Grandma's ghost

I guess we all have the occasional "flashback" to our younger days, but recently I had one encompassing two things that happened to me in 1980 and 1986 respectively, the first being an LSD trip (yes I was a naughty boy), the second, a visit to a spiritualist.

This random memory took me quite by surprise whilst in the middle of a totally unrelated task at work (I'm a printing assistant) and stayed with me during my drive home along with the words "I saw a strange old lady" which are the opening lines of the subsequent poem below:

Grandma’s ghost

I once saw a lady

In an armchair by my bed

Gazing down upon me

While I was off my head

A spectre born of acid

Hair devoid of pigment

Visage old and placid

A psychedelic figment

Of my imagination

And yet her vacant smile

Aroused a chill sensation

That froze me for a while

I pulled up the bedsheets

Hid beneath them scared

Till after many heartbeats

And still not quite prepared

I dared to have a peep

Discerned an empty chair

Fell gradually asleep

Relieved she wasn’t there

Slept off the disarray

Dreamed about her not

Awoke well past midday

And very soon forgot

Another five years flew

My friend a psychic said

He was listening to

A relative long dead

“I’ve got your grandma here

And she wants you to know

She’s always very near

Nigh everywhere you go”

He ran a list of things

Dates events names places

Relations gatherings

Long forgotten faces

Of past generations

And anecdotes he told

Of Christmas celebrations

Within the family fold

And I initially

Was quietly sceptical

It didn’t seem to be

Remotely true at all

Or so I thought before

My poetry he mentioned

How grandma liked it more

With rhyming words intentioned

I time travelled mentally

Remembering her there

Staring at me intently

From my old bedside chair

A very strange old dear

From five years back in time

Was she now standing here

Suggesting write in rhyme”?

I couldn’t and can’t decide

If the elderly entity

Had been identified

Was this ancient anomaly

Sedentary by the bed

Fair giving me a fright

A guardian ghost instead

Of what I perceived that night

To be a hallucination

Induced by LSD?

The physics’ revelation

Seemed apt poetically

Since rhyming is my thing

Therefore this one’s in view

Of Doris Margaret King

And the ghost of who knows who

All reactions:

8Mary-Ann Ambrose, Nicola Burrell and 6 others

He's on it

This one, I dedicate to very dear friend, one Andrew Grice who lives in Rotherham. One of his favourite sayings is "On it like a seagull on a bag of chips". I thought it would be fun to write a poem with variations on that theme.

