A Walk in the Rain

Tip-toe through the garden

2010-11-07T12:54:00.000-08:00

Though Stan lacks education
He's been blessed with common sense.
Some believe he's thicker than
The planks nailed to his fence.

But Stan knows well his ten-foot fence
Will keep him safe from strife,
Keeping out the leprechaun
Who travelled here from Fife,

A crazy Scottish cousin of
A leprechaun called Peter
Who poses as a pint-sized man,
Drinks whiskey by the litre,

And shows great feats of fortitude
With night-long jigs on sheds.
The sound of boots on iron roofs
Wakes flowers from their beds,

And makes them grow with evil thoughts
And plans to cut down trees,
Schemes for farming beetles and
Electrocuting bees.

Peter's dance enhanced the place
In front of Stan's abode,
A beetle-farm-filled wilderness
Where menace overflowed,

Regarded as a garden by
Its owner, who was proud.
Stan admired the daisies that
Released a noxious cloud.

He loved to see the sunlight on
His apple tree's black branches.
They only make their rotten fruit
To drop in avalanches,

And land on lawns of neighbours who
Complained about the briars,
Those ever-roaming tentacles
That tended to start fires.

Peter's dance made sneezing plants
Appear in even rows.
They'd wait until they got a chance
To sneeze on strutting crows,

And smear black clothes with some strange goo
That sticks to feather coats,
A style that suits the parrots who
Reside on pirate boats.

When Peter's cousin Cormac came
To visit for a week,
He spent the first month telling tales
Of trips to Mozambique,

And felling trees in Canada
Where children panned for gold,
While grizzly bears grew beards and bowler
Hats to fight the cold,

And when his stock of tales were told
He ventured out for air.
He hoped he'd meet the neighbourhood's
Fedora-growing bear.

Instead he found the wilderness
Where Stan goes to unwind.
Its strange mystique applied a hold
On Cormac's funny mind.

He spent three weeks exploring it,
In search of deadly creatures.
He built sand castles with the stuff
That flowed from water features.

His never-ceasing researches
Made Stan feel ill-at-ease.
He'd put up with unwanted guests
If they paid rent or fees.

To extricate his visitor
He followed Cormac's route.
Days and nights of daunting jaunts
Made up this fraught pursuit.

After Cormac's exit Stan
Built up the fence with planks.
He's seen this added safeguard used
On all the local banks.

Written in the Stars

2010-10-08T23:37:00.000-07:00

An often-correct horoscope
Told Monica she would elope
With Willie, a welder,
And each time he held her
She'd smell his aversion to soap.

Soon she felt flustered and harried.
Her tea leaves said they would be married
By Ron, a dead rector,
A spine-chilling spectre
Who stroked the strange hedgehog he carried.

Her crystal ball's view made her quail.
The church would be used as a jail.
The rector would roar
And the hedgehog would snore.
A banshee would whistle and wail.

But she saw an end to her plight.
The cake looked immense in moonlight,
And she'd have recourse
To a court of divorce
In a graveyard on their wedding night.

A Life of Comedy

2010-09-19T03:21:00.000-07:00

My greatest wish was that each day
Would leave me with a lighter load,
And I'd avoid events that held
The sense that something would explode,

And that a life of comedy
Would come to me and make me laugh,
To bring a tingling buzz as good
As those supplied by Van de Graaff.

It seemed my wish was granted when
I won a highly-valued prize,
A cruise across enchanted seas
And days as light as butterflies

That flutter into twilit skies
And grace the views of setting suns,
Far away from relatives
Whose greatest skill is getting guns

And pointing them at animals
And leaving walls with massive holes,
Missing out on free fresh meat
They'd hoped to cook in casseroles.

The bar on board the ship was home
To sombre people dressed in black,
Men espousing misery
While drinking wine and rare cognac.

They revelled in advising me
To yield to our impending doom,
A looming ending soon to start,
A constant night about to bloom,

With meagre light illuminating
Waiting rooms for tours of yards,
Estates of tombs where garden gnomes
Wear uniforms of prison guards,

And these eternal building sites
Would never be the welcome host
To any type of building work
Performed by man or beast or ghost.

I had to hear these cheerless folk
Explain their bleak philosophy.
Some would speak in technical
Expressions that were lost on me.

Some of them used simple words
With ample time between each one.
They'd reminisce on days with books
That reached the peak of teenage fun.

For some a light and easy read
Would be a book by Wittgenstein.
Some said life's a jigsaw and
You'll laugh when all the bits combine.

The final scene will be revealed.
You'll see that it's a sinking ship.
You'll never find a fuller stop
To punctuate a stately trip.

Late one night I had to laugh
Despite the sense of shock I felt.
A massive ice berg shook our ship.
It wandered over seas with stealth.

The men who had been hoping for
An end to life to come their way
Were all in floods of tears and praying
Loudly to extend their stay.

They didn't need to be afraid.
Our boat would win its bout with ease.
It beat the berg and kept its course.
It ruled the waves of icy seas.

The quality of ice bergs now
Is not as high as in the past.
Because of global warming they
Are not designed and built to last.

I smile when I mull over all
The harm to Father Nature's wife,
And future cataclysms that
Might terminate all human life.

The Futility of War

2010-08-26T23:00:00.000-07:00

Grace became the nanny for
A family in Kerry;
A mansion near Killarney where
The granny lived on sherry.

The parents led chaotic lives
That threatened to unravel.
The unrelieved upheaval came
From constant foreign travel,

Busy sealing business deals
Or sailing seas on yachts,
Getting tangled up in nets
And complicated plots.

The kids ran wild with Grace, whose nerves
Were frayed around the edges.
Sam and Sue put keys in cakes,
Or so the cook alleges.

They'd try their best to leave a room
Arranged in disarray,
While Grace despaired, but all would change
As brunch began one day.

The plethora of crackers placed
Upon the silver platter
Were swiftly aimed at Grace's face
And thrown with feeling at her.

Something snapped inside her head.
Her fury overflowed.
A dark, forbidding mood impaired
Her caring nanny mode.

She started throwing bread at them.
She only lost their trust
When she threw wholemeal bread without
Removing all the crust,

So they threw jam and Parma ham
And Parmesan, ungrated.
At times like these, when armed with cheese,
They're frequently elated.

They'll improvise and try to use
All weapons within reach.
Sam threw shells and batteries
He'd gathered on the beach.

Grace fought back by throwing books
And magazines left scattered.
She looked at all the titles though
Their contents hardly mattered.

The war went on till lunch was served.
They stopped for soup and salad,
A time for trauma-laden troops
To sing a mournful ballad.

When they surveyed the mess they'd made
They felt both pride and shock.
Even Gran had fled to hide
In her grandfather clock.

Carpets, curtains, rugs and walls
Were scarred by shards of cake.
They'd smashed to bits the priceless vase
They dearly hoped was fake.

Chairs had suffered injuries.
They'd soon be amputees.
They'd have to get new wooden legs
But they'd get used to these.

Sam and Sue agreed with Grace
When she proposed a truce.
She cursed the crackers and the force
Of madness they let loose.

