Who were you?
Douglas Goldring?
A poet for sure.
And I know you're no more.
As the book of your poetry
Was published in nineteen twenty.
(We're like old friends now actually,
As on Wiki there's plenty)
Ancient stuff doesn't usually catch my eye
But your book 'Streets' is set in London
So I'll give it try.
I don't if you're a gambling man
But I bet you didn't expect
Almost a century later
For it to be in anyone's hand
Not lost in the mists of time
But preserved for your rhyme
Decades later I'm reading for leisure
The poems you wrote for a bit of pleasure.
Much appreciated, old boy.
Dulwich Poet 30th May 2013
(I picked up this old book from the Poetry Library today, I tend to go for more modern ones, but this was one about London, & I devour anything really by London poets, or ones who write about my city)
Thursday 30 May 2013
"Having a Butchers"
I caught you
Staring at me
From on the wall
At the Festival Hall.
Well bully for you
A dissected cow
Colours for cuts
You could have been from
Behind the counter at Kennedys
Above the trays of sausages.
If you hadn't been
Surplus to requirements
On South London's dinner tables
Long time ago.
Thank you Mr. Tesco.
No more steak or rump for you
Just cuts of a poem.
Nothing wrong with that
But not as tasty.
So from left to right:
Simile. Linebreak. Rhythm.
Metre. Register. Symbolism.
Rhyme. Metaphor.
There you have it-
Poetry in a nutshell.
Well if you say so.
Don't want to beef
It's all words to me.
Dulwich Poet 30th May 2013
(There was a poster work of art on the wall, outside the Poetry Library, based on a traditional poster of butchers cuts of meat on a cow)
"Auf Wiedersehen Mutti"
They say the worst moment in your life
Is when your mother dies.
It didn't break my heart
As much as I think
I broke hers.
One of four
The youngest to boot
Luck of the draw
Somebody must be at the bottom
Of the pecking order
The runt of the litter.
Truth is...
I took the time
To say goodbye
Every single day
As you lay
Alone in that hospital bed
Not quite gone
But as good as dead.
The longest two weeks
Of my life.
I know I never lived
Up to your expectations
But let's face it
Who could live up to
Your university boy?
At least
I told you I loved you
And kissed you.
You understood through
That feeble squeeze of the hand
And brief blink of the eyes.
I knew you understood
Despite my naughtiness
There was some good.
In that sense
We had something in common.
Ich liebe meine Mutti.
Dulwich Poet 30th May 2013
(A football friend buried his mum yeserday, which got me thinking when my mum died after a serious stroke)
Is when your mother dies.
It didn't break my heart
As much as I think
I broke hers.
One of four
The youngest to boot
Luck of the draw
Somebody must be at the bottom
Of the pecking order
The runt of the litter.
Truth is...
I took the time
To say goodbye
Every single day
As you lay
Alone in that hospital bed
Not quite gone
But as good as dead.
The longest two weeks
Of my life.
I know I never lived
Up to your expectations
But let's face it
Who could live up to
Your university boy?
At least
I told you I loved you
And kissed you.
You understood through
That feeble squeeze of the hand
And brief blink of the eyes.
I knew you understood
Despite my naughtiness
There was some good.
In that sense
We had something in common.
Ich liebe meine Mutti.
Dulwich Poet 30th May 2013
(A football friend buried his mum yeserday, which got me thinking when my mum died after a serious stroke)
"Bloody Hell"
They say Eastbourne
Is God's waiting room
I beg to differ.
I am here already
In the waiting room
For blood tests
At Lewisham Hospital.
The only ones younger than me
Are the daughters and sons
Doing their family duty
Looking after their mums.
(Dads cope alone)
Knarled, wrinkly hands
Dangly earrings
Clinging to a beauty long past.
A trembling arm supporting
An array of walking sticks
That your stubborn pride
Insists you do not need.
I've seen the future
And from where I'm sitting
I don't particularly like it.
But...old age comes to us all
Those of us 'lucky' enough
To be still breathing
And not in the funeral notices.
So in true British fashion
I can't complain really.
Apart from the rain outside.
Dulwich Poet 30th May 2013
( I am signed off sick for a week, and had to pop into Lewisham for an x-ray, and for some blood tests. The blood test area was busy)
Is God's waiting room
I beg to differ.
I am here already
In the waiting room
For blood tests
At Lewisham Hospital.
The only ones younger than me
Are the daughters and sons
Doing their family duty
Looking after their mums.
(Dads cope alone)
Knarled, wrinkly hands
Dangly earrings
Clinging to a beauty long past.
A trembling arm supporting
An array of walking sticks
That your stubborn pride
Insists you do not need.
I've seen the future
And from where I'm sitting
I don't particularly like it.
But...old age comes to us all
Those of us 'lucky' enough
To be still breathing
And not in the funeral notices.
So in true British fashion
I can't complain really.
Apart from the rain outside.
Dulwich Poet 30th May 2013
( I am signed off sick for a week, and had to pop into Lewisham for an x-ray, and for some blood tests. The blood test area was busy)
"Cottage Industry"
Who would have thought
That something as functional
As an ordinary public toilet
Could be such a place
Of architectural beauty?
With your Victorian
Fixtures and fittings
So much more
Than a place for shitting!
Neither are they all a place to piss
If you get lucky a wank, but not kiss
Walk back outside pretend you're straight
Seeing your hard cock don't fool me, mate.
Can you imagine if walls could talk
The tales your average public convenience could tell?
The pain and the pleasure
What men do for leisure
It hasn't changed for generations
Men partaking up and down the nation.
Half expecting graffiti Joe Orton was here
If it was that would be so queer.
One thing that's changed are drawings on the wall
Now gay art hardly seen at all
Just a phone number for you to call.
Well I'm not here for a date
I just want to masturbate
Another hand on my cock
In modern parlance
That would really rock.
Not always great for my self esteem
Though blow jobs will make me beam
I'm only blessed with an average size
My five incher not always a prize.
It's not just that I'm not well hung
I'm neither fit or even young.
More often than not there's no second glance
Which is why I grab any chance.
The bottom line is I'm a sad, lonely man
Who grabs morsels of sex wherever I can.
What you've just read might not be
What you want to hear
But that's the lonely life
Of an ugly old queer.
Nine times out of ten
It's more functional than great
But I'm content if not happy with my fate
In a cubicle on my knees
A stranger walks in from outside
Not having to freeze
Lock on the door means we don't have to budge
Who are you to be my jury and judge?
Dulwich Poet 30th May 2013
( A friend I know told me she used to write poetry, but can't get the inspiration to start again. While chatting about it she mentioned that she once wrote one while in the toilet at the ASDA in Charlton. So I've written this one about what I like to do in toilets...)
That something as functional
As an ordinary public toilet
Could be such a place
Of architectural beauty?
With your Victorian
Fixtures and fittings
So much more
Than a place for shitting!
Neither are they all a place to piss
If you get lucky a wank, but not kiss
Walk back outside pretend you're straight
Seeing your hard cock don't fool me, mate.
Can you imagine if walls could talk
The tales your average public convenience could tell?
