Just because
I'm not writing
Poetry's still inviting.
Ideas fermenting
No repenting
Just like McDonalds
I'm still lovin' it!
So: to the mind tricks
Inside my head
Plenty of thoughts
Certainly not dead.
Your best efforts
Will not work
Seeds of doubt
Wil not lurk
Am not going
To stop to write
It's just that
There's nothing tonight.
Dulwich Poet 29th September 2013
(I haven't been writing as much poetry as I have been doing in the last couple of months. But I am pleased there are no thoughts in my head, worried about not being able to write, or putting pressure to write. I just feel, now, that I will write more stuff when I feel like it, and I am happy with that.)
Sunday 29 September 2013
Sunday 22 September 2013
"Minor Soft Spot"
I'm going to be late
For the FA Vase
Bus stuck in Forest Hill
Behind a procession of cars.
Mildly annoying
Rather than doing my nut
But it's only Fisher
So I just sit here and tut.
Truth is I don't mind
The Bermondsey team
We'll never be the rivals
They think to seem.
They were always a club built on sand
Now their name kept alive
By their loyal band.
Remnants of the old incarnation
That played above their station
Bankrolled by the drug habits
Of the entire nation.
Finally left to die
By a shady property deal
Now at a level that's
Honest and real.
What does it matter that
They can't compete
Just existing right now
Is a genuine feat.
I wonder if my Club
Went belly up
Would we survive like them
Or come unstuck?
So while many of my fellow fans
Go 'what the hell?'
I'm one of the few
Who wish Fisher FC well.
Dulwich Poet 22nd September 2013
( FA Vase: Fisher FC, who groundshare at my club Dulwich Hamlet, and were formed by fans out of the ashes of Fisher Athletic, lost 6-0 to AFC Croydon Athletic, in the FA Vase today. This poem is about their 'plight')
For the FA Vase
Bus stuck in Forest Hill
Behind a procession of cars.
Mildly annoying
Rather than doing my nut
But it's only Fisher
So I just sit here and tut.
Truth is I don't mind
The Bermondsey team
We'll never be the rivals
They think to seem.
They were always a club built on sand
Now their name kept alive
By their loyal band.
Remnants of the old incarnation
That played above their station
Bankrolled by the drug habits
Of the entire nation.
Finally left to die
By a shady property deal
Now at a level that's
Honest and real.
What does it matter that
They can't compete
Just existing right now
Is a genuine feat.
I wonder if my Club
Went belly up
Would we survive like them
Or come unstuck?
So while many of my fellow fans
Go 'what the hell?'
I'm one of the few
Who wish Fisher FC well.
Dulwich Poet 22nd September 2013
( FA Vase: Fisher FC, who groundshare at my club Dulwich Hamlet, and were formed by fans out of the ashes of Fisher Athletic, lost 6-0 to AFC Croydon Athletic, in the FA Vase today. This poem is about their 'plight')
Saturday 21 September 2013
"Going Home"
The highlight
Of my night
Will be
Quaffing glasses of
Pepsi Max
Two little bottle
Half price
In Lidl.
The retail temple
Of the poor.
As you can see
From the use of
The word 'highlight'
Saturday nights
Are hardly alright for me.
Finish work
Shut at five
Padlocked at quarter past.
Powernap on the bus
To Waterloo
Past the dossers
Walk on sharp
Could have been me
Drunk in a park.
Squeezing between
The middle class crowd
Enjoying their overpriced
World food chow.
I despise them with envy
As I jump in
The singing lift..
Honest, it does
As I get my buzz
Swapping books
At the Poetry Library.
Lottery ticket bought
Writing down my thought
Home by eight
Not too late.
No life, no friends
Just me and my pens
Got to be positive...
Life could be worse
Learnt to express myself
In all kinds of verse.
As James Bond would say
'Tomorrow Is Another Day'!
He might not have said that
Knowing my luck
But, hey...you know what:
I don't give a fuck!
Dulwich Poet 21st September 2013
(I wrote this after my Saturday at work, I suppose to express that I don't have much of a life, but get comfort from writing poetry, or it you don't think it's worthy to be called that, just jotting down my thoughts)
Of my night
Will be
Quaffing glasses of
Pepsi Max
Two little bottle
Half price
In Lidl.
The retail temple
Of the poor.
As you can see
From the use of
The word 'highlight'
Saturday nights
Are hardly alright for me.
Finish work
Shut at five
Padlocked at quarter past.
Powernap on the bus
To Waterloo
Past the dossers
Walk on sharp
Could have been me
Drunk in a park.
Squeezing between
The middle class crowd
Enjoying their overpriced
World food chow.
I despise them with envy
As I jump in
The singing lift..
Honest, it does
As I get my buzz
Swapping books
At the Poetry Library.
Lottery ticket bought
Writing down my thought
Home by eight
Not too late.
No life, no friends
Just me and my pens
Got to be positive...
