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FROM SOMEWHERE TO HERE.



My Second Fifty.



By Stephen Scorer








Contents


Introduction


Poem Fifty-One: Manchester.

Poem Fifty-Two: Slang for Cash.

Poem Fifty-Three: Hung All Over.

Poem Fifty-Four: Those Warm Summers.

Poem Fifty-Five: Money Making Money.

Poem Fifty-Six: My First Car.

Poem Fifty-Seven: King of the Rings.

Poem Fifty-Eight: The Original Star Trek.

Poem Fifty-Nine: The Next Generation.

Poem Sixty: My Favourite Choir.

Poem Sixty-One: Voyager.

Poem Sixty-Two: Deep Space Nine.

Poem Sixty-Three: Mothers Prayer.

Poem Sixty-Four: Birthday Thanks.

Poem Sixty-Five: Birthday Message.

Poem Sixty-Six: Right Side, Left Side… How About Both.

Poem Sixty-Seven: Car Parks.

Poem Sixty-Eight: The Battle of Bryn Glas.

Poem Sixty-Nine: The Vault.

Poem Seventy: The Floor.

Poem Seventy-One: The Lonely Tree.

Poem Seventy-Two: Lightning Quick, No More!

Poem Seventy-Three: The Phantom Guitarist.

Poem Seventy-Four: Rhythmic Gymnastics.

Poem Seventy-Five: Do the M.

Poem Seventy-Six: Us British, we love a Queue!

Poem Seventy-Seven: If my brain were a room.

Poem Seventy-Eight: The Fat Cat.

Poem Seventy-Nine: This Jacket Fits Perfectly.

Poem Eighty: Fantastical Forest.

Poem Eighty-One: Snooker.

Poem Eighty-Two: The Evil of Cancer.

Poem Eighty-Three: Spires & Spanners.

Poem Eighty-Four: Who’d be a Glove Man.

Poem Eighty-Five: Bloods.

Poem Eighty-Six: Those Sporty Shoes.

Poem Eighty-Seven: World War Three.

Poem Eighty-Eight: Life’s Little Crossroads.

Poem Eighty-Nine: Problematic Passwords.

Poem Ninety: X Marks the Spot.

Poem Ninety-One: Searching for Spirits.

Poem Ninety-Two: The Black Sun.

Poem Ninety-Three: The Sunflowers.

Poem Ninety-Four: Still Playing Strong.

Poem Ninety-Five: Gone Fishing.

Poem Ninety-Six: Beautifully Fading Away.

Poem Ninety-Seven: Winters Calling.

Poem Ninety-Eight: Milking It.

Poem Ninety-Nine: By the River.

Poem One Hundred: My First Ton.


Index of First Lines.


The Other Poetic Bits.


About Me, Yes Me.









Copyright © 2016 by Stephen Scorer (Steven Thomas-Spires).


All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the author
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Printed in the United States of America

First Printed in 2018.



Introduction


From somewhere to here is a collection of my second 50 poems, my writing journey started after I became redundant from my job as a post person in March 2016. There is a wide range of topics that I have tried to cover, these still include some sports poems and some on mental health, but I have started to branch out and put a pen to paper whenever the urge strikes. When I decided on making my own poetry book, to which I mean from writing, printing then putting it all together to make a small collection, I also thought, after reading so many different types of poetry books, I wanted to put my own stamp on my own collections.

Each collection will have 50 poems that should portray my own poetic picture trail that I have been walking along. Just like taking life’s many routes and paths, so will my poetry books and if you are, mad enough to become a fan, you will take on my journeys. This collection starts where my first finished, so from May 2017 to October 2017 I managed to write these fifty poems. If you were mad enough to follow my poetic journey, and me, you would have noticed that the first fifty took me over a year to put together, whilst this second fifty took half the time.





I wrote this acrostic poem after the bombing at the Manchester Arena, shrapnel-laden homemade bomb was detonated as people were leaving the Arena following a concert by the American singer Ariana Grande. Even though it is often said not to write about a subject that has a lot of emotion and stigma attached to it, sometimes you just need to express the feelings after such a horrible act of terrorism.


Poem Fifty-One: Manchester.


Manchester will mourn their dead
And tears of grief they will shred.
No red, no blue just a city shining through
Choosing to stand, be one with the same view.
Heavenly prayers will be sung, ringing out from
Everyone’s sons, daughters, dads and mums.
Should we ever give in to the evil of terror
To the "LOSERS" that cause such horror.
Everyone should stand up tall and stout
Rally together and keep terrorism out.






























This was a poem that I penned for the Whitchurch Writers group, the theme or topic was ‘Money’, so I decided to tell a type of story with slang words for money included into the poem.