The pain and the pleasure
What men do for leisure
It hasn't changed for generations
Men partaking up and down the nation.
Half expecting graffiti Joe Orton was here
If it was that would be so queer.
One thing that's changed are drawings on the wall
Now gay art hardly seen at all
Just a phone number for you to call.
Well I'm not here for a date
I just want to masturbate
Another hand on my cock
In modern parlance
That would really rock.
Not always great for my self esteem
Though blow jobs will make me beam
I'm only blessed with an average size
My five incher not always a prize.
It's not just that I'm not well hung
I'm neither fit or even young.
More often than not there's no second glance
Which is why I grab any chance.
The bottom line is I'm a sad, lonely man
Who grabs morsels of sex wherever I can.
What you've just read might not be
What you want to hear
But that's the lonely life
Of an ugly old queer.
Nine times out of ten
It's more functional than great
But I'm content if not happy with my fate
In a cubicle on my knees
A stranger walks in from outside
Not having to freeze
Lock on the door means we don't have to budge
Who are you to be my jury and judge?
Dulwich Poet 30th May 2013
( A friend I know told me she used to write poetry, but can't get the inspiration to start again. While chatting about it she mentioned that she once wrote one while in the toilet at the ASDA in Charlton. So I've written this one about what I like to do in toilets...)
Tuesday 28 May 2013
"Bitterest Pill"
So now there's another one
To add to the list
Flucoxacillin.
If I ever
Had the inclination
To pop the lot
At once
Rather than
Religiously
In an atheist fashion
Having read the label.
Would I be missed?
Probably.
But there's part of me
Whispering
I doubt it, I doubt it,
I doubt it.
Dulwich Poet 28th May 2013
(I have a problem with a foot ulcer, which is flaring up a little, so I got prescribed some antibiotics on Sunday. I now take five different types of tablets a day)
To add to the list
Flucoxacillin.
If I ever
Had the inclination
To pop the lot
At once
Rather than
Religiously
In an atheist fashion
Having read the label.
Would I be missed?
Probably.
But there's part of me
Whispering
I doubt it, I doubt it,
I doubt it.
Dulwich Poet 28th May 2013
(I have a problem with a foot ulcer, which is flaring up a little, so I got prescribed some antibiotics on Sunday. I now take five different types of tablets a day)
"My Other Birthday"
Can you tell me where you were
Exactly eleven years ago today?
I know where I was
Because…..
It was the day
I had to face facts
And accepted I had to act.
Too unwell to get out of bed
If I didn’t change I would be dead.
Coming back from the first time on tour
Realisation I could cope no more
I knew I’d been a total disgrace
Five long days out of my face.
Nothing particularly unusual in that
Everyone used to me a pisshead prat
I’d realised for a while I was mess
But deluding myself I was
‘Just worse than the rest’.
Genuinely thought I could cope
But deep down there was no hope.
One moment I was sweating, baking hot
The I was freezing, shivering as bad as it got.
If I had died in my bed
I couldn’t have cared less
I was in such a pit of a low
A total mess.
My ‘saviour’ was an ‘ex-drinking partner’ in A.A.
I’ll always be grateful he picked up his phone that day.
Asked him to take me to a meeting
Kindness shown took some beating.
It’s not been easy, I still want to drink
A few dodgy times I’ve been on the brink
But so far-touch wood- not picked up a glass
Managed to make those feeling pass.
Now it’s not often I get to a meeting
Drinking thoughts are mercifully fleeting
But I always know where the A.A. rooms are
If I feel that temptation in a bar.
One thing I know is you can’t change the past
What’s been done is set and cast
In reality I should have no friends
And I’m totally shit at making amends
I’m told by many I should be proud
Can only accept the plaudits under a cloud
I know you shouldn’t dwell on the past
But over my life such a shadow is cast.
I suppose I’ll never be ‘normal’
What that word should actually mean
But I can take comfort from the extraordinary fact
That TODAY I AM ELEVEN YEARS of alcohol clean!
“My God Edgar
Grant me the serenity
To accept the things I cannot change
The courage to change the things I can
And the wisdom to know the difference”
Dulwich Poet 28th May 2013
( I am a recovering alcoholic, and today marked thirteen years since my first day without a drink, after I returned from a Supporters’ Team tour to Amsterdam
Saturday 25 May 2013
"Discreet Peek"
I like the train into work
Weekends only, mind
As I get to pick a seat
Rather than partake in human sardines
As I hug the handrail by the door
Monday to Fridays.
Stress free Saturday.
Was it a good night last night?
Opposite and to my right
Eyelids drooping…powernap
Or do I just look that boring?
Or even ‘weird bloke scary’?
As I whip it out on the train
Escaping in my own dream world
Of a library book.
As we all do in that
To avoid talking to a stranger
Or even simple eye contact.
But YOU-the woman to my left
I caught you looking
Still not saying a word
Some things are best not said
Yes, I spotted those raised eyebrows
Hidden by your middle class glasses
That make you appear
So much more intellectual
And Intimidating
As you travel from suburbia.
Me, in my tatty, moody Lonsdale jacket
And well worn Primark jeans
I can see what’s going through your mind
That disbelieving double-take
Thinking:
‘People like HIM don’t read poetry!’
One nil to the working class,
One nil to the working class…
Just as well I turn my notebook
In the other direction
As these words flow
Little know that her peek
Over my shoulder
Is all the inspiration I need.
Two nil to the working class
Own goal posh bird.
Dulwich Poet 25th May 2013
(I got on the train to work this morning, & I am certain I clocked a look of surprise, as a middle class woman who I sat next to, had a look over my shoulder, to see what I was reading)
Friday 24 May 2013
"Suicidal Choice"
Arms outstretched
Imitating wings
That’s what dreams of death brings
Not fluttering but roaring
In a rush past the
Point of no return.
More than once
I’ve stood at that point
On Tower Bridge
Gateway to Sarf Lunnon.
Too much of a coward to jump
Scared of hitting the River with a thump
I don’t want to cry
I just want to die.
It’s that certainty I was after
The finality of death
Absolute taking of my last breath
Finishing my own life WILL be my calling
No changing my mind as I’m falling.
My last thought must be nothing at all
It’s my shout, my last call.
Probably twenty years since
I dangled over the River,
But thinking back
There’s no cold shiver.
As I get older
Suicide’s my fate
Just not ready yet
To set the date.
It’s probably just as well I’m not a loon
Prevents me doing myself in
Either now or too soon
But when I do it WILL be my choice
So have the decency to respect my voice.
Dulwich Poet 24th May 2013
( I often think of suicide, though it’s something way in the future. In the past I have come very close several times)
Thursday 23 May 2013
"Woolwich"
Difficult to comprehend
Impossible to defend
I hope the death was as quick
As the deed was sick.
Can they really believe
What they spoke in their
Grotesque fanatical joke?
This they can contemplate
For the rest of their lives
Rotting in a solitary cell
A permanent living enclosed hell.
I am so glad there was no 'shoot to kill'
Denying them the martyrdom thrill
Forty virgins in heaven
They've no hope
Just being fucked up the arse
For dropping the soap.
