How many more can I write.
Certainly nothing more tonight.
Come in Dulwich Poet.
Your time is up.
Not bad for Year One.
Two Thousand and Thirteen.
It all began in the Cherry Tree.
Way back in January.
Three hundred and four...not out.
The England cricket team
Wouldn't have minded
A score like that.
Not a bad year at all...
For a poet (re)born.
Dulwich Poet 31st December 2013
( I started trying to write poetry at the start of the year. This is my last one of 2013...I wrote an amazing 304 poems this year. Amazing as in the total, not the quality)
Tuesday 31 December 2013
"Passing The time"
Sitting in a 'P'
For Priority seat...
If only you were
My private priority.
Oblivious with your
Modern electrical gadget
That I can't even put
A proper name to.
Wired up to your
Headphones with
That red wire
Between your lips.
What a waste!
I can see your
Hands grasping your gadget.
When in my head
I've got another use for them
Desperate for your
Fingers to be
Wrapt round
My half hard half soft cock.
Your legs tapping
To your tunes...
Now you are gulping
Adam's apple bobbing...
OMG! As you youngsters say!
He's yawning now...
Open wide
I'm in dirty old man heaven
As we pull into Brockley.
All in the mind
Mine sadly.
I'm growing old badly.
Dulwich Poet 31st December 2013
(My mind wandered, as I admired a young man, oblivious to my thoughts, on the train home from work, earlier this evening. I jotted this down on the train.)
For Priority seat...
If only you were
My private priority.
Oblivious with your
Modern electrical gadget
That I can't even put
A proper name to.
Wired up to your
Headphones with
That red wire
Between your lips.
What a waste!
I can see your
Hands grasping your gadget.
When in my head
I've got another use for them
Desperate for your
Fingers to be
Wrapt round
My half hard half soft cock.
Your legs tapping
To your tunes...
Now you are gulping
Adam's apple bobbing...
OMG! As you youngsters say!
He's yawning now...
Open wide
I'm in dirty old man heaven
As we pull into Brockley.
All in the mind
Mine sadly.
I'm growing old badly.
Dulwich Poet 31st December 2013
(My mind wandered, as I admired a young man, oblivious to my thoughts, on the train home from work, earlier this evening. I jotted this down on the train.)
"Happy New Year"
We all say it.
What does it mean?
Well for me...
I'll settle for
Being able to say
Same time
Same place
Next year.
Even if it means
I'm speaking to myself.
For that will mean
I am still speaking
And breathing.
So what if I'm 'home alone'
Keeping myself company
Even if it means
Me saying
'Happy New Year'
To myself.
Same old, same old.
The calendar and clock
May move on
But some things never change.
Dulwich Poet 31st December 2013.
(In case you've never guessed...it's New Years Eve.)
What does it mean?
Well for me...
I'll settle for
Being able to say
Same time
Same place
Next year.
Even if it means
I'm speaking to myself.
For that will mean
I am still speaking
And breathing.
So what if I'm 'home alone'
Keeping myself company
Even if it means
Me saying
'Happy New Year'
To myself.
Same old, same old.
The calendar and clock
May move on
But some things never change.
Dulwich Poet 31st December 2013.
(In case you've never guessed...it's New Years Eve.)
"Old and New Fusion dream"
Well how strange was that!
Waking up with a start thinking...
What on earth was all that about?
Dreaming...not daring to dissect.
It was the twenty first century
For the Voodoo Stick was there
Though as far as I could tell
Our pink and blue Wizard Robert
Was without his cowbell.
See..told you it was strange.
It was a home game
But the stand was on the 'wrong' side.
Though....it seemed
As if it was the old ground
Which the vast majority
Of our current crowd
Cannot even recall
With some not even being born
When it was hit
By the demolition ball.
Last night
All in my head
It was a cup tie
In what I know not
For we were playing...
St. Johnstone!
Their fans on newly concrete steps
Down at the front of the old Greendale end
The old dirt terrace
Still rising high behind.
Along the side
Gone is our new one-sided stadium
And the old covered terrace is there
Exactly as it was
Crash barriers in the same spot
Except they stood in more
Of that fresh concrete
Built as a labour of love
By Shaun Dooley
Who was still at it with his trowel!
We were all impresed...
But as for the game
Against the Saints
I cannot tell you the score
Which I know is rather poor.
My alarm went off
And I woke up with a start
For a moment not able
To tell fact and fiction apart
Jumping out of bed
To get to work on time.
A fusion of old and new
In my head but feeling true.
I dread to think what a shrink
Would make of all this if I were
Resting on their couch.
Self analysing
I guess I want
A good future
Without letting go
Of the ghosts of my past.
It is New Years Eve after all.
By way of a P.S.
The present was never far
As Yasmin was still running the bar
So it's just as well as my dream
Came to an abrupt halt
With her at helm
I don't want to know
What lays ahead
As I fear my Football Club's
Soon to be dead.
(To be continued....
Depending if I have another tonight)
Sweet dreams....
Dulwich Poet 31st December 2013
(This morning I woke up, having had a weird Dulwich Hamlet terrace football dream. It seemed so real, but I was annoyed that I could only recall bits of it!)
Waking up with a start thinking...
What on earth was all that about?
Dreaming...not daring to dissect.
It was the twenty first century
For the Voodoo Stick was there
Though as far as I could tell
Our pink and blue Wizard Robert
Was without his cowbell.
See..told you it was strange.
It was a home game
But the stand was on the 'wrong' side.
Though....it seemed
As if it was the old ground
Which the vast majority
Of our current crowd
Cannot even recall
With some not even being born
When it was hit
By the demolition ball.
Last night
All in my head
It was a cup tie
In what I know not
For we were playing...
St. Johnstone!
Their fans on newly concrete steps
Down at the front of the old Greendale end
The old dirt terrace
Still rising high behind.
Along the side
Gone is our new one-sided stadium
And the old covered terrace is there
Exactly as it was
Crash barriers in the same spot
Except they stood in more
Of that fresh concrete
Built as a labour of love
By Shaun Dooley
Who was still at it with his trowel!
We were all impresed...
But as for the game
Against the Saints
I cannot tell you the score
Which I know is rather poor.
My alarm went off
And I woke up with a start
For a moment not able
To tell fact and fiction apart
Jumping out of bed
To get to work on time.
A fusion of old and new
In my head but feeling true.
I dread to think what a shrink
Would make of all this if I were
Resting on their couch.
Self analysing
I guess I want
A good future
Without letting go
Of the ghosts of my past.
It is New Years Eve after all.
By way of a P.S.
The present was never far
As Yasmin was still running the bar
So it's just as well as my dream
Came to an abrupt halt
With her at helm
I don't want to know
What lays ahead
As I fear my Football Club's
Soon to be dead.
(To be continued....
Depending if I have another tonight)
Sweet dreams....
Dulwich Poet 31st December 2013
(This morning I woke up, having had a weird Dulwich Hamlet terrace football dream. It seemed so real, but I was annoyed that I could only recall bits of it!)
Saturday 28 December 2013
"Buzzing!"
You came, you mocked
Now "Football Karma's"
Boat has docked.
Rocking up against your collapsed wall
Blame us again...it's your call!
Pitch underwater
Sewage and shit
Never thought it was possible
To make your ground a worse pit.
The River Mole broke it's banks
For this 'act of god'
I give our Edgar thanks
With our Amateur Cup medals on his chest
Not your 'son of god'
Who's supposed to be blessed.
Oh poor old Leatherhead I'm trying not to choke
With your lack of insurance being stony broke.
The least of your worries now
Is your 'onesie boy' wall
It really is will you
Play back there at all?
All that mess broken through
Condoms, tampons & untold poo.
I'm sure your players are all abuzz
Yes, now WE ARE gloating
That's what YOUR Tweeting does.
Here's hope we enrage
The neanderthals in your cage.
