How many more can I write.
Certainly nothing more tonight.
Come in Dulwich Poet.
Your time is up.
Not bad for Year One.
Two Thousand and Thirteen.
It all began in the Cherry Tree.
Way back in January.
Three hundred and four...not out.
The England cricket team
Wouldn't have minded
A score like that.
Not a bad year at all...
For a poet (re)born.
Dulwich Poet 31st December 2013
( I started trying to write poetry at the start of the year. This is my last one of 2013...I wrote an amazing 304 poems this year. Amazing as in the total, not the quality)
Tuesday 31 December 2013
"Passing The time"
Sitting in a 'P'
For Priority seat...
If only you were
My private priority.
Oblivious with your
Modern electrical gadget
That I can't even put
A proper name to.
Wired up to your
Headphones with
That red wire
Between your lips.
What a waste!
I can see your
Hands grasping your gadget.
When in my head
I've got another use for them
Desperate for your
Fingers to be
Wrapt round
My half hard half soft cock.
Your legs tapping
To your tunes...
Now you are gulping
Adam's apple bobbing...
OMG! As you youngsters say!
He's yawning now...
Open wide
I'm in dirty old man heaven
As we pull into Brockley.
All in the mind
Mine sadly.
I'm growing old badly.
Dulwich Poet 31st December 2013
(My mind wandered, as I admired a young man, oblivious to my thoughts, on the train home from work, earlier this evening. I jotted this down on the train.)
For Priority seat...
If only you were
My private priority.
Oblivious with your
Modern electrical gadget
That I can't even put
A proper name to.
Wired up to your
Headphones with
That red wire
Between your lips.
What a waste!
I can see your
Hands grasping your gadget.
When in my head
I've got another use for them
Desperate for your
Fingers to be
Wrapt round
My half hard half soft cock.
Your legs tapping
To your tunes...
Now you are gulping
Adam's apple bobbing...
OMG! As you youngsters say!
He's yawning now...
Open wide
I'm in dirty old man heaven
As we pull into Brockley.
All in the mind
Mine sadly.
I'm growing old badly.
Dulwich Poet 31st December 2013
(My mind wandered, as I admired a young man, oblivious to my thoughts, on the train home from work, earlier this evening. I jotted this down on the train.)
"Happy New Year"
We all say it.
What does it mean?
Well for me...
I'll settle for
Being able to say
Same time
Same place
Next year.
Even if it means
I'm speaking to myself.
For that will mean
I am still speaking
And breathing.
So what if I'm 'home alone'
Keeping myself company
Even if it means
Me saying
'Happy New Year'
To myself.
Same old, same old.
The calendar and clock
May move on
But some things never change.
Dulwich Poet 31st December 2013.
(In case you've never guessed...it's New Years Eve.)
What does it mean?
Well for me...
I'll settle for
Being able to say
Same time
Same place
Next year.
Even if it means
I'm speaking to myself.
For that will mean
I am still speaking
And breathing.
So what if I'm 'home alone'
Keeping myself company
Even if it means
Me saying
'Happy New Year'
To myself.
Same old, same old.
The calendar and clock
May move on
But some things never change.
Dulwich Poet 31st December 2013.
(In case you've never guessed...it's New Years Eve.)
"Old and New Fusion dream"
Well how strange was that!
Waking up with a start thinking...
What on earth was all that about?
Dreaming...not daring to dissect.
It was the twenty first century
For the Voodoo Stick was there
Though as far as I could tell
Our pink and blue Wizard Robert
Was without his cowbell.
See..told you it was strange.
It was a home game
But the stand was on the 'wrong' side.
Though....it seemed
As if it was the old ground
Which the vast majority
Of our current crowd
Cannot even recall
With some not even being born
When it was hit
By the demolition ball.
Last night
All in my head
It was a cup tie
In what I know not
For we were playing...
St. Johnstone!
Their fans on newly concrete steps
Down at the front of the old Greendale end
The old dirt terrace
Still rising high behind.
Along the side
Gone is our new one-sided stadium
And the old covered terrace is there
Exactly as it was
Crash barriers in the same spot
Except they stood in more
Of that fresh concrete
Built as a labour of love
By Shaun Dooley
Who was still at it with his trowel!