Come night time & the EDL prowl
Screaming their ignorant
Anti-Muslim howl.
Got no time for religion-any type
But I'm not fuelling their racist hype.
'Ban the burqa' is one of their cries
Yet they have custom made balaclavas
Only showing their eyes.
They'll drive a German car
Drink foreign beer in a bar
Eat Turkish doner & chips
In between racist quips
Or have an 'English Saturday night' ruby
The thick bastards haven't a scooby!
The sad fact is there's
Nutters on the left and right
Some are black some are white
Time for us all to do what's right
Stand together firm nice and tight.
Because if you fall for the EDL/UKIP mantra and give in
The Islamist nutcases could go on and win.
Dulwich Poet 23rd May 2013
(Yesterday a serving off-duty soldier was hacked to death in the street, in Woolwich. The extreme far right attempt to make political capital out of such a shocking crime)
Impossible to defend
I hope the death was as quick
As the deed was sick.
Can they really believe
What they spoke in their
Grotesque fanatical joke?
This they can contemplate
For the rest of their lives
Rotting in a solitary cell
A permanent living enclosed hell.
I am so glad there was no 'shoot to kill'
Denying them the martyrdom thrill
Forty virgins in heaven
They've no hope
Just being fucked up the arse
For dropping the soap.
Come night time & the EDL prowl
Screaming their ignorant
Anti-Muslim howl.
Got no time for religion-any type
But I'm not fuelling their racist hype.
'Ban the burqa' is one of their cries
Yet they have custom made balaclavas
Only showing their eyes.
They'll drive a German car
Drink foreign beer in a bar
Eat Turkish doner & chips
In between racist quips
Or have an 'English Saturday night' ruby
The thick bastards haven't a scooby!
The sad fact is there's
Nutters on the left and right
Some are black some are white
Time for us all to do what's right
Stand together firm nice and tight.
Because if you fall for the EDL/UKIP mantra and give in
The Islamist nutcases could go on and win.
Dulwich Poet 23rd May 2013
(Yesterday a serving off-duty soldier was hacked to death in the street, in Woolwich. The extreme far right attempt to make political capital out of such a shocking crime)
Wednesday 22 May 2013
"Memory Loss"
There's nothing worse
Than losing a verse
Cracking idea in your head
Lost in your thoughts
Never to be read.
The proper thing to do is jot it down
Rather than wander round town
Wearing a frown.
Why get so annoyed about words
That didn't exist?
More will flow from your pen
At the flick of a wrist.
Can you tell me then
What poetry is?
All definitions given
Are a bit of a swizz.
To steal and change a description
From the 'History Boys' film:
'What is poetry'?
"It's just one fucking word
After another"
Should I be bovvered, why do I care?
Does it matter what I share?
My 'problem' is friends sidling up in the street
Being rather nice, my poems are neat.
I realise they like them and are being kind,
But increase the pressure in my mind.
My poems are 'paintings' on the walls of the Tate
Either total shit or fucking great.
As long as I accept it's just fun to write
I'll get over poetry stage fright.
Dulwich Poet 22nd May 2013
(Basically, I still can't used to the fact that what I'm writing, no matter how average is 'poetry', & that I'm actually a 'poet'; which anyone can be, if they pick up a pen. I accept most of what I write is bland, and that I have a limited vocabulary, which is why I hate it so much when I have an idea for a poem, then it goes out of my head forever, when it seemed such a good idea at the time! )
Than losing a verse
Cracking idea in your head
Lost in your thoughts
Never to be read.
The proper thing to do is jot it down
Rather than wander round town
Wearing a frown.
Why get so annoyed about words
That didn't exist?
More will flow from your pen
At the flick of a wrist.
Can you tell me then
What poetry is?
All definitions given
Are a bit of a swizz.
To steal and change a description
From the 'History Boys' film:
'What is poetry'?
"It's just one fucking word
After another"
Should I be bovvered, why do I care?
Does it matter what I share?
My 'problem' is friends sidling up in the street
Being rather nice, my poems are neat.
I realise they like them and are being kind,
But increase the pressure in my mind.
My poems are 'paintings' on the walls of the Tate
Either total shit or fucking great.
As long as I accept it's just fun to write
I'll get over poetry stage fright.
Dulwich Poet 22nd May 2013
(Basically, I still can't used to the fact that what I'm writing, no matter how average is 'poetry', & that I'm actually a 'poet'; which anyone can be, if they pick up a pen. I accept most of what I write is bland, and that I have a limited vocabulary, which is why I hate it so much when I have an idea for a poem, then it goes out of my head forever, when it seemed such a good idea at the time! )
"The Build Up"
So what is the difference
Between normality and insanity?
Well here I am sat
At the centre of the universe
That's Trafalgar Square
To you and me
Well maybe to to you
Which makes me the crazy one.
Can you feel that buzz in your veins
Not long til the world's greatest club game
Hoardings getting erected
Jumbtron being built
For the 'whoop,whoop!'
European Champions League
Final on Saturday.
Club shop van already
Open for trade
Days before the game's
Being played
Or there's anything
Else to see.
UKIP where are you
When we need you?
Official scarves twenty
Euros a pop!
Not quite a score in old money
But their's or ours a rip-off's not funny.
Come the weekend this
Will be THE place to be
Not miles out in Stratford
UEFA fan fest location crazy.
Where ever you go it's free to get in
But not at Wembley
Without a corporate grin.
So out of touch with the real world
German banners can't be unfurled
Unless you accept Greed is
Good, greed is nice
Show off your huge flags
If you pay the right price.
In the past we could be proud of
Inventing fan culture
Now it's all about being
A greedy parasitic vulture.
No longer is it the hooligans
Who sully our name
The pocket lining owners & duffers
Can take the blame!
Dulwich Poet 22nd May 2013
(I happened to be in Trafalgar Square, as the final preparations were being put in place, as one of the UEFA fan zones, for the European Champions League Final, this coming Saturday)
Between normality and insanity?
Well here I am sat
At the centre of the universe
That's Trafalgar Square
To you and me
Well maybe to to you
Which makes me the crazy one.
Can you feel that buzz in your veins
Not long til the world's greatest club game
Hoardings getting erected
Jumbtron being built
For the 'whoop,whoop!'
European Champions League
Final on Saturday.
Club shop van already
Open for trade
Days before the game's
Being played
Or there's anything
Else to see.
UKIP where are you
When we need you?
Official scarves twenty
Euros a pop!
Not quite a score in old money
But their's or ours a rip-off's not funny.
Come the weekend this
Will be THE place to be
Not miles out in Stratford
UEFA fan fest location crazy.
Where ever you go it's free to get in
But not at Wembley
Without a corporate grin.
So out of touch with the real world
German banners can't be unfurled
Unless you accept Greed is
Good, greed is nice
Show off your huge flags
If you pay the right price.
In the past we could be proud of
Inventing fan culture
Now it's all about being
A greedy parasitic vulture.
No longer is it the hooligans
Who sully our name
The pocket lining owners & duffers
Can take the blame!