For your racist scum
We don't give two hoots
Ankle deep in your wellington boots
If this is global warming
Bring it on!
For I won't be happy
Until your nasty club's gone!
Dulwich Poet 28th December 2013
( Following the accidental collapse of a weakened wall away to Leatherhead last season, and the way their club reacted to it, has made relations 'strained' to say the least between Dulwich Hamlet & them. I have obsolutely no respect for them at all. On Christmas Eve their ground was completely flooded when a nearby river broke it's banks, with little to no sympathy from a large number of our fans.)
Now "Football Karma's"
Boat has docked.
Rocking up against your collapsed wall
Blame us again...it's your call!
Pitch underwater
Sewage and shit
Never thought it was possible
To make your ground a worse pit.
The River Mole broke it's banks
For this 'act of god'
I give our Edgar thanks
With our Amateur Cup medals on his chest
Not your 'son of god'
Who's supposed to be blessed.
Oh poor old Leatherhead I'm trying not to choke
With your lack of insurance being stony broke.
The least of your worries now
Is your 'onesie boy' wall
It really is will you
Play back there at all?
All that mess broken through
Condoms, tampons & untold poo.
I'm sure your players are all abuzz
Yes, now WE ARE gloating
That's what YOUR Tweeting does.
Here's hope we enrage
The neanderthals in your cage.
For your racist scum
We don't give two hoots
Ankle deep in your wellington boots
If this is global warming
Bring it on!
For I won't be happy
Until your nasty club's gone!
Dulwich Poet 28th December 2013
( Following the accidental collapse of a weakened wall away to Leatherhead last season, and the way their club reacted to it, has made relations 'strained' to say the least between Dulwich Hamlet & them. I have obsolutely no respect for them at all. On Christmas Eve their ground was completely flooded when a nearby river broke it's banks, with little to no sympathy from a large number of our fans.)
"The Box Beckons"
What is it with poets?
That make them
(And by implication me)
Such miserable bastards?
Cliche corner or urban myth
Depressing enough
To jump off a cliff?
Can I help it if I feel
My life is crap?
Should I just accept it
Or get in a flap?
Can't runaway from facts-
I'm forty seven
Getting even closer
To eternity in heaven.
Not that I believe
There's such a place
Once the lid's nailed down
On your wooden case.
I've just got that feeling
My end is nearing
Thankfully without the hassle
Of being god fearing.
With nothing to back
My 'on the way out' fears up
Bar a gut instinct
When it comes to a 'good life'
I've been sold a pup.
No idea how long I've to live
Or how much poetry inside
There is to give.
I know I can do morbid
Not sure about mirth
Putting that down to my shit life
Here on Planet Earth.
Dulwich Poet 28th December 2013
(Just wondering if people who write poetry tend to more miserable than 'ordinary' people, or is it the other 'moody' people just haven't picked their pens up yet? Who knows?)
That make them
(And by implication me)
Such miserable bastards?
Cliche corner or urban myth
Depressing enough
To jump off a cliff?
Can I help it if I feel
My life is crap?
Should I just accept it
Or get in a flap?
Can't runaway from facts-
I'm forty seven
Getting even closer
To eternity in heaven.
Not that I believe
There's such a place
Once the lid's nailed down
On your wooden case.
I've just got that feeling
My end is nearing
Thankfully without the hassle
Of being god fearing.
With nothing to back
My 'on the way out' fears up
Bar a gut instinct
When it comes to a 'good life'
I've been sold a pup.
No idea how long I've to live
Or how much poetry inside
There is to give.
I know I can do morbid
Not sure about mirth
Putting that down to my shit life
Here on Planet Earth.
Dulwich Poet 28th December 2013
(Just wondering if people who write poetry tend to more miserable than 'ordinary' people, or is it the other 'moody' people just haven't picked their pens up yet? Who knows?)
"That Time of Year"
Happy New Year
Is the 'official' line
Believe you and me
It won't be mine
Resolutions coming out of your ear
Genuine hope drowned by beer
Ambitious fals hopes at the start
Two weeks in all fallen apart.
Close the gate
And bolt the door
Nowaday's that's all
New Year is for.
I hate the mock joy
Petence of hope
One minute past midnight
Equals twelve more months
Of struggling to cope.
Tiny targets that I set
Seem to get fucked up
And never met.
Having ambition is not a crime
But I've got to treat it
Like my alcoholism
One day at a time.
All I want is more
Good times than bad
Surely a realistic
Resolution to be had?
Whether that happens
Remains to be seen
So come back and ask me
On the eve of 2015.
Dulwich Poet 28th December 2013
(I try not to set myself New Years resolutions, as they tend to fall by the wayside)
Is the 'official' line
Believe you and me
It won't be mine
Resolutions coming out of your ear
Genuine hope drowned by beer
Ambitious fals hopes at the start
Two weeks in all fallen apart.
Close the gate
And bolt the door
Nowaday's that's all
New Year is for.
I hate the mock joy
Petence of hope
One minute past midnight
Equals twelve more months
Of struggling to cope.
Tiny targets that I set
Seem to get fucked up
And never met.
Having ambition is not a crime
But I've got to treat it
Like my alcoholism
One day at a time.
All I want is more
Good times than bad
Surely a realistic
Resolution to be had?
Whether that happens
Remains to be seen
So come back and ask me
On the eve of 2015.
Dulwich Poet 28th December 2013
(I try not to set myself New Years resolutions, as they tend to fall by the wayside)
"Slowing Down"
Can't even remember
What it means
I was only a boy at the time,
But my poetry's like
British Leyland Seventies.
My rhythmic production
On it's knees
Struggling to knock one out
So to speak, or otherwise!
Poetry addiction is a 'curse'
No idea how it will flow
All out no production
Like a factory go slow.
Only joking, having a jest
See it as 'having a rest'.
Whatever happens
I won't get mad
With this literary affliction
Of the thing called 'sad'
Seasonal Affective Disorder
Does it really exist
There's a fine border...
Made the decision
Not to wear a permanent frown
If I can't summon the mental energy
To jot stuff down
Certain my words of wisdom
Will come back
Soon to have my poetry on track.
Dulwich Poet 28th December 2013
( Without being able to put my finger on it, December has been a very slow month for me, poetry wise. This one is my way of trying to five it all a 'kick start'.)
What it means
I was only a boy at the time,
But my poetry's like
British Leyland Seventies.
My rhythmic production
On it's knees
Struggling to knock one out
So to speak, or otherwise!
Poetry addiction is a 'curse'
No idea how it will flow
All out no production
Like a factory go slow.
Only joking, having a jest
See it as 'having a rest'.
Whatever happens
I won't get mad
With this literary affliction
Of the thing called 'sad'
Seasonal Affective Disorder
Does it really exist
There's a fine border...
Made the decision
Not to wear a permanent frown
If I can't summon the mental energy
To jot stuff down
Certain my words of wisdom
Will come back
Soon to have my poetry on track.
Dulwich Poet 28th December 2013
( Without being able to put my finger on it, December has been a very slow month for me, poetry wise. This one is my way of trying to five it all a 'kick start'.)
Wednesday 18 December 2013
"Ignored"
Granted
You're younger than me
Granted
You're fitter than me
Granted
You have bigger cocks than me
Granted
You're more fussy than me
But....
Where have all the dirty old men gone
So I can join them
And be who I want to be?
Dulwich Poet 18th December 2013
(I realise I'm middled aged, overweight and not really attractive. But this is about the loneliness of looking for anonymous sex in public toilets, when all I want is a brief bit of fun)
You're younger than me
Granted
You're fitter than me
Granted
You have bigger cocks than me
Granted
You're more fussy than me
But....
Where have all the dirty old men gone
So I can join them
And be who I want to be?
Dulwich Poet 18th December 2013
(I realise I'm middled aged, overweight and not really attractive. But this is about the loneliness of looking for anonymous sex in public toilets, when all I want is a brief bit of fun)
"Gone Forever"
You know that moment
We've all had it
When you have that 'Ping!'
