Poem number 3
In The Garden
The empty tree, stripped bare by thieves
The lawn now raked, the mound of leaves
And sitting in that leafy pile
My daughter with delighted smile
The sea of colour round her lap
Her little gloves, her little cap
Persuade me Autumn’s not so bad,
She scatters leaves, and runs to dad.
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 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 77
The Erroneous Begonias grow in a pot
They’re Erroneous Begonias because they’re all I’ve got
I went off to buy some crocus
But I couldn’t keep my focus
So Erroneous Begonias it is. What a clot!
Poem number 114
A Thousand Starlings
The boughs bend under the weight of a thousand starlings
Sharp eyes and sharp beaks
Through a thunder of wings as they lift off to devour some mother’s darling.
Black feathered predators, swooping down on the unguarded child
Pecking eyes, ripping cheeks
Red blood leaks
As the mother screams her despair, humankind returned to the wild.
Starlings are feral and should be feared when they gather together
Assassins so sleek
With a threat that’s unique
So be alert, don’t lose focus for a second lest your child is gone forever.
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 134
No Room For Flowers
Rubble and glass and broken doors
Rubbish and stones and bits of floor
Crisp packets, gravel, scavenging rats
A scooter, a golfball some mouldy old mats
Waterlogged mattresses, packets of fags
Old cardboard boxes and nappies in bags,
Our garden’s a pigsty, a mess, overgrown
I’m too scared to clear it – I leave it alone
I keep the door bolted I stay safe inside
Pretend the lawn’s empty, an easier ride
The neighbours don’t like it but sod ’em I say
They should put up a fence or just go, move away
An Englishman’s garden’s his castle, his fief
And besides, it’s the place where I buried the wife.
(And her lover).
Poem number 145
Guardian Of The Crops
I wish I was a scarecrow
Standing in the sun
Guarding corn from evil crows
Until the day was done.
I’d stand there looking fearsome
With a hat upon my head
The crows would see my silhouette
And fly next door instead.
A peaceful life, that scarecrow lark
With not a lot to do
But satisfying none the less
Fulfilling, useful too.
Yes a scarecrow’s life it is for me
A life of summer sun
Watching over fields of corn
Until the harvest’s done.
Poem number 153
Everybody Loves Good Neighbours
I pick my nose on Fridays
It’s really rather fun
I spread the gloopy bogey
On a toasted linseed bun
I hand it to my neighbour
And she wolfs it like a shot
She thinks she’s eating pate
But I know she’s eating snot
That may seem quite disgusting
But that’s just the path she chose
She chucks her rubbish on my lawn
I feed her from my nose.
Poem number 168
I have a secret garden
Where I grow a lot of peas
I do a lot of weeding
Which is tiring on the knees
I smell a lot of cow poo
Which I borrowed from a farm
I do a lot of digging
Which is tiring on the arms
I have a secret garden
So I’m always on my feet
I love my secret garden
‘Cause it gives me things to eat.