Poem Fifty-Two: Slang for Cash.


I was hungry and ready for some nosh
Whilst walking past the bakery, smelling the bread
Checking my pockets, do I have enough dosh?
Yes, my readies will cover the cost of this spread
The freshly baked dough from the farmstead.
With a belly full and a big fat wad
Onward with this journey and the path I tread
And with all this lolly which was odd
I thought, no more will I be called a tightwad.
With all my moolah that I was about to spend
Could all my Wonga make me feel like a god?
Or will the spondulicks send me around the bend?
You see I went to the bank to grab my loot
I am now standing here awaiting the lawsuit.


This should be self-explanatory, especially if you live in the United Kingdom. Therefore, I wrote this poem after hearing the result of the general election, and what the country was waking up to on the day after the voting had stopped.


Poem Fifty-Three: Hung All Over.


Well it is a hung one again
No one crossing the major line.
Will May stay strong or resign
Even Corbyn could feel the strain.

Which party will now help and tie-in
When, most of us are keeping sane?
No more please; it will hurt the brain
Maybe a sip or two of plain red wine.

We should all run through fields of grain
Nude or clothed, anything should be fine.
Anything to help in sending a sign
That the country carries on, but in vain!


























This poem was written for a poetry newsletter contest on Writing.Com. The aim was to write about summer and include the following words: Fireflies, Campfire, Mat, Cocoa, Marshmallows, Creek, Trees and Fishing Poles.


Poem Fifty-Four: Those Warm Summers.


Twas a warm summer’s night
As we sat.
Around the campfire

Roasting marshmallows
From a mat.
The glow from the fireflies,

Tails lit up.
As we drank hot cocoa,

From a cup.
Twas a warm summer’s morning
Walking through

The trees.
All of us with

Fishing poles
Catching fish with ease.
Twas a warm summer’s afternoon
Still sitting by

The creek.
Suddenly there's

A loud shriek
Someone’s boat had started to leak!



After I had finished the poem about money for the Whitchurch Writers and a few days before the next meeting, I decided to write another one on the subject albeit smaller, this was well received and I like it, which is a bonus.


Poem Fifty-Five: Money Making Money.


Does money maketh the man
Toiling away all day
In jobs that
Just don't
Pay.
Whilst some
Leave degrading jobs
Their names soiled, while
Rich men maketh the money.

I paid a massive sum of £50 for my first car at the age of 17, it was in a warehouse under some dust covers, the car belonged to a Mrs Judy Walker, who my Father knew and worked for in their family haulage business; Walker & Son.


Poem Fifty-Six: My First Car.


My first car was a pop
Bright orange that cost
Not a lot.
A two-door Ford
I could do up, but I
Best not.
The 1300 ran so sweet
I kept it quite clean, it
Shined a lot.
The plate read MNU16P
A football team it did remind me of,
16p the cost.
I so loved my first car
Driving near and far, was
So very popular.


The idea for this poem was taken from a story that the superb poet and fellow Whitchurch Writers Group Member Helen Kay. The prompt for this one was ‘Competition’ so using her story I came up with this funny poem, which the group enjoyed. Helen told us about the rings that would be kept under the beds of boys whilst in university, acting like trophies of their conquests.



Poem Fifty-Seven: King of the Rings.


My roommate collected them,

Like coins or candy.

He just could not resist,

Catching girls with their fancy.


He said it was a contest, for

Boys from each dorm.

To pocket as many rings

Before the start of next term.


The competition was rife,

With rings being taken.

After every trip and turn,

No matter who?

I suppose that is modern dating.


So the rules were simple,

To the winner the spoils.

You collect them all,

From any boy or girl!

Count them and keep them

Under your bed.


In a cardboard box,

The rings would be kept.

Each ring worth a point,

On the league of rings.

My mate had so many,

That year he was crowned king!

As a great lover of most things that are sci-fi, especially being a Trekkie, I decided to write about them, so I started with the original crew, even adding the cute tribbles.


Poem Fifty-Eight: The Original Star Trek.


Are there Klingon's on the starboard side?

I do not know, but it's best to hide.

The search for Spock went far and wide

"Captain" these engines are bloody fried!


Kirk often shouted, "Damn it, Scotty"

Khans starting to drive us potty?

Spock meanwhile questioned the jock

With one eyebrow raised, that was his look.


McCoy though was no ordinary doc

He was coy in the way he looked.

Uhura had a way with words

Whilst the Tribble's multiplied by two-thirds.


Sulu tried to steer the ship, whilst

Chekov mapped out the way for the trip.

Both trying to find the voyage home,

A continuing mission for them to roam.


This followed on from the original series poem, including most of the crew, with Q and the Borg being added with Data’s evil brother; Lore.



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