Life could be worse
Learnt to express myself
In all kinds of verse.
As James Bond would say
'Tomorrow Is Another Day'!
He might not have said that
Knowing my luck
But, hey...you know what:
I don't give a fuck!
Dulwich Poet 21st September 2013
(I wrote this after my Saturday at work, I suppose to express that I don't have much of a life, but get comfort from writing poetry, or it you don't think it's worthy to be called that, just jotting down my thoughts)
"Snow Walking"
The Old Kent Road
An insignificance on the Monopoly board.
Suffering the indignity
Of being the same price
As shithole Whitechapel Road
Through the Rotherhithe Tunnel.
Our sixty quid bargain in brown
The true jewel in the boardgame crown
Is a throroughfare that
Holds memories of my past
The ones that esstablished
How lifes die was cast.
The Old Fire Station when it was a squat
That was as good as it got.
All the way back then
I had nothing to lose
Wish I'd been brave enough
To jump in their shoes.
Shake off the shackles of a shit life
No pretence of a distance future
Imaginary 2.2 kids and a wife.
Drinking to oblivion on a Friday night
Down the Gin Palace, out for a fight.
All my long gone mates
Eyeing up the birds
While you were on your first pint
I was well into my third.
That was no life
I just tried to exist
My comfort blanket
Was getting pissed.
There's one flashback
That I hold dear
A rare memory
Not clouded by beer.
So far distant don't know day of the week
Was one winter weather so bleak
It started to snow
Around News at Ten
After midnight I went walkies with my Ben.
Not a boy, but the family pet
Who showed more love to me
Than I ever felt
From my own family.
We went out minus a coat
Felt on cloud nine wanting to float
Such a busy street
But not a soul
A magical feeling
I was in total control.
Middle of the road
Nothing either side
Virgin snow ao fresh
Couldn't slip or slide.
This was my heaven
If there was such a place
Lonely was magical
In this case.
Felt so in control
Of the streets
Not a soul around
So calm inside
I felt a million pound
I wish I could bottle
That inner joy
Never felt it again
Man or boy.
We walked over a mile
To the Cold Blow Lane
I've never worked out if
I was crazy or insane!
Dulwich Poet 21st September 2013
(From about 13 to the age of 27 I lived on the Aylesbury Estate, at the Old Kent Road of it. We had a family pet, a mongrel dog called Ben, from Battersea Dogs home. There was one time when it snowed heavily late at night, and I walked him along the middle of the Old Kent Road, the busy street being totally deserted, as thick snow settled, not a car on the road. I had a sense of inner peace for that short time I don't think I've ever experienced since, the cold not registering, as I had no jumper or jacket, wearing a t-shirt that evening.)
An insignificance on the Monopoly board.
Suffering the indignity
Of being the same price
As shithole Whitechapel Road
Through the Rotherhithe Tunnel.
Our sixty quid bargain in brown
The true jewel in the boardgame crown
Is a throroughfare that
Holds memories of my past
The ones that esstablished
How lifes die was cast.
The Old Fire Station when it was a squat
That was as good as it got.
All the way back then
I had nothing to lose
Wish I'd been brave enough
To jump in their shoes.
Shake off the shackles of a shit life
No pretence of a distance future
Imaginary 2.2 kids and a wife.
Drinking to oblivion on a Friday night
Down the Gin Palace, out for a fight.
All my long gone mates
Eyeing up the birds
While you were on your first pint
I was well into my third.
That was no life
I just tried to exist
My comfort blanket
Was getting pissed.
There's one flashback
That I hold dear
A rare memory
Not clouded by beer.
So far distant don't know day of the week
Was one winter weather so bleak
It started to snow
Around News at Ten
After midnight I went walkies with my Ben.
Not a boy, but the family pet
Who showed more love to me
Than I ever felt
From my own family.
We went out minus a coat
Felt on cloud nine wanting to float
Such a busy street
But not a soul
A magical feeling
I was in total control.
Middle of the road
Nothing either side
Virgin snow ao fresh
Couldn't slip or slide.
This was my heaven
If there was such a place
Lonely was magical
In this case.
Felt so in control
Of the streets
Not a soul around
So calm inside
I felt a million pound
I wish I could bottle
That inner joy
Never felt it again
Man or boy.
We walked over a mile
To the Cold Blow Lane
I've never worked out if
I was crazy or insane!
Dulwich Poet 21st September 2013
(From about 13 to the age of 27 I lived on the Aylesbury Estate, at the Old Kent Road of it. We had a family pet, a mongrel dog called Ben, from Battersea Dogs home. There was one time when it snowed heavily late at night, and I walked him along the middle of the Old Kent Road, the busy street being totally deserted, as thick snow settled, not a car on the road. I had a sense of inner peace for that short time I don't think I've ever experienced since, the cold not registering, as I had no jumper or jacket, wearing a t-shirt that evening.)
Thursday 19 September 2013
"Forgotten Past"
Can you imagine...