The germ of an idea
For the next one
Which seemed like
A good idea at the time
If only you had
Stopped for a second
To write it down.
Now it's gone forever.
Like dear old Ronnie Biggs.
The perils of being a poet eh?
Dulwich Poet 18th December 2013
( The 'worst' thing about trying to write poetry is thinking of something, or-even worse- have a few lines in your head, but not jotting them down, thinking you will remember them later. And then you can't. Ronnie Biggs is mentioned because it was announced that the famous Great Train Robber died today)
We've all had it
When you have that 'Ping!'
The germ of an idea
For the next one
Which seemed like
A good idea at the time
If only you had
Stopped for a second
To write it down.
Now it's gone forever.
Like dear old Ronnie Biggs.
The perils of being a poet eh?
Dulwich Poet 18th December 2013
( The 'worst' thing about trying to write poetry is thinking of something, or-even worse- have a few lines in your head, but not jotting them down, thinking you will remember them later. And then you can't. Ronnie Biggs is mentioned because it was announced that the famous Great Train Robber died today)
Monday 16 December 2013
"Bloody Hell!"
Shouldn't complain
Mustn't moan
Not as if you're taking
Blood from a stone.
Taken a day off work
Not sure what for
Assumed it was to see a doctor
You know the score.
Blood tests and things
I like on my Wednesday off
But I've been out of kilter
With a bastard cough.
Arrive at Lewisham
Present my letter
Not on the system
Day's not getting better.
Turns out it's the usual
Venesection...
But not straight away!
They need a blood test
Just to see if I need the rest.
Turns out I don't
Blood iron levels are fine
So I want to moan
And have a whine.
A day off work
I'll never get back
That's the shit
I really can't hack.
No doubt my blood pressure's
Now through the roof
Biting my tongue
So I'm not fucking uncouth!
A whole day wasted
For a prick in the arm
Now I need one in my gob
To keep me calm.
Dulwich Poet 16th December 2013
( I got a letter for a hospital appointment, not sure what it was for, so I used up a day's annual leave. Turns out it was just one of my regular out-patient appointments, regarding iron levels in my blood. Which, I am sure, if I had phoned I could have swapped to my regular Wednesday off work. To top it all, there was a long wait, and then they took a blood test, to check my levels, and told me-after another wait-that they didn't need to drain a pint of blood off of me. not amused!)
Mustn't moan
Not as if you're taking
Blood from a stone.
Taken a day off work
Not sure what for
Assumed it was to see a doctor
You know the score.
Blood tests and things
I like on my Wednesday off
But I've been out of kilter
With a bastard cough.
Arrive at Lewisham
Present my letter
Not on the system
Day's not getting better.
Turns out it's the usual
Venesection...
But not straight away!
They need a blood test
Just to see if I need the rest.
Turns out I don't
Blood iron levels are fine
So I want to moan
And have a whine.
A day off work
I'll never get back
That's the shit
I really can't hack.
No doubt my blood pressure's
Now through the roof
Biting my tongue
So I'm not fucking uncouth!
A whole day wasted
For a prick in the arm
Now I need one in my gob
To keep me calm.
Dulwich Poet 16th December 2013
( I got a letter for a hospital appointment, not sure what it was for, so I used up a day's annual leave. Turns out it was just one of my regular out-patient appointments, regarding iron levels in my blood. Which, I am sure, if I had phoned I could have swapped to my regular Wednesday off work. To top it all, there was a long wait, and then they took a blood test, to check my levels, and told me-after another wait-that they didn't need to drain a pint of blood off of me. not amused!)
Sunday 15 December 2013
"Limerick Ditty"
There was a poetess from Peckham
Whose attitude was Feck 'em!
I'll write about a cat
Even if I feel like a prat
And if they don't like my Robert will deck 'em!
Dulwich Poet ?(approx. 15th)? December 2013
(Not sure of the exact date of this. It's a Facebook comment response to a mate's missus, who published a poem on her page, which was about cats. In the comments afterwards she mentioned that she wished she'd stuck to a limerick. The poem itslef was very good, and this is what I jotted down at the time a a Post-it note, for a bit of fun.)
Whose attitude was Feck 'em!
I'll write about a cat
Even if I feel like a prat
And if they don't like my Robert will deck 'em!
Dulwich Poet ?(approx. 15th)? December 2013
(Not sure of the exact date of this. It's a Facebook comment response to a mate's missus, who published a poem on her page, which was about cats. In the comments afterwards she mentioned that she wished she'd stuck to a limerick. The poem itslef was very good, and this is what I jotted down at the time a a Post-it note, for a bit of fun.)
Saturday 14 December 2013
"Hidden Moods"
Is it such a bad thing
To lay yourself bareOr continue the lie
That you have no care?
Pretend your life
Is hunky dory
Keeping people happy
With a make believe story.
The problem is I’m not insane
Which in a way is a shame
Not down enough
To suffer depression
Or crazy enough for
A psychiatry session.
There must be
Many more like me
Hiding out there
Bumbling on in life
Without hope or care.
At least if you’re mental
You’ve got a label
Your cards are out
Slapped on the table.
I’m to normal…
To be a nutter.
Too scared of pain
To be a cutter.
From the outside in
I’m a normal chap
Only me who knows
My life is crap.
Once in a while
My mask will drop
Leading to the inevitable pop!
Seeking attention, even being a bitch!
Well ‘pot and kettle’
That’s a bit too rich.
My only crime
Is letting down my guard
Because being honest in public
Is fucking hard.
Low self-esteem
Is a burden I carry round
One that weighs me down
Without a sound.
So next time you ask me
How I feel
The answer I give
Isn’t real.
My response will be
My usual ‘not dead yet’
From my standard “I’m normal” set.
You’re not supposed to
Judge people by their looks
Same with covers
On Library books.
But if you size me up
From what’s inside
You might just be shop
By the pain that I hide.
Dulwich Poet 14th December 2013
( I wrote this after returning from Lowestoft Town
Saturday 7 December 2013
"World Cup Wally"
It’s going to be tough
For the tabloids
Over inBrazil
None of the usual hype
Before going for the kill.
Not even a case
Of will we cope
With our current squad
There’s not even hope.
At least Woy won’t be stabbed in the back
It’s from the front
The hacks will attack.
Stick the knife in
Because they were blanked
After championing ‘Arry the Spiv
But not even thanked.
Tabloid vulture have no shame
To them all it’s just a game
A World Cup jaunt
All expenses paid
Bonus for them
If our boys fade.
Mock condemnation if
A player effigy’s strung up
After fooling the nation
We can win the cup.
At least this time
Expectation’s low
Possibly plummeting
To less than zero.
The only fans who believe
Are down the pub
And therein likes
The Sky culture rub
For fans who go to games
Have no real hope
The ones who know football
Know our National Team’s a joke.
People like Greg Dyke
Can get on their bike
With his cut-throat gesture
What’s there not to dislike.
Anyone one who travels
Will ape cricket’s
Barmy Army brigade
Corporates and wide boys
On a Jolly, well paid.
There will be no passion
Just one tuneless brass band
Which sums up why
I not longer followEngland
Dulwich Poet 7th December 2013
(The draw for the World Cup Finals to be held next year inBrazil England were
paired with Italy
For the tabloids
Over in
None of the usual hype
Before going for the kill.
Not even a case
Of will we cope
With our current squad
There’s not even hope.
At least Woy won’t be stabbed in the back
It’s from the front
The hacks will attack.
Stick the knife in
Because they were blanked
After championing ‘Arry the Spiv
But not even thanked.
Tabloid vulture have no shame
To them all it’s just a game
A World Cup jaunt
All expenses paid
Bonus for them
If our boys fade.