They signed their names to seal the peace,
The first accord of many.
They promised they'd forget the fight
And blame the mess on Granny.

Many weeks went by before
She exited the clock.
Inside she'd found some diamonds and
A terrier called Jock.

(Another change: I'll be updating this site every three weeks from now on).

Come back next week

2010-08-19T00:20:00.001-07:00

I've decided to update this site once every two weeks instead of every week.

Breakfast in Bed

2010-08-12T00:09:00.000-07:00

Benjamin's bed was a massive four-poster
With just enough room for himself and his toaster,
His microwave oven, his block of blue cheese,
His stock of black treacle and green herbal teas,

Stacks of rice biscuits and fresh macaroons,
Boxes with numerous knives, forks and spoons,
Packets of sugar and bowls of molasses,
Cupboards to store his fine china and glasses,

Small tins of tuna and bags of sultanas,
Baskets with ample supplies of bananas,
Bottles of sweet maple syrup in crates,
Flapjacks and pancakes on thin paper plates,

A suitcase with cake tins and moulds used for jelly,
Salad and coleslaw from his local deli,
Mushrooms from his uncle Sean's latest crop,
And cheesecake with cream and a cherry on top.

There wasn't much hope that he'd ever get thinner
When breakfast in bed lingered on until dinner.
Whole days would tend to blend into one meal.
He'd find himself eating his porridge with veal.

Cornflakes were mixed with homemade mayonnaise,
Along with linguini on some rainy days.
But he vowed to eat with his loved ones instead
As he had a sad Christmas dinner in bed.

He did a good job at transforming his life.
He now cooks for his seven kids and his wife.
They're glad that he's now nearly always awake,
But they're sick of eating his broccoli cake.

Why Esther likes to stand

2010-08-05T00:16:00.000-07:00

The setting sun adorned the bay
And gentle winds were westerly.
Mr. Moran called to say
That Esther was requesting me.

I'd only known her for a week.
In Flora's quiet cafe she spoke
To compliment my strong mystique,
An aura kindled by my cloak.

She joined me for a cup of tea
And some of Flora's carrot cake.
We spoke about the bourgeoisie
And poetry by William Blake.

Before I left to flaunt my pose
And walk my aura by the sea,
I said I'd help her weave the prose
To tell a tale she had to free,

A story trapped inside her mind,
To feed her readers fine rewards,
Like cheddar fed to those who've dined
On fodder sliced with bloody swords.

She said she'd wait until she felt
Her words could flow in streams that swell,
A mental thaw when snowfalls melt
And feed the streams where salmon dwell.

She'd summon me to her abode.
When Mr. Moran called I went
And heard the words that thawed and flowed
To flood an empty document.

I typed as she described the scene:
Lovers lost in morning mist.
I thought it sounded saccharine
Until her tale threw up a twist.

This couple were two apple trees
Who shook their leaves to speak in sound,
Though both of them knew Portuguese.
Their roots spoke German underground.

Esther claimed to be the child
Of these two trees with tender souls,
Who danced when autumn winds were wild
And used their fruit to play lawn bowls.

She'll stand for weeks on orchard paths
And she'll retain a blissful stare
When Frisbees, balls and frightened cats
Get stuck in her amazing hair.

Higher Education

2010-07-29T00:11:00.000-07:00

Leonard was acknowledged as
A truly splendid grouch.
He practised his appalling leer
In tandem with his slouch.

He thrived in finding minor faults
And forming long complaints.
He'd talk until the sun's descent
About the sins of saints.

He did his best to irritate
And trigger indignation.
His skill at instigating fights
Took years of education.

He mingled with distinguished staff
At college in Antwerp,
Where lecturers encouraged him
To loudly belch and burp,

And slurp his soup in restaurants
To anger other diners,
Agitating adults there
And entertaining minors.

These fledgling young curmudgeons would
Begin to bloom and burgeon.
They'd marvel at the mess he made
As he devoured his sturgeon.

For many years he took great pride
In all his churlish labours.
But he grew bored with being shunned
By relatives and neighbours.

He undertook a PhD
In charm and being nice.
His tutor watered potted plants
While singing 'Edelweiss'.

Leonard learnt to stand up straight
When walking down the streets.
He smiles and waves or doffs his hat
At everyone he meets.

He studied how to be a source
Of solace and of peace.
At first his neighbours sensed a wolf
Beneath his snow-white fleece.

But now they see a little lamb
Whose tender heart is big,
Until he starts to eat and he
Reminds them of a pig.

My Holiday with Dahlia

2010-07-22T00:20:00.000-07:00

My holiday with Dahlia
Began in Lower Saxony.
In trekking through Westphalia
We'd trails and mountain tracks to see,

And views infusing ecstasy,
Euphoria before repose.
Taxing thoughts perplexing me
Were always eased by alpine shows.

Windmills in the Netherlands
Made these two featherheads feel light.
Days spent turning red on strands
Would be lead weights to halt our flight.

To Italy we went by bus
And floated high on Bolognese.
People less adventurous
Add Venice to their holidays,

And go where tourists congregate,
Like sheep converging on the piers
On well-planned days that culminate
In serenades from gondoliers.

But God-sent thrills on trips abroad
Are found by seeking something new.
In Venice we were over-awed
By rhubarb at a barbecue.

Elmer Keeps Most of his Toes

2010-07-15T00:09:00.000-07:00

Elmer feels blessed on a cold winter night.
He'll proudly show off the effects of frostbite,
Frightening children with two missing toes,
And tales of their ghosts in his shoes when it snows.

The rotting and rattling confined to his boot
Were typical of his impractical youth,
When he was incautious in his expeditions,
Heedless of threat in atrocious conditions.

He thought he'd be toe-less before turning thirty,
Handy for cleaning his feet when they're dirty.
He lived with a devil-may-care attitude,
But Elmer abandoned his cavalier mood.

The thick layer of snow on an ice-coated lake
Enticed him like icing on top of a cake.
He wanted a slice he would cut with his sled.
The lake would attempt to consume him instead.

He faced his demise when he fell through the ice.
He wished he had heeded his father's advice:
"Don't walk on ice where the locals use kayaks."
The cake underneath was a huge anti-climax.

His life flashed before him in heart-warming scenes,
From his first reluctance to start eating greens,
And days from his childhood when mild-mannered fairies
Were there on his visits to eight Auntie Mary's

To banish the boredom. They gave him gold shoes.
He wore them and vanished in clouds with red hues.
His fourth Auntie Mary collapsed in surprise.
Her eerie canary kept rubbing its eyes.

He saw many scenes that were over too soon,
Recalling the joys of a June afternoon,
The pleasure of finding some jam on the floor,
The treasure he buried when he was just four,

His school days and all his audacious adventures
That started when Granddad removed timber dentures
So he could speak freely in telling his tales
Of troubles on travels in fierce winter gales.

After recalling his deeds in cold places
He saw a succession of beautiful faces,
Of family members and friends he could trust,
And women he lost due to his wanderlust.

Elmer was drowning, dejectedly charting
A course for his journey as he was departing
The land of the living with feelings of dread,
Fearing a place that was hot lay ahead.

