"Commuter Chairs"

Is it something I said?
I never said a word!
Do I smell?
No, I’ve had a wash.
Am I too fat?
Maybe, but not obese,
No excess blubber
To roll over
Into your lap.
Don’t worry…
I’m not offended.
I realise it’s about comfort
And you want your own chair.
I was going to…
Tell you to ‘fuck off’ anyway
As you’ve got ginger hair.

Dulwich Poet 21^st  November 2013

(Sat on a bus heading for work, the seat next to me empty, someone walks past and doesn’t sit down…)

"Buzzing About The Bees"

On the train
Going West
But this is different
From the rest.
Not a Sunday morning
In a field
With only a jacket
Or brolly as a shield
The only fan at a game!
Tonight is your exception
At Griffin Park
Glory boy hunting
At this Youth Team game.
It’s the Second Round Proper
Of the FA Youth Cup
Complete underdogs
But with a bit of luck…
I know it’s unlikely
But I love to dream
A chance to outwit
The Football League cream.
We’ve never beaten
Professionals away
Got this gut feeling
Tonight’s our day.
Maybe it’s not our greatest crop
No excuse for our cup run to stop.
If luck’s on our side we have a chance
Who knows…later tonight
Could be our victory dance.
You think I’m crazy for watching the Youth
Mock me for doing so take the piss
Backing my team I may be mental
But I totally live for nights like this.
Dulwich Poet 20^th November 2013

( I wrote this on the way to the Dulwich Hamlet FA Youth Cup tie away to Brentford. We lost two nil. With regard to the title, Brentford’s nickname is 'The Bees'.)

"Margate was...."

A dreary town
Stuck on the Kent coast
Always an awful place
I dreaded visiting most.
Not because I hated seaside
That was always fun
The shame was
I could only afford
The penny arcades
Which I never won.
No riding on the big dipper
When I was a not-so-little nipper
Used to pretend I was scared of the ride
As my mates all took the piss
Wasn’t gonna be having this.
Couldn’t admit I was skint and poor
Even though they knew the score
Any shekels I had to spare
Were not to waste in here
Not to throw away at the fun fair
Closely guarded for my precious beer.
Now I’m middle aged
My friends have scattered
Not that they really mattered.
Back to Margate I return
Still haven’t got money to burn
 Dreamland’s changed all fenced up
I’m here for a game in the FA Cup.
This time I didn’t see the town
On the coach right to the ground
Not here being a day tripper bound
No seeing the sights of the new Turner
Or the pier that’s no longer there
Amusement arcades fade-flashing bright
Hardly a sunseeker in sight
One or two apprentice gamblers enticed inside
And by coincidence it’s also Margayte Pride
Not that I’d have got a ride.
The irony of our fans in Pink shirts
Not realising they’re magnets to gay flirts!
Rainbow flags instead of sticks of rock
Would a ‘Kiss Me Quick Hat’
Have got me some cock?
But like old Margate town
I’m all clapped out
At least they were loved once
And had their moments
I’m never been there…
Just a washed-up lout!
The only love I have
Is for my football team
Platonic relationship only
Anything else is a dream.
But isn’t that what
The F.A.Cup’s for
I live for that moment
For Ethan to score!
When he hit the back of the net
Nothing else mattered
Wiping out flashbacks of my life
Being emotionally battered.
For a few moments
We’re all as one
An ecstatic high
When the game is won.
My life isn’t much
I’ll settle for moments like this
When I can bury the pain
For occasional bliss.

Dulwich Poet 20^th November 2013

( This is about the Kent town of Margate, where I visited quite a few times as a daytripper , as a teenager, from London. I went back earlier this season when Dulwich Hamelt played there in the FA Cup 2^nd qualifying round, we won 2-1. But I never ventured into town, as I travelled on the Supporters Coach.)

