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Greg Costello Poems
The Night We Met
A silver, slimline, sparkling nymph, Stole into view, looked heaven sent, Her modest, unassuming smile, But served to sharpen my intent.
This laboured Labrador went waddling by, His awkward gait the legacy of time, The tragic loss of youth's vitality, What once were walks, now mountains he must climb.
Let Children Be
With eyes of lapis lazuli, And laughter soaked with unbound joy, And spirit bold and thoughts carefree, My role is just to let her be.
The Salmon of Knowledge! !
This poem suggests that youngest Fionn McCool, Found tough the challenges of early school, And pointless he attend some fledgeling college, Prior to gaining all one fishes knowledge.
Girls Will Be Girls
A sniper by the hot tap lay, Turned upside-down in battle grey, Soaking in a pool of water, Deserted by my impish daughter.
Fair Is Not Always Fair
'That's a Stormtrooper there, but with ginger hair, ' I heard the kid say to the man. 'Is he really that white? ', the lad said in fright, Questioning a complete lack of tan.
When eating began for young Tom as a laddie, His dinner unfailingly, came from the 'paddy'. Japonicas, Indicas, he'd gulp down with glee, Aromatics and Glutinous, munched avidly.
Whilst waiting for a cranial MRI, the person to my right, began to pry. 'Are they searching for some fatal tumour? ' 'Just a brain, ' replied my driest humour.
A Great Character
The sturdy armchair squatted, Totally untaxed beneath her frail frame. Her hands, that had yielded all opacity, Dangled loosely from cardiganed wrists,
The Wiley Wildebeest
I'm just a young wildebeest, and to say the very least, Not all that appealing to the eye, Though 'round these plains, between crocs and manes, By the grace of God, go I.
When I go to my sod surround, And next I'm summoned from above? , To all the angels I'll expound, My life was filled with deepest love.
Comments about Greg Costello
(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)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
The Night We Met
A silver, slimline, sparkling nymph,
Stole into view, looked heaven sent,
Her modest, unassuming smile,
But served to sharpen my intent.
Which was to see if I could charm,
The stand-out girl 'midst those around,
That there was not a suitor swarm,
Did nothing, if not me astound -
Moments before I'd watched her dance,
In rhythmic step to every beat,
And so as not to dent my chance,
Kept unemployed, both my left feet.
Then finally, the time it came
A meeting that would change my life,
The sparkling nymph, she felt the same,