But fishermen saved him before his withdrawal.
Visions of death and infusions of awe'll
Impel many people to steeples to pray,
Or promise to sample life's ample buffet.

But Elmer went straight to a spot near a river,
Eager to see what the ground would deliver.
His wait in the queue at the Styx to be ferried
Reminded him where his lost treasure was buried.

He dug up the suitcase he'd found as a child,
When he thought that money, like honey, grew wild.
The case contained coins made of silver and gold,
A well-wrapped revolver a century old,

And photos of something that looked like an elf.
These photos were all that he kept for himself.
He buried the gun in the suitcase again,
And gave all the treasure to two fishermen.

Matches Made on Mountainsides

2010-07-08T00:04:00.000-07:00

His meagre zest would soon decay
When Jeff began his working day.
He hated working in a pub.
Dealings with Beelzebub

Would be appealing if that beast
Could permeate his life with yeast
So it would rise and he could find
A job to animate his mind.

Full-time drinkers chose careers
As part-time thinkers steeped in beers.
Thoughts ran wild without a leash.
These dreadful bores had found their niche

In spouting outright balderdash
And touting plans for making cash.
Their thoughts about the food they've had
Were never short of barking mad.

Jeff would have to hear their views
On cooking all desserts in stews.
The listener had little choice.
He had to hear the same advice

Repeated time and time again.
They'd tell him he should buy a hen
And keep its eggs inside a sock
That has a clasp to hold a lock.

This sock should spend six hours a day
Inside a stew of beans and whey
And chocolate fudge with double cream
To feed a thrilling troubled dream.

Jeff felt cursed by all he heard.
His ears would ache with every word.
He'd lie awake in bed at night
And try to let his mind take flight,

To float up high without its weights,
Where satellites have garden gates
And picket fences round their lawns
And awe-inspiring views of dawns.

But thoughts of work confined to earth
A mind that failed to feel the worth
Of wasting time discussing why
A crescent moon consumes the sky

Until it's fat and feels unwell
And spews a most unpleasant gel
On heads of those heroic men
Returning home to feed their hen

At half-past-two while neighbours sleep
And chatty birds still chirp and cheep,
And caped crusaders hop and skip
With lollipops in garlic dip.

When football thrills left drinkers buoyed
And Jeff's morale had been destroyed,
A well-heeled man in hobnailed boots
Related tales of men in suits

Who camp on lonely mountainsides
And wait for caves to issue brides.
Happy couples set up home
And banish days of monochrome,

With colours added to their lives,
Souls with star-like sparks that wives
Can generate with perfect ease
And light a fire to melt a freeze.

Jeff was quick to lose his cool.
He called this man a total fool
And ridiculed these doubtful claims
Of cave-made wives igniting flames.

This man took Jeff to see a cave
Where mountain air and aftershave
Combined to make a pungent smell
To lure the cave's beguiling belle.

Jeff saw many matches made.
The potent silent serenade
Of these intoxicating scents
United brides and dapper gents.

Nowadays he loves his work.
In drinkers' words great wonders lurk.
Their notions don't assault his ears
And he believes all that he hears.

The Life and Soul of City Streets

2010-07-01T00:11:00.000-07:00

I live in the city. I notice its laughter
In noises it makes with delight.
I'll happily listen to traffic till after
The start of a warm summer night.

From dawn until dusk I could listen to buskers,
The jesters who beat tambourines,
The chancers and dancers who gather in clusters
That vaguely resemble routines,

The singers who linger nearby the fishmonger,
Beside the cake-maker and diner,
Hoping the smells will diminish their hunger
Till dinner from someone's bin-liner.

With luck they might purchase affordable food,
Some edible vegetable fakes.
Counterfeit meals can dispel a bad mood.
Desserts are allegedly cakes.

Crowds used to flock to a woman called Betty,
A model of poise in her pose.
She'd eat a baguette and a plate of spaghetti
While singing a song through her nose.

Her talent ensured that she made enough money
To buy proper food for her act.
She'd eat fresh-baked brownies with spoonfuls of honey
And two Snickers bars when she snacked.

I ventured out busking with songs of my own.
Their structures defied all convention.
My shyness meant I would perform them by phone,
And Betty got all the attention.

I hoped that my lyrics would greatly impress her.
I borrowed from Milton and Chaucer.
She fell for a busker, a former professor,
Who sang and drank milk from a saucer.

They ran off together and married in Brussels.
They left gaping holes on the street.
One spot was filled by two whistling Jack Russells
Who worked with a lewd parakeet.

Betty was quickly replaced by three dancers
Who contemplate life's inner meaning.
Ask them deep questions and they'll supply answers
Through dances, some mime or just leaning.

Simple Things

2010-06-24T00:15:00.000-07:00

When I'm annoyed I feel a need
To flood my head with memories
Of childhood days with golden glows.
I play a requiem for these.

The house where I grew up is gone.
Time has claimed our small abode,
A dwelling in a scenic spot
Beside a winding, crumbling road.

Our little world appeared to be
A curious and boundless place.
Its mysteries confounded us
Beneath the moon's impassive face.

At dawn we'd be like knights of old.
We'd set about performing feats.
We sought the woodland's secret paths,
The eerie, otherworldly streets.

We fought the shadows of great beasts.
We always felt adventurous.
At dusk we fled the woods with haste
And trees would rightly censure us

For failing to pay homage to
The foliage that graced the woods,
Where all the fauna forage and
The flora flower out of hoods.

We learnt to show some reverence
For ever-present plants we faced,
For weather that would flavour our
Endeavours with the sweetest taste,

For storms that lavished favours
We would savour as the lightning flashed.
We thanked the moss and buttercups
That caught us when our go-carts crashed.

These memories remind me of
The eminence of simple things,
And emphasise the vital fact
That noble, ancient trees are kings.

These monarchs shelter animals
And house the most discerning birds.
They speak sublime, momentous truths
In prose with no intrusive words.

The Dangers of Spring Cleaning

2010-06-17T00:04:00.000-07:00

Donna's head is full of facts
And knowledge gleaned from books.
She memorises recipes
For all the meals she cooks.

She knows the names of kings and queens
And minor Asian cities.
She's able to recite a list
Of naval battles with ease.

Each year she feels her brain contains
Some facts she'll never need,
Like ways to clean the stains of blood
From foxes on your tweed.

Her brain requires a good spring clean
To clear some free head space.
She'll throw out all the useless things
On shelves behind her face.

But once when she was throwing out
Some things she'd learnt in college,
She inadvertently removed
Some very useful knowledge.

She found that when she held a spoon
And came across a bowl
Containing ice cream that she liked,
She didn't know her role.

She didn't know what she should do
To use the spoon she held.
She wondered if these baffling things
Were somehow self-propelled.

Fantasy

2010-06-10T00:18:00.000-07:00

Graham's paintings feature blood
And dragons found in dark red mud.
He paints the gore without restraint
In scenes to make the squeamish faint.