"Not Worth The Money"

It was the Poetry Library open day
Totally free not a penny to pay.
Some of their vast collection on show
Passing through rude not to go.
To cap it off was a live event:performing text
Three poets for gratis one after the next.
Now there's no one way for poetry
It's each to their own.
The first two were listenable
In fact rather good
But the last one
I'd have booed
If I could.
And it wasn't just me as I glanced around
Others thumb twiddling is what I found
Just too polite to make a sound.
But how can you take someone seriously
With such a silly name
If you're 'Linus Slug:Insect Librarian'
You've only yourself to blame.
You were so unfunny
I wanted you to die on stage
If you were a real slug
I'd tread on you with rage.
Maybe it's just me
And you're loved by some
But deep down based on tonight
I suspect it's only your mum.

Dulwich Poet 17th November 2013

(Sunday 17th November was 'Poetry Performance', the Poetry Library Open Day. In the evening, at 8 o'clock, there was a free live event, called 'Performing Text', three poets commissioned to respond to this years open day. They were Claire Crowther, Charlotte Higgins and Linus Slug:Insect Librarian.)

"By Royal Appointment"

They always say
The less you know the better.
Should you take that to the letter?
'Poetry Unplugged' on a Tuesday night
When I came as a virgin
I was full of fright.
On arrival there was a friendly soul
Welcoming compere was his role.
Now i'm actually a shy, insecure chap
And as far as I'm concerned
My poetry's crap
But this chap Niall
Puts us all at ease
Though I now suspect
It's a capitalist wheeze.
It's in his interests
To get us to stay
For every time we read
We have to pay.
And he never says
How rubbish we are
Making us feel like a star.
I thought from his ad-libs
His politics were fine
Broadly speaking
The same as mine.
So although I've enjoyed 'Poetry Unplugged'
Why do I feel I've been mugged?
Fortunately I couldn't make it the next night
As you taking a night off just wasn't right.
Were you really at Buckingham Palace
Leaving your poor stand-in
With your poisoned chalice.
Whatever next...an O.B.E?
Or a poetry slot on the BBC?
Oh how establishment can you be?
I'm surprised you've come back
To the Poetry Caff
Mixing with us hoi poloi
And old riff raff.
Who knows maybe
We can kiss and make up soon
But only if you show me
Your nicked Buckingham Palace silver teaspoon!

Dulwich Poet 17th November 2013

(For the last couple of months I've been going to some of the 'Poetry Unplugged' open mic nights, at the Poetry Cafe, on Tuesday evenings. The man who hosts it, a chap called Niall O'Sullivan, won't be there this Tuesday, as he's on the incites for some sort of Poetry celebratory thing at Buckingham Palace. This poem is my attempt at a gentle ribbing for him the next time I have no midweek football to go to, and read a poem or two there.)

"Waiting To Be Read"

I bet you never imagined
When you penned your poetry book
That it would take a quarter of a century
Before another soul took a look.
Making my slow journey
I found you on your row but
Having scanned the content
Never gave you a go.
The blurb says you work
At Mountjoy jail
Sure you get job satisfaction
Which is more than I can
Say of your book
Which I took
Off the shelf for a fraction.
The blurb talks about love and letdown
From when you were seventeen
Feeling oh so lonely when she stood you up.
Put yourself in that book's shoes
And imagine how it's been.
Oh how I teased you
My fingers caressing your spine
After all those years of darkness
You thought those poems were mine.
Just like the girl at that Wimpy
The one who failed to show
I got you excited and teased
With nowhere left for you to go.
Perhaps I felt a tad guilty
I had to give you an airing
Dumping you on the returns trolley
Deep down I don't want you unread
As an old Irish folly
So I'll hope someone picks you up
From there instead.