And now for today's
Classified football results
Involving...
Thames Ironworks or Dial Square
Newton Heath; Singers, do you care?
Ancient. Lost in the mists of time
From the silly to the sublime
A tiny piece of our past
Forgotten titles that never last
Only meaning something
If it's your side
An old fashioned title
You recall with pride.
Part of your heritage
Buried in your hearts
Recalling it affectionately
Is not just for old farts.
With old heroes we do the same
Before our time still chanting the name.
We've always been HAMLET
Of that we are proud
So we recall our history
By singing out loud
Lillington, Bayram, Edgar Kail
Just some of the greats who we hail
Singing their songs to keep their memory alive
Ensuring their legacy will survive.
Dulwich Poet 19th September 2013
( I wrote this several weeks ago. And am only now typing it up. Truth be told I'm not entirely sure what point I was trying to make when I made it up....but there must have been one!)
And now for today's
Classified football results
Involving...
Thames Ironworks or Dial Square
Newton Heath; Singers, do you care?
Ancient. Lost in the mists of time
From the silly to the sublime
A tiny piece of our past
Forgotten titles that never last
Only meaning something
If it's your side
An old fashioned title
You recall with pride.
Part of your heritage
Buried in your hearts
Recalling it affectionately
Is not just for old farts.
With old heroes we do the same
Before our time still chanting the name.
We've always been HAMLET
Of that we are proud
So we recall our history
By singing out loud
Lillington, Bayram, Edgar Kail
Just some of the greats who we hail
Singing their songs to keep their memory alive
Ensuring their legacy will survive.
Dulwich Poet 19th September 2013
( I wrote this several weeks ago. And am only now typing it up. Truth be told I'm not entirely sure what point I was trying to make when I made it up....but there must have been one!)
Monday 16 September 2013
"In The Hat"
Can anyone explain
The fixation
With a home draw?
Nothing more than a bore.
First thing out of my mouth
Avoid all those from the Conference South
If we get Le Bromlei over in France
Won't be in with much of a chance
Tie from hell is Boreham Wood
Been there far more times
Than a sane man should.
Please no Basingstoke
Roundabout central
Or ideas above their station Whitehawk
Would drive me mental.
Nothing more beastly
Than being sent to Eastleigh
And certainly no thrill
To go to Havant & 'looville.
There's plenty of trips which can please
Not just crap trips
That make you sob on your knees.
Imagine going to a cup game on a plane
Guernsey away would be really insane.
Although there's untold I want to avoid
Plenty more to be enjoyed
Cambridge City at their Histon groundshare
If it was their old place I wouldn't care.
For the teams I want to pick
Must be a new ground for a tick.
Maybe Needham Market going east
As opposed to Tilbury who I'd like least.
In the other direction going west
Truro City would be the best.
How about an 'either/or'
Brisol Manor Farm and Corsham
Would fit that for sure.
In an ideal world
We'd avoid Ryman Prem
Whoever they are
Don't want to play them.
Rather uncharted clubs still in the pot
Shortwood, Yate Town or Didcot.
Doesn't matter who we get
As long as we win
Any victory means
Four more grand in the bin!
But knowing our luck
It won't be great
Probably drawn away
For a Chas 'n' Dave date
And a Hamlet invasion
Dahn to Margate!
Dulwich Poet 16th September 2013
(It was the draw for the second qualifying round of the FA Cup earlier today. I wrote this on the train to work, before the draw had been made. Spookily...Dulwich Hamlet were drawn away to Margate!)
The fixation
With a home draw?
Nothing more than a bore.
First thing out of my mouth
Avoid all those from the Conference South
If we get Le Bromlei over in France
Won't be in with much of a chance
Tie from hell is Boreham Wood
Been there far more times
Than a sane man should.
Please no Basingstoke
Roundabout central
Or ideas above their station Whitehawk
Would drive me mental.
Nothing more beastly
Than being sent to Eastleigh
And certainly no thrill
To go to Havant & 'looville.
There's plenty of trips which can please
Not just crap trips
That make you sob on your knees.
Imagine going to a cup game on a plane
Guernsey away would be really insane.
Although there's untold I want to avoid
Plenty more to be enjoyed
Cambridge City at their Histon groundshare
If it was their old place I wouldn't care.
For the teams I want to pick
Must be a new ground for a tick.
Maybe Needham Market going east
As opposed to Tilbury who I'd like least.
In the other direction going west
Truro City would be the best.
How about an 'either/or'
Brisol Manor Farm and Corsham
Would fit that for sure.
In an ideal world
We'd avoid Ryman Prem
Whoever they are
Don't want to play them.
Rather uncharted clubs still in the pot
Shortwood, Yate Town or Didcot.
Doesn't matter who we get
As long as we win
Any victory means
Four more grand in the bin!
But knowing our luck
It won't be great
Probably drawn away
For a Chas 'n' Dave date
And a Hamlet invasion
Dahn to Margate!