Fiendish, saint-destroying beasts
Will cook their foes on racks at feasts.
It riles the unemployed embalmer.
Blacksmiths make the victim's armour

Into salt and pepper cellars.
Furry former sewer-dwellers
Rest on skewers over fires.
Scarecrows made from straw and squires

Stare from where the withered wheat
Conceals the scarecrows' tethered feet.
Wizards battle Beetle cars
That come to life with built-in scars

That can't be seen inside their souls.
They show the sentiments of trolls
In their long antisocial phase.
They like to leak on new driveways.

Some friends of his appreciate
The way his paintings illustrate
Their daily lives in war with Orcs
And leather-wearing evil storks

Who leave small creatures made to fight
And bring defeat to all things right.
Graham's friends will strive to stay
Alive to see another day.

They'd rather have the storm and strife
Than hide in dreams of modern life,
The fantasies to hide the fear,
The families of manic cheer,

A steadfast faith in sleek facades
And folk who only play charades
Instead of speaking words of truth
On storks who bear a new recruit

To fight without integrity
And make their rivals beg to be
Allowed to enter death's domain
Without courgettes inflicting pain.

Graham's aim is not to spread
The truth of life with all its dread.
His goal when he sets out to paint
Is making his aunt Sally faint.

Notes from my Trusted Financial Adviser

2010-06-02T23:24:00.000-07:00

Notes from my trusted financial adviser
Would come with a helping of horse tranquilliser.
She somehow convinced me to cut down on spending,
To live with the holes in my clothes that need mending.

She said that when flu leaves my nasal paths blocked or
My elbow's demanding a trip to the doctor,
I'd have to make do with my own remedies,
To make simple treatments from things found on trees,

And start farming leeches to use in my cures.
I'd have to end breakfasts of Belgian liqueurs.
At least I would have to reduce this expense,
And earnestly try to use less frankincense.

A meal of a crispy pig face and spiced mice is
The latest example of my sacrifices.
For lunch I have peanuts and packets of dust,
And bread that is nothing but bits of black crust.

My second-hand car only goes in reverse.
Despite this it's certain that things could be worse.
I've nurtured a love for my own home-made wine.
It widens the smile of the pig when I dine.

Valerie Adores the Rain

2010-05-27T11:16:00.000-07:00

Valerie adores the rain.
She won't pull up her hood.
She's catalogued the hurricanes
Her hair style has withstood.

Her head expands when it gets wet.
Her brain begins to flower.
She feels the unrelenting rain
Increasing her brain power.

And she'll discover startling facts
That light up in her mind.
Facts about the lives of plants
Are things she loves to find.

She'll marvel at the knowledge that
She never knew she knew,
Like how to instigate a flawed
Exhilarating coup.

Hilda's Garden

2010-05-20T02:21:00.001-07:00

Her overgrown garden would fight her.
The grass concealed creatures who'd bite her.
An old timber wagon
Was home to a dragon,
But he was her cigarette lighter.

This is Hilda running a marathon
to raise money for mice.

The Climate in my Head

2010-05-13T00:39:00.000-07:00

I've boundless praise for the inventor
Of those frosty days in winter.
I miss them now that summer's here
To leave its blemish on this year.

Memories of snow will spark
A pleasant fire to quench the dark
In long and dreary days of June,
The interlude in life's cartoon.

When leaking clouds that need a plumber
Start to dominate our summer
I'll be glad I don't need heat
While stressed-out hordes head off for Crete

To laze beneath incessant sun
And bake until they're overdone,
And spend their nights believing that
They've found their perfect habitat.

I'll steer away from stress and strain.
All I'll need to keep me sane
Are thoughts of winter's many charms
And drawing monsters on my arms.

Dinnertime at Darren's House

2010-05-06T01:15:00.000-07:00

When Darren's fridge is short of food
He won't go to the shops.
He won't sweep floors for stray popcorn
Or missing lollipops.

He won't eat out in restaurants
Like senseless, spendthrift fools.
He'll simply go down to the shed
Containing all his tools.

He'll make his food from bits of planks
With nuts and bolts and nails.
Fools can pay a fortune for
Their meal of frogs and snails.

He's satisfied with plywood pies
And eggs of oak or pine.
He'll use their yolks for cakes he makes
That smell of turpentine.

Some desserts have wires and gears
And some make ticking sounds.
On Christmas Day he cooked the hare
Who raced and fooled greyhounds.

He made a cake that tasted bland.
He only ate one slice.
He found that he could use it as
A pest-control device.

The Winning Ticket

2010-04-29T02:19:00.000-07:00

If I won the lottery
And I was sure I'm not a tree,
I'd spend some cash to buy this prize:
A thousand chainsaws making noise,

An orchestra of engine screams,
A prison wall of sound in dreams,
Augmented by a donkey choir
Tormented by a fear of fire.

I'd let them bleat their doleful songs
While builders beat enormous gongs.
The sound would rival sonic booms
And noise from ferries' engine rooms.

I'd buy Ferraris by the dozen.
I'd give the car keys to my cousin.
He's always crashing cars and vans
And crushing them like empty cans.

I'd let him drive my Aston Martins.
I'm well aware a super car wins
Brand new friends and much acclaim,
A chance to feel the glow of fame.

I've no desire to mix with stars.
I'd only buy expensive cars
To hear athletic engine roars
And make some noise by slamming doors.

I'd satisfy my need for noise.
I'd drown out lows and nurture highs.
A piece that starts with my lead chainsaw
Might help Uncle Willie's brain thaw.

Just a single mental ember
May well help him to remember
Where the ticket's tucked away.
We've searched his house all night and day.

His ticket's worth ten million euros.
I doubt if there's a person who knows
Where that winning ticket lies.
It wears a betting slip disguise.

I concentrate on my screenplay
Instead of thinking of the day
He lost his favourite hearing aid.
It's mostly made of yellow suede.

We searched in countless strangers' ears,
Ignoring threats from guns and spears.
And all along the aid was stuck
Between a duck egg and a duck.

Brendan Began to go Barmy

2010-04-22T02:32:00.000-07:00

Brendan began to go barmy
Just weeks after joining the army.
The whole world seemed odd
When he found out that God
Was riveted by origami.

We're not cut out for this war caper
Because we are all made of paper.
You can't avoid gaffes
When you're making giraffes.
God uses glue and a stapler.

Brendan resides on a shelf.
He works as the tale of an elf.
While out on manoeuvre
Somewhere near Vancouver
He wrote his first book on himself.

Pear Noises

2010-04-15T09:09:00.000-07:00

Norma enjoys spending time with her pears.
They're affable, kind and less deadly than bears.
She'll give them a shake just to see if they rattle.
The odd rattling pears will be eaten by cattle.

Some grizzled old pears emit gasses in jets.
Some of them wheeze when they smoke cigarettes.
The feeble old folk will be given to sheep.
Goats get the pears that go 'blip' and then 'bleep'.

Cats eat the pears that can make engine noises.
Dogs get the ones wearing apple disguises.
Geese get the pears that use vulgar swear words,
And Norma eats pears that keep tweeting like birds.