We were all impresed...
But as for the game
Against the Saints
I cannot tell you the score
Which I know is rather poor.
My alarm went off
And I woke up with a start
For a moment not able
To tell fact and fiction apart
Jumping out of bed
To get to work on time.
A fusion of old and new
In my head but feeling true.
I dread to think what a shrink
Would make of all this if I were
Resting on their couch.
Self analysing
I guess I want
A good future
Without letting go
Of the ghosts of my past.
It is New Years Eve after all.
By way of a P.S.
The present was never far
As Yasmin was still running the bar
So it's just as well as my dream
Came to an abrupt halt
With her at helm
I don't want to know
What lays ahead
As I fear my Football Club's
Soon to be dead.
(To be continued....
Depending if I have another tonight)
Sweet dreams....
Dulwich Poet 31st December 2013
(This morning I woke up, having had a weird Dulwich Hamlet terrace football dream. It seemed so real, but I was annoyed that I could only recall bits of it!)
Waking up with a start thinking...
What on earth was all that about?
Dreaming...not daring to dissect.
It was the twenty first century
For the Voodoo Stick was there
Though as far as I could tell
Our pink and blue Wizard Robert
Was without his cowbell.
See..told you it was strange.
It was a home game
But the stand was on the 'wrong' side.
Though....it seemed
As if it was the old ground
Which the vast majority
Of our current crowd
Cannot even recall
With some not even being born
When it was hit
By the demolition ball.
Last night
All in my head
It was a cup tie
In what I know not
For we were playing...
St. Johnstone!
Their fans on newly concrete steps
Down at the front of the old Greendale end
The old dirt terrace
Still rising high behind.
Along the side
Gone is our new one-sided stadium
And the old covered terrace is there
Exactly as it was
Crash barriers in the same spot
Except they stood in more
Of that fresh concrete
Built as a labour of love
By Shaun Dooley
Who was still at it with his trowel!
We were all impresed...
But as for the game
Against the Saints
I cannot tell you the score
Which I know is rather poor.
My alarm went off
And I woke up with a start
For a moment not able
To tell fact and fiction apart
Jumping out of bed
To get to work on time.
A fusion of old and new
In my head but feeling true.
I dread to think what a shrink
Would make of all this if I were
Resting on their couch.
Self analysing
I guess I want
A good future
Without letting go
Of the ghosts of my past.
It is New Years Eve after all.
By way of a P.S.
The present was never far
As Yasmin was still running the bar
So it's just as well as my dream
Came to an abrupt halt
With her at helm
I don't want to know
What lays ahead
As I fear my Football Club's
Soon to be dead.
(To be continued....
Depending if I have another tonight)
Sweet dreams....
Dulwich Poet 31st December 2013
(This morning I woke up, having had a weird Dulwich Hamlet terrace football dream. It seemed so real, but I was annoyed that I could only recall bits of it!)
Saturday 28 December 2013
"Buzzing!"
You came, you mocked
Now "Football Karma's"
Boat has docked.
Rocking up against your collapsed wall
Blame us again...it's your call!
Pitch underwater
Sewage and shit
Never thought it was possible
To make your ground a worse pit.
The River Mole broke it's banks
For this 'act of god'
I give our Edgar thanks
With our Amateur Cup medals on his chest
Not your 'son of god'
Who's supposed to be blessed.
Oh poor old Leatherhead I'm trying not to choke
With your lack of insurance being stony broke.
The least of your worries now
Is your 'onesie boy' wall
It really is will you
Play back there at all?
All that mess broken through
Condoms, tampons & untold poo.
I'm sure your players are all abuzz
Yes, now WE ARE gloating
That's what YOUR Tweeting does.
Here's hope we enrage
The neanderthals in your cage.
For your racist scum
We don't give two hoots
Ankle deep in your wellington boots
If this is global warming
Bring it on!
For I won't be happy
Until your nasty club's gone!
