Poems by Jacks (John Brown)

The old box
Whatever is on the old box
It don't matter,
Some people just sit there
Their eyes getting fatter;
Their brains being dulled
By the flickering screen,
By the adverts that urge them
To buy what they've seen;
They worship their telly
And won't move an inch;
If the house caught on fire
Well I doubt if they'd flinch.

It's a puzzle to me
How it has so much power
To keep people glued to it
Hour after hour;
Film upon film and then
Soap after soap,
With a life such as that
I don't think I could cope;
Like the old saying goes:
'They'll end up with square eyes;'
And to me it will be
No great loss, or surprise.

Some programmes can teach
I admit that it's true;
But of excellent ones
There are only a few;
Still, if children can learn
As they sit there and drool,
It's a start, 'cause they learn
Very little at school;
Had it not been invented
Not a soul would have cared;
But it was,
And the blame lies with John Logie Baird.

So very true, and that's one of the reasons I haven't had a TV since 2010. What little TV I do watch, I watch on ITVX or BBC iPlayer, but there are only three programmes in total that I watch regularly. Very little else interests me so, instead, I make a study and learn about certain things to keep my brain active.

More like this please. Both poems of yours that I've read so far are very entertaining.

Thanks Mollie. I have many more, so watch out for 'em.

HOW SLOW
How slow the time passes
On hot summer days,
How heavy the air,
And the heat, and the haze.

How slow the sun's creeping
In reaching for noon,
How long now the day-time
Belonging to June.

How dry lies the earth
In the farmer's old hands,
How slow plod the herds
As they stroll off his land.

How sweet the bird sings
In the old apple tree,
How slow the leaves falling
O'er pathway and lea.

How far the bell tolls
Over green evening fields,
How close now the haymakers'
Singing and reels.

How slow the time passes
In twilight's night shade,
How slow fell the footsteps
True lovers once made.

By John Brown March 1995.

Another lovely one. I've never really been into Keats, Browning, Shelley or the others, but I do enjoy "home grown" poems like yours. You know, it might be a good idea if you do this symbol at the bottom of your poems.

© John Brown
Date written

I would never plageurise anyone else's work, but there are some unscrupulous people on the internet, and I don't mean here as nobody here would either, but the internet is a big place.

© John Brown
Date written

Thanks again Mollie. Good idea . . . if I could work out where to find the copyright symbol ?

Jacks!

Jacks, just copy and paste mine into Word, using your own name as I've shown, then add the date at the bottom of each poem you write. Then just save in Word as COPYRIGHT, or SYMBOL, whatever you want to call it.

Or, go to a blank page in Word, click on Insert at the top and a list will drop down with the word Symbol on it. Scroll through there till you find it, and save it for next time you need it.

For the life of me I can't remember how to do it on the keyboard now, but I've just copied and pasted that from some stuff I wrote years ago.

Tonker's hand is four of a kind ,
a mighty hand to hold.
and Jack is good in poet land
but his cards, he needs to fold,

cos Mollie is my true love
and she will not surrender
to a smooth writing pen push
to a valentines day offender,

tomplum 14/2/2025

Thanks Mollie, you're a genius.

Aw Jacks, don't make me blush! I'm just happy to help someone for a change, as the nice folk on here have helped me on a few occasions when I've been stumped over something.

Tom, yer as daft as Tonker sometimes!

(Comment removed because it broke the rules)

TONKER, NO! Don't spoil Jacks' thread.

Mollie, why not just put a link on to his poems site?

John's Poems by the Bagful !

Tonker: I don't use that site anymore, I use one called 'Poem Hunter' Here's a link to my poems on there. https://www.poemhunter.com/john-carter-brown/

P.S. my name on there is John Carter Brown.

John Carter Brown Poem Hunter

Thanks First Mate. I don't know how to do 'proper' links !