Dulwich Poet 17th November 2013

( I was searching the shelves at the Poetry Library for my next four books to take home, and I picked one up to look at that had last been issued and stamped with a return date of 17th December 1989! It was called 'The Sound of Umbrellas at Work' by Tom Lonorgan. This attempt at a poem is about comparing the blurb that describes it, love and let downs, to the book being stuck on the shelf, and how I let the book down, by briefly having a look at it, but not taking it home)

"Skim Reading"

What am I doing
Sitting at a table
Murmour of strangers
In the background
As I yawn
Wait for the clock
To tick tock
And complete its hourly circle
Until the next one
Just as slow.
Pretending I am interested in
The book I skim read
As fast as slow time allows.
What is it with me?
Scared I may miss
That tiny bit of inspiration
On the last page but one?
Pull yourself together, man!
If there's no enjoyment
Give it up
And choose another.
If anyone should understand
The concept of borrowing
Library books...
It should be me!

Dulwich Poet 17th November 2013

(I have this annoying habit of borrowing boos from the poetry library, and trying to finish each one, even if I'm not particularly enjoying it...in my head I think I might miss something that might inspire me to write one myself...)

"My Friend's Mother"

Today I said farewell
To a lady I never knew
But it was a privilege
To have sat on a pew
At a mate's mums funeral
That was religion free
With an absence of waffle
Being the key.
A humanist funeral
Done so well
'Imagine' was playing
No heaven or hell.
Just the true story
Of a wonderful life
No 'meeting your maker'
Or any of that strife.
I'd have loved to have met her
As she sounded
Principled old school
Her spirit never broken
By divide and rule.
A post-War baby
Brixton bred
With a moving tribute
From old veteran Red Ted.
Harking back to time
When politics was from the heart
Not about soundbites
Or toeing the party line.
No mistaking guacamole for mushy peas
And washing it down with fine red wine.
Just beer and sandwiches on the table
A helping hand for those less able.
I wish you'd been my Councillor
And you sounded a great mum
With a loving husband and two sons
Extremely proud of all you done.
From bomb sites in Brixton
To County Hall
If there is an afterlife
Hold your head up
Walk tall.

Dulwich Poet 13th November 2013

(I went to the funeral today, of an old football mates mum. She had spent her life as a Labour Party activist, and trade unionist, solidly on the left, who never 'sold out' her principles. I never knew her, but it was a joy and an honour to be there to celebrate her life.)

"Not In My Name"

Don’t get me wrong
I agree with free speech
Even if it’s absolute nonsense
That you preach.
There is a reason Jimbo’s no hero
His popularity was less than zero.
Maybe we could have a referendum
To confirm this…
That’s not serious
I’m taking the piss.
This is a man who loved the U.K.
So much so he didn’t want to stay.
Born in Paris. Died in Spain
Loved our country for the tax gain
Hated the Euro, loved the pound
Just couldn’t spend sterling
As he was never around.
Spoilt rich boy who wanted it all
Come back party political
But hardly the most analytical.
The great British eccentric
Full of flannel
After the vote he’s back
Over the Channel.
Can you remember what
Came through your door
He knew how to persuade voters
On that score.
Five million videos
To ensure your vote
Not that I’m one to gloat
You lost your deposit
Try as you might
Enough VHS tapes
For their own landfill site.
When it came to the count
You fell flat on your face
You came nowhere
In the General Election race
Showing no class, screaming:
“Out,out,out!”
Defeated David Mellor
Had the best shout.
He told you to
“Stick up your hacienda”
As you sloped off to Spain
With your anti-Euro agenda.
So please explain how a hero you make
There is only so much nonsense I can take
To most of the country who are ordinary folk
You’re an insignificant forgotten joke
Your old man was a merchant banker
Fucking perfect for you Old Etonian wanker.

Dulwich Poet 12^th November 2013

(This is about Sir James Goldsmith, who in the late nineties set up the short-lived Referendum Party. At ‘Poetry Unplugged’, an open mic event, one woman read one about a ‘forgotten great British hero, namely Goldsmith. This is my response!)

