Poem about love on day Christine Mc Vie died

So, we got into scrapes.
Arguments that weren’t even worth discussing.
If we had an ounce of sense,
we would have let it lie from birth.

We made sure we were different.
At loggerheads for the sake of it.
What happened baby? Being stubborn?
Or just well into it?

So, I’ll carry on drinking.
Carry on thinking.
Making obvious rhymes.
Playing innocent to obvious crimes.

You do what you do.
You have a few little offences to answer to, too.
See you in court.
Love you and sort of glad we lost what we fought for.


The Complete Collection of Lies

They came in with the tide, from a shipwreck and an old seadog’s cry:
So ingrained, they became grains of sand by and by.
Hidden in an hourglass, so sky-high
they got lost back in time, my oh my.

An exotic head with a black glass-eye
was buried so deep any tear would dry
before it had a chance to testify
and shatter the truth before prying eyes would pry.

On the brink of a blink

There are lots of moments you should have been there.
Moments we would have laughed about something someone said or did.
Some place that would have been to share
Or, if not, to be told where it was hid.

Now, nostalgia is very easy to print and bind or download and save that very day.
Moments the brain’s lowly-paid librarian catalogues away
whether right or not, by choice, or unfair.
There are lots of moments you should have been there.

Writer’s block

Readers revolutionary
Or orthodox
Pass sentence on yours
And you may be for the chop.

With poetic justice
Poetic licence backfires
As, rather than dry up,
You wax lyrical to your heart’s desire.

But little white lies
Can blacken your name
As charged with poetreason
They rumble your game.

While whatever you write
May be taken down in evidence against you
The public want their penny’s worth
And you get it too.

a round up of today’s results

woke up in bed, offside
the kettle whistle blew
got sent off to the bathroom
and had an early shower

put on the company colours
and got to the club canteen
had a team talk on the match ahead
and went over tactics with the big man

feigned diving in the office
and got a red card for foul play
fined for bringing the game into disrepute
practiced keeping my mouth shut

playing away, got home
signed an autograph for the wife
got a free kick for a late challenge
got knocked out.

Standing Ovation on Standing Ovation

Predictable predictors get so used to predicting what will happen,
it’s almost like nothing does.
Snatching depression from the jaws of happiness
they wear puppets on their gloves.

Isn’t it just the way
that bottles of wine spin at the end of the day
when things were just getting better?
When it seemed there were enough hours left to out-welcome any stay?

So, The Optimists’ Club turns over a new leaf
and sticks post-it notes with The End is Nigh written on their foreheads
and go to sleep wearing their sandwich board pyjamas
lying on top of each other, stacked up like bunk beds.

90s ghosts in The Beer Engine in Newton St Cyres
get butterflies in their stomachs about haunting the station
throwing up collectors with their nets
to get caught and pinned down in their own dusty collection.

Do you ever make up conversations
with real people in your head?
That then keep you awake at night as you mull over every word
and later quote them verbatim to others: words they actually never said?

Chancers scratch scratch cards
looking for a better future
but start to lose sight of why they started
and scratch out their eyes.

Meanwhile, somebody who shall remain nameless chants:
I need no-one’s help
to snuff out my own desperate cries
and do tricks to a standing ovation to fool myself
until the clapping dies.