NODDING OFF

I sit enveloped in my chair,
My limbs relaxed, my work is done;
The radio is droning low,
My eyes are heavy as a ton.
I know the room is occupied,
But sorting voices is a strain;
A ghostly figure passes by,
I think I'm nodding off again.

I'm wavering between two worlds,
One cold and clear, the other warm
And filled with floating images,
Devoid of bone or flesh or form.
I sense a slowly sliding movement,
Hear again that far refrain;
My head falls from it's finger perch
Because I'm nodding off again.

My body is superfluous,
And all control I had is lost;
Opposing me, a mental bridge,
Before I know it I have crossed
Into another world, quite real,
With time a useless thing to keep;
I've left behind all earthly ties,
I've lost the fight and gone to sleep.

© John Brown
May 1995

nice one Jacks

[url=https://www.poemhunter.com/john-carter-brown/]John Carter Brown Poems[/url

You need another bracket like this ] on the end to make it link

Thanks for that First Rate, and I'm glad you like the poem.

Yep, I like that one as well, Jacks.

By the way Jacks. I've remember how to do the copyright sign on the keyboard. It's Ctrl, Alt, Insert, C. It will only work in Word though.

Hi Mollie. That's why it didn't work when I tried that then !

Yes, it was only when I realised that I only learned how to do it when I was writing my stories, which wasn't a problem in Word. Don't know why it doesn't work on here though, and I'm not techy enough to figure it out.

You write short stories. Are they short enough to post on here, or not?

WHAT YOU SAY

You say you'll be with me
Come even the end;
You say you will always be
Always my friend;
You say that we two
All through time have to spend
Togetherness . . .
That's what you say.

You say we are one
Even though we're a pair;
You say that you understand
Always, and care;
You say that we one
Made a bond that we'll share
Togetherness . . .
That's what you say.

You say in your hope
That you never will bend;
You say that you know
And need never pretend;
You say that our breath
Even death cannot end our
Togetherness . . .
That's what you say.

© John Brown
May 1995

Sorry for the delayed reply, but I only come on here in the evenings.

The stories I mentioned aren’t individual ones per se, but actually chapters about the same potty old man and his well-to-do lady friend and the daft things he gets up to, and each chapter is between 7 and 12 A4 pages long, going from Chapter 1 - 200, so not suitable for this forum.

That's a same Mollie. but it is what it is as they say.

Jacks, "What You Say" is an interesting poem, but I have a question. Should there be emphasis on the word "you?" "That's What YOU Say" (in anger, frustration)?

If that be the case, then it comes from sadness, but I'm not sure how to interpret it.

I have also written some comical poems - well - monologues really, but I won't put them on the forum at the moment whilst you have yours on the go, otherwise folk will think I'm trying to outdo you, which would not be the case as they're totally different to yours. Another time perhaps.

Mollie: Well, the poem was written a long time ago now,and, obviously, I didn't feel the need for any emphasis on the word 'You' at the time. I think I wanted to convey just a feeling of uncertainty really. I've written a couple of other poems that also seem no have no real resolution. Reading this poem now, I just feel that the 'writer' is almost imploring his 'friend' , and uncertain about their joint relationship, and if that is the case then it's a sad poem. I'm only Secondary School educated Mollie, and can't explain it any better.

I was Secondary School educated as well, Jacks. Nothing wrong with that.

I apologise for putting you on the spot like that, but you have explained very well. Putting the emphasis on YOU sort of paints the picture that the writer is disappointed with the outcome of the relationship - a sort of feeling that what he/she was being told was the truth, and it proved not to be in the end.

No apology needed Mollie. I'll make my next poem one of a humorous nature.

I like a nice mixture. All my monologues are the comical kind, so I'll look forward to reading your next poem.

A partly true poem I wrote at the expense of my brother.

FRANK'S LUMP

Our Frank's got a lump on his head,
He says it's his brains coming out;
Which I don't believe for a moment,
It's a rumour he's putting about.