He’s on it

He’s on it like water on sinking ships

Like a hand on the ball nicked into the slips

Like a kiss on Angelina Jolie’s lips

He’s on it like a seagull on a bag of chips

He’s on it like a rat climbing up a drain pipe

Like a stray dog pouncing on a bag of tripe

Like mould on fruit that’s gone overripe

Like Oswald on Kennedy, waiting to snipe

Like an angry driver with an urge to yell

In rush hour traffic FUCKING HELL    

Like a convict on a bunk in a prison cell

Quasimodo on the rope of the cathedral bell

He’s on it like an actor on a West end stage

Like an Eastern European on the minimum wage

Like a sex scanda on The Sun’s front page

Jimmy Saville’s dirty hands on the underage

He’s on it like a rash all over your skin

He’s on it like a fox on a rubbish bin

Like an old alcoholic on a bottle of gin

Like an unsuspecting arse on a drawing pin

He’s on it like a pisshead on a donor kebab

He’s on it like a finger on a dried up scab

Like a hand on a Rolex at a smash and grab

Like a night clubber running for a taxi cab

He’s on it like a cokehead on a big white line

Keith Floyd on a bottle of French red wine

Like Diana on the trail of another landmine

Like a picnic on the beach when the weather’s fine

He’s on it like a kitten on a ball of string

Like a wedding guest on a chicken wing

Like a wannabe singer who really can’t sing

He’s on the karaoke singing everything

Like an England captain on his best friend’s wife

Like a psycho in a fight with a carving knife

Like a man on appeal in solitary strife

On suicide watch sent down for life

Like a fired torpedo on an enemy fleet

Like a new-born baby on a mother’s teat

Like a man with diarrhoea on a toilet seat

He’s on it like a lion on a piece of meat

He’s on it like a spy on a document

That’s marked “Top secret” by the government

Like Guy Fawkes underneath Parliament  

With a highly explosive implement

He’s on it like a gossip on a juicy tale

Like a seventy’s pop star on a young female

Like a bird in the garden on bread gone stale

Like a member of CAMRA on a pint of real ale

Like The Terra Nova on a frozen shore

Like Captain Scott on a mission to explore

Like a poet sitting down on a muddy floor

Writing accounts of the First World War

Like a thirsty man on a beer in the fridge

Like Kingdom Brunel on designing a bridge

Like a broker on a deal with Etheridge

Like Hillary climbing up a mountain ridge

He’s on it like a multi millionaire’s son

At the Bullingdon club with his flies undone

Burning a fifty pound note for fun

Then shagging a pig in front of everyone

He’s on it like a bard writing a sonnet

He’s on it like bird shit on a shiny bonnet

Like an addict needing more he falls upon it

Like a junkie on a score

He’s happy when he’s on it 

London Streets

About thirty five years ago, myself and two friends went for a drink in Brentwood. We got so drunk that we fell asleep on the train home, missed our stop, and consequently ended up having to spend the night on Liverpool Street Station. Not very nice. Especially when a poor old down and out lady sits down very near you, starts swearing and shouting out racist comments, and then does something rather disgusting, before being dragged away by two hapless policeman. Said lady figures in the subsequent poem borne of this event, as do the two policemen.

The London Streets of Ralph McTell

The London Streets of Ralph McTell
A land so rank with the rancid smell
Of a rubbish tip and a nearby den
Of broken bottles
And broken men
Round Bishop's Gate
They congregate
In one big methylated state and wait
For the soup van, cups of tea,
And a box to sleep in
All for free

Then it's down
Down
Downward bound
To the depths of the London Underground
Where a drunken dragon
With a voice so dry
Shouts racial abuse at passers by
And as a sudden entrance to a sickly play
Two policemen appear, and she's dragged away
But the smell of urine lingers on
As the London busker sings his song..........

The London streets of Ralph McTell
Where an old man walks in a living hell
With a brown paper bag and a manic grin
Through the Sinking
Stinking
Streets of sin
And as the night draws in on another cold day
He staggers and sways as he finds his way
To a rubbish tip and a nearby den
Of broken bottles
And broken men

So let me take you by the hand
And lead you away from this wasted land
Where a tramp in the gutter
Is a pitiful sight
On a cold, uncaring winter's night
We'll walk through the streets in the pouring rain
Go home on the early morning train
Far away from the filth
And the rancid smell
Of the London streets of Ralph McTell

Haiku4alcohol(3rd person)

One day I'll learn how to post photos and stuff like a proper blogger. Meanwhile, here's another poem, written in the Haiku style with a smidgen of rhyme.

Haiku4alcohol (3^rd person)

The more strong cider

He drinks the more he believes

The more he deceives

The more wine he drinks

The more easy to forget

His non self-respect

Another night drunk

And she’s telling him to stop

He’ll drink every drop

And then the next day

Restless lying in their bed

Wishing he was dead

Morning brings regret

For last night’s atrocities

Heartfelt apologies

God I’m so sorry

I’m trying to make you see

Last night wasn’t me

Those bruises she’s got

On her legs her arms her face

Reflect his disgrace

So sorry my love

I beg you to believe me

Sorry sincerely

But deep down he knows

He’ll forget all that’s just past

His remorse won’t last

It’s Friday again

And he’s opening the wine

Pretending It’s fine

He’ll just have the one

And forget as his disease

Reclaims him with ease

And she. Fearfully

Forgetfully taken in

By his carefree grin?