"Terrorist Lite"

Without a doubt
It was more civilised
Back in the day
Of the I.R.A.
A good old fashioned bullet
Through the back of the head
Not butchered in Woolwich
Lying there left dead.
No mass slaughter
Like on Seven Seven
We never sent ourselves
Up to heaven.
Admittedly we occasionally
Made a mistake
But there was always an apology
In our wake.
At least we regretted loss of life
So please forgive
If we took your wife.
And we also had standards
Not a backpack bomb
Unlike those sick Muslims wore
With such aplomb.
Ok we did once have cause to cuss
After we mistakenly blew up
A one seven one bus.
But that was an error
An innocent mistake
We never left dozens dead
In our wake.
And we genuinely had god on our side
Catholic priests backed us all
With their holy pride.
Now we're respectable
No more bullets or gun
Gone all respectable
It's no longer fun
Even though it's been such a blast
We recognise terrorism's
A thing of past.
Our conscience is clear
With 'right' on our side
So we unreservedly condemn you
Our past we hide
And the reason Al Quaeda we can condemn
Is because we are holier than them.

Dulwich Poet 11th November 2013

(Whilst my politics are of supporting the Irish Republican cause, this is about the 'double standards' of former active Republicans, now politicians, who might condemn 'modern' terrorists. It was a weird poem to write, as I wasn't really sure where it was going, or where it would turn.)

"Waiting"

An hour late
Fucking great!
Do I look bovvered?
Expectant face
As white coat hovvered.
Back in the olden days
Women would start knitting
That's how they passed
Waiting room sitting.
The blokes could read
Last years Country Life
Or flick through the bridal ones
Despite having a wife.
Now it's all gadgets
No old mags to be seen
Moaning on Twitter
While too polite
To vent your spleen.
Rather than simmer
Like a pot of soup
Not the time or place
For your spirits to droop
Like the posters
Just 'Stay Calm' like me
Pen and paper is the key
Move over to the corner chairs
Resist the urge to shout and swear
Because even if you hate Pam Ayres
You can de-stress with poetry!

Dulwich Poet 11th November 2013

(I was stuck in a waiting room today, for over an hour, my appointment being delayed. I spent the time scibbling down poetry.)

"Yes, Doc!"

Just seen the doctor
So far so good
Everything seems
As it should.
Apart from his gentle frown
I must try to
Get my weight down.
All well and good
Thanks for the advice
Practice what you preach
Would be nice.
Your three receptionists
Out at the desk
Are all rather plump
While not grotesque.
So do as you say
Not as you see
All of your staff
Were fatter than me.

Dulwich Poet 11th November 2013

(Had an appointment at the hospital, generally fine, bar my weight. I was doing better on that score that the three women at the front desk, not that their size matters, as they did their job.)

"Terminally Healthy"

Can you imagine
Supporting your club
With crowds on the up
But you're riding your luck
With a charlatan owner
Who don't give a fuck!
Almost every perfect
Out on the pitch
Life really shouldn't be
Such a bitch.
The more I know
The more it hurts
I wish I was an ordinary fan
On the outskirts
Oblivious to what's going wrong
Oh just to turn up and sing a song.
In the ground at five to three
Only the football you need to see
No thinking through
What comes out of your mouth
Head in the clouds
Dreaming of Conference South.
What if I tell you
The budget's too high
The owners projections
Are pie in the sky.
Because of the short lease that we've got
Won't be able to take our play-off slot.
Everything we've built up is going to tumble
My Football Club is going to crumble.
People say I bleed Pink & Blue
Which makes it worse
As there's nothing I can do.