Dulwich Poet 28th December 2013
( Following the accidental collapse of a weakened wall away to Leatherhead last season, and the way their club reacted to it, has made relations 'strained' to say the least between Dulwich Hamlet & them. I have obsolutely no respect for them at all. On Christmas Eve their ground was completely flooded when a nearby river broke it's banks, with little to no sympathy from a large number of our fans.)
Now "Football Karma's"
Boat has docked.
Rocking up against your collapsed wall
Blame us again...it's your call!
Pitch underwater
Sewage and shit
Never thought it was possible
To make your ground a worse pit.
The River Mole broke it's banks
For this 'act of god'
I give our Edgar thanks
With our Amateur Cup medals on his chest
Not your 'son of god'
Who's supposed to be blessed.
Oh poor old Leatherhead I'm trying not to choke
With your lack of insurance being stony broke.
The least of your worries now
Is your 'onesie boy' wall
It really is will you
Play back there at all?
All that mess broken through
Condoms, tampons & untold poo.
I'm sure your players are all abuzz
Yes, now WE ARE gloating
That's what YOUR Tweeting does.
Here's hope we enrage
The neanderthals in your cage.
For your racist scum
We don't give two hoots
Ankle deep in your wellington boots
If this is global warming
Bring it on!
For I won't be happy
Until your nasty club's gone!
Dulwich Poet 28th December 2013
( Following the accidental collapse of a weakened wall away to Leatherhead last season, and the way their club reacted to it, has made relations 'strained' to say the least between Dulwich Hamlet & them. I have obsolutely no respect for them at all. On Christmas Eve their ground was completely flooded when a nearby river broke it's banks, with little to no sympathy from a large number of our fans.)
"The Box Beckons"
What is it with poets?
That make them
(And by implication me)
Such miserable bastards?
Cliche corner or urban myth
Depressing enough
To jump off a cliff?
Can I help it if I feel
My life is crap?
Should I just accept it
Or get in a flap?
Can't runaway from facts-
I'm forty seven
Getting even closer
To eternity in heaven.
Not that I believe
There's such a place
Once the lid's nailed down
On your wooden case.
I've just got that feeling
My end is nearing
Thankfully without the hassle
Of being god fearing.
With nothing to back
My 'on the way out' fears up
Bar a gut instinct
When it comes to a 'good life'
I've been sold a pup.
No idea how long I've to live
Or how much poetry inside
There is to give.
I know I can do morbid
Not sure about mirth
Putting that down to my shit life
Here on Planet Earth.
Dulwich Poet 28th December 2013
(Just wondering if people who write poetry tend to more miserable than 'ordinary' people, or is it the other 'moody' people just haven't picked their pens up yet? Who knows?)
That make them
(And by implication me)
Such miserable bastards?
Cliche corner or urban myth
Depressing enough
To jump off a cliff?
Can I help it if I feel
My life is crap?
Should I just accept it
Or get in a flap?
Can't runaway from facts-
I'm forty seven
Getting even closer
To eternity in heaven.
Not that I believe
There's such a place
Once the lid's nailed down
On your wooden case.
I've just got that feeling
My end is nearing
Thankfully without the hassle
Of being god fearing.
With nothing to back
My 'on the way out' fears up
Bar a gut instinct
When it comes to a 'good life'
I've been sold a pup.
No idea how long I've to live
Or how much poetry inside
There is to give.
I know I can do morbid
Not sure about mirth
Putting that down to my shit life
Here on Planet Earth.
Dulwich Poet 28th December 2013
(Just wondering if people who write poetry tend to more miserable than 'ordinary' people, or is it the other 'moody' people just haven't picked their pens up yet? Who knows?)
"That Time of Year"
Happy New Year
Is the 'official' line
Believe you and me
It won't be mine
Resolutions coming out of your ear
Genuine hope drowned by beer
Ambitious fals hopes at the start
Two weeks in all fallen apart.
Close the gate
And bolt the door
Nowaday's that's all
New Year is for.
I hate the mock joy
Petence of hope
One minute past midnight
Equals twelve more months
Of struggling to cope.
Tiny targets that I set
Seem to get fucked up
And never met.