Dulwich Poet 22nd May 2013
(I happened to be in Trafalgar Square, as the final preparations were being put in place, as one of the UEFA fan zones, for the European Champions League Final, this coming Saturday)
"One Hundred and Forty"
What's it like to publish a poem on Twitter?
How many words can I dare fritter?
One letter over what a shitter!
That would really make me bitter
Dulwich Poet 22nd May 2013
( I did join Twitter, briefly. But have no fancy 'computer phone', and it didn't seem to be a manageable thing to participate in, from my laptop on my kitchen table, so I stopped)
How many words can I dare fritter?
One letter over what a shitter!
That would really make me bitter
Dulwich Poet 22nd May 2013
( I did join Twitter, briefly. But have no fancy 'computer phone', and it didn't seem to be a manageable thing to participate in, from my laptop on my kitchen table, so I stopped)
Tuesday 21 May 2013
"Luck of the Draw"
Who knows what the future will hold
Don't meant to be heartless or cold
But any one of us...
Could be dead by tomorrow!
And here's me pitying myself
For having a crap ulcer under my big toe.
Granted it does make me feel low
Unable to pull on a shirt and kick a ball
But such sacrifices are really quite small.
I used to hate playing with my limited skill
Now I've no choice it's a bitter pill
Silly old me with my low self-esteem
Should just have run out and had fun with the team.
Now that the opportunity's no longer there
I want to be on the pitch, life's not fair.
But a mate of mine's got problems with his heart,
Talk about giving me a start!
He's worked so hard to get himself fit
Now he gets hit with this shit.
Another bloke I know's waiting on a biopsy test
Just fingers crossed, hoping for the best.
Sort of puts things in perspective
Time to get a little reflective.
Well over half my life already past
None of us know how much longer we'll last
Even though it's not easy
Mustn't dwell on the past
One thing for sure the future won't last.
None of us know what's round the next turn
If there's a place called 'heaven'
Or a 'hell' where we'll burn
Maybe neither, I'm not concerned.
All I want to be is that 'mythical normality'
Rather than frozen in my crap reality.
I'm not sure if it's possible for me
Less judgmental and nicer, just have to see.
If it's nice, a teeny weeny little
My emotional state won't be so brittle.
Dulwich Poet 21st May 2013
(I had my weekly appointment at the Foot Clinic, and jotted this down on the train into work, afterwards)
Don't meant to be heartless or cold
But any one of us...
Could be dead by tomorrow!
And here's me pitying myself
For having a crap ulcer under my big toe.
Granted it does make me feel low
Unable to pull on a shirt and kick a ball
But such sacrifices are really quite small.
I used to hate playing with my limited skill
Now I've no choice it's a bitter pill
Silly old me with my low self-esteem
Should just have run out and had fun with the team.
Now that the opportunity's no longer there
I want to be on the pitch, life's not fair.
But a mate of mine's got problems with his heart,
Talk about giving me a start!
He's worked so hard to get himself fit
Now he gets hit with this shit.
Another bloke I know's waiting on a biopsy test
Just fingers crossed, hoping for the best.
Sort of puts things in perspective
Time to get a little reflective.
Well over half my life already past
None of us know how much longer we'll last
Even though it's not easy
Mustn't dwell on the past
One thing for sure the future won't last.
None of us know what's round the next turn
If there's a place called 'heaven'
Or a 'hell' where we'll burn
Maybe neither, I'm not concerned.
All I want to be is that 'mythical normality'
Rather than frozen in my crap reality.
I'm not sure if it's possible for me
Less judgmental and nicer, just have to see.
If it's nice, a teeny weeny little
My emotional state won't be so brittle.
Dulwich Poet 21st May 2013
(I had my weekly appointment at the Foot Clinic, and jotted this down on the train into work, afterwards)
Friday 17 May 2013
"As Old As You Feel"
Out of puff running for the bus
Can't shake off a cold don't make a fuss
Starting to feel winter chills more
If you're over sixty you know the score.
Except sixty plus is...
A decade and a half away
And that's how I feel practically every day.
Feeling old way before my time
When I should be just past my prime.
Tablets for this, tablets for that
May as well join the pension queue chat.
Diabetic and a manky toe
Now MORE tablets on the go
Metformin and Ramipril
Sadly for clinical not a chill pill
Now Sitagliptin and Simvastatin
To add to that list
This time next year
I'll have my own chemist!
I know I'm overweight
And don't look after myself
It's coming home to roost
I've ignored my health.
It's getting to the stage
Where I worry what's to come
How long before life's no longer fun?
Not that it was ever
A bundle of laughs
I'm so lonely on Facebook
A virtual friend's a plastic giraffe!
At least once a week
I'm an out-patient here,
An out-patient there
It's getting to the stage
Where I don't really care.
As it is I'm not in
Too bad health today
But I'm frightened of the future
And don't want to crumble away
I've a number of friends
In a far worse state than me
Maybe time to be less selfish
And wait and see.
Dulwich Poet 17th May 2013
( Went to pick up a repeat prescription, and the two new ones suggested by the doctor were on there too, so start them next week. I'm not ill with anything serious, just a bit of a downer, with going to my local hospital or health centre once a week, with my continual ulcer on my foot; which leads to other assorted health checks)
Can't shake off a cold don't make a fuss
Starting to feel winter chills more
If you're over sixty you know the score.
Except sixty plus is...
A decade and a half away
And that's how I feel practically every day.
Feeling old way before my time
When I should be just past my prime.
Tablets for this, tablets for that
May as well join the pension queue chat.
Diabetic and a manky toe
Now MORE tablets on the go
Metformin and Ramipril
Sadly for clinical not a chill pill
Now Sitagliptin and Simvastatin
To add to that list
This time next year
I'll have my own chemist!
I know I'm overweight
And don't look after myself
It's coming home to roost
I've ignored my health.
It's getting to the stage
Where I worry what's to come
How long before life's no longer fun?
Not that it was ever
A bundle of laughs
I'm so lonely on Facebook
A virtual friend's a plastic giraffe!
At least once a week
I'm an out-patient here,
An out-patient there
It's getting to the stage
Where I don't really care.
As it is I'm not in
Too bad health today
But I'm frightened of the future
And don't want to crumble away
I've a number of friends
In a far worse state than me
Maybe time to be less selfish
And wait and see.
Dulwich Poet 17th May 2013
( Went to pick up a repeat prescription, and the two new ones suggested by the doctor were on there too, so start them next week. I'm not ill with anything serious, just a bit of a downer, with going to my local hospital or health centre once a week, with my continual ulcer on my foot; which leads to other assorted health checks)
"Laundry Basket Case"
Have you ever wondered
What the actual definition
Of being poor and lonely is?
It's being sat on a wooden bench seat
Empty laundry basket at your feet
Slowly watching the clock tick round
As you try to lessen your smelly washing mound
With that 'put off' trip to the laundrette
That you've tried to forget
But finally had to get out and do
With no clean socks to wear in your shoe.
It really is tedious such a bore
Not even a pleasurable chore.
Maybe I don't want to be labelled a nutter
But four people in here & not a mutter
Not the done thing to have a chat
Just in case they think you're a prat.
I can try to escape in my world of rhyme
But how do they pass the time?
