39 – Pope John Wayne

Poem number 39
Pope John Wayne
A Bishop once tried to elope
With a choirboy who worked for the Pope
But the Pontiff gave chase
On his horse Holy Lace
And lassoed them both back with a rope.


95 – A Summer Parting

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.

137 – No Rolo Just Polo

Poem number 137
No Rolo Just Polo
I gave my wife a Rolo
On the day that we got wed
She choked upon that Rolo
Sadly, now my wife is dead.
The thing about a Rolo
Is it’s solid, like a mole
Whilst other sweets, like Polos
Are designed to be a hole.
Don’t give your wife a Rolo
Or her face will go all blue
Offer her a Polo
Which will let the air flow through.

251 – The Day We Burned Grandad

Poem number 251
The Day We Burned Grandad
He burned in all his glory
On a Thursday, late in May
Not quite a viking send off
But impressive, in its way
A hundred people gathered
Men were men and women cried
Hands in laps and eyes on shoes
The birds still sung outside
We played some frank sinatra
And some jazz (his secret vice)
The vicar didn’t know him
But the things he said were nice
His sister spoke of childhood times
Of japes and scrapes and tears
The memories sharp and vivid
Through her own advancing years
Then we launched him, like that viking
To the sombre curtained sea
And we burnt him good and proper
Hankies twisted on our knees
And afterwards we gathered
In his garden, in the sun
With loosened ties and cups of tea
And sandwiches and buns
There was talk of golf and cricket
And the roadworks, and the news
Occasionally we spoke of him
And second guessed his views
Then eventually, as time moved on
The crowd thinned out once more
‘Til at last we waved the stragglers off
And gladly shut the door.
Just the four of us, alone again
The debris in the bin
A sherry and a cognac
One more toast to absent kin
It was done, this day of burning
And tomorrow we’d move on
Gradually adjusting
To the thought that he had gone
But for now an early night, relief
We’d made it through the day
And he’d burned in all his glory
On that Thursday, late in May.

297 – Breakfast Mess

Poem number 297
Breakfast Mess
You never wash the breakfast bowls
They’re there each afternoon
Still caked in dregs of porridge
Welded fast to dirty spoons
You never put the milk away
There’s sugar on the side
The honey on the table
Leaves a streak six inches wide
The crumbs, the knives, the dirty plates
The pan I have to clean
The jam so red and sticky
And the cheese that’s going green
All of these are you, my love
You’re there when I get in
I see you in the dirty cups
And smudges on the bin
A life we had, for all that time
The mess, the crumbs, the smears
A thousand dirty breakfast bowls
Three dozen precious years
And though you’re gone, and turned to dust
I leave the house each day
With the breakfast mess un-tidied
In that same old sacred way
In the hope that when I get back in
I’ll find you there inside
And I’ll get the chance to scold you
For the plates left on the side.
But you’re gone, my love and turned to dust
There’s nothing left to see
When I come home every evening
But a mess that’s made by me.