Mock condemnation if
A player effigy’s strung up
After fooling the nation
We can win the cup.
At least this time
Expectation’s low
Possibly plummeting
To less than zero.
The only fans who believe
Are down the pub
And therein likes
The Sky culture rub
For fans who go to games
Have no real hope
The ones who know football
Know our National Team’s a joke.
People like Greg Dyke
Can get on their bike
With his cut-throat gesture
What’s there not to dislike.
Anyone one who travels
Will ape cricket’s
Barmy Army brigade
Corporates and wide boys
On a Jolly, well paid.
There will be no passion
Just one tuneless brass band
Which sums up why
I not longer follow
Dulwich Poet 7th December 2013
(The draw for the World Cup Finals to be held next year in
Thursday 21 November 2013
"Commuter Chairs"
Is it something I said?
I never said a word!
Do I smell?
No, I’ve had a wash.
Am I too fat?
Maybe, but not obese,
No excess blubber
To roll over
Into your lap.
Don’t worry…
I’m not offended.
I realise it’s about comfort
And you want your own chair.
I was going to…
Tell you to ‘fuck off’ anyway
As you’ve got ginger hair.
Dulwich Poet 21st November 2013
(Sat on a bus heading for work, the seat next to me empty, someone walks past and doesn’t sit down…)
I never said a word!
Do I smell?
No, I’ve had a wash.
Am I too fat?
Maybe, but not obese,
No excess blubber
To roll over
Into your lap.
Don’t worry…
I’m not offended.
I realise it’s about comfort
And you want your own chair.
I was going to…
Tell you to ‘fuck off’ anyway
As you’ve got ginger hair.
Dulwich Poet 21st November 2013
(Sat on a bus heading for work, the seat next to me empty, someone walks past and doesn’t sit down…)
"Buzzing About The Bees"
On the train
Going West
But this is different
From the rest.
Not a Sunday morning
In a field
With only a jacket
Or brolly as a shield
The only fan at a game!
Tonight is your exception
At Griffin Park
Glory boy hunting
At this Youth Team game.
It’s the Second Round Proper
Of the FA Youth Cup
Complete underdogs
But with a bit of luck…
I know it’s unlikely
But I love to dream
A chance to outwit
The Football League cream.
We’ve never beaten
Professionals away
Got this gut feeling
Tonight’s our day.
Maybe it’s not our greatest crop
No excuse for our cup run to stop.
If luck’s on our side we have a chance
Who knows…later tonight
Could be our victory dance.
You think I’m crazy for watching the Youth
Mock me for doing so take the piss
Backing my team I may be mental
But I totally live for nights like this.
Dulwich Poet 20th November 2013
( I wrote this on the way to the Dulwich Hamlet FA Youth Cup tie away to Brentford. We lost two nil. With regard to the title, Brentford’s nickname is 'The Bees'.)
Going West
But this is different
From the rest.
Not a Sunday morning
In a field
With only a jacket
Or brolly as a shield
The only fan at a game!
Tonight is your exception
At Griffin Park
Glory boy hunting
At this Youth Team game.
It’s the Second Round Proper
Of the FA Youth Cup
Complete underdogs
But with a bit of luck…
I know it’s unlikely
But I love to dream
A chance to outwit
The Football League cream.
We’ve never beaten
Professionals away
Got this gut feeling
Tonight’s our day.
Maybe it’s not our greatest crop
No excuse for our cup run to stop.
If luck’s on our side we have a chance
Who knows…later tonight
Could be our victory dance.
You think I’m crazy for watching the Youth
Mock me for doing so take the piss
Backing my team I may be mental
But I totally live for nights like this.
Dulwich Poet 20th November 2013
( I wrote this on the way to the Dulwich Hamlet FA Youth Cup tie away to Brentford. We lost two nil. With regard to the title, Brentford’s nickname is 'The Bees'.)
Wednesday 20 November 2013
"Margate was...."
A dreary town
Stuck on the Kent coast
Always an awful place
I dreaded visiting most.
Not because I hated seaside
That was always fun
The shame was
I could only afford
The penny arcades
Which I never won.
No riding on the big dipper
When I was a not-so-little nipper
Used to pretend I was scared of the ride
As my mates all took the piss
Wasn’t gonna be having this.
Couldn’t admit I was skint and poor
Even though they knew the score
Any shekels I had to spare
Were not to waste in here
Not to throw away at the fun fair
Closely guarded for my precious beer.
Now I’m middle aged
My friends have scattered
Not that they really mattered.
Back to Margate I return
Still haven’t got money to burn
Dreamland’s changed all fenced up
I’m here for a game in the FA Cup.
This time I didn’t see the town
On the coach right to the ground
Not here being a day tripper bound
No seeing the sights of the new Turner
Or the pier that’s no longer there
Amusement arcades fade-flashing bright
Hardly a sunseeker in sight
One or two apprentice gamblers enticed inside
And by coincidence it’s also Margayte Pride
Not that I’d have got a ride.
The irony of our fans in Pink shirts
Not realising they’re magnets to gay flirts!
Rainbow flags instead of sticks of rock
Would a ‘Kiss Me Quick Hat’
Have got me some cock?
But like old Margate town
I’m all clapped out
At least they were loved once
And had their moments
I’m never been there…
Just a washed-up lout!
The only love I have
Is for my football team
Platonic relationship only
Anything else is a dream.
But isn’t that what
The F.A.Cup’s for
I live for that moment
For Ethan to score!
When he hit the back of the net
Nothing else mattered
Wiping out flashbacks of my life
Being emotionally battered.
For a few moments
We’re all as one
An ecstatic high
When the game is won.
My life isn’t much
I’ll settle for moments like this
When I can bury the pain
For occasional bliss.
Dulwich Poet 20th November 2013
( This is about the Kent town of Margate, where I visited quite a few times as a daytripper , as a teenager, from London. I went back earlier this season when Dulwich Hamelt played there in the FA Cup 2nd qualifying round, we won 2-1. But I never ventured into town, as I travelled on the Supporters Coach.)
Stuck on the Kent coast
Always an awful place
I dreaded visiting most.
Not because I hated seaside
That was always fun
The shame was
I could only afford
The penny arcades
Which I never won.
No riding on the big dipper
When I was a not-so-little nipper
Used to pretend I was scared of the ride
As my mates all took the piss
Wasn’t gonna be having this.
Couldn’t admit I was skint and poor
Even though they knew the score
Any shekels I had to spare
Were not to waste in here
Not to throw away at the fun fair
Closely guarded for my precious beer.
Now I’m middle aged
My friends have scattered
Not that they really mattered.
Back to Margate I return
Still haven’t got money to burn
Dreamland’s changed all fenced up
I’m here for a game in the FA Cup.
This time I didn’t see the town
On the coach right to the ground
Not here being a day tripper bound
No seeing the sights of the new Turner
Or the pier that’s no longer there
Amusement arcades fade-flashing bright
Hardly a sunseeker in sight
One or two apprentice gamblers enticed inside
And by coincidence it’s also Margayte Pride
Not that I’d have got a ride.
The irony of our fans in Pink shirts
Not realising they’re magnets to gay flirts!
Rainbow flags instead of sticks of rock
Would a ‘Kiss Me Quick Hat’
Have got me some cock?
But like old Margate town
I’m all clapped out
At least they were loved once
And had their moments
I’m never been there…
Just a washed-up lout!
The only love I have
Is for my football team
Platonic relationship only
Anything else is a dream.
But isn’t that what
The F.A.Cup’s for
I live for that moment
For Ethan to score!
When he hit the back of the net
Nothing else mattered
Wiping out flashbacks of my life
Being emotionally battered.
For a few moments
We’re all as one
An ecstatic high
When the game is won.
My life isn’t much
I’ll settle for moments like this
When I can bury the pain
For occasional bliss.