Dulwich Poet 11th November 2013

(I'm always more of a pessimist than an optimist, and I know I said the same thing this time last year, but this time next year it wouldn't surprise me if Dulwich Hamlet Football Club does not exist)

"Tick Tock Care"

I don't wear a watch
But even I can tell the time.
My appointment's at three twenty
Which should be time aplenty.
Don't get me wrong
There could be a delay
You might have had a busy day.
But sitting here taking stock
It's now gone four o'clock.
If I were to walk off the street
I could understand...
But there's no excuse
For my appointment as planned.
Surely we just fill
Our allocated spot
Or is it a conspiracy
"Got it in for me" plot?"
'Salus populi suprema lex'
Latin translation of the text
'The health of the people is the greatest law'
Well I'll let you know
If I get through the doctor's door.
Posters on the wall asking
'Did we get it right?'
I'll let you know
If I've been seen by tonight!

Dulwich Poet 11th November 2013

(I had an out-patients appointment at Lewisham Hospital. It took more than hour after my scheduled appointment time to be seen)

"Thinking Up A Reason"

To be honest
Now there's a word
I don't honestly
Use that often.
My poetry's not going to
Set the world alight.
It's just a tool
That I use
Divide and rule
To banish thoughts
In my head
Instead of an express train
Full speed ahead
Around my brain
Spiralling in circles
With no buffers to hit.
I reach my own
End of the line
A shrink to myself
Everything fine
Even when it's not
I'll give it a shot
No need for a psychiatrist
Or a handful of pills
Poetry is how
I cure my ills.
A good friend of mine
Once said
That I think too much
So I'm using my poems
As an emotional crutch.
Bottom line is
We're all a bit mental
A fact of life that
Need not be detrimental.
You don't need a happy pill
Or slouch on a couch
Just write at will
For that I can vouch.
All you need is a paper and pen
And if it doesn't come out right
Just start again.
It takes a while to come out
And admit to your choice
Be proud as a poet
At the top of your voice!
For being a poet
Is only a label
To add to the rest
In your 'slightly weird' label.

Dulwich Poet 11th November 2013

(Why do we write poetry? It can be theraputic. It's also something I simply enjoy...)

"Brief"

I heard a poem read out tonight.
It consisted of one line.
Which is fine.
If you can keep it short and sweet.
If only I could....

Dulwich Poet 9th November 2013

(Someone reading at the 'Platform One' poetry gig I went to earlier did actually read a poem that was a one liner.)

"Heaney No More"

Please don't accuse me
Of poetic heresy
Or throw in that old chestnut
Of plain old jealousy.
I'm still quite new to this poetry lark
That's my excuse for being in the dark
Confession time...
I've never read a Seamus Heaney
Was always more interested
In Kenny Beaney.
Poetry in motion was on the football field
The written stuff for the well heeled.
Sorry Seamus, even though you're dead
All your books are still unread.
Nothing personal you understand
Just had my fill of you being to hand.
I realise people like to read
Stuff that's not their own
But when it's you again
I want to groan.
Almost three months
Since you've been brown bread
Time to write your own
And put Seamus to bed.

Dulwich Poet 9th November 2013

( I go to some poetry meetings where you can read other poetry, as well as your own. Seamus Heaney has been popular, with 'tribute' readings, since he died. In case you're wondering...Kenny Beaney is a non-league footballer, who played for Dulwich Hamlet earlier in his career.)

"Wrong Platform"

Here I am at 'Platform One'
Entertainment poetry fun
Serious poets with a headline spot
So much more talent than I have got.
Make it seem easy
Without any stutter
But those kids at the back
Mutter, mutter, mutter!
Giving it your best Paddington Bear
Looks could kill with your glare.
Small crowd boosted by
An eighteenth birthday group
What were they hoping for?
A noisy holler and a whoop?
Maybe they thought poetry was rap
Not expecting fuddy duddy
Old white man 'crap'.
They had no linguistic taste
Not even leaving a bit shamefaced
Leaving less than halfway through
They really never had a clue.
At least they weren't constant talkers
But oh that munching on bags of Walkers!
Not the best place to celebrate
Coming of age
What made them think
Poetry was all the rage?
At least their night couldn't get worse
After the initial nightmare
Of a basement of verse!

