Thomas William Edge

Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

Personal Poem

In Poetry on March 22, 2011 at 5:00 am

The blind soldier,
Following orders without thought,
hopping over trenches
all your ill-advised commandments bought
without fee,
free to get caught in your blood drenched hypocrisy –
A general not fit for war,
not fit for more than digging the trenches we soldiers soared.



Poetry 36

In Poetry on March 20, 2011 at 9:10 pm

This poem is just, yeah, 5 minute bash – not particularly pleased with it, but perhaps it’ll grow on me – I just liked the ‘come for you/comfort you’ rhyme and tried to see what I could do with it! x

When they come for you,
it’s not to comfort you;
Enemies made in backwards trades,
Switch your old gun for new.
It’s what your Father told his Son to do.
The cavalry marching,
parched, parchment, eyes darting,
When they come for you
It’s not to comfort  you,
It’s because the hunts for you.
Posh boy to slums anew.
The winters cold, your thumbs are blue,
and tirelessly they march
to come for you.

Poetry 35

In Poetry on March 20, 2011 at 6:09 pm

Short poem. 4 lines.

This is an S.O.S
Please send ships
I’m too busy for love
Too busy for friendships.


Poetry 34

In Poetry on March 12, 2011 at 3:20 pm

Music is a jar
inside all good we keep,
like a butterfly trapped by its own will,
a pill to help you sleep.
Dreamily, we listen,
as the pistons start to beat,
like an army marching backwards, a signal of defeat.
All the bad out there is listening
deciding to retreat.
I wonder, for a moment,
if the badness will return,
but settle on just watching
the record player turn.

Poetry 33

In Poetry on March 7, 2011 at 6:28 pm

I don’t usually add a foreword to ANY of my poems, usually I’ll let the words speak for themselves, even leaving the titles bare – but this is a special case. The following poem was written a long time ago, how long I’m not sure, but sometime in secondary school – a good four, five years ago.  Unlike 98% of my written poetry back then, 98% of which the poems have aged badly and are typically embarrassing to look back on, this falls into that very elite 2%…poems I am proud to have written.

Enough rambling…

Legend tells of a beast that dwells
beneath the cracks of earth.
And to its chest we strapped the best of twenty-seven bells
But now it plots its sweet revenge on twenty-seven kings
In other words he’ll take a crown for every bell that rings.

*27 is my favourite number

Poetry 32

In Poetry on February 27, 2011 at 5:09 pm

Octopus, eight hands of greed,
lives where brine and badness breed,
Far below the earthly crop,
far below the frothing top, deeper in the glass of mead,
drunk on all his evil deeds.
Octopus; eight hands of greed,
slithers through, eyes like beads,
he spots his prey upon a rock,
sleeping. Eight hands form a knot,
creeping. Eight hands form a lot to take that honey from its pot.
But suddenly, a change in plot!
The prey he sought he thought was not!
the tables turned, advances spurned, the belly of the monster churned,
with a spray of ink, he slinks away,
rethinks his venture anyway.
Octopus, eight hands a flaccid,
knuckles dragging through his acid,
sulking, sulking,
shrinks from massive,
into a beast at least half as placid.












Poetry 31

In Poetry on February 27, 2011 at 2:47 pm

Hades had a dream
that Zeus had never lived,
all his sins were left unwritten
with nothing to forgive
and down the river styx
there floats a babies crib
inside immortal baby, under blankets hid.

Poetry 30

In Poetry on February 26, 2011 at 6:51 pm

In the pub today I heard a joke,
a fight broke out between two blokes,
one smashed t’other with a glass,
the other hit with knuckles brass,
of the two, they soon calmed down,
were allowed to stay, more drinks drowned,
fought again, were told to leave,
and that was it, you might believe,
but they returned, were not concerned,
drank some more, no lessons learned.
Through it all the landlord laughed,
‘Lads are lads’ – ‘drink makes em’ daft.’
But then a sight caught his eye,
a man in the corner, solemn, shy
of all the sins those two commit,
lack of manners, lack of wit,
did not compare to what he saw
when the shy man, shocked, post brawl,
took a cig and burned it proud.
‘That’s it your barred!’ said bar man loud.

Poetry Pt 29

In Poetry on February 19, 2011 at 12:34 pm

Pour light on your lamp,
take a walk down southern streets,
shaking off the cramp,
welcoming those you meet.
It feels good to know those you didn’t know,
better than you knew,
from that dark inside your home.
Each steps a different thread,
your reaping as you sew,
and all these people that you’re meeting, are better off you know.

Poetry Pt 27

In Poetry on September 3, 2010 at 9:08 pm

A man once saw hope
through a small hole in his periscope.
daring, he dreamed
of a place to elope; a place far from the tangled rope
and spluttered engine choke.
But before he spoke his captain spoke
saying Son, this new world…it hasn’t got my vote;
we ARE turning back
get your buckets and your soap.