Wednesday, 26 June 2019

Glastonbury

Glastonbury has had a remarkable transformation from its roots as a counter-culture rock festival.
Nowadays it is an essential part of the summer social scene and attracts huge media coverage. Celebs fly in to spend the week in a luxury yurt, rock royalty are booked to perform, but can it still manage to retain the original atmosphere of youthful (and not so youthful) rebellion.
This poem takes a wry look at the modern Glastonbury.


Glastonbury




The last bastion of the hippy dream
Now part of the upmarket social scene
Justin and Josephine
On leave from their bank
Pretend to be 
Part of the 'family'
But only for a few days
No drug-fuelled haze for them
Only the best wine is good enough
For the 'creme de la creme'.

And middle-aged rock bands relive their past
But their songs of rebellion sound daft
Now they're part of the wealthy elite
Their anarchist posing sounds so effete
The passion is gone from a song
Where their hearts no longer belong
They're too rich now to berate
And they can't sing about owning
Plush mansions and estates.

Some of the stars now wear a hat
So you'd never guess that...they're bald
And bulging stomachs only add to their woes
Never mind about not seeing their toes
How can they look raunchy
When they're getting old and paunchy
As for those high notes, they're best left alone
Ironically proving that ageing rockers
Can still lower the tone.

The audience have the same problems too
Who?..in later life
Would want their wife
Sitting on their shoulders
Waving a flag
At a lead singer
They perhaps wanted to shag
Thirty years ago
And unbeknown to you
Maybe did so too.

But this middle-class...
Middle-aged partying needs a shot of new blood
So come on you young ones
Forget about getting a mortgage
Let's have some rebellion please
Remember how punk
Made us all ill at ease
Reclaim your territory please!
Then us counter-culture oldies
Can rest in peace.


Copyright © Peter Wheeler 2016.

All rights reserved.






This poem is from my new collection entitled

A message to Father Time






If you would like to get more information on how to download a copy to your kindle/laptop/tablet or own the paperback, click here.

Tuesday, 24 July 2018

Boombass Kid

You can hear them, before you see them. They only appear in the warm weather (otherwise they'd be deaf), when they can have all the car windows open just so that they can share their awful choice of music with you, at a zillion decibels. I wrote this poem as I think these types crave attention and need the safety of a car to avoid public outrage, imagine if they did it as pedestrians. However, I bear no real malice, we're all different in the way we behave to fulfil our human desires, so enjoy the poem and hopefully have a giggle.



Boombass Kid


It's all your fault!
When I walked down the street
You just wouldn't notice me
Even though I sported outrageously dyed hair
And dressed like a prat
You would not acknowledge that
I was posing assiduously there.
Being left with no choice, 
I was bound to try something more drastic
To make you realise I'm fantastic
So I bought an 'old banger'
With a throaty engine roar.

Then fitted a sound system so loud
That even a deaf person would be cowed.
Just what I needed
Now my presence has to be heeded
As I drive up and down
The High Street in my little market town
With the car windows fully wound down,
'Club' music blaring
And everyone staring
I've succeeded brilliantly
Because all I ever wanted
Was for someone to notice me.



Copyright © Peter Wheeler 2016


All Rights Reserved.







This poem is included in my new collection of 65 poems entitled

'A Message to Father Time'




If you would like more information on how to get a download of my new collection on your PC/Laptop/Kindle, or obtain a paperback version, click here.






Monday, 23 July 2018

The Bridge

This poem reflects some of the most cherished memories of my father. 
When I am able I like to go back to my childhood haunts, usually beginning at the bridge mentioned, and when I do they trigger-off memories of what would now be called 'bonding' between dad and me.
He really enjoyed taking me out on his bike for a long ride around the countryside, there wasn't so much traffic then and anyway the roads were rural backwaters so the journeys were peaceful. I think, for him, it was an opportunity to talk to his kid as I was a captive audience and now I am older I realise that he wanted to school me into being the kind and caring person he was.
As I grew up I also discovered that not everyone had such loving parents as I fortunately had, so my gratitude towards him grew and grew with age. 
I miss him every day and hope that I have not fallen short of his ideals.


