A Pretty Kettle of Poetry

This was the first poem I wrote for a new collection I’ve been working on since the summer and now completed called ‘Ventriloquist Dummy Voice-Overs.’

I have been writing more than posting for these last few months but will post a few from this new collection based on the theme of voices. Read ‘La formula dell’orrizonte’ by Roberta Castoldi if you can. Inspired me wanting to write a collection based on a theme.

Dummy
My voice chords have taken a vow of silence.
My mouth moves. My tongue hits my teeth.
Lack of sound makes sense.
My lips look like a red wreath.

Too much enthusiasm doesn’t seem to work.
Too much keeping distance leaves me bereft.
I sit waiting for someone to make me talk.
In the meantime, my neck turns left to right and right to left.

Poetry Archive Now Wordview 2023 Winners

Congrats to the winners this year!

I entered with ‘Mannequin Street’ and you can find the video there on Poetry Archive website.

We all die and the only thing not to know is how:
Some ‘cos they eat too much cow.
Some ‘cos they smoke.
Some ‘cos they don’t joke.

We all go to the undertakers:
Some ‘cos they’re unlucky overtakers.
Some ‘cos they’re sinking death rowers.
Some ‘cos they’re drowning maritime blowers.

We all get our card marked and have to punch it:
Some ‘cos they get sick.
Some ‘cos they’re alcoholic.
Some ‘cos they give up the ghost and the spirit.

We all curl up our tootsies and push up daisies:
Some ‘cos they freeze.
Some ‘cos they wheeze.
Some ‘cos they’re 1352-plagued with a sneeze.

We all kick the bucket and lay in a ‘coffin’:
Some ‘cos they fight cancer but give in.
Some ‘cos they end it all in a spin
not knowing where to begin.

We all meet our deliverer:
Some ‘cos they meet their killer.
Some ‘cos they die for someone like Hitler.
Some ‘cos they’re so careless they have no idea.

We all leave this mortal coil:
Some ‘cos there’s too much toil.
Some ‘cos they’re buried in soil.
Some ‘cos they get a boil.

We all cop it and die:
Some ‘cos they fry.
Some ‘cos they told a lie
and some ‘cos there’s no knowing why.

She’d always be a teen
despite the passing, and doing of, time.
Such was the shock from the adults around
no reason for that action would ever be found.

He himself got off, never hung.
Deserved as much as her, highly strung.
A medieval case, the modern press shook
as her identity parade paraded on his facebook.

Amy Winehouse would have been celebrating her 40th birthday today. I wrote this poem soon after her death in 2011 as part of my ‘Side One’/’Side Two’ collection of the time drawing on my favourite music artists. Of course, I never met her or even saw her perform live, but tried to imagine what she might write That was the concept of that collection at the time – try and write in the style of the artist named or at least use them as inspiration for the poem.

Crinkled headlines on my forehead showing my tabloid age,
your front pages only had time for me when you were in my face.
So, now I’m memorable and kind of unforgettable
I’ve gone to another place.

Stars like me fall they say ‘cos we get so high
but stars like me shine in the big black sky.
I wasn’t always a picture of happiness
but you know what nor were you even at your best.

I had a great voice.
One of those inexplicable things that weren’t my choice.
So, as this circus waits for my posthumous third album release
for all my faults I’ll have to flop in the charts before you’ll let me half Rest In Peace.

Thanks to my family. Thanks to my friends.
Thanks to my fans. This is where the story ends.
Nobody has the right to write about me, especially a nobody who never knew me like you!
Only each and every one of us can understand what each and every one of us goes through.

Won’t it end in a lie if truth be told?
Gold diggers say that when they don’t find gold.
I got a flea-market here that just won’t perform.
The sea is so rough they launch a shipwreck for the coming storm.
Accountants sack their horses and succinctly bolt for the door.
Writers have their feelings, but readers feel it’s all a bore.
I’ve got nothing to say; mimes for rhymes;
The seventh time it’s happened for several times.
Let’s lose ourselves to see who wins.
Let’s fillet a French film to see how it fins.

To see you again is such an again.
Shop around for love but, before you buy, get into Zen.
Workers working round the clock for way under
hate overtime and little wonder.
Do you think about what you’re saying before you have a fit?
Have you ever been at home and trashed it?
As broom sticks become crutches for witches
I’m in tears and in stitches.
Everyone and their learned and illiterate laughter
is canned for what’s to come and the hereinafter.

Should I regret my ‘suicide’ or ‘death by misadventure’?
Don’t ask; it’s just a benchmark for a bencher.
Wear a sweater mundane.
Keep it simple and plain.

You can trust your friends and live together
sharing out what you have forever.
The flowers will bloom and you’ll laugh in the heather.

They’ll give you your what-will-be(s).

The stars will fall around your head,
pointing out your words, orange and red.
They’ll raise you up, born and bred.

Bedtime praying on your knees.

Party animals will spill their cocktails.
Drunkenmentaries will tell their tales
or spew up if all else fails.

You’ll get into Zen.

But the truth might hit as you hit the pillow:
Those wartime bells that rang out hollow
will become your alarm clocks come tomorrow.

Boys will die before they’re men.

As random as a random turn
and heading for a fate
I sealed it in an envelope
and second class did wait.
And when it came I opened it
and whispered out aloud.
Well well well and well, said I
well well well and well
then thundered out some lightening
and puffed a big grey cloud.

Higher than a drama high
and playing down to low
I didn’t say goodbye at all
but said a sad hello.
And when my bucket hit rock bottom
I pulled it out my well.
Well well well and well, said I
well well well and well
then laced my drink to let me drowse
until asleep I fell.

As wondrous as a rainy bow
I didn’t seem to mind
and tied a knot with string to spare
and read a message signed.
And when a diggy dog did dig
a treasure trove was there.
Well well well and well, said I
Well well well and well
then stopped a stopwatch on its way
which didn’t seem to care.

So, shredded as an ageing fleur
and crumbly as a cemetery
I asked if anybody here
could die of immortality?
And how I gasped when then up-popped
a real talking rabbit:
Well well well and well, said rabbit
well well well and well
but if you find whatever it is
hide it quick as well.

The artist painted them.
Then they disappeared.
Only the canvas remained
with the last time they were seen.

When called in for questioning,
refused to talk.
Just painted curtains
as a signed statement.

The tabloid headline read
‘Serial killer painted them, then curtains.’
A court artist drew
the artist after sentencing.

Some moonwalk backwards past.
Some slow-motion steer.
Some upwards beanstalk mast.
Some downhill rabbit hole disappear.

Some hand in hand.
Some distant one-man elastic band.
Some three-legged race.
Some astronaut-float through space.

Some in 14th century rags.
Some in 1789 attire.
Some in birthday suit bags.
Some with hair on fire.

Meanwhile as I sit and sip,
the rusty wind-up toy cafe box spins.
Teacup saucer tables on springs:
me with magic roundabout zebedee eyes
watching dougal-walking brians,
florences and dylans
greeting goodbyes