Having ambition is not a crime
But I've got to treat it
Like my alcoholism
One day at a time.
All I want is more
Good times than bad
Surely a realistic
Resolution to be had?
Whether that happens
Remains to be seen
So come back and ask me
On the eve of 2015.
Dulwich Poet 28th December 2013
(I try not to set myself New Years resolutions, as they tend to fall by the wayside)
Is the 'official' line
Believe you and me
It won't be mine
Resolutions coming out of your ear
Genuine hope drowned by beer
Ambitious fals hopes at the start
Two weeks in all fallen apart.
Close the gate
And bolt the door
Nowaday's that's all
New Year is for.
I hate the mock joy
Petence of hope
One minute past midnight
Equals twelve more months
Of struggling to cope.
Tiny targets that I set
Seem to get fucked up
And never met.
Having ambition is not a crime
But I've got to treat it
Like my alcoholism
One day at a time.
All I want is more
Good times than bad
Surely a realistic
Resolution to be had?
Whether that happens
Remains to be seen
So come back and ask me
On the eve of 2015.
Dulwich Poet 28th December 2013
(I try not to set myself New Years resolutions, as they tend to fall by the wayside)
"Slowing Down"
Can't even remember
What it means
I was only a boy at the time,
But my poetry's like
British Leyland Seventies.
My rhythmic production
On it's knees
Struggling to knock one out
So to speak, or otherwise!
Poetry addiction is a 'curse'
No idea how it will flow
All out no production
Like a factory go slow.
Only joking, having a jest
See it as 'having a rest'.
Whatever happens
I won't get mad
With this literary affliction
Of the thing called 'sad'
Seasonal Affective Disorder
Does it really exist
There's a fine border...
Made the decision
Not to wear a permanent frown
If I can't summon the mental energy
To jot stuff down
Certain my words of wisdom
Will come back
Soon to have my poetry on track.
Dulwich Poet 28th December 2013
( Without being able to put my finger on it, December has been a very slow month for me, poetry wise. This one is my way of trying to five it all a 'kick start'.)
What it means
I was only a boy at the time,
But my poetry's like
British Leyland Seventies.
My rhythmic production
On it's knees
Struggling to knock one out
So to speak, or otherwise!
Poetry addiction is a 'curse'
No idea how it will flow
All out no production
Like a factory go slow.
Only joking, having a jest
See it as 'having a rest'.
Whatever happens
I won't get mad
With this literary affliction
Of the thing called 'sad'
Seasonal Affective Disorder
Does it really exist
There's a fine border...
Made the decision
Not to wear a permanent frown
If I can't summon the mental energy
To jot stuff down
Certain my words of wisdom
Will come back
Soon to have my poetry on track.
Dulwich Poet 28th December 2013
( Without being able to put my finger on it, December has been a very slow month for me, poetry wise. This one is my way of trying to five it all a 'kick start'.)
Wednesday 18 December 2013
"Ignored"
Granted
You're younger than me
Granted
You're fitter than me
Granted
You have bigger cocks than me
Granted
You're more fussy than me
But....
Where have all the dirty old men gone
So I can join them
And be who I want to be?
Dulwich Poet 18th December 2013
(I realise I'm middled aged, overweight and not really attractive. But this is about the loneliness of looking for anonymous sex in public toilets, when all I want is a brief bit of fun)
You're younger than me
Granted
You're fitter than me
Granted
You have bigger cocks than me
Granted
You're more fussy than me
But....
Where have all the dirty old men gone
So I can join them
And be who I want to be?
Dulwich Poet 18th December 2013
(I realise I'm middled aged, overweight and not really attractive. But this is about the loneliness of looking for anonymous sex in public toilets, when all I want is a brief bit of fun)
"Gone Forever"
You know that moment
We've all had it
When you have that 'Ping!'
The germ of an idea
For the next one
Which seemed like
A good idea at the time
If only you had
Stopped for a second
To write it down.
Now it's gone forever.
Like dear old Ronnie Biggs.
The perils of being a poet eh?
