Retired in 1991, began writing poetry a year later.
Has written more than six hundred poems, of over five hundred are sonnets. more »
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Eric Bult Poems
How shameful is the tragic count of those Who meet foul death whilst travelling by road: At any time of day or night who knows Whatever that dread presence may forebode?
How few of we mere mortals understand That every star we see a sun may be To planets in that distant wonderland Where few may now sustain life such as we.
How speedily our senses mend, it seems Those awful days that followed death's decree Were simply players in a cast of dreams. The play is ended and we are set free.
Busines: then and now
I liked the old days, hardly used the word Frustrated. Even as a boy I knew In business inter-action the preferred Way was personal contact with the few.
So do I now with pride at last begin My poem that forever shall be known As number five hundred of those within This crop of mostly sonnets I have sown.
Now this is something that our ladies need To understand before its time to go. The truth of this is plain and is indeed Astounding; thus they all should seek to know
I've been here before
The feeling that you've done this once before Is not unusual, that I'm sure you know, Perhaps it's something we should now explore: But one thing you must know before we go.
Obedience to unenforceable But good, authority can only prove Whether a people shall be governable, And forward thus together they can move.
My sonnets are not perfect so I must Pursue with my intention to succeed In ten long years I've dented but the crust Whereof this passion was at first decreed..
Anyone for tennis?
When I was young I never used the phone, There wasn't one at home 'till I was ten. And when I started work I went alone To bank the cash for town's rates, such was then
My days are lent the value of your smile As when from mental jousting you return To seek my full account of action while You were not here, such is your first concern.
On growing older
Now age's ruthless bonds ensnare my frame That once propelled me over hurdles high To gain a silver medal and a certain fame Within a service I no longer occupy.
Would you believe in fairies or in ghosts? Of course not, you would say emphatically. No more would I expect you to reposte If now I tell you quite pontifically:
This beautiful blue planet, seemingly Alone as home to sapient life as we Yet know ourselves to be, remarkably As one grain of the sand within the sea,
Comments about Eric Bult
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
How shameful is the tragic count of those
Who meet foul death whilst travelling by road:
At any time of day or night who knows
Whatever that dread presence may forebode?
It waits at every turn and each road junction
That seemingly presents no sign at all
That that there a lack of care or concentration
Invites the reaper's sad and bleeding haul.
Without a driver trained to higher standards
Of 'advanced' who maintains those throughout
Each journey will present full many hazards
Lurking there just waiting to jump out!
Pay close attention to your driver. ...