If you were from the Sixties generation
You could tell me where you were
Like the rest of the nation
When Kennedy died
And the whole world cried.
If you, like me...
Are from the football generation
Born in the Sixties
I bet you
A pound to a penny
You know EXACTLY
Where you were
A quarter of a century ago today
The day NINETY SIX died
When police and politicians lied
The City of Liverpool cried
And the media tried
To blame ordinary fans
Saying they had their own
Blood on their hands.
Throw enough mud
And it sticks
Untruthful spiteful
Covering up tricks.
I was at Claremont Road, Hendon
Watching Dulwich Hamlet play
When we started gathering round
Transistor radios
On that ordinary spring April day.
At first we laughed and joked
About a few dead Scousers causing trouble
Our uninformed mirth
Soon turning to shock
As bodies piled up
Among the rubble.
A few reported DEAD
Soon turned into a score
Then on the telly after the game
Sixty, seventy, eighty and more.
F.A. Cup semi-final
Dreaming of Wembley Way
For ninety six excited people
It was to be their last ever day.
I don't even want to
Try to comprehend
The fear they all went through
Crushed at the Leppings Lane End.
All in the name of supporting their club
It's all they wanted to do
Then caged in and left to die
Worse than animals in a zoo.
We're now two and a half
Decades down the road
And the families
Don't give up their fight
But now the truth is coming out
I hope justice is in sight.
So what if some fans turned up drunk
Or others jumped over a gate
They weren't guilty of a death sentence
For the sin of some being late.
The fact is incompetent
Police and safety
Killed them
And sealed their fate.
Young and old
Left to die
Despite their desperate plea's
Then the blame was unforgivably turned
At a grieving city on it's knees.
I'm sorry in the past I mocked you
It was just silly words I said
And I hope this poem makes small amends
To honour and respect your dead.
Dulwich Poet 15th April 2014
(Today was the 25th anniversary of the Hillsborough Disaster)
Wednesday, 16 April 2014
Tuesday, 15 April 2014
"Shirt Off Your Back"
They say football's run by cowboys
I might not always agree
But ninety odd quid
For a new England shirt
Is really taking the pee!
Back in the so-called 'Bad Old Days'
To follow your country meant you were a thug
Fast forward to twenty fourteen
You're just a more money-than-sense mug.
Manufactured atmosphere at matches
Brass bands blasting in your ear
Needing to take out a mortgage
For a half-time pie and a beer.
Being told to sit down
In your sanatised over-priced seat
Expected to join in the Mexican Wave
When you're allowed onto your feet.
The old Wembley was a dump
And we were ripped off back then too
But at least it was proper football fans
Not corporates out on a do!
Come the World Cup this summer
I won't be wearing
A top that costs almost a ton
When I can buy a wardrobe full of gear
For the price of an official one.
Rye Lane, Peckham's where I'll be
For moody shirts, tops galore
Spending my hard-earned in Primark
Gentleman's outfitters to the poor.
Dulwich Poet 15th April 2014
(A few weeks ago the Football Association announced that the new England shirt, on sale for the World Cup finals in the summer, will cost £90...)
I might not always agree
But ninety odd quid
For a new England shirt
Is really taking the pee!
Back in the so-called 'Bad Old Days'
To follow your country meant you were a thug
Fast forward to twenty fourteen
You're just a more money-than-sense mug.
Manufactured atmosphere at matches
Brass bands blasting in your ear
Needing to take out a mortgage
For a half-time pie and a beer.
Being told to sit down
In your sanatised over-priced seat
Expected to join in the Mexican Wave
When you're allowed onto your feet.
The old Wembley was a dump
And we were ripped off back then too
But at least it was proper football fans
Not corporates out on a do!
Come the World Cup this summer
I won't be wearing
A top that costs almost a ton
When I can buy a wardrobe full of gear
For the price of an official one.
Rye Lane, Peckham's where I'll be
For moody shirts, tops galore
Spending my hard-earned in Primark
Gentleman's outfitters to the poor.
Dulwich Poet 15th April 2014
(A few weeks ago the Football Association announced that the new England shirt, on sale for the World Cup finals in the summer, will cost £90...)