He'd have us believe he's a genius,
He really believes it I think;
I know he's no fool, but come on now,
He must think we're green and not pink.

Just because he went on to a grammar school,
And his O levels reach to the roof,
It could have been mostly good luck, 'cos
Let's face it no system's foolproof.

And anyway what's good about welding ?
(His trade for a number of years)
He tells us he made fine machinery,
But it could have been railings or spears !

Then the worst thing of all it did happen :
They upped and they made him a boss;
Good news for the board of directors,
For the welders, a grief and a loss.

Now he strolls round the room giving orders
With his whip, and I bet he can crack it ;
With his white-collar duds and accessories,
With his lump, and his shining white jacket !

© John Brown
September 1994.

I knew your Frank in our late teens
a plater and welder in't day,
At night he would don on his blue jeans
and play rock n roll after tey.

He'd practice with a guy from his work place,
A like minded great Beatle fan.
They would practice their favorite music
and tour the pubs in a van,

I have't seen Frank since those good times
because of the rounds that I ventured
So I'm happy to learn from thread,
Franks well . cept for the lump on his head,,

Well said tomplum. I like it.

Oh Jacks, I really did like that one very much.

Yours too, Tom.

Thanks Mollie

Thanks Mollie and , There's an amazing coincidence here because. I've actually met Jacks and spoke to him a few years ago, I was walking past his house and Jacks was in his front garden watering his plants, I recognised who I thought was Frank and stopped to say hello, He explained he was not Frank but his brother, Its a small world,

Indeed it is Tom, and what makes both your poems so special is because you both know the person that you write about, and that's also what makes them amusing. When someone writes about someone in particular because of personal knowledge, it makes the poem more realistic; but a lot of thought also has to go into writing things on a different subject, personal knowledge or not.

Tom, he was a fake Frank!

Back in the day, frank was a George Harrison Look a like , shoulder length hair, a tash and smooked like a foundry chimney and Jacks has the same looks but, as you know, mens hair goes thin and grey , Jacks is the same build , looks and good hair albeit grey for his time of life so. the resemblance twitched my curious nerve,

tomplum: I'm going balder by the minute now, and look more like me Dad every day! I'm too embarrassed to change my picture, such is the loss of hair. Oh well!

I know that feeling Jacks, looking in the mirror and seeing my dad, So I took to the modern style, dubbers on the bare blade, Its good in summer with the warm air and sunlight but, Now I wear a bob cap 24/7,

Don't be daft you two. There's nothing wrong with a completely bald head. It's when men only have eight strands left and try to do a comb-over, or have just a thin rim around their heads - that's silly.

Back to poems.

tomplum (will just tom do?) Well, that's us told then (ha ha)

Yes Jacks, Tom is fine,

wear one of these

That would solve the problem I suppose

One of my fayourite poems

THE TALE OF THOMAS FELL
Here is a tale that I will tell
About a boy called Thomas Fell,
And of the girl he loved so well,
His dearest darling Jenny.
He knew her from his childhood days,
He knew her thoughts, he knew her ways,
He lived in love's romantic haze,
But didn't have a penny.

To win her was his only thought,
So money therefore must be sought,
And then the flowers could be bought
And Jenny would be happy.
He explored every avenue,
And searched from here to Timbuktu,
His time was short and Tommy knew
He'd have to make it snappy.

If he should fail to raise the cash,
His hopes and dreams would all be dashed:
His foe would be in like a flash,
His morals were so shoddy.
'That other boy who's called Andrew,
He says he loves my Jenny too;
He says he'll take her to the zoo,
Hu . . . over my dead body !'

'If I see him I'm telling you
I'll beat him 'til he's black and blue;
His love for Jenny can't be true
He's nothing but a fake.
I've always loved her, always will,
I'd fight for her, I'd even kill;
I'll get that bunch of daffodils
No matter what it takes.'