Dulwich Poet 16th September 2013
(It was the draw for the second qualifying round of the FA Cup earlier today. I wrote this on the train to work, before the draw had been made. Spookily...Dulwich Hamlet were drawn away to Margate!)
Sunday 15 September 2013
"Sunday Morning Ritual"
Do you recall when twelve noon
Could never come around too soon?
Gagging for a beer at the door
Sawdust tongue hitting the floor.
Pretending it was normal to be yawning
Outside the pub door at eight in the morning.
That 'miracle' special licence down Brick Lane
Packed to the rafters
With the alcoholically insane.
Total strangers middle aged blokes
Certainly not here for lemonade or cokes.
Silently on my own
Hiding behind the 'News of the World'
Until he sidles up alone
Bullshit story unfurled.
I knew the story, knew the line
Same old crap every time.
A Walter Mitty every week
The clientele were rather bleak
Who 'knew' the Krays at their peak!
Could only listen and nod
Even though they were odd
Unable to clump him hard
In case you got barred.
All in the pretence of a breakfast bagel
When it was all about lager on the table.
Possibly desperation
Gagging for a drink
But when you are a drunkard
That's how low you sink.
Downing pints twenty four seven
Sunday morning shithole heaven
As much as your wallet will allow
Beer is all that matters now.
That's what I took for normality
In actual fact it was insanity
But what has happened
I can't look back
I'm just grateful
Sobriety's on track!
Dulwich Poet 15th September 2013
( On Sunday mornings like today I go out to watch the Dulwich Hamlet Youth Team. Back in my drinking days I'd often be in a dodgy east London pub with an early morning licence, before the other pubs opened.)
Could never come around too soon?
Gagging for a beer at the door
Sawdust tongue hitting the floor.
Pretending it was normal to be yawning
Outside the pub door at eight in the morning.
That 'miracle' special licence down Brick Lane
Packed to the rafters
With the alcoholically insane.
Total strangers middle aged blokes
Certainly not here for lemonade or cokes.
Silently on my own
Hiding behind the 'News of the World'
Until he sidles up alone
Bullshit story unfurled.
I knew the story, knew the line
Same old crap every time.
A Walter Mitty every week
The clientele were rather bleak
Who 'knew' the Krays at their peak!
Could only listen and nod
Even though they were odd
Unable to clump him hard
In case you got barred.
All in the pretence of a breakfast bagel
When it was all about lager on the table.
Possibly desperation
Gagging for a drink
But when you are a drunkard
That's how low you sink.
Downing pints twenty four seven
Sunday morning shithole heaven
As much as your wallet will allow
Beer is all that matters now.
That's what I took for normality
In actual fact it was insanity
But what has happened
I can't look back
I'm just grateful
Sobriety's on track!
Dulwich Poet 15th September 2013
( On Sunday mornings like today I go out to watch the Dulwich Hamlet Youth Team. Back in my drinking days I'd often be in a dodgy east London pub with an early morning licence, before the other pubs opened.)
"No More Locals"
Long gone are the boozers of old
Changing society we are told
And not being able to smoke anymore
That is really at the core.
I might be wrong so check your facts
But could it be down to extortionate tax?
The fact that people can't afford to drink
Is why boozers are dying and on the brink.
Pubs were once chapels of the poor
Not flats for the posh behind a locked door.
Now you need a mini lottery win
To get a decent tray of drinks in
Open your wallet for a small round
You'll get no change from twenty pound.
It's now piss up at home or on the street
Value for money Tesco can't be beat.
The pub on the corner was the community heart
Now it's hardly beating unable to start.
Once you've lost it
They'll never come back
Saving one or two
Papers over a crack.
The streets of London
Changed for the worse
Backstreet boozers will only be there in verse
Faintly distant in imagination
We've killed off the heritage of our nation.
Just make believe
On a soap opera screen
Only gastro pubs for the posh
On the village green.
Dulwich Poet 15th September 2013
(This turned out to be a poem about the loss of so many pubs. It wasn't supposed to be that, but that's how ideas in my head evolve! )
Changing society we are told
And not being able to smoke anymore
That is really at the core.
I might be wrong so check your facts
But could it be down to extortionate tax?
The fact that people can't afford to drink
Is why boozers are dying and on the brink.
Pubs were once chapels of the poor
Not flats for the posh behind a locked door.
Now you need a mini lottery win
To get a decent tray of drinks in
Open your wallet for a small round
You'll get no change from twenty pound.
It's now piss up at home or on the street
Value for money Tesco can't be beat.
The pub on the corner was the community heart
Now it's hardly beating unable to start.
Once you've lost it
They'll never come back
Saving one or two
Papers over a crack.
The streets of London
Changed for the worse
Backstreet boozers will only be there in verse
Faintly distant in imagination
We've killed off the heritage of our nation.
Just make believe
On a soap opera screen
Only gastro pubs for the posh
On the village green.
