Sunday, 30 June 2019

I look at you sleeping


I look at you sleeping

I look at you sleeping; your lovely face;
Your lips, your eyelids, your cheeks and your brow,
And I want to kiss every single place;
Awake as I am at this early hour.
But I know if do you’ll be angry;
Who am I to disturb your peaceful sleep?
My darling; you mean everything to me,
But I know sleep’s bliss and love would be cheap
If I, on a whim, waked you selfishly,
So I turn away, stare at the ceiling,
Consider all the years I’ve shared with you
And conclude; we both share the same feeling;
And that feeling is; I love you so much;
But you’re asleep, so I look, but don’t touch.

Thursday, 27 June 2019

Luck of the draw



Luck of the draw (The melting pot)

If all stories were put into a pot
And, as in a raffle, we each picked one,
Then yours is a truly sinister plot;
Full of ambition; of empathy; none.
No compassionate message; no insight;
No conclusion but the sum of all fears;
Humanity in you has taken flight
And left you standing in front of your peers.
Peers! With what group do you identify?
Your policy is simply biding time;
And your politics are a great big lie
That people believe as I write this rhyme.
The truth is; you’ve really nothing to say,
Yet millions heed as you blabber away.



Tuesday, 25 June 2019

Demons



Demons

I picture the chaos inside myself,
That could overwhelm and cause me to fall;
And all I have; even physical health,
Feels superficial; a breakable wall.
A man, by a demon, is led to drink;
He fails his friends, his children and his wife;
Helplessly, he watches everything sink;
As if it were somebody else’s life.
What led him then; to this thing he can’t see;
This force unrelenting; this inner voice?
Why is he driven to insanity;
A helpless passenger bereft of choice?
Why or whatever, he can’t now recall;
He’s drunk himself blind, in spite of it all.




Sunday, 23 June 2019

Fifteen hundred piece jigsaw




Fifteen hundred piece jigsaw (in memory of Ivan Cocker)

A jigsaw put away, not completed,
A small bare table, a missing wheel chair,
A flat screen TV, old people seated;
I asked and they told me why you weren’t there.
I went to your room, and I stood outside;
Saw an “Oxygen” sign on the closed door;
The last time I came, it was open wide,
And we talked about the Second World War,
Then I said I’d help complete the jigsaw
Of New York’s skyline, and we both agreed;
Whilst it was a challenge, almost a chore;
The last piece would be rewarding indeed.
Now the rooms vacant, I’m missing your face,
And Welshwood Manor feels less of a place. 

Saturday, 22 June 2019

Idle I


Idle I

Sometimes, I feel that life’s barely begun,
And yet, as I sit idly pondering;
Considering things that I haven’t done,
And the precious time that I’m squandering;
In my mind’s eye, Charlotte Bronte I see,
Marilyn Monroe, William Shakespeare,
Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, Elvis Presley;
None of whom reached old age; some nowhere near.
George Orwell died when he was forty six;
Forty birthdays were all John Lennon knew;
Only twenty seven; Jimi Hendrix;
Keith Moon and Brian Epstein; a mere thirty two.
Older than them all; with much to achieve,
I procrastinate, as I live and breathe. 



Thursday, 20 June 2019

Tory boy


Tory boy

He’s a fart in a lift
A fly in the ointment
A joker in the pack
A dreadful appointment
A fox in the shed
A plague’s dispatch
A stone through your window
A blot on your patch
He’s a spanner in the works
A racist profanity
A crack in the mirror
A lord of vanity
He breaks down doors
Takes vision from sight
He’s a fool’s dream
He’s a sleepless night
He’s a capitalist
A cruel activist
A scourge of the poor
A faux pacifist
A skull breaking hammer
A nurturer of lies
He’s a false promise
An imp in disguise
He’s a scheming warlock
He’ll twist your view
His myths appear facts
You’ll doubt things you knew
He’ll prick your dark nature
Brand squalor as joy
He’s not on your side
He’s a Tory boy



Wednesday, 19 June 2019

Rose tinted lenses



Rose tinted lenses

If life to you now seems worse than before,
You’re seeing through childish nostalgic eyes;
Maybe, during childhood, you never saw
Things hidden by those with loving disguise.
In much the same way, as you do with yours,
(And if you don’t, you should be corrected),
They too kept troubles and fears behind doors,
And your innocence was hence protected.
How easy it is for young girls and boys;
Perceiving things without comprehending
(Distracted perhaps with games or new toys)
Anything beyond a happy ending;
Children will mostly choose sweet over sour;
Life then, was no better, or worse than now.


