Uplifting page-turners for modern readers
Cats
Cats are devils in disguise.
They draw you in with big cat eyes.
They rub against you with their fur
and mesmerise you with their purr,
pretend to be your bestest friend
all to meet their evil end.
You think that it’s only you
they do all this stuff to,
then one day you meet
someone living in your street
who calls Kitty by another name
feeds and pets them just the same,
sits and strokes their silky fur
whilst listening to their gentle purr.
Habit Forming Theory
First,
get into the habit
of having a habit.
Second,
if the habit
is a bad habit,
stop the habit
and get a new habit. Continue reading “Habit Forming Theory”
Gallipoli
Sunlight dances on bleached beaches.
We remember a time
when men were killed in their pursuit.
Penned in small coves they fell
over fallen comrades like sacrificial lambs.
Crowds bow their heads
shedding tears for their forebears,
disconnected lines on the family tree;
branches cut before flowering.
Young men, straight and tall
mark the passing of those lives against their own
and thank some unknown presence,
call it God, call it luck,
that they were not here a hundred years ago
Going Out
Soak
in bath,
shave legs smooth.
Clean
teeth, cream
face and body. Continue reading “Going Out”
Multi tasking’s
not working for me.
Too much to do
too little time to do it.
Waking in the night
with a thousand things
running through my head.
Lying there thinking
don’t think,
don’t think,
don’t think.
It will come to no good
if you keep thinking
about the things you
shouldn’t be thinking about.
Losing my grip on reality,
obsessed with minutiae
of ridiculous proportions.
Think I’m going crazy,
cracking up,
cracking up.
Yeah, I’m cracking up.
New Babby
Our Cheryl’s ‘ad a babby
A right bugger ‘e is too
‘e screams day and night
until ‘is face is big and blue.
Our Dad went up the wall
said he’d throw her out
when she sat ‘im down and told ‘im
that she was up the spout.
The lad who was responsible
legged it the same day
so Dad was left with Cheryl
and a babby on the way.
Still now that he’s born
we’ve grown to like the little sprog
Cheryl’s called ‘im Tyson
after Dad’s favourite dog.
Once they were a couple
who stayed out late and drank in bars
when the mood took them.
Once they slept late and whiled away weekends
pursuing hobbies that gave them pleasure enough.
Now they are parents.
Late nights are the time for feeding
and listening out for snuffles and tears.
Mornings are early and pleasure comes in the shape
of a small bundle lying helpless in their arms.
They talk of those days of couple-dom with fondness.
Yes it was fun but this, this is real
Once they were a couple,
now they are a family.
Hipster Cocktail
Old is the new, new
the new, new
is the new old
last year’s thing
is way too young
reuse, recycle
pre-love me up
and make it retro-tastic
vinyl kills disc every time
make it local and organic
or don’t make it at all
mass production
is the mass murder
of our trades people
hit me with your
gentrification stick
make mine a Hipster
and make it slow
The Picnic
We laid out our picnic, grateful
to have found a quiet spot on this pleasant day.
The park though large and rambling was popular
with families and couples alike so it was nice
to have found a niche, a sleepy hollow
where few seemed to tread.
With only the faint hum of the city in the background
we sat civilised with our wine, olives and brie
and watched nature doing its work around us.
Birds flew down to peck at stray crumbs;
a few rabbits went about their business
from a safe distance, heads bobbing up
and down, ever on watch.
And then from nowhere a fox strode into view.
Stopping mid stride he turned towards us.
Transfixed, we daren’t move
lest we frightened him away.
Unlike his mangy street cousins
this one was big and bold with a strong coat
and gleaming eyes that did not waver.
He seemed to hold our gaze forever
but really it was a matter of minutes
before he dismissed us as harmless
and trotted off to some unworldly place.
We went back to our rustic feast, confident
that we had witnessed something magical.
The house smelt of cabbage
cooked and eaten long ago but in no hurry to leave.
The ghost of cabbage
slyly seeping through the keyhole;
creeping through the cracks;
lurking in the stairwell;
sliding under the doors.
The room itself was clean,
a little faded but a pleasant enough aspect
if you like your views grey and decaying.
I tried the bed, it creaked.
I sniffed, there was that smell again
invading my nasal passages;
lingering in the air.
“It’s ten shillings a week,” she said.
I caught a faint whiff of greens on her breath.
Was nowhere in this house free from the tyranny of cabbage?
“I can do you an evening meal for an extra two shilling and sixpence.”
“Would that involve cabbage?” I asked
“Maybe,” she said suspiciously.
“I’ll take it.”