Dulwich Poet 9th November 2013

(I went to the 'Platform One' poetry gig at the Poetry Cafe, the first time I'd been to that night. Also there for the first time, was a group of about 20 teenagers, who were out on an 18th birthday celebration, including big cake. Not sure what they were exepcting...but it certainly wasn't poetry. For the part they stayed for, before walking out, they were on their mobiles texting, loudly munching on crisps...which I actually found quite funny, as the older 'serious' poetry crowd in the front of the room, were getting annoyed by their background munching. Their annoyance added to the 'fun' for me! Though I wasn't complaining when they left...)

"Shellshocked"

In this modern era of communication
Finding out the latest is a frustration
Flitting between computer and work
There's a limit how much to shirk.
Unlike the Likely Lads
Am desperate for the score
Feed me the information
I want more.
Updates are slow or don't exist
I don't know what I have missed.
Piecing it together bit by bit
My heart rate increasing this is it!
As far as I can make out
We've won two one
And Maidstone have been held
At home by Leiston.
Who needs ecstasy or crack cocaine
I'm really buzzing this is insane!
Top of the pile
Absolutely crazy
Can't switch off my smile
But it's soon to get hazy.
Even though I'm a prophet of doom
Wasn't expecting imminent gloom.
At the bus stop on my way out
Answer my phone to an angry shout
Two one up wasn't the final score
If you'd punched me in the stomach
Couldn't have hurt more.
Dodgy late penalty we had to concede
Turns out we had thrown the lead.
At that very moment I had the huff
But that wasn't bad enough.
Not only did they score
So it sounded like a draw
Bugger Bognor added two more!
I'm seasoned enough to know
Football kicks you in the teeth
But from two one to four two
Is beyond belief!
To say I'm shellshocked
Is understatement of the year
I think if I was there
I'd be back on the beer!
It's not that I expect to finish
Top of the table
Though on our day
We're more than able.
Being rubbish I can cope
But there's nothing worse
Than the hope!
Totally gutted
Back to square one
Looking forward to Concord Rangers next week
What's done is done.

Dulwich Poet 9th November 2013

( At work yesterday, I was keeping an eye on the internet and messageboards for updates from Dulwich Hamlet, away to Bognor Regis Town. By the time the game should have finished, & I left work at five, the 'latest' was we'd come back from 0ne down, to 2-1 up. Maidstone had drawn, so I left work thinking we were top of the Ryman League! A few minutes later a mate who was at the game, phoned me, ranting about a dodgy penalty. When he did I assumed we'd drawn, and was even more gobsmacked when I realised we'd then lost 4-2. Such is football...)

"Learning The Trade"

It's far too easy
To think you're good
Something you never should.
When writing poetry as I do
Without really having a clue.
Not so bad when words flow
Easy come, easy go.
Truth is I don't know how
Good, average or poor I really am
Never mind entering a poetry slam!
Tonight I'm a punter sat on a seat
Here to listen as a treat
'Platform One' is the name of the gig
Thinking the talent here is far too big.
Kind of my cowardly dummy run
Checking out how it's done.
It's not that I can't hold my own
But deep down don't want to
Hear them all groan.
I paid my money
'Did I want to read?'
I say not tonight
(As I had no need)
Happy to sit in a corner
Pen out to write
My performance poetry
Is for another night.

Dulwich Poet 9th november 2013

(I was at the 'Platform One' monthly poetry event at the Poetry Cafe. I had my poems with me, but didn't pick anything for the open mic part, as I just wanted to listen to the two headliners, and the other open mics, to see what the standard is. They are very good, but am happy enough to know I could have done open mic here, for a few minutes.)