Dulwich Poet 15th September 2013
(This turned out to be a poem about the loss of so many pubs. It wasn't supposed to be that, but that's how ideas in my head evolve! )
Saturday 14 September 2013
"Cup Nerves"
Defeat is simply inconceivable
Totally unbelievable
The Musselmen from Shoreham
Should be no threat
Yet...
Lymington and New Milton
Southwick
Littlehampton Town
Tunbridge Wells
Need I go on?
No wonder there's alarm bells
In my head
And butterflies of dread
In my stomach.
Forty five minutes
Until kick off.
Dulwich Poet 14th September 2013
( I wrote this on the bus to the ground today, before we played Sussex County Leaguers Shoreham, in the first qualifying round of the FA Cup. final score: Dulwich Hamlet 6, Shoreham 0!)
Totally unbelievable
The Musselmen from Shoreham
Should be no threat
Yet...
Lymington and New Milton
Southwick
Littlehampton Town
Tunbridge Wells
Need I go on?
No wonder there's alarm bells
In my head
And butterflies of dread
In my stomach.
Forty five minutes
Until kick off.
Dulwich Poet 14th September 2013
( I wrote this on the bus to the ground today, before we played Sussex County Leaguers Shoreham, in the first qualifying round of the FA Cup. final score: Dulwich Hamlet 6, Shoreham 0!)
"Magic of the Cup!"
Today is the day
When you can really dream
Battling through to play the cream
When you recall the teams
Who've made it the past
Will it finally
Be our time at last?
Canvey, Hastings even Chasetown who?
How much more do we have to do?
It must be our time to join them too!
Even in the days of Edgar Kail
The FA Cup was a massive fail
I just want to see us play at
A football League ground before I die
Can that be so pie in the sky?
The First Round Proper back in ninety eight
That was a half century wait
Such was our fate.
I'll never forget how we got there
Beating Newport isle of Wight
Post match celebrations
Such a sight
Hugs and kisses on the pitch
But the draw was such a bitch
Scant reward as we missed the big boys
Just Southport at home for our joys.
Now another year another start
Please don't let it be Shoreham
Who break my heart!
Dulwich Poet 14th September 2013
(Today is the1st qualifying round of the FA Cup, Dulwich Hamlet at home to Shoreham, they play two levels below us. There are four qualifying rounds, and we have reached the First round Proper 14 times, but never progressed further. The last was 1998, which was the first time since 1948!)
When you can really dream
Battling through to play the cream
When you recall the teams
Who've made it the past
Will it finally
Be our time at last?
Canvey, Hastings even Chasetown who?
How much more do we have to do?
It must be our time to join them too!
Even in the days of Edgar Kail
The FA Cup was a massive fail
I just want to see us play at
A football League ground before I die
Can that be so pie in the sky?
The First Round Proper back in ninety eight
That was a half century wait
Such was our fate.
I'll never forget how we got there
Beating Newport isle of Wight
Post match celebrations
Such a sight
Hugs and kisses on the pitch
But the draw was such a bitch
Scant reward as we missed the big boys
Just Southport at home for our joys.
Now another year another start
Please don't let it be Shoreham
Who break my heart!
Dulwich Poet 14th September 2013
(Today is the1st qualifying round of the FA Cup, Dulwich Hamlet at home to Shoreham, they play two levels below us. There are four qualifying rounds, and we have reached the First round Proper 14 times, but never progressed further. The last was 1998, which was the first time since 1948!)
Friday 13 September 2013
"Feeling Naked"
I've got to admit
There's something refreshing
Excitingly naughty even
About hanging out the washing
On my line in the backyard
Having checked there's no neighbours
In sight sometimes at night
Stark bollock naked!
Exhilarating! Liberating!
Usually hidden under t-shirt & jeans
Not got the bottle to strip off and preen
Haven't the body to show off and be seen!
All I am is wrinkled and fat
A birthday suit schoolboys laugh at!
So I won't go down to Brighton for a dip
In case other point and give me lip.
Haven't got the balls for a public strip...
Actually I've got the balls
But not the dick to go with it!
When it comes to cock size
Mine is averagely shit
Nestled under my belly
It's so shrivelled and small
Won't be on the pebbles walking tall
But I can't complain with what I've got
So maybe I should give naturism a shot.
I'd love to run naked through some fields
The thought of that really appeals
With the added bonus at my age
Not going to feature centre stage
No longer a teenager with a constant boner
I'd just blend in as a sad old loner!
Dulwich Poet 13th September 2013
( Sometimes, in warm weather, I hang out my washing on the line in my back yard with no clothes on. I'd love to go to a nudist beach, or something similar, but am not brave enough to!)
There's something refreshing
Excitingly naughty even
About hanging out the washing
On my line in the backyard
Having checked there's no neighbours
In sight sometimes at night
Stark bollock naked!
Exhilarating! Liberating!
