Andy Brookes

Gold Star - 39,177 Points (11 May 1954 / Macclesfield)

Andy Brookes Poems

441. Dreams Stone 1/26/2018
442. Sink Hole 1/26/2018
443. Out Of Juice 2/3/2018
444. The First Daffidill* 2/3/2018
445. Cross-Grained 2/4/2018
446. Expressing Doubts 2/4/2018
447. Five/Seven/Five 2/4/2018
448. Pick And Mix 2/4/2018
449. To Whom It May Concern C And Rms 2/4/2018
450. Tug Of War 2/4/2018
451. Unbalanced 2/4/2018
452. The Pike And The Minnow Acautionary Tale 2/5/2018
453. One Look 2/5/2018
454. 575 2/6/2018
455. 5 7 5 2/6/2018
456. Anticipation 2/6/2018
457. Three 575 2/6/2018
458. 575 Sad Dawn 2/7/2018
459. Truth Is? 2/7/2018
460. Summer Garden 2/7/2018
461. Sophists, Logistics And Mystics 2/8/2018
462. Patent Painful Penitence 2/18/2018
463. Scrivener's Lament 2/18/2018
464. Interrupto Cogitationis 2/18/2018
465. Deadly Night Shades 2/18/2018
466. Cupids Last Arrow 2/19/2018
467. Scraping And Scrawling, Scratches And Socrates 2/19/2018
468. Figments And Fragments 2/19/2018
469. 575* 2/19/2018
470. State Of Disunion 2/19/2018
471. In The Spaces Between 2/19/2018
472. Revelling In Revelation 2/19/2018
473. So What New? 2/20/2018
474. 575** 2/20/2018
475. Get High In The Heights And Nearer Nirvana 2/20/2018
476. Myths Metres Maybe Meta-Algorithms 2/21/2018
477. Night Flight 2/22/2018
478. 575*** 2/22/2018
479. Counter Argument 2/24/2018
480. Visitors. 2/24/2018

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Best Poem of Andy Brookes

I'm Only Human

I work my fingers to the bone,
And I know I shouldn't moan.
Not get upset about my work,
If criticised by some jerk.

It's sad to say, my skin is thin,
Tough exterior, soft within.
I try so not to let it hurt,
When hit by a poem expert.

I know I have a lot to learn,
But cruel remarks, they just burn.
And you know I have no fear,
Of ever becoming like Shakespeare.

I write just whims, airy fancies,
Which people stab with their lances.
With their thrusts they put me down,
Making me feel like a clown.

But be it good or be it ...

Read the full of I'm Only Human

Altered State

Memories, those faulty things,
hanging like forgeries on the gallery of our mind
those frail water colours that fade
or bold as Modrian's primary colours
perfect and lineal
or edited and reshaped sculptures standing in dusty corners.

we live, existing in our minds boney vestibule
but in the end we disappear.

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