"Remembering"

Where have you gone boys?
Don’t worry. We won’t be long.
Back by Christmas!
Oh, if only…
Never to come back at all.
Forever Dulwich
In a field
In Belgium or France
Our own players
Who never stood a chance.
A ‘hero’ to all
Name engraved
On the Club Memorial
Hanging on the Boardroom wall.
What a way to die
Enough to make me cry…
Never mind you
Suffering your ‘glorious’ death.
Was your last thought and breath
On that foreign field
That shall forever be England
Before you were forever still
One of the ankle deep mud
Of OUR Champion Hill?
Can you imagine
Now being then
Cheering and waving farewell
Off to the battles of hell
To Xavier, Abdul, Billy Crook
From our First Team being took
Instead of coming off our substitute’s bench
Being sent to die  over the top of a trench?
Winning the title
At the end of last season
We called you our heroes for a reason.
Poppies are not just for wearing with pride
They are how I remember
The players who never returned
To the Hamlet side.
Blown to smithereens
In foreign mud and dirt
Never to be seen again
In the Pink and Blue shirt.

Dulwich Poet 9^th November 2013

(Today Dulwich Hamlet are away to Bognor Regis town. Before the team coach & the Supporters coach left the ground at 10.30am there was a wreath laying ceremony at the Club War Memorial in the Boardroom at ten o’clock. I could not be there as I was working. This is my tribute)

"The Extra Minute"

Never known this here before
Such an attendance rather poor
Normally I couldn’t give a shit
But I’ve only four
 Minutes this is it!
I could sit down
And keep schtum
But I’ve never had five minutes in this room.
Absolutely no idea
What I’m trying to write
Desperately filling time tonight.
I guess I just want
To say thanks
For allowing me
To join your ranks.
No rhyme or reason
To what I scribble
But I get a buzz
If there’s a nibble.
For me I hope it’s
Only the start
Learning to write
From the heart.
Appreciate you all
Sitting there
Even if you’re bored to tears
In your chair.

Dulwich Poet 5^th November 2013

( I occasionally go to the Open Mic ‘Poetry Unplugged’ night on Tuesdays, at the Poetry Café. Tonight it was Bonfire Night, and the attendance was very low. The ‘rule’ is you get a five minute slot, but if there’s more than 25 people who want to participate you get four minutes. I had prepared  for four, and had to make up this there and then, in my notebook, when I realised it would be five. I wanted my ‘moneys worth’!)

"Waiting Room Distraction"

I do not know you
Standing at the back
Of the queue
In your John Lennon
T-shirt
Minus the bullet holes.
Do you feel hurt
Working Class Hero
As emblazoned on your chest
Is this what it’s come to?
Stuck in a hospital queue
For another test?
Is that what you imagined
When you were young
What happened to the hopes
And dreams that you sung?
All you have left
Is this drudgery queue
Oh to be young again
Without a clue.
The worst thing with middle age
Is not being closer to death
It’s muttering about it
In case it’s your last breath.
Honestly, man in the queue
I’ve now idea how
You’ve led your life
You could be perfectly happy
With two kids and a wife.
Will you end up like me
Getting wound up in a chair
Thinking that the N.H.S.  don’t care?
My appointment’s late
And I have to wait…
For what?
I have no future.
Have you?
Is this all I’ve got?
I need to be positive
And look ahead
As I’m a long way
From being dead.
I think...not yet on the brink.
Eventually my body
Will wear me down
Not that I was ever
Up for nights on the town.
For the rest of my life
I’m that man
In the queue
While sizing everyone else up
In this N.H.S. Zoo.
 
Dulwich Poet 5^th November 2013
 
(I wrote this to stop winding myself up, sat in the waiting room, while waiting for a delayed out-patients appointment at Lewisham Hospital. Scribbling anything down was to deflect my self-inflicted simmering anger at waiting so long. I notice a man, probably late fifties, early sixties, in the receptionist queue, wearing a John Lennon t-shirt, as he probably did when he was a teenager)

"On Your Bike"

