I had a dream...
Then I woke up.
Messy.
I don't have them anymore.
Too much wanking
Even for a lonely
Middle aged man.
Put that in your crack pipe
And smoke it
Martin Luther King fans
Dulwich Poet 28th August 2013
(No idea where this, erm, came from really. Was just reading in the paper that it was half a century ago today, that Martin Luther King did his iconic 'I Have A Dream..." speech)
Thursday 29 August 2013
Wednesday 28 August 2013
"Flight of Fancy"
I travelled across London
For a match tonight
You could say it was a fanciful flight
British Airways versus Indian Gymkhana
Hardly classified as footballing nirvana
Not going to be a filler
On your 'Match of the Day' screen
Us groundhopping types are weirder
Than that strange Mr. Bean!
A bumper crowd of thirty two
At least a dozen
From the tick it off crew.
A roped off pitch all the way round
But that still qualifies as a ground.
The standard of football
Wasn't the best
But at Middlesex County level
Give it a rest!
All I expect is honest endeavour
Even if the skill on show
Is none too clever.
For the actual level
It's entertaining enough
You can see worse
At that Premier League stuff.
Back to my 'bread and butter' on Saturday
Dulwich Hamlet and Hornchurch play.
You might think I'm weird
So imagine the worst
I'm clearly not listening
Got the Reserves at Hanwell Town first.
Dulwich Poet 28th August 2013
( I went to a Middlesex County League Premier Division match earlier this evening. British Airways 1, Indian Gymkhana 0. Ground number 619 for me.)
(I read this at 'Poetry Unplugged', an open mic night at The Poetry Cafe, Covent Garden; Tuesday 3rd September 2013)
For a match tonight
You could say it was a fanciful flight
British Airways versus Indian Gymkhana
Hardly classified as footballing nirvana
Not going to be a filler
On your 'Match of the Day' screen
Us groundhopping types are weirder
Than that strange Mr. Bean!
A bumper crowd of thirty two
At least a dozen
From the tick it off crew.
A roped off pitch all the way round
But that still qualifies as a ground.
The standard of football
Wasn't the best
But at Middlesex County level
Give it a rest!
All I expect is honest endeavour
Even if the skill on show
Is none too clever.
For the actual level
It's entertaining enough
You can see worse
At that Premier League stuff.
Back to my 'bread and butter' on Saturday
Dulwich Hamlet and Hornchurch play.
You might think I'm weird
So imagine the worst
I'm clearly not listening
Got the Reserves at Hanwell Town first.
Dulwich Poet 28th August 2013
( I went to a Middlesex County League Premier Division match earlier this evening. British Airways 1, Indian Gymkhana 0. Ground number 619 for me.)
(I read this at 'Poetry Unplugged', an open mic night at The Poetry Cafe, Covent Garden; Tuesday 3rd September 2013)
"Texting Rhyme"
Banter in modern parlance
I text Callum
About the game-
He's addicted to obscurity.
He calls me dude,
Then I think he's rude
By saying he's waiting
For the poem.
Or at least baiting.
Little does he know
That I'm giving it a go
Already writing on the bus.
Back to the station
For me to share with
Erm, you and the nation.
As the old saying goes
Perfect for this prose...
Watch this space!
Oh, the things I do for him
If only....
Dulwich Poet 28th August 2013
(I was on the way home from British Airways versus Indian Gymkhana, a very minor non-league game, & I texted the score to a friend, who goes to a lot more of these type of games than me. He texted me back, asking if I was going to write a poem about it...spookily I was, and interupted it to write this!)
I text Callum
About the game-
He's addicted to obscurity.
He calls me dude,
Then I think he's rude
By saying he's waiting
For the poem.
Or at least baiting.
Little does he know
That I'm giving it a go
Already writing on the bus.
Back to the station
For me to share with
Erm, you and the nation.
As the old saying goes
Perfect for this prose...
Watch this space!
Oh, the things I do for him
If only....
Dulwich Poet 28th August 2013
(I was on the way home from British Airways versus Indian Gymkhana, a very minor non-league game, & I texted the score to a friend, who goes to a lot more of these type of games than me. He texted me back, asking if I was going to write a poem about it...spookily I was, and interupted it to write this!)
"Scaffold Brigada"
Who would have thought football's alive
Ultra-buzzing down at Step Five?
There's been a revolution
At the Old Spotted Dog
Not doing things by half
More going the the whole hog.
From the cliched one man
And his canine friend
To raucous support
Going round the bend.
They know how to work
The P.R. machine
For the uniquest following
The Essex Senior League's seen!
Your Spotted Dog is a ghost of a ground
Games played for decades without a sound
Crowds almost so low you count on one hand
Now they're filling the Scaffold Stand.
Some of them are middle class posh
Alternative non-league footie,oh gosh!
It's all about breaking down
The old class divide
Working class Cockneys and students
Standing side by side.
Can totally get what
They're trying to build
Obscene Premier League
Has left a void to be filled.
It's something us non-league
Old School must embrace
Or our historic proud clubs
Will vanish without trace.
Though they haven't quite got
The Dulwich Hamlet repertoire
This Clapton Ultras brigade
Have got the potential to go far!
Dulwich Poet 27th August 2013
( Essex Senior League: London Bari 0, Clapton 2; Tuesday 27th August 2013. London Bari groundshare at Clapton's ground the Old Spotted Dog, where they have played at since the 1880s. It' a ramshackle dump, but the club has a proud old history. A group of local people have started supporting them, buidling their fanbase, the self-styled Clapton Ultras)
Ultra-buzzing down at Step Five?
There's been a revolution
At the Old Spotted Dog
Not doing things by half
More going the the whole hog.
From the cliched one man
And his canine friend
To raucous support
Going round the bend.
They know how to work
The P.R. machine
For the uniquest following
The Essex Senior League's seen!
Your Spotted Dog is a ghost of a ground
Games played for decades without a sound
Crowds almost so low you count on one hand
Now they're filling the Scaffold Stand.
Some of them are middle class posh
Alternative non-league footie,oh gosh!
It's all about breaking down
The old class divide
Working class Cockneys and students
Standing side by side.
Can totally get what
They're trying to build
Obscene Premier League
Has left a void to be filled.
It's something us non-league
Old School must embrace
Or our historic proud clubs
Will vanish without trace.
Though they haven't quite got
The Dulwich Hamlet repertoire
This Clapton Ultras brigade
Have got the potential to go far!