Treat the washing machine as a goggle box
Gap in the marker for a juke box.
Stare at your bedsheets
With last night's sex stains
Was it kinky with bamboo canes?
Or just your own spunk
With an imaginary hunk?
Sitting there dreamily staring into space
Nothing more than a vacant face.
Traipsing down the road
With your stinky smalls and socks
A task you must agree hardly rocks
Singleton's equivalent of being a 'bus wanker'
Washing machine at home is what we hanker
A bag of your own pants means you have no life
Lonely bastard without a wife
If you're gay there's no fellah
Though you could be a nonce
With a kid in the cellar.
At least I'm not guilty of that, your honour!
Dulwich Poet 17th May 2013
( I started penning this one while sitting in my local laundrette, finally doing my washing, as I'd run out of clean socks! I finished it today.).
What the actual definition
Of being poor and lonely is?
It's being sat on a wooden bench seat
Empty laundry basket at your feet
Slowly watching the clock tick round
As you try to lessen your smelly washing mound
With that 'put off' trip to the laundrette
That you've tried to forget
But finally had to get out and do
With no clean socks to wear in your shoe.
It really is tedious such a bore
Not even a pleasurable chore.
Maybe I don't want to be labelled a nutter
But four people in here & not a mutter
Not the done thing to have a chat
Just in case they think you're a prat.
I can try to escape in my world of rhyme
But how do they pass the time?
Treat the washing machine as a goggle box
Gap in the marker for a juke box.
Stare at your bedsheets
With last night's sex stains
Was it kinky with bamboo canes?
Or just your own spunk
With an imaginary hunk?
Sitting there dreamily staring into space
Nothing more than a vacant face.
Traipsing down the road
With your stinky smalls and socks
A task you must agree hardly rocks
Singleton's equivalent of being a 'bus wanker'
Washing machine at home is what we hanker
A bag of your own pants means you have no life
Lonely bastard without a wife
If you're gay there's no fellah
Though you could be a nonce
With a kid in the cellar.
At least I'm not guilty of that, your honour!
Dulwich Poet 17th May 2013
( I started penning this one while sitting in my local laundrette, finally doing my washing, as I'd run out of clean socks! I finished it today.).
Wednesday 15 May 2013
"Boring Poetry"
This is strange
As I want is to write something
But I'm tired
Yawning away
Schitzo brain
The mind is willing
Pen itching
Fingers twitching
But all the same
I've no desire
To tax my mind.
Which I think you will find
Is actually what I am doing
By trying to sort out
The jumble in my head
Into what you are reading now.
I want to pen something meaningful
Clever, witty
But poetry is just like real life
You cannot be
What you are not
So what I am actually doing
Is killing time.
No more, no less
As my jumble of dirty clothing
Goes round and round
Through the round window
In soapy circles
At my local laundrette,
While penning my worst yet
To while away the boredom.
Still reading? Join me.
Have you given up yet?
Dulwich Poet 15th May 2013
(Sitting in the laundrette, not having a book to read, finished the paper, I got out the notebook...)
As I want is to write something
But I'm tired
Yawning away
Schitzo brain
The mind is willing
Pen itching
Fingers twitching
But all the same
I've no desire
To tax my mind.
Which I think you will find
Is actually what I am doing
By trying to sort out
The jumble in my head
Into what you are reading now.
I want to pen something meaningful
Clever, witty
But poetry is just like real life
You cannot be
What you are not
So what I am actually doing
Is killing time.
No more, no less
As my jumble of dirty clothing
Goes round and round
Through the round window
In soapy circles
At my local laundrette,
While penning my worst yet
To while away the boredom.
Still reading? Join me.
Have you given up yet?
Dulwich Poet 15th May 2013
(Sitting in the laundrette, not having a book to read, finished the paper, I got out the notebook...)
Tuesday 14 May 2013
"Break From The Norm"
When I think of a Parkinson
It's chat show Michael
Dirty old Cecil
Or a shitty disease.
Sorry, dear boy Norman
But fashion icon or not
You and your photographs
Come a long way down the list.
So to make amends
I took my time
And looked at your pictures
Where they'd put on a show
At the National Theatre
A 'Century of Style'
Maybe yours, but not mine.
I'm more of a Primark man
Upmarket at Peacocks when I can,
A million miles away
From your fashion world.
Not that I don't appreciate your work
But it's all a little staged for me
Look to the left, dahling; tilt that head
Give me a spontaneous street scene instead.
You snapped them in the great magazines
But half a century ago, now all has beens
Old time glamour from the past
A who's who of fame that couldn't last
I prefer a snapshot freeze frame
Over a "whos' that?" celebrity name.
It's all posed with no real feel
For ordinary me there's no appeal.
Never mind Norman, don't fret old bean
Your show was free, so won't vent my spleen!
Dulwich Poet 14th May 2013
(There is an exhibition of photographs from the collection of the famous fashion photographer Norman Parkinson, to mark the centenary of his birth. It is on the South Bank, at the National Gallery, now extended until 27th May)
It's chat show Michael
Dirty old Cecil
Or a shitty disease.
Sorry, dear boy Norman
But fashion icon or not
You and your photographs
Come a long way down the list.
So to make amends
I took my time
And looked at your pictures
Where they'd put on a show
At the National Theatre
A 'Century of Style'
Maybe yours, but not mine.
I'm more of a Primark man
Upmarket at Peacocks when I can,
A million miles away
From your fashion world.
Not that I don't appreciate your work
But it's all a little staged for me
Look to the left, dahling; tilt that head
Give me a spontaneous street scene instead.
You snapped them in the great magazines
But half a century ago, now all has beens
Old time glamour from the past
A who's who of fame that couldn't last
I prefer a snapshot freeze frame
Over a "whos' that?" celebrity name.
It's all posed with no real feel
For ordinary me there's no appeal.
Never mind Norman, don't fret old bean
Your show was free, so won't vent my spleen!
Dulwich Poet 14th May 2013
(There is an exhibition of photographs from the collection of the famous fashion photographer Norman Parkinson, to mark the centenary of his birth. It is on the South Bank, at the National Gallery, now extended until 27th May)
Sunday 12 May 2013
"Owzat!"
Who would have thought it?
One hundred not out!
Doesn't sound much
But a bloody good shout.
I picked up my poets pen
At the start of the year
So much more satisfying
Than relapsing with beer.
Once I finished the first
And passed my duck
Just carried on and chanced my luck.
I don't call myself a 'poet'
Even though I am
Won't be going to any poetry slam.
I'm not writing to entertain
Nor doing it for monetary gain.
I'ts just for me to keep me sane;
Though some on Facebook I do share
Not the ones with my feelings laid bare.
There's certainly no style to my writing
For any awards I won't be fighting
I don't mind if you have a look
Even though they're not in a book
I shall just carry on as I began
Continue like that & I'm a happy man.
Dulwich Poet 12th May 2013
(Since I began writing poetry at the beginning of January, this one is the hundredth I have done. what else could it be about, but the poems I have already written?)
One hundred not out!
Doesn't sound much
But a bloody good shout.
I picked up my poets pen
At the start of the year
So much more satisfying
Than relapsing with beer.
