Tuesday, 15 November 2022

I wrote this poem to remind me that I walked away from someone I could have given a helping hand.

London is busy and unforgiving, there are many youngsters like the boy in the poem and since then I have supported a charity for such despairing youngsters.

However, I am still ashamed that, at that moment, I just walked by.

Boy in the Underground

Just me plus countless other 'achievers'
Decamping from a tube train
A cruddy, mobile tin can
No human contact during the journey
Only the desire to keep some personal space
And not to look any fellow passenger
Directly in the face.

Then came the rush for the exit
Down narrow walkways
No place for the lame
Making some money was the only game
Business meetings and appointments to keep
So that each individual could reap
Some reward from this anonymous day.

But in the way
Huddled in a corner, not begging
Just squatting with hands shielding his face
Was a desolate member of the human race
A boy, probably unloved and rootless
Collateral damage from a broken home
No one cared as he bared his soul.

I thought about stopping, giving a kind word
Plus a 'tenner' for food...but I didn't
I too had become a drone
Just like all the other travelling clones
Cities are cruel and I was a selfish fool
Because that day I overruled...
My humanity.

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.

For me nostalgia kicked in around my mid thirties, it mainly centred around those last care free days before work and a career slowly and imperceptibly took over my life. This poem reflects some treasured moments spent with good friends while we were all still living at home with our parents. Slowly but surely and one by one we moved on, a close friend moved to the USA, I moved to London and thus the chain was broken. I didn't realise until later what great moments they were. So I am very thankful that the human brain has a memory function.

Cider Pub in Brighton

No beer pumps in this pub
Just plastic barrels on the bar
Serving 'scrumpy'
Strong enough to fuel a car,
But its main purpose
Was to exterminate brain cells
No matter how many billions
We possessed
It was only a matter of time
Before this potent, cloudy slime
Would conquer all before it
And leave us topers
Dumb but sublime.
We stopped going
When our pay went up
Drank pasteurised gunk
From aluminium tubs
And other chemical muck
In theme pubs
Trying to pull ‘birds’
But there was always the longing
To go back
Have a real drink
Get brainless
Put sixpence in the jukebox
Sing along to ‘Jumping Jack Flash’
But those days are gone
So are my mates
And so is the pub.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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

This poem is one of 65 from my new collection entitled

'A Message to Father Time'

Visit my Author Page for more details

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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

Car 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.

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.

Blogpoet

Tuesday, 15 November 2022

Boy in the Underground

Cider Pub in Brighton

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.