Dulwich Poet 27th August 2013
( Essex Senior League: London Bari 0, Clapton 2; Tuesday 27th August 2013. London Bari groundshare at Clapton's ground the Old Spotted Dog, where they have played at since the 1880s. It' a ramshackle dump, but the club has a proud old history. A group of local people have started supporting them, buidling their fanbase, the self-styled Clapton Ultras)
Tuesday 27 August 2013
"Withering Vines!"
I'd really love you
To prove me wrong
But I don't think
You were worth your song
Truth be told
Your pedigree's not bad
But on current form
We've been had!
Some hustle and bustle
But little flair and skill
Really can't see you
Scoring at will.
Granted..my own footballing talent
Would fill half your toe
And I can't show any medals
But think you should go
I've never hounded players
Shouted out loud
But I've already realised
You won't be doing us proud.
Even though you have
Played for Tooting
This isn't sour grapes
For my beloved Dulwich Hamlet
You haven't got what it takes.
Dulwich Poet 27th August 2013
(In the summer Dulwich Hamlet signed Paul Vines, a half decent South London journeyman striker. I was pleased at the time, despite the fact he was a bit of a legend at one of his previous clubs, Tooting & Mitcham United, our arch rivals. He chose to leave, of his own accord, after the Grays game, which I did not know when I wrote this)
To prove me wrong
But I don't think
You were worth your song
Truth be told
Your pedigree's not bad
But on current form
We've been had!
Some hustle and bustle
But little flair and skill
Really can't see you
Scoring at will.
Granted..my own footballing talent
Would fill half your toe
And I can't show any medals
But think you should go
I've never hounded players
Shouted out loud
But I've already realised
You won't be doing us proud.
Even though you have
Played for Tooting
This isn't sour grapes
For my beloved Dulwich Hamlet
You haven't got what it takes.
Dulwich Poet 27th August 2013
(In the summer Dulwich Hamlet signed Paul Vines, a half decent South London journeyman striker. I was pleased at the time, despite the fact he was a bit of a legend at one of his previous clubs, Tooting & Mitcham United, our arch rivals. He chose to leave, of his own accord, after the Grays game, which I did not know when I wrote this)
"Arry Boy"
That's what happens
When you dare to dream
Signing players the cream of the crop
No longer hoping just to stay up
But dreaming of being top!
You weren't just flair
But also "Phwoar!"
A sexy player
Who could also score.
You started to raise
My 'hope-ometer' high
But a broken leg...
I just want to cry.
Hope you'll be back
But I'm full of despair
To our forward line
You added such flair.
And you made our fans
Sound all the same
When we all became classless
And sang your name
The posh ones dropped
Their aitches and tees
Momentarily fellow
Council estate Cockneys.
How we missed you
At Grays yesterday
With no chants of
" 'arry 'arry Ottaway!"
Dulwich Poet 27th August 2013
( Harry Ottaway is a summer signing for Dulwich Hamlet, but he broke his leg against Carshalton Athletic, on Saturday 24th August. I wrote this after our Bank Holiday game away to Grays Athletic, which was 0-0, two days later)
When you dare to dream
Signing players the cream of the crop
No longer hoping just to stay up
But dreaming of being top!
You weren't just flair
But also "Phwoar!"
A sexy player
Who could also score.
You started to raise
My 'hope-ometer' high
But a broken leg...
I just want to cry.
Hope you'll be back
But I'm full of despair
To our forward line
You added such flair.
And you made our fans
Sound all the same
When we all became classless
And sang your name
The posh ones dropped
Their aitches and tees
Momentarily fellow
Council estate Cockneys.
How we missed you
At Grays yesterday
With no chants of
" 'arry 'arry Ottaway!"
Dulwich Poet 27th August 2013
( Harry Ottaway is a summer signing for Dulwich Hamlet, but he broke his leg against Carshalton Athletic, on Saturday 24th August. I wrote this after our Bank Holiday game away to Grays Athletic, which was 0-0, two days later)
Monday 26 August 2013
"T.G.I. Saturday Night"
Ringing the bell
When there's a tip
A song and a dance
With a birthday quip
Packed to the rafters
For an evening meal
You come here by choice
This can't be real!
Can't complain about the food
At least of that I can't be rude
But, dear oh dear
The clientele
It's an upper market
Jeremy Kyle foodie hell!
Is this supposed to be
An American diner?
Hope I don't sound like
An old Limey whiner
Give me a grimy
Formica topped
Greasy spoon over this
Even a midnight at Morleys
Would seem like bliss!
Service is quicker
And you can't go wrong
Where there's no nearby waiter
To burst into song.
Don't misunderstand
I loved my steak
It was just the atmosphere
That was so fake.
For proper food
Without the show
Your pie and mash shop
Is the place to go!
Dulwich Poet 26th August 2013
( Friends of mine came up to London with their little boy to watch football. After the game they took me to a T.G.I. Friday's restaurant, near Leicester Square, in central London. I hadn't been to one before...)
When there's a tip
A song and a dance
With a birthday quip
Packed to the rafters
For an evening meal
You come here by choice
This can't be real!
Can't complain about the food
At least of that I can't be rude
But, dear oh dear
The clientele
It's an upper market
Jeremy Kyle foodie hell!
Is this supposed to be
An American diner?
Hope I don't sound like
An old Limey whiner
Give me a grimy
Formica topped
Greasy spoon over this
Even a midnight at Morleys
Would seem like bliss!
Service is quicker
And you can't go wrong
Where there's no nearby waiter
To burst into song.
Don't misunderstand
I loved my steak
It was just the atmosphere
That was so fake.
For proper food
Without the show
Your pie and mash shop
Is the place to go!
Dulwich Poet 26th August 2013
( Friends of mine came up to London with their little boy to watch football. After the game they took me to a T.G.I. Friday's restaurant, near Leicester Square, in central London. I hadn't been to one before...)
Friday 23 August 2013
"Poem Re-Born"
Shelf by shelf
Stack by stack
Poetic needle
In a haystack
Destined to be
Car boot sale
Bric-a-brac.
I'd be a liar
If I didn't imagine
A book of my own
But hate the thought
Of it being left alone.
One such pamphlet
I've just read
By Bridget Hobbs
This is what she said:
"the fight started at seven-thirty
in an empty pub on rectory road:
he nudged her drink out of her hand
after calling her an ugly cow for
the last time and she slipped
her knife sweetly between his ribs
touching his liver like a feather.
he didn't drink for sometime after."