Once I finished the first
And passed my duck
Just carried on and chanced my luck.
I don't call myself a 'poet'
Even though I am
Won't be going to any poetry slam.
I'm not writing to entertain
Nor doing it for monetary gain.
I'ts just for me to keep me sane;
Though some on Facebook I do share
Not the ones with my feelings laid bare.
There's certainly no style to my writing
For any awards I won't be fighting
I don't mind if you have a look
Even though they're not in a book
I shall just carry on as I began
Continue like that & I'm a happy man.
Dulwich Poet 12th May 2013
(Since I began writing poetry at the beginning of January, this one is the hundredth I have done. what else could it be about, but the poems I have already written?)
"Easy Tiger!"
Did I really see that?
What a twat!
A grown man just got on the bus
At the Elephant & Castle
No bottle in hand
As if going to a party
Not even rattling a charidee bucket
To excuse looking such a fool
Or with a group of mates
Coming back from football
On the last day of the season.
No excuses whatsoever
For a bloke to be head to toe
In a tiger striped onsie.
That's Sarf Lunnon for you, I suppose.
And apart from me...
No-one batted an eyelid!
Dulwich Poet 12th May 2013
(Sitting on a 176 bus earlier this evening, a man, probably in his thirties, got on the bus wearing a tiger striped onesie!)
What a twat!
A grown man just got on the bus
At the Elephant & Castle
No bottle in hand
As if going to a party
Not even rattling a charidee bucket
To excuse looking such a fool
Or with a group of mates
Coming back from football
On the last day of the season.
No excuses whatsoever
For a bloke to be head to toe
In a tiger striped onsie.
That's Sarf Lunnon for you, I suppose.
And apart from me...
No-one batted an eyelid!
Dulwich Poet 12th May 2013
(Sitting on a 176 bus earlier this evening, a man, probably in his thirties, got on the bus wearing a tiger striped onesie!)
"Tube Stare"
Oi you!
Looking at me?
In your Helly Hansen jacket
Which by my standards cost a packet
And your other 'arf
Are you 'aving a laugh
In her good blue two shoes
And trousers bright pink
I don't care what you think
Even if your choice of colours is ok.
I spotted that dirty look
As I began writing in my notebook
The one that says
We won't make a fuss
But we know you're writing about us.
Fortunately it's not the done thing
To talk on the Underground
Or my paranoia would have told you
To fuck right off!
I clocked that look as you frowned.
I know you wanted to snipe
Got me down as
A weird poetry type
Well I've news for you
I'm not stopping
And can trump the scribbling
As I love groundhopping too!
So put that in your pipe and smoke it!
Have a nice day.
Dulwich Poet 12th May 2013
(No idea where this came from really. got on the tube, and noticed a man staring at me, as I got my notebook out of my bag, not sure what to write, but it turned out to be about hin & his wife!)
Looking at me?
In your Helly Hansen jacket
Which by my standards cost a packet
And your other 'arf
Are you 'aving a laugh
In her good blue two shoes
And trousers bright pink
I don't care what you think
Even if your choice of colours is ok.
I spotted that dirty look
As I began writing in my notebook
The one that says
We won't make a fuss
But we know you're writing about us.
Fortunately it's not the done thing
To talk on the Underground
Or my paranoia would have told you
To fuck right off!
I clocked that look as you frowned.
I know you wanted to snipe
Got me down as
A weird poetry type
Well I've news for you
I'm not stopping
And can trump the scribbling
As I love groundhopping too!
So put that in your pipe and smoke it!
Have a nice day.
Dulwich Poet 12th May 2013
(No idea where this came from really. got on the tube, and noticed a man staring at me, as I got my notebook out of my bag, not sure what to write, but it turned out to be about hin & his wife!)
"Disaster!"
There's been many down the years
The first I remember was Moorgate
As I was a little kid
Home alone from school
With a cold.
No worries about
Social Services back then.
Many more since...
Kings Cross. Paddington.
Hillsborough. Heysel.
The Tsunami.
Assorted earthquakes
In no particular order
But none of the magnitude
Of my disaster today.
I can't find the charger
For the batteries in my camera
And the Worthing Tournament
Is less than a week away.
Perspective always was my thing.
Dulwich Poet 12th May 2013
( I've misplaced the charger for my camera batteries, don't really fancy buying a new one, because as soon as I do I know the old one will appear!)
The first I remember was Moorgate
As I was a little kid
Home alone from school
With a cold.
No worries about
Social Services back then.
Many more since...
Kings Cross. Paddington.
Hillsborough. Heysel.
The Tsunami.
Assorted earthquakes
In no particular order
But none of the magnitude
Of my disaster today.
I can't find the charger
For the batteries in my camera
And the Worthing Tournament
Is less than a week away.
Perspective always was my thing.
Dulwich Poet 12th May 2013
( I've misplaced the charger for my camera batteries, don't really fancy buying a new one, because as soon as I do I know the old one will appear!)
Saturday 11 May 2013
"Killer Instinct?"
I'm not sure how old I was
Sixteen? Seventeen?
Eighteen, maybe?
Probablyyounger...vaguely sure
I was in my school blazer and shirt.
But I do know for certain
I was old enough
To know right from wrong.
Memories fade
It was over a quarter of a century ago
And the rest
When I half heartedly
Tried to kill a stranger.
Leaving him lying
Unconscious in dirt
Not knowing if he was dead
Or just badly hurt.
It wasn't something I planned in advance
Didn't do it in a trance
Such a long time ago
But I did it becacause I wanted to.
I can hardly recall
Was he a big bloke?
Or rather small?
He seemed old
But they all do when you're a teenager
Bunking off school.
The scene of the crime
Was a derelict demolished mansion
On the South Circular
Set back from the road
My guess is where
The Maggie houses are.
Clambering over brickwork
As bored youngsters do.
He spotted me first
Screamed and cursed
And there he was
A dosser having a drink
Traditional tin of Special Brew
He told me to bugger off, but not so nice
I didn't have to even think twice
Picked up a brick
And gave him a clout
Cleanly knocking his fuddled lights out
I was full of fear
Blood was pouring
From his nose and ear.
In for a penny in for a pound
Went through his pockets to find some
As he was on the ground.
Not even enough for a pint of beer
Which is why he was drinking alone here.
Part of me wanted more claret to flow
To hit him harder how far would I go?
The other bit of me wanted to
Undo his belt
Wanting to see what a
Grown up cock felt.
I decided to give both a miss
Even though either would have been bliss.
I was more scared of being the prison melt
If the Borstal boys knew how I felt.
I didn't know if that stranger
Was alive or dead
For weeks after I worried in bed
Scouring papers for a death
Seeing if a drunk had had his last breath.
I guess I was just to young to follow it through
Now I probably won't; or maybe I will?
Deep inside I know I could kill
With middle age 'wisdom' I know I'll cope
As I'm not so scared of 'dropping the soap'!
Dulwich Poet 11th May 2013
( When I was a youngster, I once attacked a dosser, for no reason, other than I wanted to at the time, and thought I had killed him)
Sixteen? Seventeen?
