April 11, 2012

 

 

Can I sell you a fortune kookie Miss

It’ll turn your life around and

Change your luck for the better

It only costs a pound!

 

Or perhaps you’ll take this sprig of heather Lady

I picked it myself this very morn

It’s yours for a piece of silver

It’ll make you feel glad that you were born

 

You honestly won’t regret it Dear

Don’t decline my offer or you’ll be cursed

Please dig deep into your pockets

I’ve six children who must be nursed

 

I’m down on mi luck grand Lady

Impoverished, so answer my plea, and

Take one of my fortune kookies

And pass on your good luck to me

 

 

 

 

 

The early morning tackiness of London streets.

The deafening hustle and bustle that is city life.

Millionaires and celebrities

sitting cheek by jowl,

with vagrants and loners

in street cafes.

Whilst in Soho Park,

no sign of a nightingale or a lark.

Just the homeless

rising from park benches,

 and searching the pavements

for their first fix of the day.

A fag end will do fine,

and the choice is endless.

Some are still clinging  to a long since

emptied bottle of wine,

or maybe it was meths.

Who knows, who cares?

City slickers jauntily pass by, never raising an eye.

The white collared swells,  the ne’er do well’s,

accepting of each other.

There goes he, there go I,

but for the blinking of an eye.

They’re all in this mess together.

The streetwise pigeons

fighting over a discarded blueberry muffin,

that has overflowed along with

other junk and debris from

a city council bin.

What a din, what a mess.

There’s a balance to redress.

But to witness it, is exciting,

almost exhilarating.

There’s an earthy richness all around.

A common bond between strangers

passing on a daily basis.

Never speaking, never acknowledging one another,

yet silently existing  within their own safe, separate worlds

 

 

 

 

April 10, 2012

 

 

Chew each mouthful

Fourteen times

Get those jawbones gnashing

Or swallow food whole

And undigested

And give your guts a bashing

 

 

 

 

 

 

Of all the underhand

Conniving things to do!

I can never forgive you

That’s it

You are out of my zone forever

So don’t bother trying to get

Back into my good books

Don’t give me one of those

Long soppy looks

Or those stupid grins that say

‘I know you don’t mean it’

Just take your

Coochy–coochy-coo’s elsewhere

Because this time

And I mean it

This time

You’ve had it with me.

So make your own Tea

And then sling your hook

Oh, and on your way back

Could you bring some milk

Because we’ve run out! 

 

 

 

 

 

Let him get a word in

Let him have his say

He has some good ideas

Let him see the light of day

 

 

 

 

Do you remember laughing so much that

Your sides ached, and you almost passed out

With dizziness

And you were so overwhelmed with joy

That you felt totally out of control

When fun was the only aphrodisiac you needed

And you were high on life

When your world was simple and uncomplicated

When you were the soul of the party

The clown, and one who cheered everyone up?

At what stage did the jester in you die?

 

 

 

April 7, 2012

 

 

Just like the swooping of the swifts

On late august nights

Ducking and diving

Before going on their way, and yet

Staying just long enough to make

A lasting impression

You appeared and left your mark

Indelibly implanted in our psyche

 

 

 

 

Sudden anger

An injustice remembered.

Damnation recalled.

The gift of forgiveness

As yet, not installed

 

 

 

 

What matter if you still exist on earth

If I no longer see your winning smile

Nor walk with you along the riverside

Or stare into your eyes, that did beguile!

What matter if you still exist on earth

If I, by you, will never more be kissed.

 

 

 

Push me to the limit

Make me blow my top

Wind me up incessantly

Until I cannot stop

 

Watch my temper rising

I’m shaking now with rage

Just like an untamed Lioness

Trapped within a cage

 

I just can’t be submissive

My opinion, I won’t change

I cannot help the way I feel

Though you might think it strange!

 

To chip away at me won’t work

Nor will it weaken my defence

But I do find it so wearisome

So really, what’s the sense?

 

If you don’t like the way I am

Then I suggest you go

Because this verbal battering

Just has to stop, you know.

 

 

 

« Older Posts — Newer Posts »