@ Reader1107--- glad you like it .
@ Nordlys--- hihihi gotcha, what you mean “are you still in there?”
@ Peachy --- don’t worry about it, reason I choose this nickname was I rather have people get to know me for me as a persoon
@ ivangrice---- no problem you don’t crush my creations, let me explain, I took the idees to this poem from what Reader1107 was saying being that I just met Reader1107 didn’t have much to go on, to the fact the my English not up to speed is with that of some of you guys is the fact I don’t use it daily anymore. I live in the Netherlands since ’88 before then I lived in the states.  but if you want to see if my poems in Dutch better are check out my site the link is in my profile or juist google my nickname Gouwerijn.
if anyone got a new idee you know where to find me.
She's known as Rebecca
The home, the hearth wrecker
She's mad about, glad about scalps
She gads with the men
From seven 'til ten
In her little red house in the Alps
Don't gather from this
That the men are all Swiss
There are Earthenware makers from Delph
There are men from Mombassa
And Loonies from Lassa
In fact I have been there myself
_________
Said the Angora Goat, on a defensive note
It is better to have Mohair than no hair
_________
The Baboon I had in mind
Has a rainbow hued behind
If a colour sense you lack you
Will not like his back view
_________
Though bent on suicide don't forget
The Thames is very, very wet
__________
Roger Eckersby.
No idea why I remember these from when I was a kid but they seem to have stuck better than those nursery rhymes.
Wow what talent. I enjoyed reading it.
To follow rules of poetry or to follows rules in general, that’s the question. I think like paintings and other forms of arts ,the saying fits like a glove- beauty is in the eye of the beholder. And if we make mistakes in hoe the guys or the lady’s are, were all the same just people having a goodtime playing chess, right.
Old friends,
Old friends
Sat on their park bench
Like bookends.
A newspaper blown though the grass
Falls on the round toes
Of the high shoes
Of the old friends.
Old friends,
Winter companions,
The old men
Lost in their overcoats,
Waiting for the sunset.
The sounds of the city,
Sifting through trees,
Settle like dust
On the shoulders
Of the old friends.
Can you imagine us
Years from today,
Sharing a park bench quietly?
How terribly strange
To be seventy.
Old friends,
Memory brushes the same years
Silently sharing the same fears
-Paul Simon