And so it begins

One drink followed by six more

And another he’ll pour

And all of those things

That happened last Saturday

Seem so faraway

All is forgotten

Another promise spoken

Easily broken

They drink and they laugh

And talk about tomorrows

Drowning their sorrows

And all of the while

Slowly destroying his health

Deceiving himself

He pours another

Is that a problem? So what?

You finished? I’m not

Dead pop stars

It's amazing how many great performers are still alive lol. And long may that last. Meanwhile, here's my tribute to some of the ones no longer with us. I am presently working on getting this down as a song. I have the tune ready, it's just a case of getting Leo (my son) to translate it on his guitar.

 

Deadstock (Admission Free)

Are you going to Deadstock? I’ll see you there someday

When good soul’s come together, to watch the dead bands play

There’s no ticket for reservation, and no form to apply

It’s an open invitation, to the great gig in the sky

The songs they played were anthems of the time

A mark was made when they were in their prime

I dedicate this song today

To the ones who’ve passed away

Like Jimi say’s

I’ll meet you in the next the world

And come and watch you play

Are you going to Deadstock? I've heard that it’s a scream

Where a crowd that stretches to infinity, is there living the dream

The sun is up there shining and the grass is always dry

And there’s some kind of mushroom there if you’re wanting to get high

The songs they played were anthems of the time

A mark was made when they were in their prime

I dedicate this song today

To the ones that passed away

Like Jimi says

I’ll see you in the next world

And come and watch you play

Ritchie Havens, Jimi Hendrix, John Entwistle, Janis Joplin

Frank Zappa ,John Bonham, Kurt Cobain, Ray Charles , Keith Moon

Marvin Gaye ,Lou Reed, George Harrison, Ian Curtis, Mama Cass

Michael Jackson, Muddy Waters, Amy Winehouse, Joey Ramone

Gram Parsons, Ronnie Van Zant, Freddie Mercury, Jeff Buckley

Tupac Shakur, Jam Master Jay, Ole dirty Bastard, Easy E

Sid Vicious , Marc Bolan, Buddy Holly, Eddie Cochran

Ritchie Edwards? Pete De Freitas, Dime Bag Darell, Phil Lynott

Are you going to Deadstock? I’ll see you there someday

When good soul’s come together, to watch the dead bands play

There’s no ticket for reservation, and no form to apply

It’s an open invitation, to the great gig in the sky

Where the visuals are amazing, the sound is crystal clear

And the crowd gets bigger all the time, but the stage is always near

Are you going to Deadstock?  It’s a place for me and you

We can dance all day while the music plays and our friends will be there too

Alex Harvey, Donna Summer, Paul Raven, Jim Morrison

Bob Marley, Cassie Gains, Michael Hutchence, David Bowie

Whitney Huston, Dusty Springfield, Dee Dee Warwick, Patti Page

Stuart Sutcliffe, Steve Marriot, Patsy Cline, Ray Manzarek

Tim Buckley, Tommy Bolin, Dennis Wilson, Ian Stewart,

Robert Calvert, Roy Orbison, Tom Foggerty, Ronnie Lane

Johnny Thunders, Miles Davis, Lawrence Payton, Cozy Powell

Eddie Rabbit, Curtis Mayfield, Ian Dury, Mickey Finn, Lemmy

Steve Gaines, Richard Wright, Ronnie James Dio, Huw Lloyd Langton

John Glascock, Billy Fury, Bill Hayley, Rory Gallagher

Desmond Decker, Gene Vincent, Gregory Isaacs, Jeff Buckley
Phil Everly, Robert Johnson, Hillel Slovak, Alan Wilson
Hank Williams, John Denver, Cliff Burton, Duane Allman

Stevie Ray Vaughan, Joe Strummer, The Notorious B.I.G.
Clarence Johnson,Davy Jones, Adam Yauch, Jon Lord
Pete Seeger, Scott McKenzie, Reg Presley, John Lennon.
............................................?