Hi, my name is Chris Coulton.
Born in Nottingham, moved to Shropshire in 1976. Blessed with a sense of humour that has helped me through life and to cope with lifes Knocks (which have included divorce and cancer). I write about life and find inspiration from friends and colleagues and my own personal failings. I love to play with words and doing my ‘scribbles’, which have to date raised £11,000 for ‘Macmillan Cancer Support’. If your would like to read some humorous topical poetry please click on the link to my slide show.
I am sure admin will provide the link here somewhere as my slideshow is hosted on this blog site.
Hi Chris,
Here’s the link to your book 1 slide show – Click Here
Regards
(admin)
Dear Admin;
Before I depart this earthly planet, it is my wish to archive a copy of some records of an Uncle who was killed in the First World War.
He was Second Lieutenant George Harte (a brother of Mabel Harte) He lived in Kirkwright Street, Nottingham where he was born.
He was killed on the Somme in March of the last year of the 1914-18 war, aged only twenty one, and is buried in France (Villiers Faugh)
A Niece was the first member of the family to visit the site in 1970.
Lest We Forget.
You are not forgotten George.
Christine
xx
Would you be kind enough to post and archive the images I have e-mailed you
Thank you Admin
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,–
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
A friend told me about your website and a poetry category you have on it. I know Norwich is a long way from Shropshire, however I write a lot of poems and wonder if you would consider publishing some of mine.
Gratefully yours
Christine Coupe
Coping
Are you really coping?
With what life throws your way,
I suppose we all do it
You will hear some people say.
Are you eating properly?
And coping with your lot,
It’s so easy to slip up
And have a little tot.
Is the money flowing?
Is there food in the pot?
Or are you really starving
Cos you haven’t got a lot.
But coping with life’s ups and down’s
Is part of life you see,
It can’t all be easy going
It hasn’t been for me.
So next time you think of screaming
Or jumping down the stairs,
Count in your mind one to ten
Then eat a cream éclair.
I know it will make you feel guilty
But what else can you do,
You have to find a way to cope
That really does suit you.
Christine Coupe
Why do we celebrate the fifth of November?
Guy Fawkes and other names, it’s hard to remember
We burn him in effigy, but please tell me why?
Because all those years ago, he failed in his try.
Perhaps he was angry at the money they spent
Or fired up with crass promises, that they never meant.
Their penny pinching on back-up of the lads they sent to fight
Or on medical finance to which patients had a right.
So thinking about it, he perhaps had a reason
And though not commending folks committing a treason.
When I watch squabbling M.P.S I think “Well by gum”-
With a pinch of gunpowder, “Lets put a rocket up each bum”
Get me a job on the telly,
- get me on that T.V.
There’s no getting hands all dirty,
Only when rubbing ‘Em with glee’
Simon Cowell’s on forty five million,
- How about that for one year?
Though he has to put up with poor talent,
I could stick fingers in my ear!
I could lisp and insult like “Wossy”
Even use the ‘F’ word if I must,
But Wow, is it easy pickings,
- A soft way to earn a crust.
Wait a minute though – this old ‘Physiog’
It may not pass photo test.
Terry Wogan is leaving at Christmas,
With my face perhaps radio is best.
There’s a victory, and defeat; the first and best of victories, the lowest and worst of defeats which each man gains or sustains at the hands not of another, but of himself.
Quotation of Plato
Has the world gone mad, or is it me?
For madness all around I see
They’ve closed a home, where some old dears
Have lived for many happy years.
And can some person tell me pray,
Why they moved them on the snowiest day?
We can find high wages for a high powered twit,
But skimp on essentials, like sand & grit
Priorities they don’t seem to matter
The ‘Fat Cats’ – They get even fatter.
Uncaringly along they barge –
And the ‘Asylum Inmates’ seem to be in charge!!
I happened on your text by chance,
You tell me that you’re stuck in France.
Some bizarre excuse it would appear, Volcanic ash has marooned you there.
Come on….. I don’t believe it’s true,
It’s too far fetched even for you.
I’ll bet you’re holed up in chateau,
With some French piece you’ve got to know.
You say you can’t take to the skies,
For years I’ve put up with your lies.
But this tall story seems unfounded,
That all Aircraft they have been grounded.
It’s so long now that you have tarried,
I’ve got divorced and have remarried
Christine Coulton
Well, well… Whoopee, another debate,
Not to find who you love, but more who you hate.
Who is most honest, whom can you trust, Brown, Glegg or Cameron, Who’ll hit the dust?
Election days looming, and as it draws near,
Folks all of a dither, trembling with fear.
Will it be a hung Parliament? We’ll have to see,
Just to on the safe side, make noses for three.