Dulwich Poet 20th November 2013
( This is about the Kent town of Margate, where I visited quite a few times as a daytripper , as a teenager, from London. I went back earlier this season when Dulwich Hamelt played there in the FA Cup 2nd qualifying round, we won 2-1. But I never ventured into town, as I travelled on the Supporters Coach.)
Monday 18 November 2013
"Not Worth The Money"
It was the Poetry Library open day
Totally free not a penny to pay.
Some of their vast collection on show
Passing through rude not to go.
To cap it off was a live event:performing text
Three poets for gratis one after the next.
Now there's no one way for poetry
It's each to their own.
The first two were listenable
In fact rather good
But the last one
I'd have booed
If I could.
And it wasn't just me as I glanced around
Others thumb twiddling is what I found
Just too polite to make a sound.
But how can you take someone seriously
With such a silly name
If you're 'Linus Slug:Insect Librarian'
You've only yourself to blame.
You were so unfunny
I wanted you to die on stage
If you were a real slug
I'd tread on you with rage.
Maybe it's just me
And you're loved by some
But deep down based on tonight
I suspect it's only your mum.
Dulwich Poet 17th November 2013
(Sunday 17th November was 'Poetry Performance', the Poetry Library Open Day. In the evening, at 8 o'clock, there was a free live event, called 'Performing Text', three poets commissioned to respond to this years open day. They were Claire Crowther, Charlotte Higgins and Linus Slug:Insect Librarian.)
Totally free not a penny to pay.
Some of their vast collection on show
Passing through rude not to go.
To cap it off was a live event:performing text
Three poets for gratis one after the next.
Now there's no one way for poetry
It's each to their own.
The first two were listenable
In fact rather good
But the last one
I'd have booed
If I could.
And it wasn't just me as I glanced around
Others thumb twiddling is what I found
Just too polite to make a sound.
But how can you take someone seriously
With such a silly name
If you're 'Linus Slug:Insect Librarian'
You've only yourself to blame.
You were so unfunny
I wanted you to die on stage
If you were a real slug
I'd tread on you with rage.
Maybe it's just me
And you're loved by some
But deep down based on tonight
I suspect it's only your mum.
Dulwich Poet 17th November 2013
(Sunday 17th November was 'Poetry Performance', the Poetry Library Open Day. In the evening, at 8 o'clock, there was a free live event, called 'Performing Text', three poets commissioned to respond to this years open day. They were Claire Crowther, Charlotte Higgins and Linus Slug:Insect Librarian.)
"By Royal Appointment"
They always say
The less you know the better.
Should you take that to the letter?
'Poetry Unplugged' on a Tuesday night
When I came as a virgin
I was full of fright.
On arrival there was a friendly soul
Welcoming compere was his role.
Now i'm actually a shy, insecure chap
And as far as I'm concerned
My poetry's crap
But this chap Niall
Puts us all at ease
Though I now suspect
It's a capitalist wheeze.
It's in his interests
To get us to stay
For every time we read
We have to pay.
And he never says
How rubbish we are
Making us feel like a star.
I thought from his ad-libs
His politics were fine
Broadly speaking
The same as mine.
So although I've enjoyed 'Poetry Unplugged'
Why do I feel I've been mugged?
Fortunately I couldn't make it the next night
As you taking a night off just wasn't right.
Were you really at Buckingham Palace
Leaving your poor stand-in
With your poisoned chalice.
Whatever next...an O.B.E?
Or a poetry slot on the BBC?
Oh how establishment can you be?
I'm surprised you've come back
To the Poetry Caff
Mixing with us hoi poloi
And old riff raff.
Who knows maybe
We can kiss and make up soon
But only if you show me
Your nicked Buckingham Palace silver teaspoon!
Dulwich Poet 17th November 2013
(For the last couple of months I've been going to some of the 'Poetry Unplugged' open mic nights, at the Poetry Cafe, on Tuesday evenings. The man who hosts it, a chap called Niall O'Sullivan, won't be there this Tuesday, as he's on the incites for some sort of Poetry celebratory thing at Buckingham Palace. This poem is my attempt at a gentle ribbing for him the next time I have no midweek football to go to, and read a poem or two there.)
The less you know the better.
Should you take that to the letter?
'Poetry Unplugged' on a Tuesday night
When I came as a virgin
I was full of fright.
On arrival there was a friendly soul
Welcoming compere was his role.
Now i'm actually a shy, insecure chap
And as far as I'm concerned
My poetry's crap
But this chap Niall
Puts us all at ease
Though I now suspect
It's a capitalist wheeze.
It's in his interests
To get us to stay
For every time we read
We have to pay.
And he never says
How rubbish we are
Making us feel like a star.
I thought from his ad-libs
His politics were fine
Broadly speaking
The same as mine.
So although I've enjoyed 'Poetry Unplugged'
Why do I feel I've been mugged?
Fortunately I couldn't make it the next night
As you taking a night off just wasn't right.
Were you really at Buckingham Palace
Leaving your poor stand-in
With your poisoned chalice.
Whatever next...an O.B.E?
Or a poetry slot on the BBC?
Oh how establishment can you be?
I'm surprised you've come back
To the Poetry Caff
Mixing with us hoi poloi
And old riff raff.
Who knows maybe
We can kiss and make up soon
But only if you show me
Your nicked Buckingham Palace silver teaspoon!
Dulwich Poet 17th November 2013
(For the last couple of months I've been going to some of the 'Poetry Unplugged' open mic nights, at the Poetry Cafe, on Tuesday evenings. The man who hosts it, a chap called Niall O'Sullivan, won't be there this Tuesday, as he's on the incites for some sort of Poetry celebratory thing at Buckingham Palace. This poem is my attempt at a gentle ribbing for him the next time I have no midweek football to go to, and read a poem or two there.)
"Waiting To Be Read"
I bet you never imagined
When you penned your poetry book
That it would take a quarter of a century
Before another soul took a look.
Making my slow journey
I found you on your row but
Having scanned the content
Never gave you a go.
The blurb says you work
At Mountjoy jail
Sure you get job satisfaction
Which is more than I can
Say of your book
Which I took
Off the shelf for a fraction.
The blurb talks about love and letdown
From when you were seventeen
Feeling oh so lonely when she stood you up.
Put yourself in that book's shoes
And imagine how it's been.
Oh how I teased you
My fingers caressing your spine
After all those years of darkness
You thought those poems were mine.
Just like the girl at that Wimpy
The one who failed to show
I got you excited and teased
With nowhere left for you to go.
Perhaps I felt a tad guilty
I had to give you an airing
Dumping you on the returns trolley
Deep down I don't want you unread
As an old Irish folly
So I'll hope someone picks you up
From there instead.
Dulwich Poet 17th November 2013
( I was searching the shelves at the Poetry Library for my next four books to take home, and I picked one up to look at that had last been issued and stamped with a return date of 17th December 1989! It was called 'The Sound of Umbrellas at Work' by Tom Lonorgan. This attempt at a poem is about comparing the blurb that describes it, love and let downs, to the book being stuck on the shelf, and how I let the book down, by briefly having a look at it, but not taking it home)
When you penned your poetry book
That it would take a quarter of a century
Before another soul took a look.
Making my slow journey
I found you on your row but
Having scanned the content
Never gave you a go.
The blurb says you work
At Mountjoy jail
Sure you get job satisfaction
Which is more than I can
Say of your book
Which I took
Off the shelf for a fraction.
The blurb talks about love and letdown
From when you were seventeen
Feeling oh so lonely when she stood you up.
Put yourself in that book's shoes
And imagine how it's been.
Oh how I teased you
My fingers caressing your spine
After all those years of darkness
You thought those poems were mine.
Just like the girl at that Wimpy
The one who failed to show
I got you excited and teased
With nowhere left for you to go.
Perhaps I felt a tad guilty
I had to give you an airing
Dumping you on the returns trolley
Deep down I don't want you unread
As an old Irish folly
So I'll hope someone picks you up
From there instead.