Usually hidden under t-shirt & jeans
Not got the bottle to strip off and preen
Haven't the body to show off and be seen!
All I am is wrinkled and fat
A birthday suit schoolboys laugh at!
So I won't go down to Brighton for a dip
In case other point and give me lip.
Haven't got the balls for a public strip...
Actually I've got the balls
But not the dick to go with it!
When it comes to cock size
Mine is averagely shit
Nestled under my belly
It's so shrivelled and small
Won't be on the pebbles walking tall
But I can't complain with what I've got
So maybe I should give naturism a shot.
I'd love to run naked through some fields
The thought of that really appeals
With the added bonus at my age
Not going to feature centre stage
No longer a teenager with a constant boner
I'd just blend in as a sad old loner!
Dulwich Poet 13th September 2013
( Sometimes, in warm weather, I hang out my washing on the line in my back yard with no clothes on. I'd love to go to a nudist beach, or something similar, but am not brave enough to!)
Sunday 8 September 2013
"Oh Dear, Sister..."
Take off your blinkers
And listen to what you say
Can't believe you have to ask
If I really am gay!
I accept I'm not the stereotype queer
But why now when you're full of beer?
Don't get me wrong
She's not full of hate
But I had to ask back
If she's really straight.
Should've asked her husband
To drop his strides
Would have what I meant
By proper gay pride!
She wittered on about when we were small
And I can't understand her at all
What imaginary bubble did she grow up in?
Bad childhood throughts in a memory bin
Was it all hunky dory sweet
Would she believe all my demons
If I dumped them at her feet?
She wouldn't want illusions shattered
If it was the truth that mattered.
Best not to uncork what you can't change
Your happy childhood is so strange
If only I could pick and choose
Wish I was in your shoes
Having lovely memories in my mind
Nothing nasty, innocent and kind.
If it's the truth you want me to give
I grew up feeling a worthless div.
And that continues to this day
But what can you expect
If my own fucking sister
Won't believe I'm gay!
Dulwich Poet 8th September 2013
(I was at a small family party, and my slightly older sister, drunkenly asked me if I was really gay, and was surprised when me & my other sister said we didn't exactly have a wonderful childhood..)
And listen to what you say
Can't believe you have to ask
If I really am gay!
I accept I'm not the stereotype queer
But why now when you're full of beer?
Don't get me wrong
She's not full of hate
But I had to ask back
If she's really straight.
Should've asked her husband
To drop his strides
Would have what I meant
By proper gay pride!
She wittered on about when we were small
And I can't understand her at all
What imaginary bubble did she grow up in?
Bad childhood throughts in a memory bin
Was it all hunky dory sweet
Would she believe all my demons
If I dumped them at her feet?
She wouldn't want illusions shattered
If it was the truth that mattered.
Best not to uncork what you can't change
Your happy childhood is so strange
If only I could pick and choose
Wish I was in your shoes
Having lovely memories in my mind
Nothing nasty, innocent and kind.
If it's the truth you want me to give
I grew up feeling a worthless div.
And that continues to this day
But what can you expect
If my own fucking sister
Won't believe I'm gay!
Dulwich Poet 8th September 2013
(I was at a small family party, and my slightly older sister, drunkenly asked me if I was really gay, and was surprised when me & my other sister said we didn't exactly have a wonderful childhood..)
Saturday 7 September 2013
"Turning Fifty"
Is is something to contemplate
My sister's here to celebrate
A belated second birthday like the queen
Though no twelve gun salutes to be seen
Now she's sailed past the
Big Hawaii-Five-O
It's time for this poem
From her little bro.
This is the best card
For the next century half
Until the next big one
From King William's staff.
Old age creeping up don't be frightened
Your life need not be blightened
The world's your Oyster
When you get your bus pass
And you can take up pottery at an evening class.
False teeth in a jar by your bed
Enjoying cocoa before you rest your head
Getting early for the Post Office queue
Staying up late for bingo too
Discount holidays with a company called SAGA
Drinking sherry instead of lager.
So turning fifty is not the end
Think of it more as a godsend.
Maybe a role model
Like Coronation Street's Vera
As my sister Kathy
Enters a new era!
Dulwich Poet 7th September 2013
(My sister Kathy was 50 in July. She had a girls week away in Spain to celebrate. I wrote this in her card for a belated little party she had for family and friends later in the evening of the day I wrote this. I have no idea if she liked it or even opened it...as the old saying goes..."It's the thought that counts...")
My sister's here to celebrate
A belated second birthday like the queen
Though no twelve gun salutes to be seen
Now she's sailed past the
Big Hawaii-Five-O
It's time for this poem
From her little bro.
This is the best card
For the next century half
Until the next big one
From King William's staff.
Old age creeping up don't be frightened
Your life need not be blightened
The world's your Oyster
When you get your bus pass
And you can take up pottery at an evening class.
