Poem number 120
Oh for the wings of a porcelain gull
Polished daily by wrinkled old hands
Never could porcelain ever be dull
To the spinsters stuck fast through the land,
The knickknacks and ornaments filling their shelves
Are a substitute, that much is true
But the ladies would never admit to themselves
That they’re lonely – there’s too much to do.
There’s dusting and wiping and polishing too
Every ornament shown to its best,
When accidents happen they’re mended with glue
Then put back in their place with the rest.
Oh for the wings of a porcelain dove
Such a gentle and limitless charm
The unexplored mystery of falling in love
Unlamented. A porcelain balm.
Poem number 121
Fishguard Harbour, A Summer Evening
Boats lie all tilted on barnacle ground
Anchors redundant, no water around
The tide is as out as an out tide can be
So the harbour is grounded, not part of the sea
Just mud flats and rock-pools and seaweed left stranded
Amongst all those boats sitting skewed where they landed
But then the tide turns as the evening draws on
The water floods back, bit by bit the mud’s gone
And the boats, one by one, are afloat in a bay
Not stranded on mudflats but drifting away
So the anchors, awakened, are needed once more
Their lines growing taut as I watch from the shore
‘Til at last there’s a harbour, replete with a fleet
The Fishguard Armada, reborn and complete
The last rays of sunset reflected in red
On the darkening water, I should go to bed
But I stay a bit longer, entranced by the view
Just enjoying the harbour, now risen anew.
Poem number 122
I wash, I scrub, I moisturise
I massage every day
But still the skin around my thighs
Is all but worn away
I wish that flesh was thicker
But it’s not, so never mind –
And at least it’s not all mouldy
Like the skin on my behind.
Poem number 123
I switched the light switch on again
The Devil was still there
I switched the light switch off again
Could smell his cordite hair
I switched the light switch on again
He flashed his pointy teeth
He switched the light switch off again
And dragged me down beneath.
Poem number 124
Some days it comes easy
Some days it comes hard
Poetry’s a fickle beast
It’s hard to be a bard.
It’s tricky trying to find a rhyme
Like nailing blood to rock
Some days you can’t dig out the words
To tunnel through your block
Sometimes I’m sorely tempted
Just to sketch or paint instead
It’s a pity that I’m colour blind
And only see in red.
Poem number 125
Spot The Danger
A pimple on your forehead
Isn’t cause to feel alarm
But a pimple on your genitals
Could bring with it some harm
So if you see a pimple
On the bits that you keep hid
For Christ’s sake see a doctor –
You’ll be very glad you did!
Poem number 126
The Explicable Donut
Donut is as donut does
A hole with stuff glued on
Sugar, wheat and strawberry jam:
You’re sticky when it’s gone.
Poem number 127
Two Men In A Shopping Centre
Would you like to see my nipple?
Yes I would, good sir
But wait ’til no one’s looking
Or you might create a stir.
You don’t want to be arrested
I don’t want to cause a scene
I’m respected and important
And last year I met the Queen,
So hang on a mo, I’ll scout the land…
Yep! The coast is clear!
Reveal to me your nipple –
But be quick with it, my dear!
Poem number 128
Examine the crystalline beauty of the raindrop
Magnificent in its simplistic individuality
And a bugger if it hits you in the eye.
Consider the scarlet mnemonic which is the holly berry
Christmas condensed into a perfect sphere
And poisonous on the tongue.
Nature is a femme fatale. Her dangers clothed in scent and mirrors
She stalks in beauty like the night, two faced
So wear gloves when you prune the roses.
Poem number 129
Whilst holding toast, and buttering
I noticed that my guttering
Was struggling and spluttering –
I’d have to take a stand
I put aside the buttering
And went out to the guttering
Said “Just you stop that spluttering –
This isn’t what we planned!”
Obedient, the guttering
Did stop at once its spluttering
So I resumed my buttering –
The house was looking grand.