Gillian's Favourite Pastime

2010-04-08T02:26:00.001-07:00

Gillian's favourite pastime is this:
Collecting sunlight in glass jars.
When it's released it will radiate bliss,
Dazzling like fireworks or stars.

She gathers the sunlight on warm summer days.
Jam jars contain the bright light.
She'll put on the lid to confine lively rays,
Stopping them from taking flight.

If inklings of summer's full glare bring you joy,
You'll need them when winter takes hold.
She'll open a jar full of light from July,
And turn winter lead into gold.

Another Busy Night Ahead

2010-04-02T06:29:00.000-07:00

Another busy night ahead,
A banquet with a beauty queen,
Model maids who'll be well-fed
When they've consumed a magazine,

Dresses with a show to stop,
Dancing dishes courting spoons,
A Roman Catholic Robocop
Who laughs upbeat electro tunes,

A marching band of mannequins
With teddy bears released on bail,
A man who is a fan of sins
Assisted by a bath of ale.

I'll talk about my fake career:
A helicopter pilot who
Is always haunted by a fear
Of what his rebel brain might do.

I'll speak of past mistakes I've made
And deep regrets for what I've done,
Of memories that never fade
And demons who insist they've won.

I've no desire to turn back time.
I only want to halt its flow,
To see flood-waters cease their climb
When time's great tap is turned down low,

And I could float and watch white clouds
Drift by above this tranquil place,
A private pool devoid of crowds,
Where time has lost its frantic pace.

I'll treasure gifts of clear blue sky
And silence after years of storm,
Until the plug is pulled and I
Can feel a whirlpool start to form.

I'll note a certain downward trend,
A fate from which no one can hide.
I'll sink and soon I'll reach the End.
I'll see what's on the other side.
I hope to find a water slide.

You're my cup of tea

2010-03-25T07:09:00.000-07:00

You're my cup of tea.
You're the milk that I add.
You're the sugar I stir.
I threw a spoon at your Dad.

You're my cup of coffee.
You keep me awake.
You're directing my dream.
You're my cream-loaded cake.

You're my slice of toast.
You're a taste of delights
That can fill me with fire
When I get into fights.

Your Dad thinks there's something
Not quite right with my head.
You can tell him he's toast
Made from mouldy old bread.

You're my spoon of honey.
You're my chocolate eclair.
You're the packet of Skittles
I'm refusing to share.

In the Stars

2010-03-18T09:18:00.000-07:00

My horoscope provided me
With this precise advice:
Move towards the west until
I face a simple choice.

The road will fork and I must choose
The darkest path ahead,
The one that might well lead to lands
Where reprobates have fled.

Trees will reach across the road
To block the fading light,
Engendering a sombre mood
Before the start of night.

I'll fear the hedgerows veiled in shade
Where putrid creatures lurk.
I'll come across a tennis ball
That glows despite the murk.

I'll take the ball and persevere
With my dismaying trek,
Through a custom-built machine
To make a nervous wreck.

I'll meet a man in tennis whites
Who'll lose his tearful mood.
The ball will bring effusive glee
And gushing gratitude.

He'll take me to a mansion full
Of lights defying sorrow,
A place to quell the sense that night
Will last all day tomorrow.

I'll join the party underway,
Converging on its zenith.
Events suggest a musical
And someone there will pen it,

A light romantic comedy
About my love affair,
Nourished by enchanting sounds
That fill the summer air.

I'll meet a wealthy heiress there.
We'll leave the revelry.
Each whispered word of hers will have
The force to level me.

The months that follow this will be
A giddy whirl of frolics,
Of blissful, dizzy afternoons
With cheerful alcoholics,

Evenings spent forgetting that
It's not all fun in life,
Drives in her Rolls Royce till she
Agrees to be my wife.

I followed this well-meant advice.
I went into the west.
I chose the road and found the ball.
I think you know the rest.

And now I find myself engaged
To Isobel, a beauty.
I've thanked the many gracious men
Who've volunteered to shoot me,

Should I require a firing squad
To scratch an irksome itch,
Or should I need to be a corpse
Abandoned in a ditch.

Isobel and I will start
Our married life in splendour,
A grand old house with verdant grounds
That have their own defender,

A massive hound who roams the lawns
And probes the latest blooms,
While I stay in to spend my days
Discovering new rooms.

But now my latest horoscope
Says I should head back east,
And keep my course till I perceive
A keen, committed beast.

This is when I should escape
And find a cave to hide,
And for the next twelve months or so
I'll rarely go outside.

I'll find a small supply of beans
Inside a dead man's cans.
I'll eat the mice who acquiesce
With my plain dinner plans.

I won't be heeding this advice.
I'll stay with Isobel,
Leaving her would break my heart.
I'd rather visit hell.

But there's a voice I hear at dawn
When charming dreams are gone.
It says I'll only be content
If I keep moving on.

A Plague of Pet Ducks

2010-03-11T03:13:00.000-08:00

Ducks keep saying 'quack' to me.
I run back to my shack to flee
From their relentless sermonising,
Louder than the German I sing

When I block my ears and try
To drown the sound, but they can fly
Around my head. These raids by air
Are scary when they graze my hair.

They ruin my healthy mop of it
When they crash-land on top of it.
I try to keep them occupied.
Excitedly, they flock to ride

The make-shift bumper cars I made
With trolleys I acquired through trade.
I got them in exchange for shoes,
Paintings of depressing views,

A tin of tuna sandwiches,
A bin of unused bandages,
A multi-purpose metal pole
And one full bag of Polish coal.

The ducks enjoy their bumper cars.
They hold the stumps of old cigars
Between their beaks while they pretend
They're driving tanks to help defend

A land where ducks can run the banks
And be long-standing, spiteful cranks
Who dominate the radio,
Complaining from their daily show.

When ducks are seeking to impress
They'll sit on deckchairs, playing chess.
They'll briefly cease their lecturing
To knock your rook and peck your king.

I've thought of making Peking Duck
And getting pets who speak in cluck.
I'd cook these cold quack doctors who
Would be good-natured in a stew,

More appetising than my meals
Of rabbits' eyes and rubber heels.
They're spreading rumours that I've got
A bin to hide a stash of pot.

These pets will gleefully allege
I'm hiding moonshine in a hedge,
And that I've got a tank of rum
Concealed inside a huge bass drum.

They've made the wear and tear of care
Appear in lines that frame my glare.
They've painted madness on my face.
They've made me look like my head's case

Is made with nuts, at best half-baked,
And bits of fruit with raisons faked
By soaking flies in cheap red wine
That makes me scream when sleep is mine.

I'm used to being shunned and banned
While these vile ducks are in demand.
They get invited to events,
To dine in clubs with cultured gents,

Or weddings where their waddling brings
Great joy as they convey the rings.
While they attend a funeral
My rarely-seen good humour'll

Return while I enjoy the peace
Of being hassled by police
Who look in bins and under hedges,
Smashing down my doors with sledges.

I revel in the calm repose,
The soothing sound of psycho crows
Who fight reflections on the glass.
Unlike the ducks, they act with class.