Tuesday, 8 April 2014
"Peaches Off The Menu"
Lead balloon time
At 'Poetry Unplugged'
The punters all looked
As if they'd been mugged.
My first one of Bob Crow
Went down rather well
But as for the next one...
You can never tell.
Not sure if there was
A single round of applause
Reading one on still warm Peaches
Was probably a lost cause.
I don't write to shock
Just read to share
If it's not liked that much
I don't really care.
Poetry's just thoughtd
Escaping from my head
This one just happened to be about
A rich young socialite
Not long dead.
It was not better or worse
Than much I've previously read
So the fact it just bombed
Won't fill me with dread.
Maybe the Geldof girl topic
Was too close to their own
Not so much near as the knuckle
As cutting to the bone.
Their stony silence
Should hurt me inside
But in a weird sort of way
It filled me with pride.
Dulwich Poet 8th April 2014
(I was at the 'Poetry Unplugged' open mic this evening, and read my poem on the death of Peaches Geldof. It wasn't well received...but I thought I read it ok, so didn't get it wrong, in that sense. I'm not too bothered really, as I thought it was an ok one. If other people didn't like it then there's nothing I can do about that.)
At 'Poetry Unplugged'
The punters all looked
As if they'd been mugged.
My first one of Bob Crow
Went down rather well
But as for the next one...
You can never tell.
Not sure if there was
A single round of applause
Reading one on still warm Peaches
Was probably a lost cause.
I don't write to shock
Just read to share
If it's not liked that much
I don't really care.
Poetry's just thoughtd
Escaping from my head
This one just happened to be about
A rich young socialite
Not long dead.
It was not better or worse
Than much I've previously read
So the fact it just bombed
Won't fill me with dread.
Maybe the Geldof girl topic
Was too close to their own
Not so much near as the knuckle
As cutting to the bone.
Their stony silence
Should hurt me inside
But in a weird sort of way
It filled me with pride.
Dulwich Poet 8th April 2014
(I was at the 'Poetry Unplugged' open mic this evening, and read my poem on the death of Peaches Geldof. It wasn't well received...but I thought I read it ok, so didn't get it wrong, in that sense. I'm not too bothered really, as I thought it was an ok one. If other people didn't like it then there's nothing I can do about that.)
"Life's Not All Peaches and Cream"
It seems life wasn't Peachy
Despite what it said on the tin
Not so full of beans
Seems she's done herself in.
It might be unfair
To pass judgement
But that's what we do
As she shared her life
In the tabloid zoo.
I'm not one to point
A finger of blame
But what chance did she have
With such a stupid name?
Leaving her daughter behind
Phaedra Bloom Forever
With the other Astala Dylan Willow
Showing she wasn't too clever.
Poor old Fifi & Peaches
Sounding like a pampered pooch
Can you blame her if she
Turned to something stronger than Hooch?
The country's in shock
A media scrum
What chance did she have
What with her dead mum?
Saving the world
Her dad went off to roam
While his daughter
Was feeding her habit
Closer to home.
If he didn't like Mondays
They just got worse
Your baby has ended up
In an undertaker's hearse.
I shouldn't jump to conclusions
Might not be down to drugs
But isn't that exactly what YOU do
When it's inner city gangsta thugs?
Stabbed or shot
They're all the same
Those nasty black boys
Only got themselves to blame.
But poor little Peaches
Such a sad upbringing
That what all the mourning public
Are today totally singing.
As if her life
Seems worth so much more
Than a boy from Brixton or Peckham
Who grew up behind a council estate door.
It's not that I've no heart
Or simply don't care
I'm just so angry
Griping how it's unfair
That the same sympathy
For what you call
Working class criminal scum
Is never out there.
So forgive my lack of concern Fifi Trixibell
Now without little sister
Condemned to your living hell
As for Daddy Geldof
He tried to save the world
A shame he wasn't so concerned
About his own little girl.
Dulwich Poet 8th April 2014
(Peaches Geldof, daughter of pop star & charity fundraiser Bob Geldof, died yesterday. It's not know yet if was an overdose, suicide, or tragic natural causes. I have no real thoughts on here, I did not know her, & whilst it is sad, it does not affect me. I am contrasting the reaction to her death to those of the many teenagers murdered each year by their fellow teenagers, whether gang related or not)
Despite what it said on the tin
Not so full of beans
Seems she's done herself in.
