A Plastic Poem

When man discovered fire,
Or woman, (either one),
It must have been so brilliant
To see what they had done.

Lighting caves up in the night,
Heating up a pot,
But then the people all found out
That it can get real hot.

Fire burns, and it can kill,
We have to use with care,
Everybody understands.
We’re “fire-safe aware”.

Then we discovered plastic,
Which does fantastic things,
But now we‘ve come to realise
the damage that it brings.

Use it once, it stays around,
Messing up our seas,
It’s got inside the food chain now,
We’re eating plastic peas!

Plastic can be useful,
And does impressive stuff,
But honestly, It seems to me
It’s time to say “enough”

Just like fire, treat with care,
Use it when you must,
But try to cut your usage down
Or live with Killer Dust.

England’s Country Roads

The joy of England’s country roads,
Those rivers made of stone.
Where great adventures first begin,
And minds are free to roam.

The leafy canopies above,
The fields beyond the hedge,
Where squirrels hide to spy on us
From the tarmac edge.

Here the trees are tightly packed,
In twisty, twiggled knots,
By cottages with mossy hats,
And weeping figs in pots.

The charming village pubs we pass,
Complete with red phone boxes,
And then we’re back by open fields,
with badgers, bees and foxes.

We pull into a farmyard lane,
And park up for a while,
Then stretch our legs out on the path
through cornfields to a stile.

Those pretty little English lanes,
Where wild flowers grow,
Taking us from where we are,
To where we want to go.

 

Old Muso

Old Muso, now you’re older,
Does your guitar arm get cramp?
Are nerve ends numb and colder,
When you lift up your new amp?

Have you noticed, in your voice,
A slight disturbing wobble?
And are you finding packing up
A little too much trouble?

Have all those constant set-ups
Been repeating like a wheel?
Have the late night parties
Lost their rampant sex appeal?

Do you sometimes lose your place,
Half way through a song?
And have you ever noticed that you
Play the third chord wrong?

Old Muso, you are older,
But your pulse will always beat,
To the sound you make upon the stage,
Until the song’s complete.

 

A Real Dad

Dads come in all shapes and sizes.
Some sleep in, some early risers,
Fishermen, oft in disguises,
Generous or sometimes misers.

Fathers can be gentle too,
The strong and silent things they do,
Or loud and noisy, one or two,
But loving, honest, brave and true.

Not all men become good dads,
Too much time out with the lads!
Or lost inside their new ipads,
They chase unhealthy drinking fads.

A real dad is hard to find,
Strong and tough, but soft and kind,
Confident within his mind,
One who’s washed, and cleaned, and ironed.

Dads can fail in many ways,
And sometimes it’s not he who pays,
But on these special family days
Dads deserve their share of praise.

An Actor Prepares

Real and unreal, 
Technical star, 
Line learning hypocrite, 
Truth in a jar.

Deviant lover, 
Strutter of dreams,
Beggars belief,
Not what he seems.  

Hero most noble, 
Darkling desires, 
A child on the shoulders
Of tricksters and liars. 

Dino Chick

Doyouthinkhesarus?
There’s a T.Rex standing there,
Looking very scary,
Like some monster-sized nightmare

But what’s this coming round the bend?
A chicken on the run,
Someone needs to warn her,
She’ll be gobbled up in one!

The chicken stops dead in her tracks
They eyeball one another,
The T.Rex takes a small step back,
They’re transfixed by each other.

No one moves, no one breathes,
Just the sound of rustling leaves,
Far away a jungle cry,
I’m sure he’ll pounce, that chick will die.

But chicken doesn’t seem to care,
She eyes him up and down,
Then lets out an almighty SCREECH!
And stamps hard on the ground.

The T.Rex looks as if he’s stunned,
He turns and plods away,
Thinking as he’s heading off,
What did he see today?

It only goes to show you,
That size can be misleading,
Especially if you’re hungry and
A chicken who needs feeding!

Natural High

We went to find the big outdoors,
A plan we’d had for weeks,
To head off on a great escape,
And climb the highest peaks.

Our rucksacks were so heavy,
With coats piled up on top,
Woolly hats and picnic mats,
And drinks for when we’d stop.

First we crossed the stepping stones,
Squelching in the clay,
Wearing hoods, then through the woods,
We were on our way.

We climbed up through a steep ravine,
Our legs were feeling weak,
Past the mill, then higher still,
We climbed towards the peak.

And as we reached the very top,
Relieved that we were there,
Nothing else above us,
Surrounded by the air.

