John Carter Brown
Lancashire lad, born and bred. Twice married, and with 5 children. Educated at Secondary Modern, but left in 1965 with no academic qualifications-(they were not mandatory back then) Moved to Somerset in 1990, then took a GCSE in English in 1994 (out of curiosity) and passed with a Grade B. This then spurred me on to have a go at writing poetry, which I have been doing, sporadically ever since. I moved back to Wigan in 2000.
My main hobbies are: Listening to music (I also play guitar, and have written a few songs): Gardening; Reading; Walking, and Photography.
Uncomplicated poetry from an uncomplicated man. I hope you enjoy my work. more »
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John Carter Brown Poems
A Hole In My Sock
I've noticed, again, a small hole in my sock And there's something I don't understand: It puzzles me greatly, I'm baffled, and so On this subject I now should expand.
A Poem Lost
As I lay in my bed, unable to sleep I composed a good poem I wanted to keep; It kept going round and around in my head (I should have been bothered to write it all down)
After The Rain
A hush had descended, the air was quite still, Nothing was moving beside the old mill; Nature postponed both it's joys and it's pain, Holding it's breath until after the rain.
Is it me?
I look at myself, and who do I see? I see the me I used to be, Not the one that other people see; The question be, which one is me?
Lay down your head my little one Close up your sleep-hung eyes; Give up the day, and all that's gone, Relinquish earthly ties;
My liking for life has been stolen, A thief came and took it away; A visitor bent on destruction, A burglar from hell, you might say.
A Wise Man
I wish I was a wise man And all the answers knew, The solver of all problems With perfect point of view;
A Sorry Sorry Thing
Once upon a Sunday In the daffodil-days of spring I heard a Blackbird crying, 'Twas a sorry sorry thing.
Friday night was Chippy-night For all the family, Way back when I was very small, That's how it used to be.
I Love and Hate
I love and hate this time of year The damp, the cold, the drawing near Of frost returning o'er the stones, The chill enveloping my bones,
Oh vitamin B, how I've missed you, My body has long been bereft Of your strange but miraculous power To keep a man healthy and blessed.
Flame of Love
Flame of love come near me And let me feel the heat Let me glide above the ground Instead of on my feet;
What the fish-man said
I think I fancy fish for tea I'm feeling in the mood For fish is very good for you Unless the bones protrude
Write a poem
To anyone that's never written a poem, My deepest sympathies go out to you, For 'tis a pleasant pastime, and I'm sure that Once started on the path, you'll never rue.
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
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Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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A Hole In My Sock
I've noticed, again, a small hole in my sock
And there's something I don't understand:
It puzzles me greatly, I'm baffled, and so
On this subject I now should expand.
I put the sock onto my left foot and see
That peeping out there's my big-toe;
This makes me unhappy, because I am sure
That left there, the small hole it must grow.
To effect a solution is easy enough,
So I swap the sock o'er to my right,
Then the known laws of physics get twisted around,
I begin to lose trust in my sight.
I cannot believe what I see on my foot
It seems that...