Drumbeatsdirtbike

Drumbeatsdirtbike

There’s a girl, down our road, on a drum kit,

Playing, in a yet-to-be soundproofed shed.

I put the book down; listen for a bit,

All the while smilingly nodding my head.

She reminds me of when I was a kid,

With a head full of riffs and melodies.

I think about songs and the gigs we did.

Happy and melancholy memories,

Not least, the demise of our garage band,

And the consequent closure of an outlet,

For factory-floor thoughts, scribbled shorthand,

In secrecy, lest the boss got upset,

Fantastically flash through my mind, as she

Plays, and my heart beats harmoniously.

The boy on a dirtbike, over the back,

Rudely interrupting my revery,

With a mindlessly, inconsiderate lack

Of rhythm, kills the beat; effectively

Putting me, somewhat abruptly, in mind

Of the time I lost control of a bike,

Got arrested, and consequently fined,

On which I decided, I didn’t like

Dirtbikes; and then I wonder whether he

(The boy) cares about little kids playing

On the field where he rides; and can he not see

The people with dogs, nor the signs saying

“No Motorbikes”?

Suffice to say, he’s won;

The drums are drowned out,

My afternoon’s done;

But I’m not angry, although he’s a pain:

Boys will be boys, or so the saying goes;

I was as bad, if not worse, in the main;

And what he’ll end up like, God only knows.

No. I’m more sad than angry, and here’s why:

It’s like for every girl on a drumkit,

There are swarms of dirtbike boys riding nigh;

And somehow, the world seems poorer for it.

Or maybe it’s me lamenting the loss

Of a golden age, that, in reality,

Is an era, that never really was;

And rose-tinted lenses are kidding me.

That being said, the next time she’s playing,

I hope the dirtbike’s broke down and staying.

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An Acrostic

An Acrostic

A memory of a man, came randomly

Last week, and has bothered me ever since;

Aggrieving me, whilst spontaneously

Niggling me to acrostically evince

His name, poetically and share it with

Everyone, lest his deeds be overlooked;

Not least because the world in which we live

Now seems more in danger of being cooked,

Inasmuch as we’re trumped by tyranny,

Narcissism, and greed; but I digress;

Grieve with me, our loss to humanity ;

Remember him

In light of his

Pure selflessness

Tongue Twisters

Tongue Twisters

I’m not a pucker plumber, nor a pucker plumber’s son;

Properly redundant, prowess precisely none,

An oil rag in retirement, who's prone to being blunt:

I’m not a pleasant fucker; more a peasant fucking cunt.

I wish I’d picked a policy that paid a better pot;

A pot of plenty payments is what I haven’t got

I picked a poxy pension plan, the premiums’ not a lot;

I’ve got a pot to piss in, though prosperous I’m not.

Still: I see seemly standards sadly sinking, sure:

Shell-shocked asylum seekers on the seashore;

Shit showered severally by salty locals sore;

Scapegoats for the shameless, faraway offshore

Earlier This Morning

Earlier This Morning

Earlier this morning, I reflected,

On having shared warm laughter with my wife;

Have things turned out more than I expected,

When first we joined, along the path of life?

Thinking back, did I take it for granted,

Nigh forty years together we’d still be

Laughing now, the same as when we started,

Lovingly, engaging mutually?

My answer is myself is surely yes;

It’s more than I could dream of, so much more;

All things considered thus, I ever less,

Take love for granted like I did before;

Another’s time was never better spent;

I’m happily and gratefully content.