August 12, 2018

 

 

Amber, Apricot & Apple Green –

Jersey potatoes nicely scrubbed clean.

 

Crimson, Caramel & Cerise Pink –

Peas from the pod drained in the sink.

 

Marigold, Mauve & Midnight Blue –

A hint of paprika in a rich stew.

 

Lemon, Lilac & Lily White –

Hot milk at bedtime for a restful night.

 

Purple, Peony, Peach & Plum –

Banana fritters laced with rum.

 

Shades of Denim and Army Khaki –

Toasted soldiers in eggs  – what a Malachi !

 

Powder Blue, Navy and Deep Magenta –

Coconuts, Mangoes, and Flying Fish  I sent her.

 

Scarlet, Strawberry & Ruby Red –

Blacksticks cheese, with Sourdough bread.

 

Turquoise, Tangerine, Taupe & Tan – 

catching moon-dust in a dustpan.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

!

 

 

August 3, 2018

 

 

She never saw it coming –

she never had a clue.

It took a moment to sink in –

you and him and her and you.

 

She never would have thought it –

not in a million years.

Such things are just unthinkable –

her and you and him – nightmares!

 

She never saw it coming-

she never had a clue.

Some lines not meant for crossing –

somethings one shouldn’t do.

 

She never would have found out

without one being close by,

who stood aghast with eyes wide open,

peering through nets that didn’t lie.

 

She never would forget it –

the moment truth appeared,

the incredulous amusement –

irony on hind legs reared.

 

She never could dismiss it –

trust forever gone.

The certainty of certainties –

the lost bet that was odds on.

 

She never could unblock it –

in cycles it came to light.

She even questioned her own judgement,

looking back at dead of night.

 

She never saw it coming,

her and you and him, it’s true.

Never was a Holy Trinity

so absurd, and so taboo.

 

 

 

 

and cuckoos came

to other nests,

to lay their eggs –

who would have guessed?

 

a friendly offer

just a joke,

an empty shell

that held no yolk.

 

and sparrows small

in all innocence,

who, slow to focus

on common sense.

 

were soon put right

from a nearby tree,

when a shrewd woodpecker 

tapped out their plan B.

 

and cuckoos flew

as cuckoos do,

without a single 

toodaloo.

 

 

October 25, 2017

 

 

 

 

 

A room of words, on paper, strewn,

piled in corners, touching the moon.

 

A room of words, taking up much space;

standing room only, in this place.

 

A room of words – unedited tosh,

written when the mind was all awash.

 

A room of words, a life poured out;

drawers full of words, with roots that sprout.

 

A room of words on paper curled,

never released to the outside world.

 

A room of words, where thoughts expressed –

simply an outlet, when repressed.

 

A room of words – never explained.

The contents of,  a heart when pained.

 

A room of words and forgotten schemes.

A life of fantasy and old pipe dreams.

 

A room of words where madness grew.

Solitude a killer – a witches brew.

 

A room of words  and damnation’s fate.

Sweat and tears by the hourly rate.

 

A room of words, where shadows dance –

each line depicts, a lost romance.

 

A room of words, where solace sought,

when a mind, untethered, to fantasy did resort.

 

A room of words, where truth concealed

ancient wounds that never healed.

 

A room of words, where mirrors reflect

the writers mood, and thoughts direct.

 

A room of words, where graffiti runs wild

around the head of an ‘only’ child.

 

A room of words where nouns provide,

the comfort of adjectives by their side.

 

A room of words, and repeated rhymes,

that bring to mind, the scene of the crimes. 

 

A room of words, with books unread –

‘originality’ a must, one writer said.

 

A room of words, that did restart

a fading beat, when stabbed through the heart.

 

 A room of words, in notebooks, old –

undated scribblings full of lice and mould. 

 

A room of words – never transferred

onto the latest icloud, as a pen preferred.

 

A room of words – a vault from hell,

housing love and laughter, and life too mad to tell.

 

A room of words, all covered in dust.

The door kept locked – nothing discussed.

 

A room of words, with a vacant chair.

Thank God, I got – the hell out of there.

 

 

 

 

 

April 28, 2017

 

 

The ghost of Abacus Bendy

lived at the bottom of the well

and only came out in the evenings

at the sound of the Trinity bell.

 

The soul of Abacus Bendy

stayed grounded after he died,

unlike other souls in the vicinity

that went on a mystery ride.

 

The ghost of Abacus Bendy –

quite harmless and full of play,

came up to dry out at twilight

after resting in the well all day.

 

The friends of Abacus Bendy –

pond-life who wouldn’t tell,

were undisturbed by the nightly rituals

at the sound of the Trinity bell.

 

 

 

February 27, 2017

 

 

He stood her up.

He stole her pride.

He sent her on

a wild goose ride,

 

to nowhere that

she’d ever been –

If he’d just said

‘He wasn’t keen’!

 

He stood her up.

she waited long,

Listening to repeats

of that same song,

 

Inside the doorway

of The Robin Hood.

Gently simmering

for his blood.

 

He stood her up,

so long ago.

Never could she let

the moment go.

 

For over an hour

she loitered there

With a sinking feeling

of despair.

 

He stood her up

on the first date,

as guys came and went,

and thought her bait!

 

And she, naïve –

a cold & wet young teen,

as the Juke Box belted out

Yellow bloody Submarine!

 

He stood her up –

‘A promise counts for nowt’,

She thought as the wind

blew her brolly inside out,

 

as the heavens again opened,

with not a rat in sight,

as she trundled home, bedraggled

on that wasted night.  

 

 

 

 

Ingrained from birth –

encouragement gone bonkers.

Hopes and advice to where

the future could lead.

 

Ingrained from birth

to be like someone,

a model, a standard,

a force to succeed.

 

Ingrained from birth,

into brain cells cemented –

a carbon copy, a cloned image –

Lord, let uniqueness be freed.

 

 

October 30, 2016

 

 

The truth of the matter,

when coconuts fall –

if you’re stood underneath,

then no life to recall.

 

 

August 31, 2016

 

 

 

More sorrow than there’d ever been,

losing one who loved a Gypsy Cream,

or Jammie Dodger if all else failed –

when the tin empty, how she wailed.

 

Such agony from a grumbling gut –

Oh how she loved a Ginger Nut,

or a Fig Roll, or perhaps Rich Tea.

A crumb of comfort all, that’s left of she.

 

 

 

April 14, 2016

 

 

A hundred versions

of one person,

incredulously,

rolled into one.

 

Some laughable

beyond imagination.

Exaggeration expressed,

to cause sensation,

 

and gather momentum

with each telling,

as if a script

for Aaron Spelling.

 

A hundred versions

of one person,

coming to light

now they are gone.

 

Rumours and lies

and much mischief,

will likely,

always follow grief,

 

and gather moss

where corpse now dwelling.

The truth, the truth,

only Pentothal telling.

 

 

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