Christine Coulton
At the Cenotaph the politicians stand,
The pomp and ceremony is very grand.
But deeper memories are where families weep,
Grieving for loved ones in eternal sleep.
Their thoughts and tears are not on show,
Bravely from outsiders they hide their woe.
They mourn for those killed in war,
Wondering what their lads fought them for.
For greed and terrorism still abound,
Since time immortal these have been around.
Politicians do well to bow their head…
For those who run the country start wars it’s said…
A remote control for a TV
I saw in my dear friend’s bag.
I said ‘Do you always bring that out.
Just for a bit of a gag?’
She replied, ‘It’s my stubborn husband,
He refuses with me to shop,
And I know he’ll want to watch football,
This will catch him out on the hop!’
‘I know it sounds pretty spiteful,
And it’s really a petty thing,
But i tried confiscating the tele,
And that’s much too heavy to bring!’
The grass shimmers in the the gentle breeze
It moves in waves that seem to caress the ground beneath
It twists and turns as if escaping an unseen foe
Yet in its urgency a beauty is exposed
I sit here on “my hill” alone but for my thoughts.
The warm sun kisses my face like no mortal dare
It grabs me and stops me in my tracks
I relax here like no other place on earth. My Hill.
In the distance cattle graze unaware of my thoughts
Heads down just eating, eating, as if it were their last meal
So many people in the distance, so many working
Ploughing, walking, driving, all with thoughts and dreams
I feel like an observer, a judge, a spectator on life, not in it
I wonder if others dare go to where I am right now
A time of reflection, self-pity, judgement, a time of reckoning.
All my senses are alive unburdened of their daily routine
The summer’s haze fades the farthest view as the ground shimmers in the distance,
Butterflies caress the ground in flight, then settle, but only for a second.
Their flight of fancy catching the eye as if this dance was their last,
They tussle mid-air as if to celebrate their very existence.
The smell of harvest floats on the breeze, it fills my lungs with the taste of my youth
The days spent running in fields and climbing trees, running around My Hill
Days when the summer sun went on forever, or at least so it seemed
The memories of rain and dark clouds conveniently erased as we grow into adulthood.
Here is peace. Here is the part world that I have come to love, just showing off.
I am no stranger here, I am embraced and empowered with a faith
That faith is strong, it has the power to draw me to it like a moth toward light
I feel as one with my surroundings, I am happiest here, its where I belong. My Hill.
Hi, my name is Chris Coulton.
Born in Nottingham, moved to Shropshire in 1976. Blessed with a sense of humour that has helped me through life and to cope with lifes Knocks (which have included divorce and cancer). I write about life and find inspiration from friends and colleagues and my own personal failings. I love to play with words and doing my ‘scribbles’, which have to date raised £11,000 for ‘Macmillan Cancer Support’. If your would like to read some humorous topical poetry please click on the link to my slide show.
I am sure admin will provide the link here somewhere as my slideshow is hosted on this blog site.
Hi Chris,
Here’s the link to your book 1 slide show – Click Here
Regards
(admin)
Keep up the good work Chris!
Dear Admin;
Before I depart this earthly planet, it is my wish to archive a copy of some records of an Uncle who was killed in the First World War.
He was Second Lieutenant George Harte (a brother of Mabel Harte) He lived in Kirkwright Street, Nottingham where he was born.
He was killed on the Somme in March of the last year of the 1914-18 war, aged only twenty one, and is buried in France (Villiers Faugh)
A Niece was the first member of the family to visit the site in 1970.
Lest We Forget.
You are not forgotten George.
Christine
xx
Would you be kind enough to post and archive the images I have e-mailed you
Thank you Admin
Anthem for Doomed Youth
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,–
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
Wilfred Owen
Shropshire;
Though Nottingham’s my place of birth.
Shropshire’s the best place on earth.
People are friendly, and that’s the key.
There’s still a feeling of Community.
There are Pastures, Lanes, and lovely walks
Wild Birds like the Sparrow Hawks.
Pools, Canals, a nearby Lake,
A peaceful spot, where Duck and Drake,
And Anglers, exist in harmony,
An area where I love to be.
For Shropshire I am full of praise.
A place to spend my ‘Golden Days’.
The best information i have found exactly here. Keep going Thank you
A friend told me about your website and a poetry category you have on it. I know Norwich is a long way from Shropshire, however I write a lot of poems and wonder if you would consider publishing some of mine.
Gratefully yours
Christine Coupe
Coping
Are you really coping?
With what life throws your way,
I suppose we all do it
You will hear some people say.
Are you eating properly?
And coping with your lot,
It’s so easy to slip up
And have a little tot.