It might be unfair
To pass judgement
But that's what we do
As she shared her life
In the tabloid zoo.
I'm not one to point
A finger of blame
But what chance did she have
With such a stupid name?
Leaving her daughter behind
Phaedra Bloom Forever
With the other Astala Dylan Willow
Showing she wasn't too clever.
Poor old Fifi & Peaches
Sounding like a pampered pooch
Can you blame her if she
Turned to something stronger than Hooch?
The country's in shock
A media scrum
What chance did she have
What with her dead mum?
Saving the world
Her dad went off to roam
While his daughter
Was feeding her habit
Closer to home.
If he didn't like Mondays
They just got worse
Your baby has ended up
In an undertaker's hearse.
I shouldn't jump to conclusions
Might not be down to drugs
But isn't that exactly what YOU do
When it's inner city gangsta thugs?
Stabbed or shot
They're all the same
Those nasty black boys
Only got themselves to blame.
But poor little Peaches
Such a sad upbringing
That what all the mourning public
Are today totally singing.
As if her life
Seems worth so much more
Than a boy from Brixton or Peckham
Who grew up behind a council estate door.
It's not that I've no heart
Or simply don't care
I'm just so angry
Griping how it's unfair
That the same sympathy
For what you call
Working class criminal scum
Is never out there.
So forgive my lack of concern Fifi Trixibell
Now without little sister
Condemned to your living hell
As for Daddy Geldof
He tried to save the world
A shame he wasn't so concerned
About his own little girl.
Dulwich Poet 8th April 2014
(Peaches Geldof, daughter of pop star & charity fundraiser Bob Geldof, died yesterday. It's not know yet if was an overdose, suicide, or tragic natural causes. I have no real thoughts on here, I did not know her, & whilst it is sad, it does not affect me. I am contrasting the reaction to her death to those of the many teenagers murdered each year by their fellow teenagers, whether gang related or not)
Monday, 7 April 2014
"Worth The Wait?"
Purgatory may be
A figment
Of the Catholic imagination
But it's a real and frightening place
For us out-patients struglling
To stay in the human race.
No matter what time
There's always a queue
Full of dithering old biddies
Not sure what to do.
They're always too early
Making the rest of us late
Becoming old before my time
They've sealed my fate.
And then you have to give up
Your waiting room chair
Pretending you're warm hearted
When you really don't care.
I shouldn't be ungrateful
Gawd bless the N.H.S.
Just being cruel to be kind
If I must confess.
For if that's the quality of life
When I get old
The thought of being
Seventy or eighty
Leaves me cold.
Hoping when the time comes
I'll be brave enough
To be bold
And the last Easyjet flight
To Switzerland's not sold.
Dulwich Poet 7th April 2014
(This is me looking around the waiting room, and the queue at Lewisham Hospital, where I had an out-patient appointment. As old age creeps up on me I am not looking forward to getting as old & infirm as some of those around me..)
A figment
Of the Catholic imagination
But it's a real and frightening place
For us out-patients struglling
To stay in the human race.
No matter what time
There's always a queue
Full of dithering old biddies
Not sure what to do.
They're always too early
Making the rest of us late
Becoming old before my time
They've sealed my fate.
And then you have to give up
Your waiting room chair
Pretending you're warm hearted
When you really don't care.
I shouldn't be ungrateful
Gawd bless the N.H.S.
Just being cruel to be kind
If I must confess.
For if that's the quality of life
When I get old
The thought of being
Seventy or eighty
Leaves me cold.
Hoping when the time comes
I'll be brave enough
To be bold
And the last Easyjet flight
To Switzerland's not sold.
Dulwich Poet 7th April 2014
(This is me looking around the waiting room, and the queue at Lewisham Hospital, where I had an out-patient appointment. As old age creeps up on me I am not looking forward to getting as old & infirm as some of those around me..)
Saturday, 5 April 2014
"Matchday Tenderhooks"
It seems a million
Light years away
How on earth did we cope
Back in the day
Before...
