Here's my rubbish poems that got 66%

The Boneyard

The hillside is alive. Flames race

through dark night. Amber fingers

spread wide through tinder-dry

skeletons of bracken that crackles

and recoils at their touch. Embers fly

as beaters smash groundward, giant hands

patting down the blaze. We watch

with smoke-filled nostrils and matches

in mischievous hands, as the Spring rite

of bored youth plays out.

By dawn, the brown boneyard is gone,

just an ebony carpet of charred earth

remains. Soon rain will fall, moisture

on carbon-rich residue, feeding

the life beneath. The carpet will stud

electric green with curled heads

of fledgling ferns that grow tall

in summer’s short burst to create

a jungle canopy that conceals

and covers, before they die, fall,

desiccate and snap. The boneyard

will return. It will burn again.

Some Scars Never Fade

Jumbled up towns set in steep valleys,

built on black diamonds , blood and bone.

Land ripped apart for deep-lying treasure,

once spent, ‘King Coal’ was dethroned.

Old industries gone, chapels emptied. They’re

converted to flats or knocked-down.

Shuttered-up shops and pubs facing closure

‘cos there’s no spare cash, no jobs around.

Land grows green as the old scars fade but

the scars on its people are still pronounced.

Prosperity’s fled, no hopeful future,

bleak prospect beckons this jumble of towns.

(This is a reworking of the following poem that I was a lot happier with but I posted a version of it in the Student Café and so couldn't use it. It's about Abertillery, the town where I live.)

A jumble of houses in three small towns,
built upon industry now long gone.
A population grown used to letdowns
and a price demanded of blood and bone.
Built on black diamonds for profit's want,
beneath the shoulder of Coity it stands.
Rose Heyworth, Penrhiw, Six Bells, Pen-y-Bont,
once proud old town built for profit’s demand.
The land grows green as the old scars fade
but the town is jaded, broken, careworn.
A faded jewel hung on the hillside,
its glories are past, its future forlorn.

Craftmanship is Mastery

Silver, green and white cylinder,

that chills and moistens my hand,

and gasps as I crack it open

to free golden, hop-filled liquid

that soothes and washes away

my cares, and the strains of the day.

Vakmanschap is meesterschap - Craftsmanship is mastery. Motto of Royal Grolsch NV, brewery