The city was a distant speck,
A million miles away,
All the World below us,
We were mountain kings that day.

And In that moment, on the peak,
Neither of us had to speak,
For on that mountain in the sky,
We had found our Natural High.

(Robert) Zimmerman

Bob Dylan, he was born today,
In nineteen forty one,
A poet and a troubadour
Bettered yet by none.

Whether blowing in the wind,
Or tangled up in blue,
His thoughtful lyrics strike a chord,
His message fresh and new.

Though times may now be changing,
He remains a rolling stone
Not meant for the establishment
He walks his path alone.

He may not stay forever young,
And hard rain may well fall,
But happy birthday to you Bob,
Your songs have touched us all.

The hangman

Who are we?
Who claim to see,
Everything
That life can be.

Yet mystery,
Delights us all,
And fantasy,
Our coloured ball.

But if we leave
Our facts behind
We hang a rope
Around mankind.

(Image: The Hangman by Paul Julian)

The Boxer

A Box, this is my cardboard box,
But also it’s my World,
A wishing well, or posh hotel,
In which you’ll find me curled.

It’s large enough to sit in,
And imagine you’re at sea,
Or trekking through the Amazon,
It means so much to me.

It’s brown and corrugated,
Like the roof on dad’s old shed,
Cosy in the winter nights,
In sunshine cool instead.

My box is full of hopes and dreams,
Better times will come,
A place where I can hide away,
From almost anyone.

I really like my cardboard box,
I keep it clean and neat,
I haven’t got another home,
As I live on the street.

Royal Wedding Day

Today is “Royal Wedding Day”,
Thank goodness for sun,
It wouldn’t feel the same at all,
With rain on everyone.

Windsor Castle gleaming bright
Starring in the news,
The whole town rocks with well -wishers,
Police and TV crews.

And then the guests start to arrive,
The crowds begin to cheer,
The Queen waves as she travels past,
She looks pleased to be here.

Everyone has tales to tell,
Of how they know the Prince,
Or when they met Ms Markle,
And how she’s acted since.

And now the heart of everything,
The ceremony’s here,
Everybody holds their breath,
And suddenly it’s clear…

For all the trappings, all the fizz,
And all that’s going on,
Actual it’s just two hearts,
Who want to live as one.

Lovers, be they Kings or serfs,
They make our world go round,
So everyone who is in love,
Today, should now be crowned.

The Block

Dear diary, what a day I’ve had,
The whole world tumbled down,
The master of anxiety,
Engulfed me in his gown.

Outside, the sun was shining,
But I could not see the light,
Instead I shivered in the dark,
And found no words to write.

What is it, that terrifies,
And blocks me on this track,
That makes me shake, and start to flake,
And turn my blue sky black?

The fear of being wrong, I think,
Or failing in my task,
These are the things that bring me down,
Now that you come to ask.

I haul myself back to the start,
No death yet will I mourn
Begin again, and then again,
Until the poem’s born.

CLAWS

Lurking in the deepest seas,
Around the British Isles,
Hides a giant killer crab,
Who once starred on “X files”.

It swims up just below your feet,
Then grabs them with its claws,
And pulls you deep beneath the waves,
Like something out of “Jaws”.

CRAB-O-LOSSUS is its name,
With claws as big as cars,
The locals think It’s not from here,
It’s possibly from Mars.

Many harbour fisherman,
Have tried to kill the beast,
Boasting what a meal they’d make,
A massive crab meat feast!

But so far, everyone has failed,
To bring the beast to shore
The Mayor put up a big reward,
Ten thousand quid or more.

At least three hundred swimmers
Have been pulled beneath the waves
And bits of their anatomy,
Turned up in local caves.

The tourist season looked quite bleak,
No swimmers in the seas,
The cafes and the pier shows closed,
No more nice cream teas.

Then little nipper, Timmy Boyd,
A young, but clever chap,
Took a boat out late at night,
And set up a crab trap.

He caught the killer creature,
Then slammed shut his trap doors,
And knocked it out with such a blow
From one of his boat oars.

Now they keep it in a tank,
For all the world to view,
And tourists have been flocking back,
To pay to see it too.

The moral of this story,
Is take your deepest fears,
And capture them, or knock them out,
Then dine on them for years.

The “Folly”

Too late
For lions gate.
Or mouse house?

Foolish pride.

Dare to hope,
Without the scope,
To understand inside.

Tasted,
Yet wasted
Wanting to win.

I resign to the dreams
I had hoped to live in.

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