Her little booklet
Has had no-one borrow
Such a sad stat
Fills me with sorrow.
That was the poem
That caught my eye
Hand on heart
I can't tell you why.
But it's terribly sad
It's not been read
Left on the shelf
Languishing for dead.
I am glad I picked it up
And gave it a moment of my time
So it could have a second childhood
Through my rhyme.
In years to come
I'd love to fill a book
But what would be the point
If nobody looked?
It would break my heart
And tear me apart
For a work of mine
To languish away
Echoing the sad life
I have today.
Dulwich Poet 23rd August 2013
(I read a small poetry pamphlet, 'Shafting The Kids' by Bridget Hobbs, published by Goblin Press in 1992. I found it on the shelves at the Poetry Library. I read it there, and it has NEVER been issued. I hope she never finds out, as it must feel such a waste of effort to have nobody read it.The poem I copied from it ,above in italics, was called 'Featherlite')
Stack by stack
Poetic needle
In a haystack
Destined to be
Car boot sale
Bric-a-brac.
I'd be a liar
If I didn't imagine
A book of my own
But hate the thought
Of it being left alone.
One such pamphlet
I've just read
By Bridget Hobbs
This is what she said:
"the fight started at seven-thirty
in an empty pub on rectory road:
he nudged her drink out of her hand
after calling her an ugly cow for
the last time and she slipped
her knife sweetly between his ribs
touching his liver like a feather.
he didn't drink for sometime after."
Her little booklet
Has had no-one borrow
Such a sad stat
Fills me with sorrow.
That was the poem
That caught my eye
Hand on heart
I can't tell you why.
But it's terribly sad
It's not been read
Left on the shelf
Languishing for dead.
I am glad I picked it up
And gave it a moment of my time
So it could have a second childhood
Through my rhyme.
In years to come
I'd love to fill a book
But what would be the point
If nobody looked?
It would break my heart
And tear me apart
For a work of mine
To languish away
Echoing the sad life
I have today.
Dulwich Poet 23rd August 2013
(I read a small poetry pamphlet, 'Shafting The Kids' by Bridget Hobbs, published by Goblin Press in 1992. I found it on the shelves at the Poetry Library. I read it there, and it has NEVER been issued. I hope she never finds out, as it must feel such a waste of effort to have nobody read it.The poem I copied from it ,above in italics, was called 'Featherlite')
"Plastic Fan"
You might not think I'm serious
Just having a laugh
But I'm in mourning
For an inflatable giraffe.
He came into my life
All too fleeting
Can't even recall
Our first meeting.
But Ged was for real
One of the Pink and Blue
Who broke for freedom
From his imaginary zoo.
Epitomising all that was strange
About our eclectic fanbase change
I really shouldn't
Have liked him at all
He loved a drink
And was far too tall.
Ged the Giraffe
Pet of the stars
Even the greats
Like your Danny Carrs.
The likes of me had no chance
Toward the players he would prance.
Now and again we'd pucker and kiss
They all thought we were taking the piss
But at tht moment I saw it in your eyes
If it wasn't for those pesky players
You'd have been my prize.
But you were snatched away
Behind that door
Left to die
On the changing room floor.
When we won the title I shed a tear
Never imagining the end was near.
I just know we were in with a shout
Even though I was human and you weren't out.
I like to think you ran away
And we'll meet again another day.
A novelty blow up sheep
Will never be the same
That murderous Luke Hickie
I'll forever blame!
Dulwich Poet 23rd August 2013
(Last season at Dulwich Hamlet two fans brought an inflatable giraffe to matches, he even wore a scarf round his neck. The players loved him...but something happened to him when they took him into the changing rooms in the Ryman League Division One South title celebrations and he was never seen again...)
Just having a laugh
But I'm in mourning
For an inflatable giraffe.
He came into my life
All too fleeting
Can't even recall
Our first meeting.
But Ged was for real
One of the Pink and Blue
Who broke for freedom
From his imaginary zoo.
Epitomising all that was strange
About our eclectic fanbase change
I really shouldn't
Have liked him at all
He loved a drink
And was far too tall.
Ged the Giraffe
Pet of the stars
Even the greats
Like your Danny Carrs.
The likes of me had no chance
Toward the players he would prance.
Now and again we'd pucker and kiss
They all thought we were taking the piss
But at tht moment I saw it in your eyes
If it wasn't for those pesky players
You'd have been my prize.
But you were snatched away
Behind that door
Left to die
On the changing room floor.
When we won the title I shed a tear
Never imagining the end was near.
I just know we were in with a shout
Even though I was human and you weren't out.
I like to think you ran away
And we'll meet again another day.
A novelty blow up sheep
Will never be the same
That murderous Luke Hickie
I'll forever blame!
Dulwich Poet 23rd August 2013
(Last season at Dulwich Hamlet two fans brought an inflatable giraffe to matches, he even wore a scarf round his neck. The players loved him...but something happened to him when they took him into the changing rooms in the Ryman League Division One South title celebrations and he was never seen again...)
Thursday 22 August 2013
"Grassroots"
I hardly knew there was a game
Sandwiched on my Underground train
Chelsea & Villa was the clash
Where were the fans on the lash?
Lairy, singing, loud and brash?
Football tourists in the latest shirt
No looking over your shoulder
In case you got hurt.
Absolutely no passion and pride
Modern football? I could have cried.
Don't get me wrong
Things had to change
But not at this cost
And extortionate price range.
I seriously pine for risking a clump
And standing in piss at a neglected dump
Not being sanatised and told to sit
In modern football I'll never fit.
When watching 'Football Factory'
Makes you tough
These middle class tossers
Don't know the meaning of rough.
Now being a lad
Is sneaking in a flare
Or holding a manufactured banner
High in the air.
Despite all that
I'm off to the match
But not one Sky telly
Will ever catch.
Just enjoying the game is the goal
The grassroots that hasn''t sold it's soul
Which is why I'm somewhere off the A3
It's Colliers Wood United versus Croydon for me.
Dulwich Poet 21st August 2013
( I went to Colliers Wood United this evening, after the Dulwich Hamlet reserve team game at Wealdstone was postponed, due to a problem with their electricity supply. I got the tube there, from central London to Putney Bridge, then a bus. On thetube I realised that Chelsea was at home and was appauled at how sterilised the pre-match atmosphere was as their ground was a couple of stops before mine)
(I read this at 'Poetry Unplugged', an open mic night at The Poetry Cafe, Covent Garden; Tuesday 3rd September 2013)
Sandwiched on my Underground train
Chelsea & Villa was the clash
Where were the fans on the lash?