One tiny click
Could bring on elation
Or make you feel sick
When you wanted
An update on the score
Stuck at work
And desperate for more.
No waiting til half-time
Desperate to phone
Before computers and Twitter
Feeling so alone.
Never mind Ceefax
As it jumped over your page
Waiting an eternity
As you worked up a rage.
Fast forward to now
And click on the 'net
Find Football Web Pages
No need to fret.
Oh no! Wingate
& Finchley have scored!
That's no in the script...
But Lodge rears them apart again
To pieces they're ripped.
Goals are flying in
I'm getting bolder
Checking for updates
With the boss over my shoulder.
Soon it's time
For that end of the day grin
But mine if broader
Thanks to a Dulwich Hamlet win!
But despite the good news
I'm still slightly vexed
As none of my so-called mates
Thought to send me a text!
Dulwich Poet 5th April 2014
(Working today, as Dulwich Hamlet beat Wingate and Finchley 4-2. Can't complain, as without work I wouldn't see any football! This is about trying to keep track of the score, while at work)
Light years away
How on earth did we cope
Back in the day
Before...
One tiny click
Could bring on elation
Or make you feel sick
When you wanted
An update on the score
Stuck at work
And desperate for more.
No waiting til half-time
Desperate to phone
Before computers and Twitter
Feeling so alone.
Never mind Ceefax
As it jumped over your page
Waiting an eternity
As you worked up a rage.
Fast forward to now
And click on the 'net
Find Football Web Pages
No need to fret.
Oh no! Wingate
& Finchley have scored!
That's no in the script...
But Lodge rears them apart again
To pieces they're ripped.
Goals are flying in
I'm getting bolder
Checking for updates
With the boss over my shoulder.
Soon it's time
For that end of the day grin
But mine if broader
Thanks to a Dulwich Hamlet win!
But despite the good news
I'm still slightly vexed
As none of my so-called mates
Thought to send me a text!
Dulwich Poet 5th April 2014
(Working today, as Dulwich Hamlet beat Wingate and Finchley 4-2. Can't complain, as without work I wouldn't see any football! This is about trying to keep track of the score, while at work)
"Promotion Fears"
Pushing for the play-offs
League table so tight
There are so many fans out there
Who think we're Conference South by right.
Promotion's such a big step
Do they really know the score?
All they've known is success
And they're craving for more.
Such a buzz on the terrace
That I cannot deny
But as an old fashioned follower
I'd never call Isthmian League small fry.
A few even laugh at other clubs
For having such small support
I'm not falling into that ;big, club big time' mentality
Such a condescending trap
Into which I won't be caught.
You might think I'm a pessimist
I prefer old school realist fan
The game's littered with too many clubs
Not mastering the walk before they ran.
If we miss out on the play-offs
Is it really such a fail?
Why is two successive promotions
The grasped for holy grail?
The moral to this story
I'm not sure if there is one
Perhaps I'm just scared of losing
Our support now watching The Hamlet's fun.
Dulwich Poet 5th April 2014
(The run in to the end of the season, as my team, Dulwich Hamlet aim to hold onto one of the Ryman League Premier Division play-off spots, for the Conference South, after winning the Division One South title last year. I will take it if it happens, but it's not the end of the world if we don't go up...)
League table so tight
There are so many fans out there
Who think we're Conference South by right.
Promotion's such a big step
Do they really know the score?
All they've known is success
And they're craving for more.
Such a buzz on the terrace
That I cannot deny
But as an old fashioned follower
I'd never call Isthmian League small fry.
A few even laugh at other clubs
For having such small support
I'm not falling into that ;big, club big time' mentality
Such a condescending trap
Into which I won't be caught.
You might think I'm a pessimist
I prefer old school realist fan
The game's littered with too many clubs
Not mastering the walk before they ran.
If we miss out on the play-offs
Is it really such a fail?
Why is two successive promotions
The grasped for holy grail?
The moral to this story
I'm not sure if there is one
Perhaps I'm just scared of losing
Our support now watching The Hamlet's fun.
Dulwich Poet 5th April 2014
(The run in to the end of the season, as my team, Dulwich Hamlet aim to hold onto one of the Ryman League Premier Division play-off spots, for the Conference South, after winning the Division One South title last year. I will take it if it happens, but it's not the end of the world if we don't go up...)