Dulwich Poet 18th December 2013
( The 'worst' thing about trying to write poetry is thinking of something, or-even worse- have a few lines in your head, but not jotting them down, thinking you will remember them later. And then you can't. Ronnie Biggs is mentioned because it was announced that the famous Great Train Robber died today)
We've all had it
When you have that 'Ping!'
The germ of an idea
For the next one
Which seemed like
A good idea at the time
If only you had
Stopped for a second
To write it down.
Now it's gone forever.
Like dear old Ronnie Biggs.
The perils of being a poet eh?
Dulwich Poet 18th December 2013
( The 'worst' thing about trying to write poetry is thinking of something, or-even worse- have a few lines in your head, but not jotting them down, thinking you will remember them later. And then you can't. Ronnie Biggs is mentioned because it was announced that the famous Great Train Robber died today)
Monday 16 December 2013
"Bloody Hell!"
Shouldn't complain
Mustn't moan
Not as if you're taking
Blood from a stone.
Taken a day off work
Not sure what for
Assumed it was to see a doctor
You know the score.
Blood tests and things
I like on my Wednesday off
But I've been out of kilter
With a bastard cough.
Arrive at Lewisham
Present my letter
Not on the system
Day's not getting better.
Turns out it's the usual
Venesection...
But not straight away!
They need a blood test
Just to see if I need the rest.
Turns out I don't
Blood iron levels are fine
So I want to moan
And have a whine.
A day off work
I'll never get back
That's the shit
I really can't hack.
No doubt my blood pressure's
Now through the roof
Biting my tongue
So I'm not fucking uncouth!
A whole day wasted
For a prick in the arm
Now I need one in my gob
To keep me calm.
Dulwich Poet 16th December 2013
( I got a letter for a hospital appointment, not sure what it was for, so I used up a day's annual leave. Turns out it was just one of my regular out-patient appointments, regarding iron levels in my blood. Which, I am sure, if I had phoned I could have swapped to my regular Wednesday off work. To top it all, there was a long wait, and then they took a blood test, to check my levels, and told me-after another wait-that they didn't need to drain a pint of blood off of me. not amused!)
Mustn't moan
Not as if you're taking
Blood from a stone.
Taken a day off work
Not sure what for
Assumed it was to see a doctor
You know the score.
Blood tests and things
I like on my Wednesday off
But I've been out of kilter
With a bastard cough.
Arrive at Lewisham
Present my letter
Not on the system
Day's not getting better.
Turns out it's the usual
Venesection...
But not straight away!
They need a blood test
Just to see if I need the rest.
Turns out I don't
Blood iron levels are fine
So I want to moan
And have a whine.
A day off work
I'll never get back
That's the shit
I really can't hack.
No doubt my blood pressure's
Now through the roof
Biting my tongue
So I'm not fucking uncouth!
A whole day wasted
For a prick in the arm
Now I need one in my gob
To keep me calm.
Dulwich Poet 16th December 2013
( I got a letter for a hospital appointment, not sure what it was for, so I used up a day's annual leave. Turns out it was just one of my regular out-patient appointments, regarding iron levels in my blood. Which, I am sure, if I had phoned I could have swapped to my regular Wednesday off work. To top it all, there was a long wait, and then they took a blood test, to check my levels, and told me-after another wait-that they didn't need to drain a pint of blood off of me. not amused!)
Sunday 15 December 2013
"Limerick Ditty"
There was a poetess from Peckham
Whose attitude was Feck 'em!
I'll write about a cat
Even if I feel like a prat
And if they don't like my Robert will deck 'em!
Dulwich Poet ?(approx. 15th)? December 2013
(Not sure of the exact date of this. It's a Facebook comment response to a mate's missus, who published a poem on her page, which was about cats. In the comments afterwards she mentioned that she wished she'd stuck to a limerick. The poem itslef was very good, and this is what I jotted down at the time a a Post-it note, for a bit of fun.)
Whose attitude was Feck 'em!
I'll write about a cat
Even if I feel like a prat
And if they don't like my Robert will deck 'em!
