MY DORSET POETRY

The following poems are the work of Ray Wills The Gysy Poet 

THE SQUARE AND THE COMPASS

On top of the purbecks where the stone was cold and mean

the travelers and hikers walked the paths of Dorset scenes

where yeomen once were local and the landed Gentry dwelled

where sheep and hills were rich in rhyme and the poets write so well

In the olde stoned pub relic where fire sparked so free

where hearth is home to wanderes and folks who are free like me

where Augustus john the artist pics were hung upon the wall

next to the old Stone museum where dinosaurs once roared

The masons etched their histories and the hills were rich in dew

where the wind blew cold on winter days deep within the hues

the dogs they sat down close to the fire and the drinkers toasted zen

whilst olden Dorset folki breathed life into its flames

The sign it swung outside the pub where chickens all ran free

where stone tables laid their stories yet to see

the atmosphere was rich in trust and the poet viewed the scenes

upon the purbeck hillsides there so close to Halloween

The square and compass told its tales upon the hilly downs

where lovers met and couples kissed their steps left far behind

the cockerel crowed and gave chase to the farmers wench

upon the purbeck hillside where hardy paid his rent.

Worth Matravers breathed its life into the Dorset views

So far off the beaten track and many roads from Poole

http://www.thegypsypoet.co.uk/booking__the_gypsy_poet_.html 

THE CROOKED BOOKSTORE

In the night streets of the city where the traffic flows so free

where the sidewalks and the alleys offer refuge to the free

where the rats hide in the gutter bins and the poor tramps seek sanctuary

where the church bells chime their melodies and the artist paints the scene

on the outskirts of the city so close to Halloween

In a quiet faded bookstore where the neon lights do flash

the poets and the dreamers ask question's not surpassed

in the shelter of the cafe where coffee seeds are blessed

where the books are flowing on the shelves and amidst the scent of violets

The painters and the writers, gather there to pen

their ideals of the moment amidst their lofty eloquence

where the sad eyed poets gather and the waiter begs a tune

whilst the piano player hits the notes and the singer tries to croon

The gypsies dance to castanets and the haunting music plays

whilst the audience applause's the last nights serenades

the sidewalks are for dreamers and the pen is set to soar

one hand on the inspiration the eyes upon the door

The streets are full of whispers and the business mans foolish gains

far from the prayers of broken hearts where sanity remains

the words they flow in candle lights and the lamps are full and wick

whilst the crooked bookstore offers hope to every tom and dick.

GULLIVERS DAYS

Gulliver the pirate sailed in his Dolphins boat and pride

He docked it in Poole Bay Chines when he was in his prime

Kinson was renowned for the famous splash St Andrew's bridge

Where the green was rich in history of smuggling n that opened up the lid

The roads were wide and open where gypsies trails laid hid

amongst the Canford parish where treasure troves were hid

although the future king of Germany was saved by kinson lads

now looking back on it they say they must have been so mad

In the grounds they buried old Trottman for stealing tea its true

He was wanted by the custom officers from Bournemouth down to Poole

they say its all a sorry state that Gulliver ran the show

with pubs and property stretching fromf Ferndown his wealth was sure to grow.

Village life

I went down to the village where the school yard it still stands

where children play in summertime and lovers all hold hands

i ambled down to poets lane and butts close nearby

where roses grew around the thatch and strangers all passed by

The post office was so quaint with doorbell that chimed

there was a village postman on his bike and a poet quoting rhymes

the village church stood on a hill and a well was set in stone

lots of flowers on the paths and lots of quaint cute homes

The pigeons close was shelter there for sparrows all in line

with thrushes singing in the bush next to a washing line

the old school lane it beckoned me with its quaint rustic stone

where local yokels stopped to chat all on their own way home

The water lane was rich in grass with roses around each bend

where lovers stopped to kiss at night and old men would pretend

the carpenters wee cottage was rustic and with charm

there were lots of dandelions on the banks and gypsies selling alms

On giddy green the children played hopscotch and beggars fool

nearby the cob web cottage proud where nelson met his Waterloo

the badgers brook was rich in life with poets passing through

just close to wareham town n just a walk away from wool

The rambling roses beckoned me and the banks were full of flowers

every minute spent there was rich in countless hours

the sun smiled on the village scene and the church bell rang at noon

when life was rich in village charm and it ended oh too soon

 Saving the bunnies

Theres hordes of rabbits on canford bottom roundabout

they've been there for years playing in their Warren roustabouts

the drivers watch them as they go to work each day

delighting in their antics and the graceful way they play

the council plan to build a dual carriageway n destroy their homes right away

Just like the story of watership down they'll destroy their homes and mow em down

the local people want to see them stay upon the grass like kids at play

so save the bunnies is the call to keep our heritage is the call

the machinery is all prepared plus the poison to see them dead

so its save the bunnies without delay and keep them scurrying today

The cause is vital and so is the plan to save the bunnies you understand

they say their vermin and not protected by the law

but without the bunnies we will all be poor

save the bunnies.

The last knocker upper of Poole

She was the last of the knocker uppers in the Dorset town of Poole

She was famous in the neighborhood amongst wise men and fools

her name was Caroline Cousins she was the lady with the lantern n pole

every-ones heard of her she was local don't you know

She was born in Morden village just outside of Poole though not registered at birth

She was reared in a laborers cottage her life was not of worth

It was afore the first great war when she took up her role of knocker upper around the quay

But she was nicknamed Granny Cousins by the workers of the pottery and vine by the sea

She worked the streets six days a week whether weather poor or fine

just to get them workers all up for work in time

She was up well afore the day broke with her bonnet apron and shawl

you would see her shuffling down the streets in summers and in autumn n winters fall

You could hear her loud knocker upper calls

when the Lady's walking fields was called the rose walk

folks around here knew her well you should hear them talk

She joined the salvation army when she was retired

She was loved by the parish but was so poor when she died.

All the locals cried..

 CONTENTS

           Page One of My Dorset Poems

          Page Two of My Dorset Poems

             Page Three of My Dorset Poems

                 Page Four of My Dorset Poems

Dorset

I went fishing in Dorset and climbed the purbeck hills

Swam in the sea off studland and travelled so footloose

we camped in Carey an on the corfe downs

Sketched the ruins of history and then went to old Poole Town

Nowhere can you find a place where each bends not the same

winding lanes of purbeck stone and leafy heathered lanes

where castle sits on hillside and boats are in the bay

where folks come from London and lands so far away

Dorset has its beauty the artist paints the scene

hardy wrote his tales of love and blyton childish dreams

the hills are set in clay where stone of London's made

Gods in his glory and the meadows rich in glades

The Portland bill awaits you and the durdle door it stands

where lulwoth bay is awesome and lovers all hold hands

the commons have their glory in canford village scenes

one man writes its poetry and Barnes doth pen his dreams

The wareham walls surround the town where kings were ofttimes gained

whilst Cromwell rode his armies and bankes and weld did reign

all the ramblings of a poet cannot hide its wealth

where forests rich in fauna hide tghe deer and olden branch.