Alex has spent a lifetime in the sewing industry and is considered one of the foremost experts of pioneering machines and their inventors. He has written extensively for trade magazines, radio, television, books and publications world wide.
Welcome to my poem page. Why do some of us write poems? It is a strange impulse and less that 2% of us do it, why? Who knows but every now and again I get this urge to write poetry and have an extensive collection built up since I was a child. Do I need therapy? Probably...
This poem is the hardest I have ever written and my most satisfying, from start to finish it took over a year.
for a lost friend
hear the birdsong as autumn leaves lay like a chestnut sea,
gaze with saddened eyes while gentle rain entrances me.
swift the seasons run this year, so soon the swallows fly,
church bells toll to summon all for a friend has passed us by.
how the tears do swell with the choir in harmony,
angels dwell in every note and where my friend should be.
dare not glance at others eyes should I feel their pain in me,
death has shaken all our souls with cold reality.
stout men of England strong, that grew from soil so rich,
beat the anvils from our past and learnt their rhythmic pitch,
walked the path of duty,
to earn our right to stay,
beneath the churchyard yew is where we grudging lay.
happened to those sunny days and our endless schemes,
we were tiny acorns amongst a field of dreams.
eyed we raced through life,
our hearts brimming full,
Yet the final flag is a shroud of silk, so harsh and miserable.
I to take your hand my friend, were I to grasp it hard,
gladly share half my days though it would mark my card,
through the lofty corridors where silent whispers fly,
shout our voices hoarse my friend and laugh until we die.
snap, snap went the Singer,
clunk, clunk came the sound.
mad, mad was the owner,
She snarled at her
work and frowned.
what, what, shall I do!
scratch, scratch on her head.
ring, ring went the phone,
The Singerman was dragged from his bed.
please, please went the plea,
Huh! his reply,
Come-come around in the morning,
As I need my machine or I’ll die.
turn, turn went the screwdriver,
drip, drip dripped the oil.
sing, sing went the Singer,
As his client came down from the boil.
sew, sew, sewed the Singer,
smiles, smiles all around.
bye, bye said the Singerman,
As the quilt was sweetly rebound.
Alex I Askaroff
Birth in a seaside town
I was dragged into the salt-cut air
Beneath the screaming gull sky, my
Heart pounding in rhythm
With the wild wild waves.
Little lungs suck up the sea-flecked spray
As my sticky eyes prise open.
Rash-red limbs wriggle and my cries of joy
Mingle with the gulls above.
For there is no greater place on earth
To be born—than in a
A I A
Sir Marmaduke Chatfield
Sir Marmaduke Chatfield has bit the dust,
And all his medals are turning to rust.
So much bluster and so much blow,
Was little more than pompous show.
Now the worms feed upon his bones,
And he dreams no more of kings and thrones.
A I A 2011
Well that's it I don't want to scare you off poetry for life. I do hope you enjoyed my work. I spend countless hours writing these pages and I love to hear from people so drop me a line and let me know what you thought: firstname.lastname@example.org
All Alex's books are on Amazon
Fancy a good read: Ena Wilf & The One-Armed Machinist
A brilliant slice of 1940's life: Spies & Spitfires