The Genie in the Teapot

2010-03-04T03:25:00.000-08:00

Seamus despises discarding the clutter
That hinders a tour of his home.
He'll stare at the wonder where butterflies flutter,
Enriching a room full of chrome.

He's fond of these creatures the chrome room attracts,
A place for parading their powers.
They land on the hub caps in haphazard stacks,
And shake these precarious towers.

Tottering buildings of bath taps and teapots
Will teeter like cars owned by clowns.
Brightly-dressed beings who once used to be moths
Are more like behemoths in towns.

Seamus has never grown tired of this marvel.
They fly in the gold evening light,
A carefree performance informed by their larval
Confinement to permanent night.

They're ignorant of the destruction they threaten
On seemingly tranquil occasions.
He senses the peril from flyers he'll let in
To watch their reflections' invasions.

After an hour in his newspaper room,
With papers from decades gone by,
He'll go to the chrome and its game played with doom.
Handlebars tremble on high.

It's sixteen years since his chrome structures last crumbled.
The clamour made frightened mice flee.
It happened when floundering butler bees bumbled
While bringing the butterflies' tea.

Thousands of things made of metal came down,
Creating a placid chrome ocean.
The crests of its waves were like points on a crown,
A peaceful king born of commotion.

Before re-assembling the gravity-baiting
Chrome buildings that fell to the floor,
He polished the pieces impatiently waiting
To soar near the ceiling once more.

When he rubbed a teapot a genie came out.
To Seamus, three wishes were granted.
His maiden request was unhindered by doubt.
He wished to have seeds of love planted.

They'd grow in the garden of Emily's heart.
Affection for Seamus would flower.
His smile's source of sunlight would set him apart.
Love's bright sunflowers would tower.

He'd known her for years but he'd never been able
To find the right words for his feelings.
He'd focussed on looking at junk in unstable
Formations approaching the ceilings.

The seeds produced flowers that bloomed overnight.
She woke up in love with her neighbour,
A feeling to garland the garden with light,
And let carefree play replace labour.

She had to be near him and hear him declaring
A love emulating her passion,
Clearing the path to becoming a pairing,
A style that was always in fashion.

They skipped down the path and took trips in the country.
It felt like they'd fled from a jail.
They dined with her cousins, the gentry who'd hunt me
If I wore a coat with a tail.

Wherever they went she revealed her elation.
She'd sing with no self-conscious notions.
Her songs about water-pollution, inflation
And vodka conveyed her emotions.

Her terrible voice would make animals run.
It sounded like torture's refrain,
A cry for a death brought about by a gun,
A sudden cessation to pain.

Seamus had nowhere to run or to hide.
People in pubs could just leave.
He feared for his ears when he walked by her side.
Sleep was his only reprieve,

Until morbid nightmares replaced charming dreams.
Her voice conjured visions of hell.
The sound was enhanced by his suitable screams.
He had to extinguish the spell.

His second request was reversing the first,
Relinquishing Emily's love,
Returning to when he'd been blessed and not cursed.
She'd been like a gift from above,

Dropped by a bomber or brought here by geese.
The genie did just as requested.
Seamus could work on his buildings in peace.
His right ear stopped ringing when rested.

The teapot is under a tower of things,
All wearing their stylish chrome coats.
His dreams harbour scenes in which Emily sings,
But now he can smile at high notes.

He's tempted to make his third wish a reversal
Of his second wish's repeal.
The first one was just an ill-timed dress rehearsal,
Too stressful to have much appeal.

But now it feels more like the day he first met her.
Her good points outweigh her one fault.
And even a blast of her songs would be better
Than silence's aural assault.

But there's no way out if his dreams are in threat,
No fourth wish to guard against doom.
He's still catching more butterflies in his net,
And setting them free in the room.

I Read About a Book

2010-02-25T05:42:00.000-08:00

I read about a book that brought
Its author ample pain,
A simple book concerning time
And its voracious drain.

Novel ways to waste a week
Were given light in prose,
Praising those who navel-gaze
Outside a bar called 'Joe's',

And never think of going in
To see what drinkers do,
Past the doors with frosted glass
That's used to veil the view.

The book advanced a plan to rule
The men who live in bins,
By putting dreaming voodoo dolls
In empty cans and tins.

Green toy soldiers would suffice
As dolls in this pursuit.
Tiny magazines in tins
Should hint at some great truth.

Other schemes to squander time
Included spreading lies,
Stories told of credit gained
By tickling wistful flies,

Tales of times you failed in life,
Lies about mishaps,
Like spending time in jail for theft
And laughter at this lapse.

The author of the book was left
To rue his choice of theme.
His words made eyeballs bulge and ears
Emit long jets of steam.

His views infuriated foes
And even angered friends.
They said it's wrong to squander time
On fruitless, futile ends,

And that he should endorse a wise
Approach to spending time,
Investing it in fruitful schemes
Without resort to crime.

I realised I'm profligate
With time on priceless days.
I use it all on little things,
In lots of pointless ways,

Like brewing bitter thoughts about
A lasting lack of luck,
And how I'd be a brilliant pig
Who thrives at finding muck.

I've wasted days fermenting doubt
Too many times to mention.
TV shows I don't enjoy
Get far too much attention.

I've frittered days without the fun
Of feather-headed lords.
I had to spend my grant of time
On deeds that brought rewards.

I started with a plan to build
A bookcase near the couch.
I have some things that count as books,
For which my friends can vouch.

I should have known that DIY
And I would not be friends.
We'd stay inside and fight to mar
The mood on hot weekends.

I had to buy more books to hold
The feeble case in place.
The structure would collapse without
Its Jeffrey Archer base.

I realised I'd over-reached.
I'd set my sights too high.
I'd stepped in traps I couldn't see
While staring at the sky.

I had to find an enterprise
In keeping with my skills,
To stay on low, alluring plains
Instead of climbing hills.

I've been collecting empty cans
That once contained baked beans.
Now they house toy soldiers who
Are reading magazines.

I've needed some distraction since
The chaos of my wedding.
My fleeing bride procured a horse.
It's just a lie I'm spreading.

Roger's Gift of Words

2010-02-18T02:53:00.000-08:00

Roger's demeanour would radiate grace.
He never left home without wearing his face,
A smile to enhance his benevolent eyes.
They frequently widened in pleasant surprise.

Flourishing peace would elicit his praise,
When placid life forces replaced hostile ways.
His heart was a vessel that feelings would fill.
His beautiful soul overflowed with goodwill.

When seeing humanity bloom he felt humbled.
He strived to be selfless and help those who'd stumbled
On life's crumbling pathways where potholes and pitfalls
Are threats when pet pit bulls chase prey till they hit walls.

He catered to waiters' desire for derision.
They'd line up like horses on course for collision.
When he became hoarse his invective would cease.
His words were effective as forces of peace.