Dulwich Poet 17th November 2013
( I was searching the shelves at the Poetry Library for my next four books to take home, and I picked one up to look at that had last been issued and stamped with a return date of 17th December 1989! It was called 'The Sound of Umbrellas at Work' by Tom Lonorgan. This attempt at a poem is about comparing the blurb that describes it, love and let downs, to the book being stuck on the shelf, and how I let the book down, by briefly having a look at it, but not taking it home)
Sunday 17 November 2013
"Skim Reading"
What am I doing
Sitting at a table
Murmour of strangers
In the background
As I yawn
Wait for the clock
To tick tock
And complete its hourly circle
Until the next one
Just as slow.
Pretending I am interested in
The book I skim read
As fast as slow time allows.
What is it with me?
Scared I may miss
That tiny bit of inspiration
On the last page but one?
Pull yourself together, man!
If there's no enjoyment
Give it up
And choose another.
If anyone should understand
The concept of borrowing
Library books...
It should be me!
Dulwich Poet 17th November 2013
(I have this annoying habit of borrowing boos from the poetry library, and trying to finish each one, even if I'm not particularly enjoying it...in my head I think I might miss something that might inspire me to write one myself...)
Sitting at a table
Murmour of strangers
In the background
As I yawn
Wait for the clock
To tick tock
And complete its hourly circle
Until the next one
Just as slow.
Pretending I am interested in
The book I skim read
As fast as slow time allows.
What is it with me?
Scared I may miss
That tiny bit of inspiration
On the last page but one?
Pull yourself together, man!
If there's no enjoyment
Give it up
And choose another.
If anyone should understand
The concept of borrowing
Library books...
It should be me!
Dulwich Poet 17th November 2013
(I have this annoying habit of borrowing boos from the poetry library, and trying to finish each one, even if I'm not particularly enjoying it...in my head I think I might miss something that might inspire me to write one myself...)
Wednesday 13 November 2013
"My Friend's Mother"
Today I said farewell
To a lady I never knew
But it was a privilege
To have sat on a pew
At a mate's mums funeral
That was religion free
With an absence of waffle
Being the key.
A humanist funeral
Done so well
'Imagine' was playing
No heaven or hell.
Just the true story
Of a wonderful life
No 'meeting your maker'
Or any of that strife.
I'd have loved to have met her
As she sounded
Principled old school
Her spirit never broken
By divide and rule.
A post-War baby
Brixton bred
With a moving tribute
From old veteran Red Ted.
Harking back to time
When politics was from the heart
Not about soundbites
Or toeing the party line.
No mistaking guacamole for mushy peas
And washing it down with fine red wine.
Just beer and sandwiches on the table
A helping hand for those less able.
I wish you'd been my Councillor
And you sounded a great mum
With a loving husband and two sons
Extremely proud of all you done.
From bomb sites in Brixton
To County Hall
If there is an afterlife
Hold your head up
Walk tall.
Dulwich Poet 13th November 2013
(I went to the funeral today, of an old football mates mum. She had spent her life as a Labour Party activist, and trade unionist, solidly on the left, who never 'sold out' her principles. I never knew her, but it was a joy and an honour to be there to celebrate her life.)
To a lady I never knew
But it was a privilege
To have sat on a pew
At a mate's mums funeral
That was religion free
With an absence of waffle
Being the key.
A humanist funeral
Done so well
'Imagine' was playing
No heaven or hell.
Just the true story
Of a wonderful life
No 'meeting your maker'
Or any of that strife.
I'd have loved to have met her
As she sounded
Principled old school
Her spirit never broken
By divide and rule.
A post-War baby
Brixton bred
With a moving tribute
From old veteran Red Ted.
Harking back to time
When politics was from the heart
Not about soundbites
Or toeing the party line.
No mistaking guacamole for mushy peas
And washing it down with fine red wine.
Just beer and sandwiches on the table
A helping hand for those less able.
I wish you'd been my Councillor
And you sounded a great mum
With a loving husband and two sons
Extremely proud of all you done.
From bomb sites in Brixton
To County Hall
If there is an afterlife
Hold your head up
Walk tall.
Dulwich Poet 13th November 2013
(I went to the funeral today, of an old football mates mum. She had spent her life as a Labour Party activist, and trade unionist, solidly on the left, who never 'sold out' her principles. I never knew her, but it was a joy and an honour to be there to celebrate her life.)
Tuesday 12 November 2013
"Not In My Name"
Don’t get me wrong
I agree with free speech
Even if it’s absolute nonsense
That you preach.
There is a reason Jimbo’s no hero
His popularity was less than zero.
Maybe we could have a referendum
To confirm this…
That’s not serious
I’m taking the piss.
This is a man who loved theU.K.
So much so he didn’t want to stay.
Born inParis Spain
Loved our country for the tax gain
Hated the Euro, loved the pound
Just couldn’t spend sterling
As he was never around.
Spoilt rich boy who wanted it all
Come back party political
But hardly the most analytical.
The great British eccentric
Full of flannel
After the vote he’s back
Over the Channel.
Can you remember what
Came through your door
He knew how to persuade voters
On that score.
Five million videos
To ensure your vote
Not that I’m one to gloat
You lost your deposit
Try as you might
Enough VHS tapes
For their own landfill site.
When it came to the count
You fell flat on your face
You came nowhere
In the General Election race
Showing no class, screaming:
“Out,out,out!”
Defeated David Mellor
Had the best shout.
He told you to
“Stick up your hacienda”
As you sloped off toSpain
With your anti-Euro agenda.
So please explain how a hero you make
There is only so much nonsense I can take
To most of the country who are ordinary folk
You’re an insignificant forgotten joke
Your old man was a merchant banker
Fucking perfect for you Old Etonian wanker.
I agree with free speech
Even if it’s absolute nonsense
That you preach.
There is a reason Jimbo’s no hero
His popularity was less than zero.
Maybe we could have a referendum
To confirm this…
That’s not serious
I’m taking the piss.
This is a man who loved the
So much so he didn’t want to stay.
Born in
Loved our country for the tax gain
Hated the Euro, loved the pound
Just couldn’t spend sterling
As he was never around.
Spoilt rich boy who wanted it all
Come back party political
But hardly the most analytical.
The great British eccentric
Full of flannel
After the vote he’s back
Over the Channel.
Can you remember what
Came through your door
He knew how to persuade voters
On that score.
Five million videos
To ensure your vote
Not that I’m one to gloat
You lost your deposit
Try as you might
Enough VHS tapes
For their own landfill site.
When it came to the count
You fell flat on your face
You came nowhere
In the General Election race
Showing no class, screaming:
“Out,out,out!”
Defeated David Mellor
Had the best shout.
He told you to
“Stick up your hacienda”
As you sloped off to
With your anti-Euro agenda.
So please explain how a hero you make
There is only so much nonsense I can take
To most of the country who are ordinary folk
You’re an insignificant forgotten joke
Your old man was a merchant banker
Fucking perfect for you Old Etonian wanker.
Dulwich Poet 12th November 2013
(This is about Sir James Goldsmith, who in the late nineties
set up the short-lived Referendum Party. At ‘Poetry Unplugged’, an open mic
event, one woman read one about a ‘forgotten great British hero, namely
Goldsmith. This is my response!)
"Terrorist Lite"
Without a doubt
It was more civilised
Back in the day
Of the I.R.A.
A good old fashioned bullet
Through the back of the head
Not butchered in Woolwich
Lying there left dead.
No mass slaughter
Like on Seven Seven
We never sent ourselves
Up to heaven.
Admittedly we occasionally
Made a mistake
But there was always an apology
In our wake.
At least we regretted loss of life
So please forgive
If we took your wife.
And we also had standards
Not a backpack bomb
Unlike those sick Muslims wore
With such aplomb.
