,
And to be a beast of burden,
To your husbands, fathers, and brothers.

But, it all really comes down to,
Just kissing a lot a asses,
And watching your life go by,
Twice as slow as molasses.

***Yes***

How can you call yourself a woman,
If you were not raped on your first date;
And then hear all others blame you for it,
And say, “Some bring about their own fate.”

How can you call yourself a woman,
If you weren’t screwed on your wedding day,
And then got to find out soon thereafter,
You were forever in a family way.

How can you call yourself a woman,
If you have never done no child care,
If you have never scrubbed a dirty neck,
Or gotten crap out of soiled underwear.

How can you call yourself a woman,
If you’ve never been told a million lies:
Or if you’ve never had to believe them,
Or in a bunch of feeble alibis.

***Oh Yes***

For to truly be a woman,
Is to get your joy from serving others,
And to be a beast of burden,
To your husbands, fathers, and brothers.

But, it all really comes down to,
Just kissing a lot a asses,
And watching your life go by,
Twice as slow as molasses.

***Yes***

How can you call yourself a woman,
If you’ve never gone to Sunday School,
And had to hear all of the Brothers say,
“Be like us and practice the Golden Rule.”

How can you call yourself a woman,
If you’ve never forgiven everyone,
For each of their cruel and hateful acts,
And for everything else they have done.

How can you call yourself a woman,
If you’ve never had a dreadful disease,
And never gotten help from anyone,
Unless you begged for it on bended knees.

How can you call yourself a woman,
If you have never died all alone,
And have felt oh so grateful for it,
And had “At Rest” etched on your tombstone.

***Oh Yes***

For to truly be a woman,
Is to get your joy from serving others,
And to be a beast of burden,
To your husbands, fathers, and brothers.

But, it all really comes down to,
Just kissing a lot a asses,
And watching your life go by,
Twice as slow as molasses.

Copyright 2016 The Bard & Mrs. Bard R. Campbell

GUEST POST: TWO WEEKS IN NEWBO

The Sicilian Storyteller

FINDING SOMETHING OR SOMEONE YOU TRULY CONNECT WITH IS A REAL TREAT AND THAT’S JUST WHAT HAPPENED WHEN I READ THIS DELIGHTFUL POEM BY PAUL GRIFFITHS, MY FRIEND FROM ACROSS THE POND. THE BEAUTY OF PAUL’S WRITING SPEAKS FOR ITSELF BUT THE FACT THAT THE POEM BROUGHT BACK MEMORIES OF PLACES IN MY OWN BACKYARD SUCH AS CONEY ISLAND AND ATLANTIC CITY MADE IT EVEN MORE SPECIAL. I’M SURE YOU’LL ENJOY “TWO WEEKS IN NEWBO” AS MUCH AS I DID. COME ALONG WITH ME ON A LITTLE VACATION. THANKS, PAUL!

New Palace Amusement Arcade

I’ll tell ya I love New Brighton.
Locally known as little San Tropez.
It’s a fantastic little place.
A place to while those hours away.

Just looking out across the Mersey.
Getting lost in life’s constant ebb and flow.
Hoping that my ship will come in.
Wondering where that ship may go.

Sailing off to the far horizon.
Disappearing beneath the setting sun.
Kid starts screaming at his fallen ice cream.
Then he starts screaming at his mum.

Snapped back to reality.
Right back to the here and now.
The ice cream man ducks for cover.
He reads the Mother’s mind somehow.

She grabs the cornet from her sobbing son.
Then she marches to the ice cream van.
For a moment there was a Mexican standoff
Between her and the ice cream man.

The kid got his 99 with raspberry sauce.
At the expense of a few expletives being said.
These New Brighton fish wives speak a strange local dialect
Unbeknown to us Posh folk from Birkenhead.

That’s why I love New Brighton.
There are so many things to see.
This little village is a hidden Pearl of a place
Nestled on the banks of the Great River Mersey.

I love the grand Art Deco design for the tuppenny arcade.
To be hit with that unmistakable smell of doughnuts freshly made.
Ticker tape parade of yellow tickets thousands of them in all
Gets you a paper aeroplane or a multi-coloured little bouncy ball.

New Brighton’s bygone days are over, those crazy golden years
Of grand ballrooms and iron towers, and sepia photos of the pier.
But that was a different time and time always shapes a place.
I guess that’s what makes New Brighton a special little space.

Grab a bag of fish and chips down by the seafront.
Take a healthy slow stroll along the prom.
Nod my head in respect for the Black Pearl.
Can’t believe it’s gone.

But the flotsam and jetsam is a gathering
Right where the Black Pearl used to be.
To be built on the bones of fallen pirates
Rising once again to sail the seven seas.

You see New Brighton is a magical place
Full of music, poetry and art.
I’ve even heard that you can find little fairies
Hiding in the woods somewhere down in Vale Park.

Or grab yourself a deckchair and hit the neo-classical bandstand.
Sit and listen to the little amphitheatre’s almost perfect wall of sound.
Chill and listen to some of the best of the local talent.
Bands come here to play from miles around.

Better still go and hit a pub, relax with a well earned beer.
Keep your eyes peeled for cut throat pirates or buxom buccaneers.
The pubs and taverns are all welcoming, easy come easy go.
.Just be patient with the yokels, some are just a little bit too slow.

But that’s the real beauty of New Brighton.
You slowly feel you’re traveling back in time.
And being a bit of a time traveler myself
I find that very concept in itself is absolutely fine.

So I’m not going abroad this year.
No, I’ll be going to little San Tropez.
Rhyl is so last year.
New Brighton is the future of local holidays.

We all like to escape to somewhere if only but for a day.
New Brighton is only up the road but it could be a million miles away.
I guess we all need a bit of a holiday, and with that being said,
I’ve Booked two weeks in Newbo for August, a mini break from Birkenhead.

PTG © copyright.