The Bridge


Now and again
I revisit the little bridge over the Loddon,
Look down at the bank
It's where I played as a little boy
Caught tiddlers in a jam jar,
My own tiny aquarium.

Memories flood my brain
Of innocent, uncorrupted youth
Father as the hero
The teller of all truths
Provider of unconditional love,
Safety, warmth and wisdom.

I recall dad putting his little boy
On a crossbar mounted saddle
Ready to go on a long bike ride
Around verdant Hampshire farmland 
His arms, in order to reach the handlebars
Cradled me, as we went on tour.

Past Stratfield Saye, to view
A monument to the Duke of Wellington
Another Nelson's column
But bizarrely in a rural scape
More modest, less triumphant, private
Just like my father’s quiet courage.

Although he died a long time ago
I am still on that bike,
Dad safely steering
Whispering in my ear:
“Be a good person, then you will have wealth
That no one can steal...and nothing to fear.”

Copyright © Peter Wheeler 2016

All Rights Reserved.








                       

This poem is included in my new collection of 65 poems entitled

'A Message to Father Time'




If you would like more information on how to get a download of my new collection on your PC/Laptop/Kindle, or obtain a paperback version, click here.











Shiny New Bank

I wrote this poem when a local bank was refurbished. People were very curious while the work was undertaken and hoped for a bank providing an improved service in a modern environment.
The disappointment when it re-opened was crushing. The interior resembled the flight deck of the Starship Enterprise and there was only one service counter. The staff that previously had been tellers were redeployed to explain to those customers without a degree in Computer Science, how to enjoy the amazing new experience of doing their own transactions.
I went in on a Saturday morning when the system had crashed and the only option for customers was to besiege the poor teller manning the 'International Only' counter, who was pretty pissed off.
Sometimes progress is not progress.


 Shiny New Bank


I guess it’s progress and technology
I should thank
For this refurbished, shiny
And soulless new Bank
Not a teller to be seen
Just a daunting collection
Of uninviting, unfriendly 
Computer screens.
Customers walk in
But they don't know what to do
How do you form a queue
For machines that don't acknowledge you,
But when your turn comes
Everyone is watching
Waiting for a mistake
You're certain to look a fool,
So it's pointless trying to be cool
Those distressed electronic beeps
Will draw heaps of unwanted ridicule.
OK so HQ want less staff...
More money for the bonus pool
But the day I went in
There was chaos and confusion everywhere
The computers were having the last laugh
They were almost human 
And had learnt the trick
That when it's Saturday morning...
You ring in sick.

Copyright © Peter Wheeler 2016


All Rights Reserved.









This poem is one of 65 from my new collection entitled

'A Message to Father Time'


Visit my Author Page for more details

Thank you for visiting the blog.

Thursday, 19 July 2018

Hot Hatch

 Women tend to give their cars names, as if they were pets, but men, when they get the car of their dreams treat it more like a mistress. I wrote this poem about a Vauxhall SRi, which at the time was a hot, hot motor. It was my favourite ever company car and the poem recalls the day it was delivered to me.


Hot Hatch


Registration number C43 GND
You'll never know how happy you made me
You were made from metal
Cold-hearted, but beautiful
And you gave me everything a man could want
Amazing torque 
With the speed of a hawk.

You were waiting for me, 
Hanging around in the street
And when I first saw your body
So aerodynamic and sleek
In its gleaming metallic light blue
I instantly knew
That I was in love with you.

And when I came to pick you up
You had two wheels on the pavement
A raunchy, teasing angle
So I just couldn't wait
To grab your keys and penetrate  
Your lush interior space
Then drive you back to my place.


Copyright © Peter Wheeler 2016

All Rights Reserved.