Eighteen, maybe?
Probablyyounger...vaguely sure
I was in my school blazer and shirt.
But I do know for certain
I was old enough
To know right from wrong.
Memories fade
It was over a quarter of a century ago
And the rest
When I half heartedly
Tried to kill a stranger.
Leaving him lying
Unconscious in dirt
Not knowing if he was dead
Or just badly hurt.
It wasn't something I planned in advance
Didn't do it in a trance
Such a long time ago
But I did it becacause I wanted to.
I can hardly recall
Was he a big bloke?
Or rather small?
He seemed old
But they all do when you're a teenager
Bunking off school.
The scene of the crime
Was a derelict demolished mansion
On the South Circular
Set back from the road
My guess is where
The Maggie houses are.
Clambering over brickwork
As bored youngsters do.
He spotted me first
Screamed and cursed
And there he was
A dosser having a drink
Traditional tin of Special Brew
He told me to bugger off, but not so nice
I didn't have to even think twice
Picked up a brick
And gave him a clout
Cleanly knocking his fuddled lights out
I was full of fear
Blood was pouring
From his nose and ear.
In for a penny in for a pound
Went through his pockets to find some
As he was on the ground.
Not even enough for a pint of beer
Which is why he was drinking alone here.
Part of me wanted more claret to flow
To hit him harder how far would I go?
The other bit of me wanted to
Undo his belt
Wanting to see what a
Grown up cock felt.
I decided to give both a miss
Even though either would have been bliss.
I was more scared of being the prison melt
If the Borstal boys knew how I felt.
I didn't know if that stranger
Was alive or dead
For weeks after I worried in bed
Scouring papers for a death
Seeing if a drunk had had his last breath.
I guess I was just to young to follow it through
Now I probably won't; or maybe I will?
Deep inside I know I could kill
With middle age 'wisdom' I know I'll cope
As I'm not so scared of 'dropping the soap'!
Dulwich Poet 11th May 2013
( When I was a youngster, I once attacked a dosser, for no reason, other than I wanted to at the time, and thought I had killed him)
Friday 10 May 2013
"Bit of a Squeeze"
It was like a scene
From an old James Bond
Where the walls slide in
And crush you
Like a write-off car
In a scrapyard.
That was me
In the stacks
At the Poetry Library!
On my knees
Scanning the bottom shelf
Might not have been good
For my health
Thanks to the clumsy clot
Who simply forgot
To look before turning the handle
Almost creating the
Squashed Poet Scandal!
Luckily I managed a cough and shout
Thus ensuring I'm still about.
Got to say I didn't start to cry
Nor did life in a flash pass me by.
In actual fact I was surprisngly calm
In the face of imminent harm
Not so much a "What the fuck?"
While about to get squashed and stuck.
Rather than get into a fight
This is what I decided to write!
Dulwich Poet 10th May 2013
(Looking for some more books to read in the Poetry Library earlier this evening, I nearly got squashed by another reader, as he accidentally tried to move the stacks of books, which are on rollers!)
From an old James Bond
Where the walls slide in
And crush you
Like a write-off car
In a scrapyard.
That was me
In the stacks
At the Poetry Library!
On my knees
Scanning the bottom shelf
Might not have been good
For my health
Thanks to the clumsy clot
Who simply forgot
To look before turning the handle
Almost creating the
Squashed Poet Scandal!
Luckily I managed a cough and shout
Thus ensuring I'm still about.
Got to say I didn't start to cry
Nor did life in a flash pass me by.
In actual fact I was surprisngly calm
In the face of imminent harm
Not so much a "What the fuck?"
While about to get squashed and stuck.
Rather than get into a fight
This is what I decided to write!
Dulwich Poet 10th May 2013
(Looking for some more books to read in the Poetry Library earlier this evening, I nearly got squashed by another reader, as he accidentally tried to move the stacks of books, which are on rollers!)
"Boys on the Bus"
I was earwigging
Not in a nosey way
More intrigued
Couldn't put my thumb on it.
Sitting to my left
To the rear of the upper deck
Three teenage boys
Doing what mosy young lads do
Chatting about girls.
I couldn't turn and stare
Didn't want to look like
The dirty old man that I am.
But they were
Real nice chaps.
Not in my usual
"Phwoar! They're cute"!
Sort of way
But almost from
The wrong generation.
No fake Jamaican
None of that "Innit, bruv!"
Instead just chatting about
The girls they know and admire
With respect
And not pieces of meat.
I have no idea who the boys are
Or where they were going
As I got off at Waterloo Bridge.
But if I had been straight
With children of my own
They are the sons
That would have
Made me proud.
Dulwich Poet 10th May 2013
( Three teenage boys on the bus, having a conversation, in such a grown up manner. The fact i noticed, makes me feel so old!)
Not in a nosey way
More intrigued
Couldn't put my thumb on it.
Sitting to my left
To the rear of the upper deck
Three teenage boys
Doing what mosy young lads do
Chatting about girls.
I couldn't turn and stare
Didn't want to look like
The dirty old man that I am.
But they were
Real nice chaps.
Not in my usual
"Phwoar! They're cute"!
Sort of way
But almost from
The wrong generation.
No fake Jamaican
None of that "Innit, bruv!"
Instead just chatting about
The girls they know and admire
With respect
And not pieces of meat.
I have no idea who the boys are
Or where they were going
As I got off at Waterloo Bridge.
But if I had been straight
With children of my own
They are the sons
That would have
Made me proud.
Dulwich Poet 10th May 2013
( Three teenage boys on the bus, having a conversation, in such a grown up manner. The fact i noticed, makes me feel so old!)
Thursday 9 May 2013
"Grass Roots"
One man and his dog
Without the hound
But about 25 people
Scattered around
A railed off pitch
And not much else
Just one small stand
To the side of the dugouts.
More players than fans
Welcome to the Kent Invicta League.
Real honest down to earth stuff.
Eltham Palace at home to
Seven Acre & Sidcup.
At Orpington FC
In Swanley.
Work that one out!
Showing in the clubhouse
Live on the telly
From the Bridge
Chelski against Tottingham
Not for me
Even if I had Sky TV.
Give me a real live game
With real live men
Over miniature on the box
Over paid prima donna's
On a big screen
Dahn yer local boozer
Full of footie fans
Who've never been through
A turnstile in their life.
As the 'When Saturday Comes' t-shirt goes-
"Stuff Yer Superleague!"
I concur.
Give me your local boys
Short of pace
Red in the face
Some with a bit of a belly
That suggests they've spent
A tad too much time
Watching games on a pub telly
But still with a
Million times more talent
Than the pub bore
Who screams Torres can't score
And they could do better themselves.
So tell me, at closing time
Who had the better night
You? With your all singing
All dancing best in the world
Premier League
Or me? On top of the game
Living and breathing
Every kick and hoof of the match
Right in front of me?
Speak for yourself, mate.
But my conscience is clear.
Enjoy your beer!
Dulwich Poet 9th May 2013
(Last night I watched a minor non-league game,which gave me far more enjoyment than watching any top flight professional match on television ever would)
Without the hound
But about 25 people
Scattered around
A railed off pitch
And not much else
Just one small stand
To the side of the dugouts.
