Poem number 38
Modern life is hectic
Full of too much rush
Stomachs are dispeptic
Earholes long for simple hush
But in the midst of madness
Standing calmly, flag unfurled
Exuding gentle gladness
Is the wondrous Gardeners’ World.
Monty Don content, serene
He talks of earth and shrubs
Surrounded by a sea of green
And flowers grown in tubs,
A Friday evening tonic for
The modern stressed out soul
A break from refugees and war
Some change to pay our toll.
Poem number 43
Homeward Bound In Autumn
Boys released from school at last
Their chatter is inane
Smoking king-size Marlboro
As they amble down the lane
Swearing rather fluently
And soaking up the sun
Homeward bound, relaxing
Now the day is almost done.
Poem number 47
Autumn, Autumn, everywhere
Leaves cascade without a care
A million reds, a million browns
Kaleidoscopes around the town
A perfect technicolour coup
A way for those with much to do
To overthrow the daily grind
A pity then, I’m colour blind.
Poem number 48
Garden gnome with funny beard
Lives out on the lawn
Not as twee as I had feared
But slightly more folorn
Mournful in those dungarees
A man who’s hope has died
Made to live beneath the trees
Condemned to live outside.
Poem number 54
Eternity On The Number 14
Your dulcet tones waft to my ear
Upon a cloud of last night’s beer
We’re on the bus, you’ve got the aisle
There’s no escape, I try to smile
But as your voice drones on and on
I fantasise that you are gone
On holiday perhaps, or worse
Perhaps you’re riding in a hearse
A coffin lid above your head
Still droning on although you’re dead
But when I look across I see
You’re still there sitting next to me
Your voice a buzzing, gnawing whine
That saws my bones in random lines
I close my eyes and hold my breath
Your voice goes on, I pray for death.
Poem number 60
I’m going to start a nunnery, I’m going to breed some nuns
I’ll sell them down the market from a van
I’ll start with just a few, and a breeding monk or two
Then expand it to an empire if I can.
I’ll buy the nuns from Ireland, where I hear they’ve got a glut
I’ll pay for them with fifty vats of sherry
I’ll check their teeth and feet, give them vegetables to eat
And then bring them back to England on the ferry.
My mother says I’m crazy, should come up with something else
But I’m ready, I am buzzing, in the zone
It’s the only plan I’ve got, so I’m giving it a shot
Just to prove a man can live on nuns alone.
So come to Krister’s Nunnery! The nuns are all first rate
Angel voices, well filled habits, meek and mild
If you want a Godly lady, come to me – I’m far from shady
Krister’s Nunnery, for nuns to drive you wild!
Poem number 61
A Trip From Reading Station
We enter the glass fronted station expansion
No longer a cottage, it’s more like a mansion
With white marble pillars and wide open spaces
For people to mingle with closed wary faces.
We step to the ticket machine on the left
An off peak return leaves my wallet bereft
Then off up the stairs to the hall in the sky
Where floor to roof windows are thirty feet high
The view is astounding, though tainted today
By the dark tinted rainbursts that get in the way
So we head down once more to a platform to wait
For the train with a prayer that the damn thing’s not late.
It arrives in a thunder of brakes and hot steel
The doors clatter open, the scene is unreal
The whistles, the creaks, the shouts and the cries
Delight at reunions, the parting soaked eyes
We squeeze through the funnel of passenger flesh
Through the doors to a seat where the coffee stain’s fresh
The floor is quite littered with shredded old tickets
There’s gum on the armrest (where else would they stick it?)
We sigh with relief, set our minds to submit
For a while we’ll defer to the engineer’s grit
Let the driver and guard take the load from our shoulders
We’ll take out our briefings from brown cardboard folders
We’ll read and relax, let the rails take the strain
Rely on the tracks – it’s the age of the train.
Poem number 86
An Untitled Poem About Leaves
Do not grieve
For the leaves
They’ll be fine
They’ve been shed
‘Cause they’re dead
And they’re red
But next year
Have no fear
In the trees
Green and new
Just for you
Poem number 95
A Summer Parting
I was born in sight of Christmas
On November’s dying breath
With the lunchtime rain forgotten.
Time has passed.
When I die it will be summer
With the sky a cobalt blue
And the butterflies alighting
On the grass.
My eyes will fade through blues and greens
To settle on your gentle gaze
And then close in the warmth of our sun
Your tears like glass.
Poem number 96
Scatter Me On Balmore
When you’ve burnt my mortal body
And I’m just a pile of ash
I won’t want nothing fancy
And I won’t need nothing flash
Just scatter me on Balmore
On a lovely sunny day –
The view will be my heaven
And in heaven I will stay.