Men liberated by Roger's berating
Would soon be absorbed in the labour of waiting,
Freed from the need to be called useless planks,
Armed with slow brains that are loaded with blanks,

Or worms that find riches on old rotten peaches,
Boasting a beauty beneath newts and leeches,
Or night-craving creatures whose white waiter guises
Hide wordless grim sources of unpleasant noises,

Or worthless new warts on the world's Roman nose,
Or things made of dirt that's contained within clothes,
Beneath a balloon head enclosing dead leaves,
With grasping weeds growing from trousers and sleeves,

Created by prank-loving parents to rival
The devil's foul creatures in fights for survival
In niches so lowly that tramps pushing trolleys
Ignore these unholy, deplorable follies,

The wretches well-used to receiving no heed,
Despised by the cretins and gluttons they feed,
As welcome as spots, lots of nits, knots in laces,
Paths of black cats or dark plights in bleak places.

The waiters would thank him for being so kind,
And sharing the fruits of his generous mind.
With vigour renewed and their needs satisfied,
They'd bring people food with a feeling of pride.

But some lacked the intellect needed to follow
His sentences' journeys through each hill and hollow.
For those with bad wiring in brains built for blinking
His words laid down tracks for the trains of their thinking,

A line well-constructed to frustrate distractions
That led to de-railings when passing attractions.
He kept them from scenes like the sight of a female,
Explaining in plain-spoken, painstaking detail

The ways to deploy their depleted brain power
To make sure to take off their shoes in the shower,
And shy from the views of the people suggesting
A trip down a steep hill on skates is the best thing

To do on a Saturday after surviving
Adventures in pastimes like blindfolded driving,
Or rudely depriving a toddler of sweets,
A pram-bound young time bomb protecting its treats,

Primed to explode when a crime is in progress,
Displaying great promise when tears start to flow less,
Producing surprising, profuse words of prose,
Instructions for soldiers who buy them their clothes,

Orders to deal with intruders soon filled with
A dread of the mothers outstandingly skilled with
Umbrellas they've killed with or handbags like slingshots,
Cool and cold-hearted when they're called to fling pots.

The waiters would always be thrilled with their gains.
His words never failed at re-tuning their brains,
A practical aid in retaining their grip.
This gift would be given instead of a tip.

At one local restaurant Roger was greeted
By waiters whose pleading expressions entreated
His boundless compassion compressed into slights,
A gift that would lift them to glorious heights.

His regular visits revived ebbing vigour,
Launching their spirits by pulling a trigger,
Sending them soaring to new understanding,
Slowly descending and tenderly landing.

Once when he'd finished fulfilling their needs,
They wanted to thank him for all his good deeds.
A marvellous journey was part of their plan.
They bundled him into the back of a van.

They stopped at a place with its own special style,
Where rubbish and junk had been dumped in a pile,
To which he was added, from where he could savour
The bountiful boons of their beautiful favour.

The waiters retreated to leave him alone.
Roger felt blessed by the kindness they'd shown.
Items of junk would engender great joy.
He'd treasure old pots or an unwanted toy.

Filling in a Saturday

2010-02-11T02:52:00.000-08:00

At breakfast Stephen heard a tale
His daughter, Audrey, told about
Her granddad's latest fishing trip
And how he hadn't planned to fail
In his attempt to hold a trout
And light his pipe without a slip.

Stephen saw the garden glow.
The golden light of summer led
His feet outside to stretch his legs,
An amble where the brambles grow
Till rumbles in his stomach said
It's time for brunch of scrambled eggs,

With Audrey and her teddy bear
Whose paws' sharp claws had just been trimmed.
It badly needed body hair
To bolster bits already there,
Oddly bare where brows once dimmed
Its beady eyes' ungodly glare.

His diary was empty then.
He had to try to fill the blank
Till lunch by French head cooks who daze.
He held a high contempt for men
Who'd launch a raid on time's Swiss bank
And use their loot to loaf and laze,

And lose their youth in fruitless schemes,
Shameful scams that verge on crimes
And futile dreams of future fame.
He'd recommend an aim that gleams,
A trek to peaks requiring climbs
On cliffs you'll have to calm and tame.

He saw one certain way to waste
The blank that needed filling in:
To see a sport exalting flaws,
A match on which some crimes are based,
A field with teams whose will to win
Instils a keen disdain for laws.

His feet went there without consent
From mental chiefs inventing truths.
Mistreatment had instilled a trait
Of independent thought that meant
The malcontents inside his boots
Were both inclined to climb a gate

To get to their intended goal,
Unhindered by a chilling gale
And showing splendid skill and guile
To slip the clutches of a troll
Who'd stop them stepping on his trail
And put the pompous chiefs on trial.

They took him to the field of play.
A clear, loquacious brook appealed
To spacious heights inside his head.
Ungracious lowlands soon held sway
To steal a look at men who'd wield
A deadly weapon made of bread,

Yielding dread with jam-filled bowls
And bin-lid shields attached to arms
To hamper harm from marmalade.
Percussionists played crucial roles.
They felt concussion's simple charms
In drumming sounds their armour made.

Metal helmets clanged and clattered.
Heads developed novel rattles.
Cricket bats were lightly buttered,
Bits of grated cheddar scattered,
Toasted by the heat of battles,
Tasted after oaths were uttered.

Competitors and combatants
Would edit words that cause offence,
Excising them from battle cries.
They'd exercise some common sense.
Expletives highlight flaws in gents
Whose baseball bats would flatten pies.

Stephen watched as men in leathers
Fell to blows from black umbrellas
Held by women making cheese cake.
Treacled heads attracted feathers.
Old grandmothers fought as well as
Young men rich with gold that bees make.

Some wore white bee-keeper hats
And much abused designer suits
With cheaper shoes in sock-less feet,
A look that said 'We sleep in baths
And drink champagne from worthy boots
And fight with weapons fit to eat'.

The players loved their great food fight.
They saw it as a perfect sport,
Though it lacked rules and referees,
Barring only dogs who bite.
Just one match would end in court.
A man was shot with dreadful peas.

As Stephen watched the fight unfold
He felt a thrill he couldn't hide
And he enjoyed the disarray
As chicken cricket balls were bowled
In brawls with thick fake blood applied
To flying fries in this affray,

A free-for-all that called to light
A fire to burn his diary
And enter into anarchy,
To revel in this lawless fight
Where cannon balls of pie are free,
And let his inner planner flee.

He joined the fray amidst a fall
Of makeshift missiles made from maize.
Ice cream bombs would blow and melt.
He marvelled at the way a wall
Of hoses spraying mayonnaise
Could ease the slight malaise he felt.

He swelled the ranks of troops who tried
To take a vat of seafood soup.
It brought its maker high esteem,
Providing him a sense of pride.
Their goal was dropped when Stephen's group
Consumed their guns of cake and cream.

He didn't need his lunch that day.
While fighting in the field he drank
And ate as pasta castles fell
To land on plates where raiders lay,
A perfect way to fill the blank,
His stomach and his soul as well.

Granny's Book Club

2010-02-04T02:58:00.000-08:00

I need to find some time to feed
The cat before I cut the grass.
If I'm to pull the weeds as well
I'll have to mime to clean the glass.

And then I'll dust the furniture
And light a fire to burn the post,
And after that I'll try to fight
The aftermath of Sunday's roast.

I'll prune the plants and tune pianos,
Bin those banjos Roger strums
To frighten mice and Emma's friends
Who fight the noise by beating drums.