A penny here, a penny there,
He walked to school to save the fare,
At last he had the money there,
Safe in his hiding place.
It meant so much, this grand surprise,
He longed to see, in Jenny's eyes,
Reward for all his enterprise :
A smile upon her face.

The flowers looked so very grand,
He placed them gently in her hands,
And told her of his wedding plans,
Then held her close and kissed her.
His eyes were moist and filled with wonder,
But Jenny's heart was rent asunder :
'Oh Tom, you've made an awful blunder,
You can't . . . 'cause I'm your sister !'

© John Brown
Sept 1994

Aw John! I love that one. I so hoped it would be a happy ending for him but, alas, it was his sister he loved; little realising that he could never marry her. I seem to recall having similar feelings about my brother - but I was only about five years old at the time.

Thanks for your interest in my poems Mollie, and I'm glad you liked this little tale.

You're very welcome.

I was never into poetry at school because I found it boring. Then, when I was writing my stories, I inadvertently realised that some of my male character's sentences tended to rhyme a little bit; not in any kind of classical way, but out of silliness; so I started to have a go at making up rhyming stories within stories, around some of the other characters. Trouble is with me, I can only do comical rhymes.

Nothing wrong with comical rhymes Mollie. I'd say a good 75% of mine have a level of humour about them. Let me know if you get fed up with me posting more.

Keep posting them Jacks. I love the Tale of Thomas Fell.

A poem written after saving a bee.
I was working on my allotment at the time.
And he had somehow fallen into a water-but.


I Saved From Death

I saved, from death, a bee today
sure drowning was it's fate;
the clock was quickly ticking
and soon 'twould be too late.

The creature floated helplessly,
as I did chance arrive;
just seconds from oblivion,
and loss to mother hive.

I lifted him so gently
to ease his suffering,
so close to death he didn't
even own the will to sting.

I laid him down upon the ground
and watched him all the while,
then saw a tiny movement, and
my face began to smile.

So soon did he recover that
I marvelled at the show
of brave determination
to live, and not let go.

And so my bee pulled through,
then slowly buzzed along his way -
and I, with spirits lifted,
continued with my day.

© John Brown
2015

hollyH. Thank you very much for your comment.

LOL! I don't believe it. I also wrote a poem about a bee. I called it A Bumbling Bee!

John, don't stop posting these great poems. They are so interesting and bring me lots of enjoyment reading them.

I'm really pleased that you like my stuff Mollie. I shall keep posting more. A Bumbling Bee sounds like it might be good.

The difference between yours and mine, apart from content of course, is that all mine are written in Wigan dialect.

on about Bees,
I once bought a pet bee,
it was in a pet shop window
I asked how much it would be.
and the mon in the shop,
said, its free,

but only to thee

Mollie Hem a Wiggin Gem,
sowd pegs on a street in Pem
It turned out she had a sister
who ran off with a mister
but she can't remember when

Mollie an indian, a Wiggin Gem,
sowd pegs on a street in Pem
It turned out she had a sister
who ran off with a mister,
but she can't remember when
The last time she paid her TV license

Basil, what did you say?

I'M NOT AN APE MAN

'Mankind has descended from monkeys'
I heard on the telly last week;
The scientists say that it's certain,
I say that I think they've a cheek.

Just because our design is so similar
To monkeys and apes and baboons;
I don't reckon those chimps in the advert'
Have a clue what to do with those spoons.

I'm not fooled by their lovable antics,
And the 'smiles' that play on their lips;
It's an insult to dress them like humans,
And force them to drink P.G. tips.

We sit them in front of a mirror
Like a schoolmaster would do a dunce,
Then say: 'yes they've got self awareness'
If they do not attack it at once.

If it's true we're descended from monkeys
Why is it there's some of them left,
Why is it there's still some evolving
And the world isn't monkey bereft ?

No, my mind is made up on the matter,
And it wasn't made up in a tree;
Let the scientist say what he wants to,
But he won't make a monkey of me !


© John Brown
1996