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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deemed out of date,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.
March 27, 2016
How alarming to see the seam
of a lampshade burning bright.
Oh, the urge to turn it around,
until the seam out of sight.
How ridiculous to pick up litter
whilst walking along the street.
When behind you a million items
discarded at people’s feet.
How unsettling to see out of place,
that which should be stood in line.
How damned annoying to feel so critical,
when OCD enters your world and mine.