Friday, 4 April 2014
"Pot of Fools Gold"
It's the principle you know
Round and round in a circle I go
Strawberry yoghurt
Super thick
Never one to miss a trick
Almost impossible
To hide my glee
Once I've heard
That magic word shouted-"Free!"
Neither my flavour
Nor food of choice
Reeled in totally
By their Pikey magnet voice.
Time to stock up
Tubs times two
Onto the next one
Out of view.
Bag overflowing
With my yoghurt pot haul
I feel like a 'Mr. Big' criminal
Even thogh it's a free-for-all.
When something's for gratis
We fill our boots
The fact we don't want it...
Who gives two hoots?
Dulwich Poet 4th April 2014
(A couple of days ago there were people giving out free tubs of strawberry yoghurt, around Waterloo Station. I went from stand to stand, collecting eight tubs in the end, and I don't even like yoghurt or strawberry! I took them onto work for others to eat...)
Round and round in a circle I go
Strawberry yoghurt
Super thick
Never one to miss a trick
Almost impossible
To hide my glee
Once I've heard
That magic word shouted-"Free!"
Neither my flavour
Nor food of choice
Reeled in totally
By their Pikey magnet voice.
Time to stock up
Tubs times two
Onto the next one
Out of view.
Bag overflowing
With my yoghurt pot haul
I feel like a 'Mr. Big' criminal
Even thogh it's a free-for-all.
When something's for gratis
We fill our boots
The fact we don't want it...
Who gives two hoots?
Dulwich Poet 4th April 2014
(A couple of days ago there were people giving out free tubs of strawberry yoghurt, around Waterloo Station. I went from stand to stand, collecting eight tubs in the end, and I don't even like yoghurt or strawberry! I took them onto work for others to eat...)
"Stolen Sonnet Hacked Poem"
The morning DJ's gag. O tawdry quip
The Smile I want to stamp into the ground
That only blloms during moonlit hours,
And though not exactly privacy
To view the universe expanding outwards
I'll never give the bastards the pleasure.
You don't know London until you've walked it,
I learned to dream on Bank Holiday Mondays,
I'll speak those words next time I urinate,
Another few inches of boisterous growth
How quickly it can change, from gazing towards
a thick film of regrets, pyschic and scum
Until the ticking bomb pans into view.
And invite me to unburden my thoughts
It could be Croydon on a Friday night,
the memories sharpen, as the vision dims.
And so from the blood bath of blind chance
We down the lot in one. Let's get rat-arsed
It's time to put your childish things away
Despite all the cautionary tales
True creative sparks: re-born in ink
They'll pledge to ride me all the way. Til death.
Seduced by human kindness and caffeine.
The schmuck on stage is a target. Nothing more.
No moral pang can halt the bullet's path;
While tortured neighbours bashed the semi's walls.
Weighed down with paperbacks and Guinness paunch,
This moment can happen to anyone:
As I run dry, the Thames runs out to sea
I cross the line to slow hand claps. Job done.
Dulwich Poet 4th April 2014.
(Not a single word of this is mine. I borrowed 'Sonnet Hack' by Niall O'Sullivan (published in 2010) a booklet where he wrote a sonnet a day for a month in september 2010. I have stolen a line from each one to make up this thirty verse poem, just to see what it would come out like. I had no idea which lines I would pick until I flicked through the book, scan reading to copy them, and the poem has no hidden meaning.)
The Smile I want to stamp into the ground
That only blloms during moonlit hours,
And though not exactly privacy
To view the universe expanding outwards
I'll never give the bastards the pleasure.
You don't know London until you've walked it,
I learned to dream on Bank Holiday Mondays,
I'll speak those words next time I urinate,
Another few inches of boisterous growth
How quickly it can change, from gazing towards
a thick film of regrets, pyschic and scum
Until the ticking bomb pans into view.
And invite me to unburden my thoughts
It could be Croydon on a Friday night,
the memories sharpen, as the vision dims.
And so from the blood bath of blind chance
We down the lot in one. Let's get rat-arsed
It's time to put your childish things away
Despite all the cautionary tales
True creative sparks: re-born in ink
They'll pledge to ride me all the way. Til death.
