Thinking, like……

I'm not feeling serious today, so here's a light hearted one. To be read in a very vaguely Cockney accent.

Thinking, like……

I was sat in the caff eating sausage and eggs

With chips and red ketchup and stuff,

A-wond'ring what our crazy world is about

And why all of our smooth comes with rough.

Like, why is the cap on the bottle before me

All gungey and bunged up with crud

When cleaning it wouldn't take more than a second?

It fair brings a heat to me blood!

And why did the chappy that served me just grunt

Instead of a cheery "Hello!"

Has his day been rotten as well as my own

And he's making damn sure that I know?

Is he really so gen'rous he thinks that I need

To partake of his misery too?

He can have some of mine if he feels so inclined

'cause I'm feeling a deep shade of blue!

It's valid when friends rally round to the cause

To make sure that you're feeling OK.

But inflicting on strangers is right out of line

And makes a right hash of your day.

Keep it to yourself, I wanted to tell him,

And leave me alone, if you please!

Your troubles are not a concern of my own -

So kindly keep serving your teas!

As I got up to leave, go back out in the rain

And sog on the slog to my gate,

The oik that had served me came up and said "Hey!

You look in a right two and eight! *

I hardly dared talk to you when you came in,

Your frown was a fright to behold!

I just have to say, though you've had a bad day,

Here's a smile to help keep out the cold."

 *Cockney rhyming slang for 'in a state'.


FIL 15/04/08 

A World of Her Own

I rediscovered a poem I did in Spring 2009, concerning a smashing little lady with Down's Syndrome who used to pop into my local pub every other week with her friends and carers. I was tempted to edit, but decided against.


A World of Her Own


The little lass with the sparkly mind
Plays the flashing fruit machine
That grins in the dark bar corner;
A winning fanfare bleeps and blasts
A grudging triumph of the reels.

The knowing smartly step aside,
Smile at the innocent abandon,
Guard hard earned golden pints
Gainst flailing limbs of joy.

She celebrates and shrieks,
Then skips back to the task,
Feeding all the coins back in
One by one by one
And another and another
And again
Until they're gone.

Grinning at wise advice
She says "Oh well!",
Smiles like the world were won twice over,
Waves and says "Goodbye!
See you next week!"

And leaves,
Happy as a sandgirl.


FIL  08/04/09

Bitter Sweet Memory

Bitter Sweet Memory

A lifetime or a blink has passed since then,

That dry Sunday when the rapture died.

I remember our stroll past faceless houses

Both wanting to say something, anything, to halt the tide.

Words would not flow,  the silent current roared between us.

You gave me a pine cone;

Its import was lost on me.

I missed your plea for understanding -

You would rather be alone.

FIL June 2008

The Dean

The Dean 

Moving quietly 'midst my country

A disembodied mind, observing, not affecting,

I take on the mantle of the land,

Wearing it and revelling in its richness.

Hot red dust and cool green air

Mingle and play beside the water’s gleaming.

From jewel like dell to windswept meend,

From cloistered yews to dark and clammy scowle,

‘cross rounded heights, the warm winds playing tag

With kites and buzzards, scanning all below.

The scars of industry are part of this;

The marks of human toil, to some obscene,

To others, tribute to endeavour’s toll

On those who strived to work within the Dean.

The spoil heaps, partly clad with scratty grass,

Bake and sweat, glowering between the trees,

The pithead buildings glow with red brick heat,

Their hard lines calmed by nature’s green advance.

Abandoned cranes, hot to the touch,

Their rusting jibs hiding in grass like sheep skeletons,

An old newspaper stashed within the cab,

Still open to page three, the workman’s choice.

The scars are healing now the world has turned,

The working waters; home to reed and flag,

To dragons, damsels, mallard, rush and reed

To shy deer, sheep and boar, and now to me.

The crowning glories of this glorious land;

Primeval woodland, still untouched by mind,

Twisted, dark and dense with scattered trails,

Existing side by side with cash crop pine;

Two river valleys clasping round the heights,

Their silver beauty holds the Dean within,

The rolling woodland hills and scattered fields,

The secret places only you may know.

   13/05/08

I kept this plain and simple. No other was needed.

Reverie Amongst the Beeches

Reverie Amongst the Beeches

Staring through sunlit branches,

Time drifts.

Bright gaps and overlaps

Conjure shape from shadow.

Blankets of concentration stumble upon

Transient patterns of green and silver,

Finding solace in such windblown abandon;

A natural connection,

A mind balm of gentle rustling,

Calming the quaking flesh,

Smoothing the harrowed brow;

A chance for collection and reformation.

FIL  12/01/10

Above the Pump

Above the Pump

My universe for long childhood moments;

A high square-foot of red brick

Atop the wall,

Above the green pump,

Miraculous provider of clear water in

Hard-earned gushings from the depths.

An awkward stepping to my lofty perch,

But solidly constructed,

As seemed life at that time.

I remember racing my cousin

Along crusted crane-jibs,

Peering into quarry depths on quiet Sundays;

The winner, first to touch the tip,

The loser, first to miss his step.

Foolishly glorious.

Gloriously foolish.

Nowadays,

I cannot look down a stairwell;

Yesterday’s brave heights

Belong to a stranger.

I sometimes remember him...

FIL  03/11/09

'The Painted Lady'. An obscure old poem..

The Painted Lady   

Self declared perfection,

Well honed edge to designer  blade,

Cutting all around who

Refuse to fawn and drool.

A butterfly from a jar,

Without natural colour,

Accepting preserved death:

A frozen beauty...

She knows...

But seeks no escape.

FIL - 29/12/08 on Myspace (withdrawn after 1 day)