Is the money flowing?
Is there food in the pot?
Or are you really starving
Cos you haven’t got a lot.
But coping with life’s ups and down’s
Is part of life you see,
It can’t all be easy going
It hasn’t been for me.
So next time you think of screaming
Or jumping down the stairs,
Count in your mind one to ten
Then eat a cream éclair.
I know it will make you feel guilty
But what else can you do,
You have to find a way to cope
That really does suit you.
Christine Coupe
Odd Sock Mystery
Is there a odd sock heaven
where all the odd socks go,
I don’t about you
but I’d really like to know.
I’ve hunted in my drawers upstairs
trying to match a pair,
Is it asking for too much
just to find a pair to wear.
I’ve found a blue and a yellow one
and one with big blue spots,
But I just can’t find the other one
to make up a pair of socks.
This odd sock heaven must be nice
cos there’s lots of different kinds,
And if you’re wearing odd socks there
no-one really minds.
Christine Coupe
Friendship
To have a friend in this world
who you can tell your troubles to
who will sit and listen
and perk you up when you are blue.
They won’t be criticising
unless they feel the need
they’re always there to help
for which you never have to plead.
But friendship’s not a one way street
it has to work both ways
and you must be there also
when they have their bad days.
Some days will be full of laughter
some days will be full of pain
but a good friend will be there for you
time and time again.
Never take your fiend for granted
or forget what they have done
cos if you’ve got a good friend in this world
you’re the lucky one.
Christine Coupe
Step By Step Removals
Sitting in the window
Watching the world go by,
What was that I saw?
In the corner of my eye.
Was it a settee
Or was it just a chair,
Did I really see it
Was it really there!
I think the neighbours are moving
But only down the street,
Oh hang on
There goes something covered in a sheet.
I’m not really being nosy
I really couldn’t care,
But I feel I should know
After all it’s only fair.
They watched me when I moved in
They were all having a nose,
Looking to see what I’d got
I suppose!
Christine Coupe
I’ll Put The Kettle On
The kettles always on in our house
from morning through to dusk,
and once you enter our house
a cuppa is a must.
Whether you call in for a gossip
or just to have a chat,
you’ll always get a cuppa
placed upon your lap.
It’s amazing how a cup of tea
can help you unwind,
or even get you talking
if you’ve something on your mind.
I’ll always put the kettle on
when trouble is afoot,
co’s a cup of tea works wonders
when things are looking tough.
So when you come to our house
there’ll always be a cup of tea,
and someone to sit and listen
and just think, it’s all free.
Christine Coupe
Come on Chris Coulton it been awhile since we heard from you
ALL FIRED UP
Why do we celebrate the fifth of November?
Guy Fawkes and other names, it’s hard to remember
We burn him in effigy, but please tell me why?
Because all those years ago, he failed in his try.
Perhaps he was angry at the money they spent
Or fired up with crass promises, that they never meant.
Their penny pinching on back-up of the lads they sent to fight
Or on medical finance to which patients had a right.
So thinking about it, he perhaps had a reason
And though not commending folks committing a treason.
When I watch squabbling M.P.S I think “Well by gum”-
With a pinch of gunpowder, “Lets put a rocket up each bum”
Chris Coulton. Telford, Shropshire
MONEY FOR OLD ROPE
Get me a job on the telly,
- get me on that T.V.
There’s no getting hands all dirty,
Only when rubbing ‘Em with glee’
Simon Cowell’s on forty five million,
- How about that for one year?
Though he has to put up with poor talent,
I could stick fingers in my ear!
I could lisp and insult like “Wossy”
Even use the ‘F’ word if I must,
But Wow, is it easy pickings,
- A soft way to earn a crust.
Wait a minute though – this old ‘Physiog’
It may not pass photo test.
Terry Wogan is leaving at Christmas,
With my face perhaps radio is best.
Chris Coulton Telford, Shropshire
There’s a victory, and defeat; the first and best of victories, the lowest and worst of defeats which each man gains or sustains at the hands not of another, but of himself.
Quotation of Plato
OUT OF CONTROL
Has the world gone mad, or is it me?
For madness all around I see
They’ve closed a home, where some old dears
Have lived for many happy years.
And can some person tell me pray,
Why they moved them on the snowiest day?
We can find high wages for a high powered twit,
But skimp on essentials, like sand & grit
Priorities they don’t seem to matter
The ‘Fat Cats’ – They get even fatter.
Uncaringly along they barge –
And the ‘Asylum Inmates’ seem to be in charge!!
Christine Coulton. Telford. Shropshire
ALL HOT AIR
I happened on your text by chance,
You tell me that you’re stuck in France.