Lairy, singing, loud and brash?
Football tourists in the latest shirt
No looking over your shoulder
In case you got hurt.
Absolutely no passion and pride
Modern football? I could have cried.
Don't get me wrong
Things had to change
But not at this cost
And extortionate price range.
I seriously pine for risking a clump
And standing in piss at a neglected dump
Not being sanatised and told to sit
In modern football I'll never fit.
When watching 'Football Factory'
Makes you tough
These middle class tossers
Don't know the meaning of rough.
Now being a lad
Is sneaking in a flare
Or holding a manufactured banner
High in the air.
Despite all that
I'm off to the match
But not one Sky telly
Will ever catch.
Just enjoying the game is the goal
The grassroots that hasn''t sold it's soul
Which is why I'm somewhere off the A3
It's Colliers Wood United versus Croydon for me.
Dulwich Poet 21st August 2013
( I went to Colliers Wood United this evening, after the Dulwich Hamlet reserve team game at Wealdstone was postponed, due to a problem with their electricity supply. I got the tube there, from central London to Putney Bridge, then a bus. On thetube I realised that Chelsea was at home and was appauled at how sterilised the pre-match atmosphere was as their ground was a couple of stops before mine)
(I read this at 'Poetry Unplugged', an open mic night at The Poetry Cafe, Covent Garden; Tuesday 3rd September 2013)
"Snappy Snapper"
How could they, Arthur
You’re an MBE
Man of the nation
Below their station.
Over the breakfast table
Perusing your ‘Sun’
Did you have the urge
To grab a gun?
Rice crispies, milk turning sour
Should have been your finest hour.
When William was born it was bad enough
Having to see that Italian bloke’s guff
Now it’s all Kate’s dads stuff
Out of focus, out of shot
He is everything that you are not.
How can a new granddad
Know how to fawn
To earn your corn
When you’ve done it for the whole of your life
And not just cos your girl’s a royalty wife.
Don’t they realise who you are
Have they pushed you just too far?
Time to join the other side
Jump on the paparazzi motorbike ride
Chase ‘em down a tunnel
And go for the kill
All because of a wonky still!
Dulwich Poet 20th August 2013
(Kate Middleton, future queen, mother of Prince George, had the first official photos of her baby taken by her dad, rather than an established, professional snapper. The tabloid Royal photographer, Arthur Edwards, was highly critical of them)
(I read this at 'Poetry Unplugged', an open mic night at The Poetry Cafe, Covent Garden; Tuesday 3rd September 2013)
You’re an MBE
Man of the nation
Below their station.
Over the breakfast table
Perusing your ‘Sun’
Did you have the urge
To grab a gun?
Rice crispies, milk turning sour
Should have been your finest hour.
When William was born it was bad enough
Having to see that Italian bloke’s guff
Now it’s all Kate’s dads stuff
Out of focus, out of shot
He is everything that you are not.
How can a new granddad
Know how to fawn
To earn your corn
When you’ve done it for the whole of your life
And not just cos your girl’s a royalty wife.
Don’t they realise who you are
Have they pushed you just too far?
Time to join the other side
Jump on the paparazzi motorbike ride
Chase ‘em down a tunnel
And go for the kill
All because of a wonky still!
Dulwich Poet 20th August 2013
(Kate Middleton, future queen, mother of Prince George, had the first official photos of her baby taken by her dad, rather than an established, professional snapper. The tabloid Royal photographer, Arthur Edwards, was highly critical of them)
(I read this at 'Poetry Unplugged', an open mic night at The Poetry Cafe, Covent Garden; Tuesday 3rd September 2013)
Tuesday 20 August 2013
"East London Elvis"
I found Elvis
In Walthamstow
It was the only place to go.
Went to listen and learn
No intention of doing a turn
But at the interval
I offered my name
Nerve wrackingly magic
Will do it again!
Themed as a sort of
Presley night
Couldn’t write about him
Try as I might.
Even though I’m three days too late
You can now judge
If it’s worth the wait.
So who is that man
You all call Elvis
Ancient heartthrob shaking his pelvis?
You know the fat bloke
Who died on the bog
Straining with a burger
While dropping a log.
He’d have lived longer
If he’d fed them to dogs.
Could be he’d done that before
Crap army food he knew the score.
Walthamstow food was more to his taste
Shovelled down in such haste
Fish and chips
Sausage in batter
That chip shop Elvis
Who loved a natter.
He had imposters all over town
But East Seventeen’s Elvis must claim the crown
Not Chinese Paul
Dahn the Old Kent road
Horrendous wailing
Stuck on karaoke mode.
Or the bloke in Streatham
With his Italian food
Now I like pizza and pasta
Don’t mean to be rude
Can prove he’s an imposter
Without being crude
If think Elvis is from near Tooting
You need stringing up and shooting!
Chances are you’ll think I’ve made this all up
If you think that’s the case jolly good luck
Head down to the end of the Victoria Line soon
Coming up the escalator you’ll hear a man croon..
Because there’s a guy works down a chip shop
Swears he’s Elvis…
Dulwich Poet 19th August 2013
(I read at a poetry event at Walthamstow Library last Friday, it had an Elvis theme, because it was on the anniversary of his death. Most people didn’t actually have poems about Elvis, though some did. So I wrote this…sort of in ‘tribute’ to my first ever poetry ‘open mic’ performance.)
In Walthamstow
It was the only place to go.
Went to listen and learn
No intention of doing a turn
But at the interval
I offered my name
Nerve wrackingly magic
Will do it again!
Themed as a sort of
Presley night
Couldn’t write about him
Try as I might.
Even though I’m three days too late
You can now judge
If it’s worth the wait.
So who is that man
You all call Elvis
Ancient heartthrob shaking his pelvis?
You know the fat bloke
Who died on the bog
Straining with a burger
While dropping a log.
He’d have lived longer
If he’d fed them to dogs.
Could be he’d done that before
Crap army food he knew the score.
Walthamstow food was more to his taste
Shovelled down in such haste
Fish and chips
Sausage in batter
That chip shop Elvis
Who loved a natter.
He had imposters all over town
But East Seventeen’s Elvis must claim the crown
Not Chinese Paul
Dahn the Old Kent road
Horrendous wailing
Stuck on karaoke mode.