Dulwich Poet ?(approx. 15th)? December 2013
(Not sure of the exact date of this. It's a Facebook comment response to a mate's missus, who published a poem on her page, which was about cats. In the comments afterwards she mentioned that she wished she'd stuck to a limerick. The poem itslef was very good, and this is what I jotted down at the time a a Post-it note, for a bit of fun.)
Saturday 14 December 2013
"Hidden Moods"
Is it such a bad thing
To lay yourself bareOr continue the lie
That you have no care?
Pretend your life
Is hunky dory
Keeping people happy
With a make believe story.
The problem is I’m not insane
Which in a way is a shame
Not down enough
To suffer depression
Or crazy enough for
A psychiatry session.
There must be
Many more like me
Hiding out there
Bumbling on in life
Without hope or care.
At least if you’re mental
You’ve got a label
Your cards are out
Slapped on the table.
I’m to normal…
To be a nutter.
Too scared of pain
To be a cutter.
From the outside in
I’m a normal chap
Only me who knows
My life is crap.
Once in a while
My mask will drop
Leading to the inevitable pop!
Seeking attention, even being a bitch!
Well ‘pot and kettle’
That’s a bit too rich.
My only crime
Is letting down my guard
Because being honest in public
Is fucking hard.
Low self-esteem
Is a burden I carry round
One that weighs me down
Without a sound.
So next time you ask me
How I feel
The answer I give
Isn’t real.
My response will be
My usual ‘not dead yet’
From my standard “I’m normal” set.
You’re not supposed to
Judge people by their looks
Same with covers
On Library books.
But if you size me up
From what’s inside
You might just be shop
By the pain that I hide.
Dulwich Poet 14th December 2013
( I wrote this after returning from Lowestoft Town
Saturday 7 December 2013
"World Cup Wally"
It’s going to be tough
For the tabloids
Over inBrazil
None of the usual hype
Before going for the kill.
Not even a case
Of will we cope
With our current squad
There’s not even hope.
At least Woy won’t be stabbed in the back
It’s from the front
The hacks will attack.
Stick the knife in
Because they were blanked
After championing ‘Arry the Spiv
But not even thanked.
Tabloid vulture have no shame
To them all it’s just a game
A World Cup jaunt
All expenses paid
Bonus for them
If our boys fade.
Mock condemnation if
A player effigy’s strung up
After fooling the nation
We can win the cup.
At least this time
Expectation’s low
Possibly plummeting
To less than zero.
The only fans who believe
Are down the pub
And therein likes
The Sky culture rub
For fans who go to games
Have no real hope
The ones who know football
Know our National Team’s a joke.
People like Greg Dyke
Can get on their bike
With his cut-throat gesture
What’s there not to dislike.
Anyone one who travels
Will ape cricket’s
Barmy Army brigade
Corporates and wide boys
On a Jolly, well paid.
There will be no passion
Just one tuneless brass band
Which sums up why
I not longer followEngland
Dulwich Poet 7th December 2013
(The draw for the World Cup Finals to be held next year inBrazil England were
paired with Italy
For the tabloids
Over in
None of the usual hype
Before going for the kill.
Not even a case
Of will we cope
With our current squad
There’s not even hope.
At least Woy won’t be stabbed in the back
It’s from the front
The hacks will attack.
Stick the knife in
Because they were blanked
After championing ‘Arry the Spiv
But not even thanked.
Tabloid vulture have no shame
To them all it’s just a game
A World Cup jaunt
All expenses paid
Bonus for them
If our boys fade.
Mock condemnation if
A player effigy’s strung up
After fooling the nation
We can win the cup.
At least this time
Expectation’s low
Possibly plummeting
To less than zero.
The only fans who believe
Are down the pub
And therein likes
The Sky culture rub
For fans who go to games
Have no real hope
The ones who know football
Know our National Team’s a joke.
People like Greg Dyke
Can get on their bike
With his cut-throat gesture
What’s there not to dislike.
Anyone one who travels
Will ape cricket’s
Barmy Army brigade
Corporates and wide boys
On a Jolly, well paid.
There will be no passion
Just one tuneless brass band
Which sums up why
I not longer follow
Dulwich Poet 7th December 2013
(The draw for the World Cup Finals to be held next year in
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