Without a doubt
If I had the clout
Cyclists would be
In Room 101
Failing that
I’d get a gun
And shoot them down
Just for fun.
My mouth breaks into a smirk
When one gets crushed
On the way to work.
Well if we accept
People die once in a while
Why not one of those
That makes me smile?
Two wheels might be better
For the planet
Just keep the fuck off
My pavement granite.
Charging down on my space
You scream I’m in the way
From your contorted face.
Well if that’s the case
Two can play…
When you jump the lights
I’ll step out late
If it makes you angry
Then bleedin’ great!
Of course there’s a chance
I could get hurt
But it’s so much fun
Pissing off a lycra shirt.
And don’t get me started
On the late night crush
Your bike on my train
And it all goes hush
Muttering abounds but we’re too polite
To push you off into the night.
So we get crushed
Like sardines in a tin
Because you’re too pissed to ride home
And squeeze your bike in.
Call me old fashioned
But a bike’s to cycle home on
Not a contraption to carry home
When you’re too far gone.
If only I could choose
Who falls under a lorry
A wonderful death
Where the driver’s not sorry
My ultimate dream
Is of Boris going splat
Crushed while wearing
His cycling hat!
Dulwich Poet 4^th November 2013
(Cyclists are a pain. The ones who jump lights, ride on pavements, bring their bikes on late trains home because they’re too drunk, or plain too lazy to ride them.  If one gets killed on our streets then I have no sympathy, and would only get upset if it ever happens to family or friends of mine.)

"Close"

Through the glass
Day turns to night
Though I feel  safe
I need to fight.
Recurring thoughts in my head
What would it be like to be dead?
Just have to walk
Out of the door
Over the edge
And hit the floor.
Not something I’m going to do
Here and now

But can’t rule out a case
Of when
Or even ever.
Problem is my life’s a mess
No-one knows I’m under stress
I’m getting fed up and counting to ten
So it’s probably a case of
Where and when.
Not helped by the fact
Another birthday’s past
I genuinely don’t know
How long I will last.
Maybe when I reach
The big Five-0
Will that be the time to go?
It’s not that I feel so
Down and depressed
Just feel that from life
I need a rest.
I’ve achieved nothing
And don’t feel I will
Being totally useless
I’ve had my fill.
At this very moment
I don’t want to die
But eating away inside me
Is the fact I want to try.

Dulwich Poet 3^rd November 2013

(Sitting inside from the 5^th floor balcony, overlooking the River Thames at the Royal Festival Hall, I ponder what it would be like to go outside and jump over the edge, even though I have no plan to do that)

"Mad Bad Dad"

Such a nice evening out for a meal
Who could have thought it would be so unreal
Leaving our little girl behind
Out of sight, out of mind.
I mean we only put her to bed
Didn’t expect her missing
Now presumed dead.
You can’t blame us
How were we to know
It’s not as if we’re the type
From the Jeremy Kyle Show.
How can you dare say
We did it ourself
Party of a plan
To accumulate wealth.
Those neglect claims make us wild
It just doesn’t happen
To a middle class child!
We tucked her up
All nice and safe
She wasn’t at risk
Like a council estate waif.
How dare you claim
The police are still on the case
As we’re white and posh
Instead of poor
With a black face?
 
Well…I’ve a message for the McCann’s
If that was a black girl from Peckham
They’d have washed their hands!
It’s not that I don’t care
I just want justice to be fair.
If this were a family
In the benefits trap
The Sun & The Mail
Would be full of crap
Calling for a case of neglect
Trial by media in effect.
It’s supposed to be austerity
All in this together
Yet it’s a continual Old Bill jolly
Out to Algarve’s nice weather.
Even though middle England will frown
It’s time to wind this case down
Take a deep breath
Look at the evidence and reflect

How about putting the parents
In the dock for neglect!

Dulwich Poet 3^rd November 2013

(Madeleine McCann disappeared from her family’s holiday apartment in the Algarve. She was almost four years old. Her parents had left her alone & were at a nearby restaurant. The case has been high profile with both the British police and media ever since. Her parents are both from a respectable middle class background…)