Seduced by human kindness and caffeine.
The schmuck on stage is a target. Nothing more.
No moral pang can halt the bullet's path;
While tortured neighbours bashed the semi's walls.
Weighed down with paperbacks and Guinness paunch,
This moment can happen to anyone:
As I run dry, the Thames runs out to sea
I cross the line to slow hand claps. Job done.
Dulwich Poet 4th April 2014.
(Not a single word of this is mine. I borrowed 'Sonnet Hack' by Niall O'Sullivan (published in 2010) a booklet where he wrote a sonnet a day for a month in september 2010. I have stolen a line from each one to make up this thirty verse poem, just to see what it would come out like. I had no idea which lines I would pick until I flicked through the book, scan reading to copy them, and the poem has no hidden meaning.)
"Flesh is the Word"
Sometimes I have that feeling
Of being held back
By my lack of words.
Which is absurd
When you think about it
For a word is a word
Whether it has a single syllable
Or a second or a third.
Honesty's the best policy
Right from the start
I can't use words I don't know
I'm no literary tart.
No problems with a dictionary
Just don't ask me to paint a picture
As I'm even worse with Pictionary.
All I want to do
Is write poetry for fun
Maybe pad it out
With a little pun.
No intent to tax my brain
I simply scribble
To keep me sane.
To much hard work
Trying something fancy
Hunting for words
I don't understand
What I write down
By neccessity bland.
Your biting and sniping
Will not work
Call me what you like..
even take me for a jerk.
I'm NOT going to
Flesh out my writing
By making it artificially posh
And I don't give a shit
If you think that's tosh!
Dulwich Poet 4th April 2014
(I wrote this because there is a new thread on a local community website that has suggested a monthly poem, which I like the sound of. But I feel people are being up their own arses a little, when I mentioned that I feel I have a 'working class, limited vocabulary. The first poem is under the theme of 'flesh'. This is my response.)
Of being held back
By my lack of words.
Which is absurd
When you think about it
For a word is a word
Whether it has a single syllable
Or a second or a third.
Honesty's the best policy
Right from the start
I can't use words I don't know
I'm no literary tart.
No problems with a dictionary
Just don't ask me to paint a picture
As I'm even worse with Pictionary.
All I want to do
Is write poetry for fun
Maybe pad it out
With a little pun.
No intent to tax my brain
I simply scribble
To keep me sane.
To much hard work
Trying something fancy
Hunting for words
I don't understand
What I write down
By neccessity bland.
Your biting and sniping
Will not work
Call me what you like..
even take me for a jerk.
I'm NOT going to
Flesh out my writing
By making it artificially posh
And I don't give a shit
If you think that's tosh!
Dulwich Poet 4th April 2014
(I wrote this because there is a new thread on a local community website that has suggested a monthly poem, which I like the sound of. But I feel people are being up their own arses a little, when I mentioned that I feel I have a 'working class, limited vocabulary. The first poem is under the theme of 'flesh'. This is my response.)
Tuesday, 1 April 2014
"Copycat Haiku"
Terraces emerge
Like R.Whites lemonade
Non-League the real thing.
Dulwich Poet 1st April 2014
(A haiku is some sort of three lined poem, based on the Japanese style of poetry known, unsurprisingly as a haiku! There are corrects ways to write them apparently, but I have no idea what they are. Nial O'Sullivan, who hosts the weekly open mic 'Poetry Unplugged' is a bit of a haiku expert, and he pubished this on his Facebook page earlier today:
Terraces emerge
from retreating fog like thoughts
of things to be done.
I responded with the one above.)
Like R.Whites lemonade
Non-League the real thing.
Dulwich Poet 1st April 2014
(A haiku is some sort of three lined poem, based on the Japanese style of poetry known, unsurprisingly as a haiku! There are corrects ways to write them apparently, but I have no idea what they are. Nial O'Sullivan, who hosts the weekly open mic 'Poetry Unplugged' is a bit of a haiku expert, and he pubished this on his Facebook page earlier today:
Terraces emerge
from retreating fog like thoughts
of things to be done.
I responded with the one above.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)