More players than fans
Welcome to the Kent Invicta League.
Real honest down to earth stuff.
Eltham Palace at home to
Seven Acre & Sidcup.
At Orpington FC
In Swanley.
Work that one out!
Showing in the clubhouse
Live on the telly
From the Bridge
Chelski against Tottingham
Not for me
Even if I had Sky TV.
Give me a real live game
With real live men
Over miniature on the box
Over paid prima donna's
On a big screen
Dahn yer local boozer
Full of footie fans
Who've never been through
A turnstile in their life.
As the 'When Saturday Comes' t-shirt goes-
"Stuff Yer Superleague!"
I concur.
Give me your local boys
Short of pace
Red in the face
Some with a bit of a belly
That suggests they've spent
A tad too much time
Watching games on a pub telly
But still with a
Million times more talent
Than the pub bore
Who screams Torres can't score
And they could do better themselves.
So tell me, at closing time
Who had the better night
You? With your all singing
All dancing best in the world
Premier League
Or me? On top of the game
Living and breathing
Every kick and hoof of the match
Right in front of me?
Speak for yourself, mate.
But my conscience is clear.
Enjoy your beer!
Dulwich Poet 9th May 2013
(Last night I watched a minor non-league game,which gave me far more enjoyment than watching any top flight professional match on television ever would)
Wednesday 8 May 2013
"Keeping Schtum"
Sometimes it's best
To say nothing at all
Silence IS golden
So (not) to speak.
You!
The crazy fat girl
Singing out of tune
In the single seat
Right in front of me
With one of your
Lardy arse cheeks
Almost crushing my kneecap!
Keeping head bowed
Concentrating on writing this
Though I want to take the piss
"Excuse me love,
Do you want to swap seats
I think this double one
Is more your size?"
She''s the sort of young woman
Who genuinely believes
That her destiny is
A spot on Britain's Got Talent.
But at heart
I'm a total coward
So decide it's best
Not to say a word...
And get off the bus alive.
Dulwich Poet 8th May 2013
(Getting on a fairly packed single decker bus last night, there was one empty seat, with a single one at right angles, in front, which was occupied by a rather large lump of a young woman. As soon as I sat down I realised why my double seat was empty, and could 'feel' people smirking behind me)
To say nothing at all
Silence IS golden
So (not) to speak.
You!
The crazy fat girl
Singing out of tune
In the single seat
Right in front of me
With one of your
Lardy arse cheeks
Almost crushing my kneecap!
Keeping head bowed
Concentrating on writing this
Though I want to take the piss
"Excuse me love,
Do you want to swap seats
I think this double one
Is more your size?"
She''s the sort of young woman
Who genuinely believes
That her destiny is
A spot on Britain's Got Talent.
But at heart
I'm a total coward
So decide it's best
Not to say a word...
And get off the bus alive.
Dulwich Poet 8th May 2013
(Getting on a fairly packed single decker bus last night, there was one empty seat, with a single one at right angles, in front, which was occupied by a rather large lump of a young woman. As soon as I sat down I realised why my double seat was empty, and could 'feel' people smirking behind me)
Monday 6 May 2013
"Panic Stations"
The day has hardly begun
Under the glorious sun
So many things to be done
On MY Bank Holiday Monday.
I should be leaning on a railing
Not tying myself up about failing
Ticking a new ground
On this Bank Holiday Monday.
INSTEAD...
I had this silly idea
To arrange a game
For charidee
Whoopee doo! You bloody fool
Good cause, and all that
But what if it all falls flat?
Is it normal to feel scared
Expecting everything to go wrong
The whole club thinking 'you mong!'?
So no change there then!
Shut up! Re wind!
Time to be kind
And give myself some credit
For once!
Which I'm not used to.
All I've done is put into practice
A little idea
So get rid of that fear
And enjoy the day...
Tick tock, tick tock
Not long on the clock.
So many people have done their bit
The day's going to be a hit.
Come on and have that self belief
Don't beat yourself up imaginary grief.
All I have to do is put pieces in place
And have a 'job done' smile on my face
Fingers crossed
All's not lost!
Grin and believe in youself
It really is a job well done!
Dulwich Poet 6th May 2013
(On my way to the ground, I have been the main instigator for a charity game against a local side. I was extremely nervous, but all was well, beyond my most optimistic hopes, as we raised over a thousand pounds!)
Under the glorious sun
So many things to be done
On MY Bank Holiday Monday.
I should be leaning on a railing
Not tying myself up about failing
Ticking a new ground
On this Bank Holiday Monday.
INSTEAD...
I had this silly idea
To arrange a game
For charidee
Whoopee doo! You bloody fool
Good cause, and all that
But what if it all falls flat?
Is it normal to feel scared
Expecting everything to go wrong
The whole club thinking 'you mong!'?
So no change there then!
Shut up! Re wind!
Time to be kind
And give myself some credit
For once!
Which I'm not used to.
All I've done is put into practice
A little idea
So get rid of that fear
And enjoy the day...
Tick tock, tick tock
Not long on the clock.
So many people have done their bit
The day's going to be a hit.
Come on and have that self belief
Don't beat yourself up imaginary grief.
All I have to do is put pieces in place
And have a 'job done' smile on my face
Fingers crossed
All's not lost!
Grin and believe in youself
It really is a job well done!
Dulwich Poet 6th May 2013
(On my way to the ground, I have been the main instigator for a charity game against a local side. I was extremely nervous, but all was well, beyond my most optimistic hopes, as we raised over a thousand pounds!)
Saturday 4 May 2013
"Taxi!"
How crazy am I?
I am going to be late
What can they do?
So I slept in!
What can they do?
Inside I am angry
With myself!
So we open at 9.20
Rather than nine on the dot.
What can they do?
I feel such a fool
Guilt at failure
Like at school
Get a grip!
What can they do?
Try to make amends
Jump in a black cab
From London Bridge
A tenner down the drain
But my conscience is clear.
Only ten minutes late.
What else could I do?
What a fool!
Dulwich Poet 4th May 2013
( I was duty manager at work today, and supposed to be in at a quarter to nine, to get the building ready, to open up to the public at nine o’clock. I slept in…)
"Hidden Necessity"
Far too early
To be up at
The crack of dawn
To earn your corn
But needs must
And proud people must
Which explains why
The 63 bus
At four in the morning
Is standing room only
And I’m probably
The only White English born
Person on it.
And with a British passport
In my pocket, to boot!
Though I didn’t check upstairs;
But let’s face it who cares
As long as your
Office gets cleaned
For a pittance.
Slavery was abolished
Generations ago
But the spirit lives on.
Dulwich Poet 4th May 2013
( I wrote this after the ‘success’ of the far-right ‘mainstream’ UKIP, in Thursday’s local council elections, albeit there were none in major cities. It made me think how businesses in the City would creak to a halt without their very poorly paid immigrant cleaning & security staff, and the ‘bus’ refers to when I occasionally get the first Eurostar of the morning from St Pancras International, when I go abroad, and who I see on the buses,in the middle of the night, to get there)
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