Some bizarre excuse it would appear,
Volcanic ash has marooned you there.
Come on….. I don’t believe it’s true,
It’s too far fetched even for you.
I’ll bet you’re holed up in chateau,
With some French piece you’ve got to know.
You say you can’t take to the skies,
For years I’ve put up with your lies.
But this tall story seems unfounded,
That all Aircraft they have been grounded.
It’s so long now that you have tarried,
I’ve got divorced and have remarried
Christine Coulton
HANGING BY THE THREAD
Well, well… Whoopee, another debate,
Not to find who you love, but more who you hate.
Who is most honest, whom can you trust,
Brown, Glegg or Cameron, Who’ll hit the dust?
Election days looming, and as it draws near,
Folks all of a dither, trembling with fear.
Will it be a hung Parliament? We’ll have to see,
Just to on the safe side, make noses for three.
Christine Coulton
Bereavement
Some people come into our lives
and leave a trace of love,
then they are sadly taken from us
to Gods care up above.
He knows just why he wants them
to be in his special care,
but we all cry for them
because they’re no longer there.
But heaven is a special place
where everything is good,
and we should be happy for them
if only we could.
Sometimes you sit and wonder
why the pain won’t go away,
but believe I know
it gets better every day.
I know it isn’t easy
to lose the one you love,
but think of them in Gods care
Till you meet again above.
C.Coupe
Housework
Where do I start?
you hear yourself say,
same old work
from day to day.
Do I have a fag first
or maybe a cup of tea,
but then again I’ll make a start
there’s no one here to help me.
Polish in the living room
wipe down the chairs,
where do I scrub next
suppose I’d better do upstairs.
Plate and cups
from suppertime are piled in the sink,
the thought of all that washing up’s
enough to drive you to drink.
Time for morning coffee
maybe with a biscuit,
watching my weight
but then again I’ll risk it.
Then, there’s the washing to peg out
and it’s going to rain,
will I put it out
just to bring it in again.
Next comes the shopping
what will we have for tea?
oh why is the decision
always left to me.
Housework is a full time job
and really dull and boring,
oh well, never mind I suppose
there’s always next morning.
C. Coupe
For Those Who Mourn
At the Cenotaph the politicians stand,
The pomp and ceremony is very grand.
But deeper memories are where families weep,
Grieving for loved ones in eternal sleep.
Their thoughts and tears are not on show,
Bravely from outsiders they hide their woe.
They mourn for those killed in war,
Wondering what their lads fought them for.
For greed and terrorism still abound,
Since time immortal these have been around.
Politicians do well to bow their head…
For those who run the country start wars it’s said…
The Codger
Control Freak
A remote control for a TV
I saw in my dear friend’s bag.
I said ‘Do you always bring that out.
Just for a bit of a gag?’
She replied, ‘It’s my stubborn husband,
He refuses with me to shop,
And I know he’ll want to watch football,
This will catch him out on the hop!’
‘I know it sounds pretty spiteful,
And it’s really a petty thing,
But i tried confiscating the tele,
And that’s much too heavy to bring!’
Chris Coulton. Telford. Shropshire
The grass shimmers in the the gentle breeze
It moves in waves that seem to caress the ground beneath
It twists and turns as if escaping an unseen foe
Yet in its urgency a beauty is exposed
I sit here on “my hill” alone but for my thoughts.
The warm sun kisses my face like no mortal dare
It grabs me and stops me in my tracks
I relax here like no other place on earth. My Hill.
In the distance cattle graze unaware of my thoughts
Heads down just eating, eating, as if it were their last meal
So many people in the distance, so many working
Ploughing, walking, driving, all with thoughts and dreams
I feel like an observer, a judge, a spectator on life, not in it
I wonder if others dare go to where I am right now
A time of reflection, self-pity, judgement, a time of reckoning.
All my senses are alive unburdened of their daily routine
The summer’s haze fades the farthest view as the ground shimmers in the distance,
Butterflies caress the ground in flight, then settle, but only for a second.
Their flight of fancy catching the eye as if this dance was their last,
They tussle mid-air as if to celebrate their very existence.
The smell of harvest floats on the breeze, it fills my lungs with the taste of my youth
The days spent running in fields and climbing trees, running around My Hill
Days when the summer sun went on forever, or at least so it seemed
The memories of rain and dark clouds conveniently erased as we grow into adulthood.
Here is peace. Here is the part world that I have come to love, just showing off.
I am no stranger here, I am embraced and empowered with a faith
That faith is strong, it has the power to draw me to it like a moth toward light
I feel as one with my surroundings, I am happiest here, its where I belong. My Hill.