False teeth in a jar by your bed
Enjoying cocoa before you rest your head
Getting early for the Post Office queue
Staying up late for bingo too
Discount holidays with a company called SAGA
Drinking sherry instead of lager.
So turning fifty is not the end
Think of it more as a godsend.
Maybe a role model
Like Coronation Street's Vera
As my sister Kathy
Enters a new era!
Dulwich Poet 7th September 2013
(My sister Kathy was 50 in July. She had a girls week away in Spain to celebrate. I wrote this in her card for a belated little party she had for family and friends later in the evening of the day I wrote this. I have no idea if she liked it or even opened it...as the old saying goes..."It's the thought that counts...")
Friday 6 September 2013
"Confidence Lacker"
Pressure...
Is a cooker.
Pressure...
Is being a soldier facing death every day.
Pressure...
Is coming out to your mates as gay.
Pressure...
Is saving a life on an operating table.
Pressure...
Is being born as Fred, wanting to be Mabel.
Pressure...
Is being a D.J. who's packed the wrong vinyl.
Pressure...
Is taking a penalty in a cup semi-final.
On thing that it's not
Is this panic I've got
That I won't be able to jot
Down the poems I've got
Do my words need some tweaking
Now that I'm publicly speaking?
Putting made up pressure on myself
Will it be good for my health?
The simple answer's don't be a fool
There is no right there is no wrong
This isn't school so let them flow
And if they really are that crap
I'll just be told where to go.
Read on!
Dulwich Poet 5th September 2013
(I'm just starting to read my poems in front of other people. I'm now a bit worried that onece I've read them I won't be able to write any more...)
Is a cooker.
Pressure...
Is being a soldier facing death every day.
Pressure...
Is coming out to your mates as gay.
Pressure...
Is saving a life on an operating table.
Pressure...
Is being born as Fred, wanting to be Mabel.
Pressure...
Is being a D.J. who's packed the wrong vinyl.
Pressure...
Is taking a penalty in a cup semi-final.
On thing that it's not
Is this panic I've got
That I won't be able to jot
Down the poems I've got
Do my words need some tweaking
Now that I'm publicly speaking?
Putting made up pressure on myself
Will it be good for my health?
The simple answer's don't be a fool
There is no right there is no wrong
This isn't school so let them flow
And if they really are that crap
I'll just be told where to go.
Read on!
Dulwich Poet 5th September 2013
(I'm just starting to read my poems in front of other people. I'm now a bit worried that onece I've read them I won't be able to write any more...)
"Free Ticket To Ride"
There can't be a worse thing to do
Than feel you've been robbed
On the choo-choo.
Those moments outside
Your Travelcard zone
Barriers open as you go home.
But that's not what pisses me off most
It's when ticket collectors vanish
Like a mystery ghost.
Absent guards on the train
Feels like money
Down the drain.
Don't get me wrong
I'm not the fare doging sort
But my hard earned's wasted
If I can't be caught.
When the gates are shut
I don't begrudge a pound
It's the punch in the gut
When there's no "Tickets please!" sound.
Missing the chance to be naughty
Even though I'm way past forty
Perhaps I've just realised that
Being so middle aged and fat
At my stage of life it's way too late
To be able to jump the gate!
Dulwich Poet 5th September 2013
(Very few stations nowadays are unstaffed, or don't have barrier gates. It really annoyss me the times when my ticket is not checked, and the gates are open, so you can walk through, & it feels like you've wasted your money buying it a ticket.)
Than feel you've been robbed
On the choo-choo.
Those moments outside
Your Travelcard zone
Barriers open as you go home.
But that's not what pisses me off most
It's when ticket collectors vanish
Like a mystery ghost.
Absent guards on the train
Feels like money
Down the drain.
Don't get me wrong
I'm not the fare doging sort
But my hard earned's wasted
If I can't be caught.
When the gates are shut
I don't begrudge a pound
It's the punch in the gut
When there's no "Tickets please!" sound.
Missing the chance to be naughty
Even though I'm way past forty
Perhaps I've just realised that
Being so middle aged and fat
At my stage of life it's way too late
To be able to jump the gate!
Dulwich Poet 5th September 2013
(Very few stations nowadays are unstaffed, or don't have barrier gates. It really annoyss me the times when my ticket is not checked, and the gates are open, so you can walk through, & it feels like you've wasted your money buying it a ticket.)
Wednesday 4 September 2013
"Four Minutes of Fame"
A pound a minute's what I spent
To stand up and be a fool
Now sitting on the train back home
Realising poetry's fucking cool!
Open mic for the night
Stepping up a notch
Shitting myself about stage fright
While glancing at the ticking watch.
I wasn't great, but not bad
Think I'm past the test
Hoping this isn't a passing fad
Am as good as some of the rest.
There's some amazing poets out there
Full of substance and style
My vocabulary's a little bare
But I can still make them smile.
I'm not the best, nor the worst
Probably inbetween
A working class poet not the first
Certainly the most green.