Ok we did once have cause to cuss
After we mistakenly blew up
A one seven one bus.
But that was an error
An innocent mistake
We never left dozens dead
In our wake.
And we genuinely had god on our side
Catholic priests backed us all
With their holy pride.
Now we're respectable
No more bullets or gun
Gone all respectable
It's no longer fun
Even though it's been such a blast
We recognise terrorism's
A thing of past.
Our conscience is clear
With 'right' on our side
So we unreservedly condemn you
Our past we hide
And the reason Al Quaeda we can condemn
Is because we are holier than them.
Dulwich Poet 11th November 2013
(Whilst my politics are of supporting the Irish Republican cause, this is about the 'double standards' of former active Republicans, now politicians, who might condemn 'modern' terrorists. It was a weird poem to write, as I wasn't really sure where it was going, or where it would turn.)
It was more civilised
Back in the day
Of the I.R.A.
A good old fashioned bullet
Through the back of the head
Not butchered in Woolwich
Lying there left dead.
No mass slaughter
Like on Seven Seven
We never sent ourselves
Up to heaven.
Admittedly we occasionally
Made a mistake
But there was always an apology
In our wake.
At least we regretted loss of life
So please forgive
If we took your wife.
And we also had standards
Not a backpack bomb
Unlike those sick Muslims wore
With such aplomb.
Ok we did once have cause to cuss
After we mistakenly blew up
A one seven one bus.
But that was an error
An innocent mistake
We never left dozens dead
In our wake.
And we genuinely had god on our side
Catholic priests backed us all
With their holy pride.
Now we're respectable
No more bullets or gun
Gone all respectable
It's no longer fun
Even though it's been such a blast
We recognise terrorism's
A thing of past.
Our conscience is clear
With 'right' on our side
So we unreservedly condemn you
Our past we hide
And the reason Al Quaeda we can condemn
Is because we are holier than them.
Dulwich Poet 11th November 2013
(Whilst my politics are of supporting the Irish Republican cause, this is about the 'double standards' of former active Republicans, now politicians, who might condemn 'modern' terrorists. It was a weird poem to write, as I wasn't really sure where it was going, or where it would turn.)
"Waiting"
An hour late
Fucking great!
Do I look bovvered?
Expectant face
As white coat hovvered.
Back in the olden days
Women would start knitting
That's how they passed
Waiting room sitting.
The blokes could read
Last years Country Life
Or flick through the bridal ones
Despite having a wife.
Now it's all gadgets
No old mags to be seen
Moaning on Twitter
While too polite
To vent your spleen.
Rather than simmer
Like a pot of soup
Not the time or place
For your spirits to droop
Like the posters
Just 'Stay Calm' like me
Pen and paper is the key
Move over to the corner chairs
Resist the urge to shout and swear
Because even if you hate Pam Ayres
You can de-stress with poetry!
Dulwich Poet 11th November 2013
(I was stuck in a waiting room today, for over an hour, my appointment being delayed. I spent the time scibbling down poetry.)
Fucking great!
Do I look bovvered?
Expectant face
As white coat hovvered.
Back in the olden days
Women would start knitting
That's how they passed
Waiting room sitting.
The blokes could read
Last years Country Life
Or flick through the bridal ones
Despite having a wife.
Now it's all gadgets
No old mags to be seen
Moaning on Twitter
While too polite
To vent your spleen.
Rather than simmer
Like a pot of soup
Not the time or place
For your spirits to droop
Like the posters
Just 'Stay Calm' like me
Pen and paper is the key
Move over to the corner chairs
Resist the urge to shout and swear
Because even if you hate Pam Ayres
You can de-stress with poetry!
Dulwich Poet 11th November 2013
(I was stuck in a waiting room today, for over an hour, my appointment being delayed. I spent the time scibbling down poetry.)
Monday 11 November 2013
"Yes, Doc!"
Just seen the doctor
So far so good
Everything seems
As it should.
Apart from his gentle frown
I must try to
Get my weight down.
All well and good
Thanks for the advice
Practice what you preach
Would be nice.
Your three receptionists
Out at the desk
Are all rather plump
While not grotesque.
So do as you say
Not as you see
All of your staff
Were fatter than me.
Dulwich Poet 11th November 2013
(Had an appointment at the hospital, generally fine, bar my weight. I was doing better on that score that the three women at the front desk, not that their size matters, as they did their job.)
So far so good
Everything seems
As it should.
Apart from his gentle frown
I must try to
Get my weight down.
All well and good
Thanks for the advice
Practice what you preach
Would be nice.
Your three receptionists
Out at the desk
Are all rather plump
While not grotesque.
So do as you say
Not as you see
All of your staff
Were fatter than me.
Dulwich Poet 11th November 2013
(Had an appointment at the hospital, generally fine, bar my weight. I was doing better on that score that the three women at the front desk, not that their size matters, as they did their job.)
"Terminally Healthy"
Can you imagine
Supporting your club
With crowds on the up
But you're riding your luck
With a charlatan owner
Who don't give a fuck!
Almost every perfect
Out on the pitch
Life really shouldn't be
Such a bitch.
The more I know
The more it hurts
I wish I was an ordinary fan
On the outskirts
Oblivious to what's going wrong
Oh just to turn up and sing a song.
In the ground at five to three
Only the football you need to see
No thinking through
What comes out of your mouth
Head in the clouds
Dreaming of Conference South.
What if I tell you
The budget's too high
The owners projections
Are pie in the sky.
Because of the short lease that we've got
Won't be able to take our play-off slot.
Everything we've built up is going to tumble
My Football Club is going to crumble.
People say I bleed Pink & Blue
Which makes it worse
As there's nothing I can do.
Dulwich Poet 11th November 2013
(I'm always more of a pessimist than an optimist, and I know I said the same thing this time last year, but this time next year it wouldn't surprise me if Dulwich Hamlet Football Club does not exist)
Supporting your club
With crowds on the up
But you're riding your luck
With a charlatan owner
Who don't give a fuck!
Almost every perfect
Out on the pitch
Life really shouldn't be
Such a bitch.
The more I know
The more it hurts
I wish I was an ordinary fan
On the outskirts
Oblivious to what's going wrong
Oh just to turn up and sing a song.
In the ground at five to three
Only the football you need to see
No thinking through
What comes out of your mouth
Head in the clouds
Dreaming of Conference South.
What if I tell you
The budget's too high
The owners projections
Are pie in the sky.
Because of the short lease that we've got
Won't be able to take our play-off slot.
Everything we've built up is going to tumble
My Football Club is going to crumble.
People say I bleed Pink & Blue
Which makes it worse
As there's nothing I can do.
Dulwich Poet 11th November 2013
(I'm always more of a pessimist than an optimist, and I know I said the same thing this time last year, but this time next year it wouldn't surprise me if Dulwich Hamlet Football Club does not exist)
"Tick Tock Care"
I don't wear a watch
But even I can tell the time.
My appointment's at three twenty
Which should be time aplenty.
Don't get me wrong
There could be a delay
You might have had a busy day.
But sitting here taking stock
It's now gone four o'clock.
If I were to walk off the street
I could understand...
But there's no excuse
For my appointment as planned.
Surely we just fill
Our allocated spot
Or is it a conspiracy
"Got it in for me" plot?"
'Salus populi suprema lex'
Latin translation of the text
'The health of the people is the greatest law'
Well I'll let you know
If I get through the doctor's door.
Posters on the wall asking
'Did we get it right?'
I'll let you know
If I've been seen by tonight!
Dulwich Poet 11th November 2013
(I had an out-patients appointment at Lewisham Hospital. It took more than hour after my scheduled appointment time to be seen)
But even I can tell the time.
My appointment's at three twenty
Which should be time aplenty.
Don't get me wrong
There could be a delay
You might have had a busy day.
But sitting here taking stock
It's now gone four o'clock.
If I were to walk off the street
I could understand...