Or the bloke in Streatham
With his Italian food
Now I like pizza and pasta
Don’t mean to be rude
Can prove he’s an imposter
Without being crude
If think Elvis is from near Tooting
You need stringing up and shooting!
Chances are you’ll think I’ve made this all up
If you think that’s the case jolly good luck
Head down to the end of the Victoria Line soon
Coming up the escalator you’ll hear a man croon..
Because there’s a guy works down a chip shop
Swears he’s Elvis…
Dulwich Poet 19th August 2013
(I read at a poetry event at Walthamstow Library last Friday, it had an Elvis theme, because it was on the anniversary of his death. Most people didn’t actually have poems about Elvis, though some did. So I wrote this…sort of in ‘tribute’ to my first ever poetry ‘open mic’ performance.)
"Realisation"
Short and sweet
Hope it’s neat
Friday in Walthamstow
Sunday in Bow
On Monday Croydon
Was the place to go.
It’s not exactly easy
To read out loud
With total strangers
In the crowd.
But I got up
And made that first step
Such a nice feeling
Not to be out of my depth.
And even though
I don’t like to show it
For the first time in my life
I feel like a poet!
Dulwich Poet 19th August 2013
(Written on the bus home, attending my first meeting of the Croydon based group ‘Poets Anonymous’ )
Hope it’s neat
Friday in Walthamstow
Sunday in Bow
On Monday Croydon
Was the place to go.
It’s not exactly easy
To read out loud
With total strangers
In the crowd.
But I got up
And made that first step
Such a nice feeling
Not to be out of my depth.
And even though
I don’t like to show it
For the first time in my life
I feel like a poet!
Dulwich Poet 19th August 2013
(Written on the bus home, attending my first meeting of the Croydon based group ‘Poets Anonymous’ )
"Write Crazy"
Another day, another time
Possibly not feeling fine
Could have been me
In that locked ward
Maybe not of my own accord.
The gap between
Normal and mad
Is wafer thin
As narrow as that
Needle they stick in.
I would say but for
The grace of god go I
But I find all that religion
Pie in the sky.
It’s no coincidence if you
Go to Denmark Hill
The Maudsley mental subdued on pills
Bars on the windows
As they go up the wall
Screaming ‘Jesus loves you!’
Well that’s your call.
I may have nonsense in my head
But I’m not the zombie living dead.
The only thing in common
Is that we write
Only difference is
You’re locked up
Day and night.
I’m a lucky boy
In that I’m only
‘D’ list crazy
Though much of what I’ve done
Is somewhat hazy.
It could have been me
Under lock and key
With a bit of bad luck
And an insanity plea.
Truth is I’m not crazy or bad
Not sure if that should make me glad.
Normality means schtum in your head
Where negative thoughts are better not said.
Poetry’s the safety valve
Where I let off steam
Where my thoughts become real
Instead of a bad dream.
Reading them out is
Life’s ‘bonus ball’
Sharing at ‘open mic’
Feeling ten feet tall.
Not sure if my stuff is any good
But the fact you’re laughing
Means it possibly could.
I might be as scared as hell
As well as frightened shitless
But the fact you clap and smile
Means I’m not totally witless.
Dulwich Poet 19th August 2013
( Over this weekend I have read poems out at two ‘open mic’ events. The one yesterdays was in the grounds of a closed down mental hospital. This poem is based on that experience)
Possibly not feeling fine
Could have been me
In that locked ward
Maybe not of my own accord.
The gap between
Normal and mad
Is wafer thin
As narrow as that
Needle they stick in.
I would say but for
The grace of god go I
But I find all that religion
Pie in the sky.
It’s no coincidence if you
Go to Denmark Hill
The Maudsley mental subdued on pills
Bars on the windows
As they go up the wall
Screaming ‘Jesus loves you!’
Well that’s your call.
I may have nonsense in my head
But I’m not the zombie living dead.
The only thing in common
Is that we write
Only difference is
You’re locked up
Day and night.
I’m a lucky boy
In that I’m only
‘D’ list crazy
Though much of what I’ve done
Is somewhat hazy.
It could have been me
Under lock and key
With a bit of bad luck
And an insanity plea.
Truth is I’m not crazy or bad
Not sure if that should make me glad.
Normality means schtum in your head
Where negative thoughts are better not said.
Poetry’s the safety valve
Where I let off steam
Where my thoughts become real
Instead of a bad dream.
Reading them out is
Life’s ‘bonus ball’
Sharing at ‘open mic’
Feeling ten feet tall.
Not sure if my stuff is any good
But the fact you’re laughing
Means it possibly could.
I might be as scared as hell
As well as frightened shitless
But the fact you clap and smile
Means I’m not totally witless.
Dulwich Poet 19th August 2013
( Over this weekend I have read poems out at two ‘open mic’ events. The one yesterdays was in the grounds of a closed down mental hospital. This poem is based on that experience)
Saturday 17 August 2013
"Wow Factor"
Have you ever done something
And thought 'what on earth?'
Give a wide berth
But deep down
You want to see
If you can
Rather than fret
And forever regret.
Tonight I had no plan
Other than be a poetry fan
Thanks to Elvis in...
Walthamstow!
No intention of having a go
But a 'half time' rush
Of blood to the head
Made me do something
I thought I'd dread.
But now it's official
Shout it from the rooftops
Poetry rocks!
I'am an 'open mic' virgin
NO MORE!
Read five short poems
And wasn't shown the door.
Nice and polite
Rounds of applause
Even if already converts
To the cause.
I got a laugh & saw some shock
As I rambled on scared of the clock.
There was only a 'crowd' of thirty five
But I was buzzing felt so alive!
Heading home south of the river
What I just did makes me shiver.
Nothing practiced, nothing planned
Just ordinary stuff
From my notebook to hand
But the best thing of all about tonight
Was there were other working class poets
Who love to write.
Dulwich Poet 16th August 2013
( I went to a small poetry event, at Walthamstow Library (Elvis lives!) with no intention of sharing any of mine. I had nothing with me anyway. Listening to others read their stuff I asked if there was any space left, during the interval. And they added me to the list! I picked my ones out, short ones, that I'd written within the last few weeks, as the notebooks with the originals were still in my bag. I was so nervous, but also enjoyed it, and am glad I plucked up the courage to share.)
And thought 'what on earth?'
Give a wide berth
But deep down
You want to see
If you can
Rather than fret
And forever regret.
Tonight I had no plan
Other than be a poetry fan
Thanks to Elvis in...
Walthamstow!