One thing's for sure I'll read some more
Am certainly going to return
Even if they decide I'm a bore
Off others I can learn.
Dulwich Poet 3rd September 2013
( I read three poems at the 'Poetry Unplugged' open mic session, in Covent Garden. In theory, well they did, people actually paid to hear me read!)
To stand up and be a fool
Now sitting on the train back home
Realising poetry's fucking cool!
Open mic for the night
Stepping up a notch
Shitting myself about stage fright
While glancing at the ticking watch.
I wasn't great, but not bad
Think I'm past the test
Hoping this isn't a passing fad
Am as good as some of the rest.
There's some amazing poets out there
Full of substance and style
My vocabulary's a little bare
But I can still make them smile.
I'm not the best, nor the worst
Probably inbetween
A working class poet not the first
Certainly the most green.
One thing's for sure I'll read some more
Am certainly going to return
Even if they decide I'm a bore
Off others I can learn.
Dulwich Poet 3rd September 2013
( I read three poems at the 'Poetry Unplugged' open mic session, in Covent Garden. In theory, well they did, people actually paid to hear me read!)
Tuesday 3 September 2013
"Spot On Definition"
Part of his own introduction to the book of poetry 'Blueprint For Life' by Ray Hollingsworth. He self-published this himself, I would do the same, if I only had the spare money. His views are similar to how I feel about poetry:
"...I remembered reading somewhere that if you wanted to get known as a poet in this country you had to send your work off to poetry magazines for about ten years. I gave that a miss. If I was going to fail, at least it was going to happen quickly. Someone had told me about these creative writing classes I could go to, but I couldn't understand how you could teach someone to be creative...In terms of writing I'm clearly no academic. I'm glad of my working class roots. Maybe I'm no poet, I never said that I was and others are welcome to say that I'm not. But I always believed the suject matter was the key to the work, because if nothing else it was based on real life. People told me they found the work 'unpretentious and liberated','refreshing and alive', 'completely different to anything we've ever seen'. People of all ages said ' I'm not really into poetry but I'm into this'. "
Having read that I wrote the following:
What is it that defines
This thing called poetry?
Is it rhythm or is it rhyme
Iambic pentameter this
Onomatopoeia that
If you know the secret
Keep it under your hat.
I just write as I find
Whatever thoughts in my mind
Not interested being Poet Laureate approved
If you're bored to tears
And hardly moved.
I write for me not your joy
Simply put it's my sanity toy.
Once or twice I've read out loud
Not big headed But I was quite proud
But this evening I'll step up a gear
Going 'open mic' where you pay to hear!
Rather nervous but what the hell
Don't think I'll be bood off
Time will tell.
The thing is I've got a couple of hundred poems
From which I can choose
Pick the right one I can't lose
Must be a couple that can be told
Without leaving an audience cold.
We're all supposed to have Warhol's
Fifteen minutes of fame
At the Poetry Cafe, Covent Garden
I'll have a third of that to my name!
Dulwich Poet 3rd September 2013
(I read the intro before this poem earlier today. I was in the Poetry Library, and saw a flier for the 'open mic' session, and the intro inspired me to give it a go.)
"...I remembered reading somewhere that if you wanted to get known as a poet in this country you had to send your work off to poetry magazines for about ten years. I gave that a miss. If I was going to fail, at least it was going to happen quickly. Someone had told me about these creative writing classes I could go to, but I couldn't understand how you could teach someone to be creative...In terms of writing I'm clearly no academic. I'm glad of my working class roots. Maybe I'm no poet, I never said that I was and others are welcome to say that I'm not. But I always believed the suject matter was the key to the work, because if nothing else it was based on real life. People told me they found the work 'unpretentious and liberated','refreshing and alive', 'completely different to anything we've ever seen'. People of all ages said ' I'm not really into poetry but I'm into this'. "
Having read that I wrote the following:
What is it that defines
This thing called poetry?
Is it rhythm or is it rhyme
Iambic pentameter this
Onomatopoeia that
If you know the secret
Keep it under your hat.
I just write as I find
Whatever thoughts in my mind
Not interested being Poet Laureate approved
If you're bored to tears
And hardly moved.
I write for me not your joy
Simply put it's my sanity toy.
Once or twice I've read out loud
Not big headed But I was quite proud
But this evening I'll step up a gear
Going 'open mic' where you pay to hear!
Rather nervous but what the hell
Don't think I'll be bood off
Time will tell.
The thing is I've got a couple of hundred poems
From which I can choose
Pick the right one I can't lose
Must be a couple that can be told
Without leaving an audience cold.
We're all supposed to have Warhol's
Fifteen minutes of fame
At the Poetry Cafe, Covent Garden
I'll have a third of that to my name!
Dulwich Poet 3rd September 2013
(I read the intro before this poem earlier today. I was in the Poetry Library, and saw a flier for the 'open mic' session, and the intro inspired me to give it a go.)
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