But there's no excuse
For my appointment as planned.
Surely we just fill
Our allocated spot
Or is it a conspiracy
"Got it in for me" plot?"
'Salus populi suprema lex'
Latin translation of the text
'The health of the people is the greatest law'
Well I'll let you know
If I get through the doctor's door.
Posters on the wall asking
'Did we get it right?'
I'll let you know
If I've been seen by tonight!
Dulwich Poet 11th November 2013
(I had an out-patients appointment at Lewisham Hospital. It took more than hour after my scheduled appointment time to be seen)
"Thinking Up A Reason"
To be honest
Now there's a word
I don't honestly
Use that often.
My poetry's not going to
Set the world alight.
It's just a tool
That I use
Divide and rule
To banish thoughts
In my head
Instead of an express train
Full speed ahead
Around my brain
Spiralling in circles
With no buffers to hit.
I reach my own
End of the line
A shrink to myself
Everything fine
Even when it's not
I'll give it a shot
No need for a psychiatrist
Or a handful of pills
Poetry is how
I cure my ills.
A good friend of mine
Once said
That I think too much
So I'm using my poems
As an emotional crutch.
Bottom line is
We're all a bit mental
A fact of life that
Need not be detrimental.
You don't need a happy pill
Or slouch on a couch
Just write at will
For that I can vouch.
All you need is a paper and pen
And if it doesn't come out right
Just start again.
It takes a while to come out
And admit to your choice
Be proud as a poet
At the top of your voice!
For being a poet
Is only a label
To add to the rest
In your 'slightly weird' label.
Dulwich Poet 11th November 2013
(Why do we write poetry? It can be theraputic. It's also something I simply enjoy...)
Now there's a word
I don't honestly
Use that often.
My poetry's not going to
Set the world alight.
It's just a tool
That I use
Divide and rule
To banish thoughts
In my head
Instead of an express train
Full speed ahead
Around my brain
Spiralling in circles
With no buffers to hit.
I reach my own
End of the line
A shrink to myself
Everything fine
Even when it's not
I'll give it a shot
No need for a psychiatrist
Or a handful of pills
Poetry is how
I cure my ills.
A good friend of mine
Once said
That I think too much
So I'm using my poems
As an emotional crutch.
Bottom line is
We're all a bit mental
A fact of life that
Need not be detrimental.
You don't need a happy pill
Or slouch on a couch
Just write at will
For that I can vouch.
All you need is a paper and pen
And if it doesn't come out right
Just start again.
It takes a while to come out
And admit to your choice
Be proud as a poet
At the top of your voice!
For being a poet
Is only a label
To add to the rest
In your 'slightly weird' label.
Dulwich Poet 11th November 2013
(Why do we write poetry? It can be theraputic. It's also something I simply enjoy...)
Sunday 10 November 2013
"Brief"
I heard a poem read out tonight.
It consisted of one line.
Which is fine.
If you can keep it short and sweet.
If only I could....
Dulwich Poet 9th November 2013
(Someone reading at the 'Platform One' poetry gig I went to earlier did actually read a poem that was a one liner.)
It consisted of one line.
Which is fine.
If you can keep it short and sweet.
If only I could....
Dulwich Poet 9th November 2013
(Someone reading at the 'Platform One' poetry gig I went to earlier did actually read a poem that was a one liner.)
"Heaney No More"
Please don't accuse me
Of poetic heresy
Or throw in that old chestnut
Of plain old jealousy.
I'm still quite new to this poetry lark
That's my excuse for being in the dark
Confession time...
I've never read a Seamus Heaney
Was always more interested
In Kenny Beaney.
Poetry in motion was on the football field
The written stuff for the well heeled.
Sorry Seamus, even though you're dead
All your books are still unread.
Nothing personal you understand
Just had my fill of you being to hand.
I realise people like to read
Stuff that's not their own
But when it's you again
I want to groan.
Almost three months
Since you've been brown bread
Time to write your own
And put Seamus to bed.
Dulwich Poet 9th November 2013
( I go to some poetry meetings where you can read other poetry, as well as your own. Seamus Heaney has been popular, with 'tribute' readings, since he died. In case you're wondering...Kenny Beaney is a non-league footballer, who played for Dulwich Hamlet earlier in his career.)
Of poetic heresy
Or throw in that old chestnut
Of plain old jealousy.
I'm still quite new to this poetry lark
That's my excuse for being in the dark
Confession time...
I've never read a Seamus Heaney
Was always more interested
In Kenny Beaney.
Poetry in motion was on the football field
The written stuff for the well heeled.
Sorry Seamus, even though you're dead
All your books are still unread.
Nothing personal you understand
Just had my fill of you being to hand.
I realise people like to read
Stuff that's not their own
But when it's you again
I want to groan.
Almost three months
Since you've been brown bread
Time to write your own
And put Seamus to bed.
Dulwich Poet 9th November 2013
( I go to some poetry meetings where you can read other poetry, as well as your own. Seamus Heaney has been popular, with 'tribute' readings, since he died. In case you're wondering...Kenny Beaney is a non-league footballer, who played for Dulwich Hamlet earlier in his career.)
"Wrong Platform"
Here I am at 'Platform One'
Entertainment poetry fun
Serious poets with a headline spot
So much more talent than I have got.
Make it seem easy
Without any stutter
But those kids at the back
Mutter, mutter, mutter!
Giving it your best Paddington Bear
Looks could kill with your glare.
Small crowd boosted by
An eighteenth birthday group
What were they hoping for?
A noisy holler and a whoop?
Maybe they thought poetry was rap
Not expecting fuddy duddy
Old white man 'crap'.
They had no linguistic taste
Not even leaving a bit shamefaced
Leaving less than halfway through
They really never had a clue.
At least they weren't constant talkers
But oh that munching on bags of Walkers!
Not the best place to celebrate
Coming of age
What made them think
Poetry was all the rage?
At least their night couldn't get worse
After the initial nightmare
Of a basement of verse!
Dulwich Poet 9th November 2013
(I went to the 'Platform One' poetry gig at the Poetry Cafe, the first time I'd been to that night. Also there for the first time, was a group of about 20 teenagers, who were out on an 18th birthday celebration, including big cake. Not sure what they were exepcting...but it certainly wasn't poetry. For the part they stayed for, before walking out, they were on their mobiles texting, loudly munching on crisps...which I actually found quite funny, as the older 'serious' poetry crowd in the front of the room, were getting annoyed by their background munching. Their annoyance added to the 'fun' for me! Though I wasn't complaining when they left...)
Entertainment poetry fun
Serious poets with a headline spot
So much more talent than I have got.
Make it seem easy
Without any stutter
But those kids at the back
Mutter, mutter, mutter!
Giving it your best Paddington Bear
Looks could kill with your glare.
Small crowd boosted by
An eighteenth birthday group
What were they hoping for?
A noisy holler and a whoop?
Maybe they thought poetry was rap
Not expecting fuddy duddy
Old white man 'crap'.
They had no linguistic taste
Not even leaving a bit shamefaced
Leaving less than halfway through
They really never had a clue.
At least they weren't constant talkers
But oh that munching on bags of Walkers!
Not the best place to celebrate
Coming of age
What made them think
Poetry was all the rage?
At least their night couldn't get worse
After the initial nightmare
Of a basement of verse!
Dulwich Poet 9th November 2013
(I went to the 'Platform One' poetry gig at the Poetry Cafe, the first time I'd been to that night. Also there for the first time, was a group of about 20 teenagers, who were out on an 18th birthday celebration, including big cake. Not sure what they were exepcting...but it certainly wasn't poetry. For the part they stayed for, before walking out, they were on their mobiles texting, loudly munching on crisps...which I actually found quite funny, as the older 'serious' poetry crowd in the front of the room, were getting annoyed by their background munching. Their annoyance added to the 'fun' for me! Though I wasn't complaining when they left...)
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