No intention of having a go
But a 'half time' rush
Of blood to the head
Made me do something
I thought I'd dread.
But now it's official
Shout it from the rooftops
Poetry rocks!
I'am an 'open mic' virgin
NO MORE!
Read five short poems
And wasn't shown the door.
Nice and polite
Rounds of applause
Even if already converts
To the cause.
I got a laugh & saw some shock
As I rambled on scared of the clock.
There was only a 'crowd' of thirty five
But I was buzzing felt so alive!
Heading home south of the river
What I just did makes me shiver.
Nothing practiced, nothing planned
Just ordinary stuff
From my notebook to hand
But the best thing of all about tonight
Was there were other working class poets
Who love to write.
Dulwich Poet 16th August 2013
( I went to a small poetry event, at Walthamstow Library (Elvis lives!) with no intention of sharing any of mine. I had nothing with me anyway. Listening to others read their stuff I asked if there was any space left, during the interval. And they added me to the list! I picked my ones out, short ones, that I'd written within the last few weeks, as the notebooks with the originals were still in my bag. I was so nervous, but also enjoyed it, and am glad I plucked up the courage to share.)
Friday 16 August 2013
"To The Finish"
Where does it start
Where does it end
Are you able to comprehend?
A sudden thought
That comes to nought.
Stop. Start. Stop. Start.
Writing for writing
Not from the heart
You have an idea
That magical 'ping'
Inside aflutter
A silent sing.
On the downside
You can give it a go
But the words you want
Just fail to flow
Such is the nature
Of the poetry beast.
A helter skelter journey
To say the least
But as I've always said
It keeps me sane
So if it doesn't work out
I can just try again.
Dulwich Poet 14th August 2013
(The perils of writing poetry, most are decidedly averave, and sometimes your mind goes blank, and it's a struggle to finish an idea. But on the other hand, when a 'good one pops out' it's a good feeling)
Where does it end
Are you able to comprehend?
A sudden thought
That comes to nought.
Stop. Start. Stop. Start.
Writing for writing
Not from the heart
You have an idea
That magical 'ping'
Inside aflutter
A silent sing.
On the downside
You can give it a go
But the words you want
Just fail to flow
Such is the nature
Of the poetry beast.
A helter skelter journey
To say the least
But as I've always said
It keeps me sane
So if it doesn't work out
I can just try again.
Dulwich Poet 14th August 2013
(The perils of writing poetry, most are decidedly averave, and sometimes your mind goes blank, and it's a struggle to finish an idea. But on the other hand, when a 'good one pops out' it's a good feeling)
"Mood Swings"
Poetry
Love it
Poetry
Fuck it
Poetry
You what?
Poetry
Dictionary
Poetry
Write it
Poetry
Can't be arsed
Poetry
Clears my head
Poetry
Buzzing!
Dulwich Poet 14th August 2013
(Just thinking about the different moods I am in when I think of poetry. The worst thing about it is not being able to 'control' when you think up something to write!)
(I read this at Walthamstow Library on Friday 16th August 2013)
Love it
Poetry
Fuck it
Poetry
You what?
Poetry
Dictionary
Poetry
Write it
Poetry
Can't be arsed
Poetry
Clears my head
Poetry
Buzzing!
Dulwich Poet 14th August 2013
(Just thinking about the different moods I am in when I think of poetry. The worst thing about it is not being able to 'control' when you think up something to write!)
(I read this at Walthamstow Library on Friday 16th August 2013)
"Happy Boy"
Two on the spin
Six points from six.
It's a bit of a cliche corner
But...I am as happy as Larry.
On second thoughts
Maybe not.
What if...
Larry supports
Lowestoft Town or Hendon.
He won't be such a happy chappy then.
Dulwich Poet 13th August 2013
(My team are back in the Premier Division, at last, after oven ten years in the one below, after our last relegation. First two games back: Dulwich Hamlet 2, Lowestoft Town 0; & Hendon 1, Dulwich Hamlet 2. Happy days!)
I read this at Walthamstow Library on Friday 16th August 2013)
Six points from six.
It's a bit of a cliche corner
But...I am as happy as Larry.
On second thoughts
Maybe not.
What if...
Larry supports
Lowestoft Town or Hendon.
He won't be such a happy chappy then.
Dulwich Poet 13th August 2013
(My team are back in the Premier Division, at last, after oven ten years in the one below, after our last relegation. First two games back: Dulwich Hamlet 2, Lowestoft Town 0; & Hendon 1, Dulwich Hamlet 2. Happy days!)
I read this at Walthamstow Library on Friday 16th August 2013)
"Stupid woman"
There is no need
To apologise
For you are not apologetic
Unless you are sorry
For your own stupidity
And ttoal lack of common sense.
Waiting for a washer
You are done.
One by one you fold
Neatly, carefully
Into your suitcase.
Just as well I am
Not in a rush
But I still get wound up.
Is it not too difficult
To have the gumption to realise
That all you have to do
Is empty your machine
Of your garish clothes
And assorted towels
That even Germans would laugh at
And take a simple
Two steps to your left
To allow me to
Wash my spunk stained undies
Among other stuff, too?
I guess it is
As you are a basket case
Even though you cannot work out
How to use one
And I have just wasted
Fifteen minutes of my life.
Dulwich Poet 11th August 2013
(The washing meachines I wanted to use at the laundrette were in use. One woman was emptying hers piece by piece, and folding meticulously, rather than dumping everything into a basket, and letting me put my washing in there.)
To apologise
For you are not apologetic
Unless you are sorry
For your own stupidity
And ttoal lack of common sense.
Waiting for a washer
You are done.
One by one you fold
Neatly, carefully
Into your suitcase.
Just as well I am
Not in a rush
But I still get wound up.
Is it not too difficult
To have the gumption to realise
That all you have to do
Is empty your machine
Of your garish clothes
And assorted towels
That even Germans would laugh at
And take a simple
Two steps to your left
To allow me to
Wash my spunk stained undies
Among other stuff, too?
I guess it is
As you are a basket case
Even though you cannot work out
How to use one
And I have just wasted
Fifteen minutes of my life.
Dulwich Poet 11th August 2013
(The washing meachines I wanted to use at the laundrette were in use. One woman was emptying hers piece by piece, and folding meticulously, rather than dumping everything into a basket, and letting me put my washing in there.)
"Speaking Out"
Sometimes it can be
All to easy to criticise
Deflecting away
From our own faults
Or too frightened
To speak out
At other peoples' shortcomings
In case the pointed finger
Is reversed
And is now
Forcefully in my face.
