Poem number 5
Wise Olde Shakespeare
Fret ye not on tynee thinges
Saide Shakespeare to his wyfe
Sette yor minde on positives
To help ye thro yure life
Putt that bunyon out yure head
And thinke insted of me
I may be pore at presente
But wille mayke it big, you’ll see.
Poem number 35
In wonder did he lie beneath
The clouds as white as children’s teeth
That puffed along on summer breeze
So common yet designed to please
A myriad of giant shapes
A chicken’s head, a bunch of grapes
He lay, he gazed, he wondered then
He closed his eyes, and slept again.
Poem number 51
Grade A Grey Day
It’s a Grade A Grey Day, muted hues
Damp and drizzly, no more blues
Just grades of grey and pastel white
Shortened day, an early night.
Poem number 85
Puddles gather where they will
And damp my winter shoes,
Abandoned water orphans
Born to varied shapes and hues.
Marking out the dips and bumps
Of roadworks long expired –
A topographic history
Of a path both old and tired.
Scars from where the gasmen dug
And pockmarks from BT
Filled up now with water
Like a thousand tiny seas.
The patchwork quilt of poor repairs
The jobs done on the cheap,
Reservoirs and oceans
Rivers, lakes two inches deep.
And me, a striding giant
Causing ripples as I walk
Tsunamis in the puddles
Litter bobbing round like corks.
By the weekend global warming
Will evaporate the scene
Leaving just the sodden leaf mulch
As a clue to what has been,
But soon the rains will turn back time
The landscape will refill –
In a world so full of roadworks
Puddles gather where they will.