Tuesday, 18 June 2019

Brand new blue passport



Brand new blue passport

I’ve got a brand new blue passport;
Police and fire stations are closing down;
Burglars burgle without getting caught.

Nurses' pay rises amount to nought;
One doctor’s surgery left in town.
I’ve got a brand new blue passport.

Nine years of cuts, yet those at fault
Still point the finger at Gordon Brown.
Burglars burgle without getting caught.

To foodbanks millions now resort;
In oceans of debt, our fellows drown.
I’ve got a brand new blue passport.

Misery’s met with a witty retort,
Voiced by a tyrant, acting the clown.
Burglars burgle without getting caught.

Children in poverty, parents distraught;
If MPs were royals, a beast wears a crown.
I’ve got a brand new blue passport;
Burglars burgle without getting caught.

Monday, 17 June 2019

Cold cadavers


Cold cadavers

Cold cadavers we’re bound to be;
Life will end and we’ll breathe no more;
Death for us all is a certainty.

I ponder the end unwittingly;
The thought of it terrifies me for sure;
Cold cadavers we’re bound to be.

In the shadow of mortality,
I rarely acknowledge what’s in store;
Death for us all is a certainty.

I saw a man die suddenly;
He was laughing mere seconds before;
Cold cadavers we’re bound to be.

Life seems a pointless futility;  
We eat, drink and shit, but what’s it all for?
Death for us all is a certainty.

We each of us face eternity;
If death came now, I’d clutch at a straw;
Cold cadavers we’re bound to be;
Death for us all is a certainty. 



Saturday, 15 June 2019

The man in the street


The man in the street

A missile killed the man in the street;
In the blink of an eye he was blown away;
It fell to the ground in front of his feet.

A Tomahawk fired from a faraway fleet,
Ended the life of a parent today;
A missile killed the man in the street.

A father, with brothers and friends to meet,
A worker, going to the mosque to pray;
It fell to the ground in front of his feet.

Bringing destruction in a heartbeat;
A flash of bewilderment and dismay;
A missile killed the man in the street.

Exploding with unbearable heat;
Landing near to where children play;
It fell to the ground in front of his feet.

Deemed not fit for a president’s tweet;
His widow and children have no say.
A missile killed the man in the street;
It fell to the ground in front of his feet.

Wednesday, 12 June 2019

Presidential visit


Presidential visit

As Conservatives attempt to forge plans
With Trump in view of material things,
Street cleaners sweep needles, bottles and cans,
Busking beggars are relieved of their strings,
Emergency staff from the NHS,
Consider a job in Australia,
A young fascist gives a public address,
On milkshakes and socialist failure,
An orange balloon’s floating in the sky,
As the president of the USA,
Looks Her Majesty direct in the eye,
And she alone hears what he has to say.
Children with flowers are ushered away;
There’ll be no climate protesting today.

The Conservatives are out in the street,
Ignoring the mocking protester’s jeers;
They’ve far more important people to meet:
Presidential flunkies, royals and peers.
The orange balloon is high overhead;
An Australia-bound plane, higher still;
The fascist has gone, and there, in his stead,
 Is a socialist, with a happy-meal.
The president, and queen, with her dragoon,
Are joined by the grovelling entourage;
They glance as one at the orange balloon
Then off to the palace banquet they charge;
Where apparently, an NHS deal
Is discussed in detail during the meal.

The president’s visit went very well;
So said the following day's front pages.
Those with a different story to tell,
Were then dismissed as left wing outrages;
As indeed was the orange balloon too;
“Fake news!” said the president, and as such,
The country’s gone with the official view;
Anti -Trump protesters are out of touch.
As for me, I was nowhere to be seen;
What’s been recited came out of my head;
But I like to imagine, I’m the Queen,
Giving reply to whatever was said.
My cutting remark to Donald would be……
…………………………………………………………..???
I’d rather keep that, between him and me.


Tuesday, 11 June 2019

Let's move away

Let’s move away

This town’s a dump, let’s move away;
There must be more to life than this;
It’s time for a change; what do you say?

I’m tired of keeping the wolves at bay;
Retirement at sixty five would be bliss;
This town’s a dump, let’s move away.

There’s nothing left; no reason to stay;
The governing party’s being remiss,
It’s time for a change, what do you say?

Life passes by; there’ll be no replay;
Why wait here for mortality’s kiss?
This towns’ a dump let’s move away.

I want to leave now without delay;
The cuts and closures are taking the piss,
It’s time for a change, what do you say?

Future prospects are dismal and grey;
A life of struggle before the abyss;
This town’s a dump, let’s move away;
It’s time for a change; what do you say?