Is it just me
Or are we all
Scared of the pressure
Of being a simple volunteer
And not being able
To jump off and relax?
Dulwich Poet 11th August 2013
(Something annoyed me, about being on the Football Club Committee. But as I type this up, from the scrap of paper that I wrote it on, I cannot remember what prompted this poem!)
All to easy to criticise
Deflecting away
From our own faults
Or too frightened
To speak out
At other peoples' shortcomings
In case the pointed finger
Is reversed
And is now
Forcefully in my face.
Is it just me
Or are we all
Scared of the pressure
Of being a simple volunteer
And not being able
To jump off and relax?
Dulwich Poet 11th August 2013
(Something annoyed me, about being on the Football Club Committee. But as I type this up, from the scrap of paper that I wrote it on, I cannot remember what prompted this poem!)
Invisible Ink"
"----------
----------
---------
---------
---------
---------
---------
---------
---------
---------
---------
---------
---------
---------
--------
---------"
Dulwich Poet 8th August 2013
(This poem should have NOTHING in it, the dashes are to 'illustrate' the title. It's my attempt at a 'poetry joke'!)
----------
---------
---------
---------
---------
---------
---------
---------
---------
---------
---------
---------
---------
--------
---------"
Dulwich Poet 8th August 2013
(This poem should have NOTHING in it, the dashes are to 'illustrate' the title. It's my attempt at a 'poetry joke'!)
"Bloody Hell"
Any old iron,
Any old iron
Any, any old iron!
Except that’s not the case
I have too much iron
But cannot give it away
Instead I have to sit
Not to do my bit
But having blood taken away
As you cannot donate
If you are gay!
Mine is for incinerating
As I’m sat here contemplating
Is this the future I have left
Weekly in an old folks chair?
I’m so ungrateful-do I care?
Strangers opposite at death’s door
What else are their chemo tablets for?
I worry about future unknown
Despite not being proper ill
Seeds of doubt are sown.
Sometimes I have thoughts
Of being dead
Now I want to
Be alive instead!
I suppose I just want
Death on my own terms
Isn’t that what
Everyone yearns?
Got to accept
I’m not getting younger
No idea what the future holds
Any old iron
Any, any old iron!
Except that’s not the case
I have too much iron
But cannot give it away
Instead I have to sit
Not to do my bit
But having blood taken away
As you cannot donate
If you are gay!
Mine is for incinerating
As I’m sat here contemplating
Is this the future I have left
Weekly in an old folks chair?
I’m so ungrateful-do I care?
Strangers opposite at death’s door
What else are their chemo tablets for?
I worry about future unknown
Despite not being proper ill
Seeds of doubt are sown.
Sometimes I have thoughts
Of being dead
Now I want to
Be alive instead!
I suppose I just want
Death on my own terms
Isn’t that what
Everyone yearns?
Got to accept
I’m not getting younger
No idea what the future holds
Other than future ailments will be
A tad more serious than common colds.
A tad more serious than common colds.
"Poetry Trap"
Monday morning
Bleary sardined
Book close to my chest
Not just because of the crush
In the get to work crush
Though that’s necessity too
Fact is I’d be mortified
If you clocked me reading
Poetry on the train!
I can see you now
Inching away
Nano-millimetre
Baby pigeon step at a time
Rumbled in my heinous crime
As you judge me insane.
I’d blag it Sarf Lunnon style
Give you my hardest Paddington
Rather than an…
I’m better than you smile
More likely I’d do nowt
Too scared for my thoughts to get out
I’d want to write about
Your reaction
To prove I’m not crazy
So come on back
I want a retraction!
Instead I just write in my head
Desperate to save my thoughts
Before forgotten and dead.
Willing the train to my station
To jot down key words
‘For the Nation’.
(I jest..they’re for my titillation)
Minimum of fuss
Sat on the bus
The seat next to me
Now as vacant
As the thoughts in my head.
Which is why you’re reading this
No more.
Dulwich Poet 5th August 2013
( I sometimes read poetry on the packed train into work, I unconsciously, but I suppose deliberately, try to ‘hide’ the book, as only ‘weirdos’ read poetry. I hate it when something I read or see ‘inspires’ me to write a poem, but I can’t do so at that moment, and try to hold those thoughts. I suppose that’s what this poem is about.)
Sunday 4 August 2013
"Not Quite Home"
Hot and tired
As in sweaty hot
Rather than horny hot
After a long weekend.
It wasn't 'that' sort of weekend.
Simply visiting friends
In deepest, darkest Hampshire.
Not that dark at all
If truth be told
A bit of a culture shock
Pure white middle England
Middle class.
Middle of the road
Midsomer Murders land
Without the murders
That would be
Too much like home.
Now I'm back
Where I belong
Almost home
Key in the door
For my treat of the day
Iced ring doughnuts
Half price.
Thank you Winchester Sainsburys
You can take the boy
Out of South London
But you can't take Pikey Corner
Out of the boy.
Dulwich Poet 4th August 2013
(I was in Eastleigh, Hampshire for the weekend. I stopped off in Winchester on the way home. A beautiful, historic old town, but so different to London. I saw no black faces, and the shops were much posher than I was used to on a high street. But in the Sainsburys I still managed to buy some reduced items, as I do when at home.)
(I shared this at the 'Poets Anon' group, in Croydon, on Monday 18th August 2013)
As in sweaty hot
Rather than horny hot
After a long weekend.
It wasn't 'that' sort of weekend.
Simply visiting friends
In deepest, darkest Hampshire.
Not that dark at all
If truth be told
A bit of a culture shock
Pure white middle England
Middle class.
Middle of the road
Midsomer Murders land
Without the murders
That would be
Too much like home.
Now I'm back
Where I belong
Almost home
Key in the door
For my treat of the day
Iced ring doughnuts
Half price.
Thank you Winchester Sainsburys
You can take the boy
Out of South London
But you can't take Pikey Corner
Out of the boy.
Dulwich Poet 4th August 2013
(I was in Eastleigh, Hampshire for the weekend. I stopped off in Winchester on the way home. A beautiful, historic old town, but so different to London. I saw no black faces, and the shops were much posher than I was used to on a high street. But in the Sainsburys I still managed to buy some reduced items, as I do when at home.)
(I shared this at the 'Poets Anon' group, in Croydon, on Monday 18th August 2013)
"Postcard Poetry"
Mine wasn't Lewisham
Next borough along
Southwark
East Dulwich to be exact.