This poem is included in my new collection of 65 poems entitled

'A Message to Father Time'





If you would like more information on how to get a download of my new collection on your PC/Laptop/Kindle, or obtain a paperback version, click here.








Thursday, 11 August 2016

My Brewery Salesman Years

The source of some of my poems relates back to my mid-twenties when I worked as a salesman for a large UK Brewer.
I had just moved to London and when this job came up it seemed an ideal way to get to know the city (and of course its watering holes), the post came with a company car and generous expenses so I took it.
My territory was mainly all the SW postal districts of London, from the Kings Road in Chelsea down to Wimbledon and some plush suburbs like Surbiton and Esher.
In those days the pubs were restricted on trading hours so they would open around 11am and close at 3pm, before opening again around 6pm in the evening.
This left myself and my three colleagues in London with nothing to do in the interim (we had to do evening calls as well).
However, all laws have loopholes including the then UK Licencing ones, so hotel bars and private clubs were allowed to trade all day, which led us to having afternoon meetings at the 'Pavilion Tennis Club' in Neasden, a private drinking club owned by 'diamond geezer' Les.
It was impossible to play tennis there, but this was irrelevant, the bar was always open and had an eclectic mix of customers, mainly male and mainly 'dodgy'.
I took some friends there one evening and the experience led me to write 'Pavilion Tennis Club', a poem currently on my blog, which gives more detail about this amazing club.
The best part of my new job however, was covering the Wimbledon Tennis Tournament.
I had to attend all day every day throughout the fortnight and do two circuits of every bar on their premises and phone through all their drinks orders, tough, but someone had to do it.
It came with an 'Access all Areas' pass and a badge allowing my car to enter via the main gates (priceless!). 
I was amazed to discover that the Centre Court was hollow underneath and used as a store, mainly for our beer, so we built a pub bar down there out of beer crates, complete with a dart board and draught beer on a pump, so while you might have been watching a 'duel in the sun' between two great tennis players, I could have been underneath playing darts.
The experience led me to write 'Wimbledon or SW19' a poem contrasting the gentility of the tennis with the gladiatorial approach of the now defunct Wimbledon FC Football Club, which is in my new collection of poems entitled:

                                          'A Message to Father Time'

I will do a video blog shortly and explain other sources of inspirations for my poetry, but meanwhile thank you for taking the time to read this blog.  

  

Pavilion Tennis Club

My blog about the years I spent as a brewery salesman explains the background to this poem, I hope you enjoy it.

Pavilion Tennis Club    


Poor old Neasden, butt of silly jokes
Spliced in two by the North Circular Road
What could ever make you famous?
It should have been your tennis club
Frequented by people just slightly below
The top social strata who neigh "helloos".

Queen's Club is for the privileged few
But the Pavilion was for anyone who
Wanted to drink all day
Enjoying cabaret, performed by a transvestite
Miming to records by his icon Shirley
Could Simon Cowell make his night?
No, it was thirty years too early.

This poor male artist was wearing a thong
So tight…that even a ball boy might
Think twice about retrieval.
He was changing in full view
Not yet a pretty sight
But my party all saw
Enough to pay a quid each at the door.

Les, the owner and 'mine host' collected the dosh
His charge for this artistic coup
And possibly a reward to
The performer who
Might blow him away,
As well as the audience
When the public performance was through

There are subtle differences between
Queen's and The Pavilion
The latter had only one tennis court
And the chances of playing on it were nought
Due to the presence of a massive tree
Whose trunk was where the net should be.

But c’mon,
Where would you have had the most fun! 



Copyright © Peter Wheeler 2016

All Rights Reserved.





If you would like to read more of my poems, I have just published a new collection entitled:



'A Message to Father Time'




This includes 65 poems written over the last three years covering many topics and usually with my ironic sense of humour added to give food for thought.



You can click Author Page to find out more details.

Thank You for visiting the blog.