Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

Summer Heat

Embraces my body and soul
Like an insatiable lover
Exhausting me with its demands.

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Photo by Sufi Nawaz

Britain’s in a mess, anyone can see
Simply by turning on their HD TV
No second house in the country
The bank refused my loan
I text my best mate
On my trendy iPhone.

The Poles have taken all the jobs
A life of unemployment looms
For the kids hooked on FB and PS3
Ensconced in their rooms
There’s no work of the type they seek
Doing nothing all day for 300 a week.

I have to admit, it’s a cause for fear
Who’s going to keep them in designer gear?
And don’t talk to me about the pound
I can hardy afford to pay for the beer
When we go abroad on our hols
At least three times a year.

But today things will change, the lion will roar
The missus has already gone in her pink 4X4
Me, I’ll stop off on the way to the boozer
If I find a spot for the family space cruiser.
So I’ll tick the box and help decide our fate
Cos it’s people like me who will make Britain grate.

Hummus for lunch, falafel for dinner,
An explosive chickpea combo,
That’s bound to make me thinner.

Anyone who’s been brave enough (for ‘brave’ read ‘foolhardy’) to read any of my poems on this blog will know that I’m not of the ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud…’ school of poetry.

I tend to mess about with poetry now and again to keep the little room in my brain with the plaque ‘creative writing corner’ on it from becoming all musty and dusty.

Recently I submitted a piece to a poetry website which sometimes sets the theme for poems. This particular one was themed around ‘The Bullfighter’. In the end, because I had two ideas which appealed to me, I wrote two poems on this theme and submitted one of them.

The poem was reviewed by three critics, two Americans and a Brit. The Americans praised it, even though one didn’t like the subject matter, whereas the Brit marked it down saying it was a cold, dark and moody piece which was difficult to read or enjoy.

Fair enough comment I suppose. I do have a predilection towards dark and moody when it comes to creative writing.

I don’t usually submit poetry anywhere, so it was an interesting exercise for me to see how it would be received by others.

Anyway, here’s the poem I didn’t submit – this is the lighter one.

The End of Glory

Glazed bloodshot eyes, a snort and a bellow
He sways unsteadily from side to side
And with difficulty raises his stocky head.
There is still a spark of defiance in the eyes
Of a proud fighter facing the darkness.

Too many jabs and blows have taken their toll.
Give it up, I pray, unwilling to wreak more damage.
But he was bred for the battle and the challenge,
A fading remnant of a waning era
Who knows only death or glory.

He snorts again and steadies himself for his move.
I shift the cloth and wait, poised to react.
The bullfighter holds out his glass, ‘another’ he slurs.
And I pour a generous measure, inflicting
One more piercing blow to his thick old hide.

This simply little ditty is more relevant to the days when I did the Dolly Parton thing, but there are still traces left…

Ode to the Weekend

Friday’s Fun
Saturday Smiles
Sunday Slumbers
Monday Moans

Inspired by wild lavender bloom and washing up

Delicate Balance

Four flighty faeries dancing deliciously on my draining board.
Tiny creatures with features almost too small to make out.
Clinging lilac and purple gossamer chemises hint
Of vixens with innocent smiles.

Curious place to swirl and skip
Amidst the crusty pans and greasy plates.
Their graceful, imperceptible movements hypnotise me.
I stand transfixed, until one waves… I think.
I wave back, forgetting the bottle in my hand.

A green jet blasts their delicate frames from the board.
And, drenched like protesting Parisian students,
My friendly faeries slide down the plughole.
Their dance abruptly over.

Mortified, I stare accusingly at the plastic bottle in my hand
As though it had acted with malicious intent,
Independently, destructively.
The label reads Fairy Liquid

…well it had to be really.

It’s been a while since I’ve added any poetry (don’t anyone mention trades description act at this point) to this blog. When you read this one, you might be wishing I left it that way.

The Hot Smoothie

He’s steaming again, back to his old ways
Right off the wagon after being dry for days
He lurches left and right with a sigh and a puff
A voracious drinker, he never has enough

Don’t stray too close to his erratic sway
Or be foolish enough to stand in his way,
He has only one all consuming desire
He’ll burn baby burn, don’t mess with his fire.

Still he sticks to his job, solid as a brick
So I aint bothered if my iron’s an alcoholic