I found you in
'After the Dancing Dogs'
Catford was the closest
I got to dogs
Anywhere near Lewisham.
Until it got demolished.
But not by Millwall
Which is in Lewisham
Technically yours
Stolen from the Isle of Dogs
But Bermondsey at heart
So hands off!
But this isn't about your poem.
You have asked the questions
It would be rude not to respond
So from here on
It's all me, me, me!
I am lonely
I am a loser
I am a writer
I exist
I am me.
Is there anything else
You need to know?
Questions on a postcard, please.
Dulwich Poet 4th August 2013
( Postcards have been tucked inside random books on the shelves of the Poetry Library, with the following message on them:"Congratulations! You've found one of only 500 sets of postcards which were hidden in the Poetry Library's collection in summer 2013, as part of london Lines, and to celebrate the Poetry Library's 60th anniversary. We want to discover where our postcards went. Please tell us who you are. Where do you live? What do you want to tell us? Write a poem, make us an image, send us a message about your neighbourhood." There was a poem on the three postcard sized set, called 'Lewisham Childhood' by Alan Brownjohn, hence my reference to Lewisham.)
(I shared this at the 'Poets Anon' group, in Croydon, on Monday 18th August 2013)
Next borough along
Southwark
East Dulwich to be exact.
I found you in
'After the Dancing Dogs'
Catford was the closest
I got to dogs
Anywhere near Lewisham.
Until it got demolished.
But not by Millwall
Which is in Lewisham
Technically yours
Stolen from the Isle of Dogs
But Bermondsey at heart
So hands off!
But this isn't about your poem.
You have asked the questions
It would be rude not to respond
So from here on
It's all me, me, me!
I am lonely
I am a loser
I am a writer
I exist
I am me.
Is there anything else
You need to know?
Questions on a postcard, please.
Dulwich Poet 4th August 2013
( Postcards have been tucked inside random books on the shelves of the Poetry Library, with the following message on them:"Congratulations! You've found one of only 500 sets of postcards which were hidden in the Poetry Library's collection in summer 2013, as part of london Lines, and to celebrate the Poetry Library's 60th anniversary. We want to discover where our postcards went. Please tell us who you are. Where do you live? What do you want to tell us? Write a poem, make us an image, send us a message about your neighbourhood." There was a poem on the three postcard sized set, called 'Lewisham Childhood' by Alan Brownjohn, hence my reference to Lewisham.)
(I shared this at the 'Poets Anon' group, in Croydon, on Monday 18th August 2013)
"Doppelganger"
That bloke a seat back
Looks like a bloke from work
Who is into poetry.
Which is spooky
As I'm sure it's not that bloke
But it could be.
Except I'm sure...
If I'd clocked the right bloke
He would have at least nodded
As blokes do.
So I'm certain he's not the bloke
I think he might be.
So why do I still feel like
A paranoid bloke
Who thinks that the bloke I saw
Is a bloke I know?
Even though that bloke
Got off at Woking?
Dulwich Poet 4th August 2013
( A stranger on a train I was on looked very similar to someone at another branch of my work)
(I shared this at the 'Poets Anon' group, in Croydon, on Monday 18th August 2013)
Looks like a bloke from work
Who is into poetry.
Which is spooky
As I'm sure it's not that bloke
But it could be.
Except I'm sure...
If I'd clocked the right bloke
He would have at least nodded
As blokes do.
So I'm certain he's not the bloke
I think he might be.
So why do I still feel like
A paranoid bloke
Who thinks that the bloke I saw
Is a bloke I know?
Even though that bloke
Got off at Woking?
Dulwich Poet 4th August 2013
( A stranger on a train I was on looked very similar to someone at another branch of my work)
(I shared this at the 'Poets Anon' group, in Croydon, on Monday 18th August 2013)
"Enjoy The Ride"
Fashionista
Sat opposite
Sketching
Stark grey
Granite pencil
In contrast to
The multi-coloured
Pencil itself
Decorated Year Six style
They'd call it
Primary school
To old gits like me.
She's drawing away
In her expensive
Ring bound
Sketch book.
We are not talking
Poundland here.
And next to you
Smart but casual
Old, tidy grey beard
Father? Grandfather?
Dirty old man, maybe.
Stranger?...
Things have happened.
He is nodding off
In this quiet zone
Hope he doesn't snore
She will have to stick
Her pencil up his nose.
Loudest thing right now
Being the air conditioning
Above the thoughts
In my head
Her own distracted
Broken as they compete
With whatever pop music
Is piped into her lugholes
From the latest electronic gadget
She had hidden from sight.
So much so she doesn't spot
Me writing about her
From the other side of the table
And without a doubt
The other side of the tracks.
Talented in our own
Little obscure way
Hers in sketch
Mine by written thought.
Neither finished yet
But if she stays
For the whole journey
Whatever happens
We will have met
Our own artistic Waterloo.
Dulwich Poet 4th August 2013
( I was on a train from Winchester to Waterloo, and wrote this while sat opposite two strangers, the other side of the table.One was a young girl, sketching some sort of fashion designs; sitting next to her was an older man.)
Sat opposite
Sketching
Stark grey
Granite pencil
In contrast to
The multi-coloured
Pencil itself
Decorated Year Six style
They'd call it
Primary school
To old gits like me.
She's drawing away
In her expensive
Ring bound
Sketch book.
We are not talking
Poundland here.
And next to you
Smart but casual
Old, tidy grey beard
Father? Grandfather?
Dirty old man, maybe.
Stranger?...
Things have happened.
He is nodding off
In this quiet zone
Hope he doesn't snore
She will have to stick
Her pencil up his nose.
Loudest thing right now
Being the air conditioning
Above the thoughts
In my head
Her own distracted
Broken as they compete
With whatever pop music
Is piped into her lugholes
From the latest electronic gadget
She had hidden from sight.
So much so she doesn't spot
Me writing about her
From the other side of the table
And without a doubt
The other side of the tracks.
Talented in our own
Little obscure way
Hers in sketch
Mine by written thought.
Neither finished yet
But if she stays
For the whole journey
Whatever happens
We will have met
Our own artistic Waterloo.
Dulwich Poet 4th August 2013
( I was on a train from Winchester to Waterloo, and wrote this while sat opposite two strangers, the other side of the table.One was a young girl, sketching some sort of fashion designs; sitting next to her was an older man.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)