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.

 

 

 

 

 

Silver Service

out on view.

A luscious bite

with every chew.

 

A stolen spoonful

is pure delight!

whilst a finger full

dulls appetite.

 

And eyes said it all

without words spoken,

as silence fell

and hearts were broken,

 

as elbows rested

on the table,

and mouths wide open

saw teeth unstable,

 

when just by chance,

a random satellite

dropped by and set

the world alight,

 

and a candle that,

by force was blown,

created havoc –

rude words were sworn.

 

as whitest linen

set alight,

and napkins waved

in mid flight.

 

For Silver Service

out on view,

meant nothing to

the thousands who,

 

had gate-crashed there

from near and far,

to witness Edgar’s

last hur-rah.

 

And Sheffield’s finest

turned to rust,

now finger bowls –

a daily must.

 

And fish forks now

deemed out of date,

were seen stabbing pickles –

in a way most inappropriate!

 

And clamps for crabs

and winkle pickers,

replaced with fingers

by nose pickers.

 

And burps were heard

as tummies rumbled,

and chairs fell backwards

as folks tumbled.

 

And bread rolls pocketed

by the meanest,

as Daisy’s pants revealed –

and not the cleanest!

 

And around the room

the satellite still spun –

some guests too full

to move and run,

 

sat there in horror

fighting over clotted cream

dripping from a jug –

desert, now just a dream.

 

Until old Edgar’s mates,

quickly withdrew,

returning to the pub

and the life they knew,

 

where pork scratchings

were devoured;

cometh the men –

all action powered.

 

While ladies threw china

against the wall,

as Edgar’s wife – a dishwasher,

refused to install.

 

Now Edgar’s Retirement

a thing of the past,

But by God he had a good un

that went off with a Blast.   

 

 

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.

 

 

 

 

Four hundred years

since he left this earth.

Yet this gift so tacky,

and of little worth.

 

And not in keeping

with what he was about.

Purists of his word,

now scream and shout.

 

Leaving little doubt

how they do feel,

at the thought of his skyline,

with a Ferris wheel.

 

 

March 29, 2016

 

 

Such a surge of joy

when going places.

Fingers fighting

to tie shoe laces.

 

Such a sigh of relief

when homeward bound.

Now shoes kicked off

and slippers found.

 

 

 

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