January 21, 2013

 

 

I dreamt that you were under me,

and we’d just made love so passionately,

then I left the bed to go for a pee,

whilst you got up to make a pot of tea!

 

 

 

 

She often speaks of violets

with their damning perfume,

and bodies from her past,

she hardly dare exhume.

 

She speaks of golden sequins

when she was a chorus girl,

and lovers far and wide,

who sent her in a whirl.

 

She never speaks of heartache,

for that’s hers alone to keep,

but she cries a thousand rivers

for a love, buried so deep.

 

 

 

 

Never blamed.

Never shamed.

He kicked the bucket,

before he was named.

 

 

 

January 20, 2013

 

 

Sitting by the Grand Canal, Mendotta ate a

leisurely breakfast, next to a dishy Dane,

then in a water taxi, left for the Marco Polo,

thinking how her life was becoming insane.

 

She then boarded the front of the plane,

which was soon to be New York bound.

Feeling relieved to be rid of Percoughalees,

who she assumed was still on the ground.

 

Her brother, Brubellgot, was the captain,

and she felt in very safe hands, having

travelled thousands of air miles with him,

to far off exotic lands.

 

Her thoughts turned to Admiral Unkonkey, as

the plane, from the runway, lifted into the sky.

Her life had been so free and uncomplicated.

Drat Percoughalees, that smarmy, small fry!

 

 

 

 

 

 

The days spent down the Lodge with Dad,

were the best I ever knew.

We’d sit for hours with our fishing rods,

eating ham butties followed by a brew.

 

We never bothered about the weather,

and some days it was as cold as could be.

If it was wet we’d sit under a big umbrella,

together, my Dad and me.

 

I never wanted those days to end.

Sometimes we never got a single catch,

then we’d trudge back home, frozen and damp.

I can still hear the sound of the back door latch.

 

Then we’d stand with our backs to the fireplace,

just drying out, my Dad and me, whilst

taking in the aroma of stew and dumplings,

as Mum passed us both a big mug of tea.

 

 

 

 

It’s a blokey thing,

it’s what men do;

hunt in packs

and cause

hullabaloo.

 

 

 

Her sensitivity drove him potty, as she

would insist on reading into everything,

things that he could never see were there.

But quite often her prophecies came to pass,

and at her, in amazement, he’d stare.

 

 

 

 

Remove those fingers from your mouth,

and stop being a nervous ninny.

Wipe those tears from under your eyes,

and come here and lean on my pinny.

 

 

 

 

Just imagine if tomorrow, you wake up dead,

with the vultures from hell surrounding your bed.

Your Will not yet written and your affairs untied,

presuming it would be decades before you died.

What if all you cherish, and lovingly hold dear,

finishes up at the Tip, without a single tear.

What if that diamond necklace, is never found –

heaven forbid, and the children, never satisfied,

on friendship, put the lid?

What if the tax collector claims your cash and

house to sell, because of a t you failed to cross,

and probably an i didn’t dot as well?

I urge you to do a Will, even though you might

make ninety seven, so at least you will have

peace of mind, if you die tonight at half eleven.

 

 

 

 

 

I’m no longer allowed to own a cat you see,

as my Love says we must explore the world

and be free of ties and responsibility.

I know he is right, but not a cat can I sight,

from the break of day to the dead of night.

I think he is shooing them away in fright, whilst

I, WILL them towards me, with all of my might.

 

 

 

 

« Older Posts — Newer Posts »