But time is lost when Granny tells
Her many stories of her youth.
Details come adorned with bells
That warn of ornamented truth.

She says she went to Canada
To find a man who ran away.
He needed to be gone and then
Begin again to plan a day,

And feel idyllic freedom in
A boundless land to guide his soul.
Granny says she found him with
A Basset hound inside a hole.

She coaxed him from his hillside home.
They roamed the land on dated bikes.
A basket held the Basset hound.
He wore his socks and boots on hikes.

In boats on lakes they'd float beneath
A bright aurora sharing night
With stars and ancient creatures teaching
Pensioners the art of flight.

Her stories of adventures keep me
Entertained when I should clean
The muddy stains on rugs that flood
The study where the dog has been.

When members of her book club call
The start date for these mounting chores
Will be delayed as I delete
All plans to deal with stains on floors.

The book club throbs with real intrigue.
Mrs. Doyle's a mystery.
She'll be too vague or feign fatigue
When asked about her history.

Her views on books have triggered doubt.
She seems to know an awful lot
About unlawful deeds and deaths
That breathe life in a novel's plot.

Characters of ill-repute
Will leave her head replete with thought
On finer points of poise and pose
When poison's poured on chicken broth.

Bread knives stuck in victim's backs
Attract her eager scrutiny.
She knows the tricks of wicked aunts
And youthful maids who grew to be

The beautiful blackmailer with
A single truthful tale to tell,
The influential femme fatale
Enthralling fools who fall to hell,

And still will feel her spell as flames
Engulf their souls where golf once reigned.
The eighteen holes of hell are played
On ploughed-up hills while feet are chained.

She'll lose herself in lies and roles
To see a subtle ruse in bloom.
She'll be the blushing bride until
A tide will come to claim her groom.

Mrs. Doyle has told us tales
And held us spellbound by her words,
With frank accounts of fronts and feints
And bank accounts that lose three thirds.

I joined the club to hear her talk
Of thieves who seek to raid a heart.
It sounds as if she's speaking of
Events in which she played a part.

She says she heard these stories from
A friend who spends a lot of time
Perusing views outlined in tomes
About the boiling pot of crime.

We're still left in the dark about
Her past suppressed beneath a veil.
And did her friend provide her with
A list of what they eat in jail?

Book club meetings last for hours
Because of her immense accounts
Of tense encounters, hints of threats,
Tangled tricks and cheques that bounce.

When meetings end the members leave
And memories arise and shine.
Granny speaks of bikes that float
Above a straight horizon line.

I'll wait until her tale is told
And rage takes hold to make her rant
Against the book club's latest choice.
She'll have to face a month of Kant.

Some timid members tremble when
The words of Mrs. Doyle take flight.
They chose the works of Kant to end
Accounts of screams and crimes at night.

While Granny's hurling brick-like words
Instead of building walls of bull,
And Bob, her cat, unfurls himself
From hours of sleep on balls of wool,

I'll take this chance to prune the plants
And see if certain stains remain.
I'll go to bed so dreams can draw
The spotless curtains in my brain.

Waiting for Daylight

2010-01-28T03:34:00.000-08:00

Perhaps I'm approaching the time to start praying.
Shadows make creatures encroaching on me.
The place where I'm staying is old and decaying,
A tumbledown, crumbling hotel by the sea.

Black-and-white photos in frames are concealing
The stains on the wallpapered walls of my room.
I've fostered the feeling of something appealing
In faces from photos to banish the gloom.

Pictures of actresses lacking their dresses
Attract my attention till terror invades,
An army that presses and strains to bring stresses.
Its gains are alarming on green mental glades.

I turn to the shelf with the statue of Mary
And promise to pray if she offers protection.
I swear I'll be wary of unnecessary
Inspections of photos and further reflection.

The statue sits next to a sketch of red roses
With text from the gospel of Mathew in black.
Stuffed cats with noses in arrogant poses
Encompass the globe showing Prussia is back.

The doors of the wardrobe have lost their brass handles.
I think it's just there to hide cracks in the gable.
Trinkets, old sandals, spare blankets and candles
Are packed into drawers of the oak dressing table.

In hindsight I should have requested a preview,
A look at this room cultivating disaster.
I'd have my nice sea view if some walls were see-through.
They are if you peep through the cracks in the plaster.

Ingrid, the owner, seemed lively and friendly.
The place looked inviting in mid-afternoon.
Guidebooks would send me to somewhere too trendy.
Its charms are effaced in the light of the moon.

There's one other guest and he speaks as he slumbers,
A man who says little but laughs quite a lot.
Amongst the staff numbers are shamblers and mumblers
And one shouting waitress who only says 'What?'.

At dinner my undersized ham was in hiding
Beneath the abundance of peas on my plate.
I'd great trouble guiding the peas that kept sliding,
Evading their dreaded, unsavoury fate.

Ingrid arrived at my table with more peas
And fabulous tales of her days on the stage.
She told many stories of glamorous glories,
Glimmering memories dimming with age.

She spoke of the brilliant directors and playwrights,
The parties with actors amazed at their powers,
The patrons who'd stay nights and help dim the daylights
In men who would buy her gold watches and flowers.

She told me she hoped I would sleep until morning
And not be disturbed by the ghosts who play tennis.
These spirits were scorning her resolute warning
To stop imitating John MacEnroe's menace.

And so after midnight when I heard some noises
They stirred inner voices who'd started to snore.
The wise one despises unpleasant surprises.
I snubbed its advice when I opened the door.

Ingrid was there wearing make-up and ear rings
And delicate articles posing as clothes.
At night when I hear things a frightful bright fear brings
Imaginings of evil pageants and shows,

Spectres and spirits rehearsing in hearses
For grim bedroom farces where young lovers freeze,
Pronouncing their curses in ghost-written verses.
But seeing my hostess was much worse than these.

I closed the door quickly and tried to forget her,
To empty my head of the vision's stage show.
A voice says to let her because it's much better
To play with the mischievous devil you know.

But all other voices reject this conjecture.
I'll stare at a picture and make sure I pray.
I'll write a short lecture on wallpaper texture
And think of my next beer when thoughts start to stray.

But there's no denying my soul suffered bruising.
The vision is dancing in its ghastly light,
Haunting my musing with taunts of my choosing.
Daylight's delayed by a long, daunting night.

The last time I agreed to paint someone's dining room

2010-01-21T02:12:00.000-08:00

I thought the tin of paint looked old.
Karen's one request had been
To lose the blue that felt too cold
And paint the room a shade of green.

Would out-of-date green paint soon fade?
I pondered this and stroked my chin.
Are expiration dates displayed?
Perhaps it's underneath the tin.

I realised the lid of it
Was loose when it was upside-down.
I'm not the village idiot.
I'm just the town's distinguished clown.

The carpet's stylish pool of paint
Would leave a stain I couldn't hide.
Expensive things that bear a taint
Should really bring a sense of pride.

Blood-stained chairs might well enhance
The ambience of where I dine,
Where floods left silt supporting plants
That never wilt. I'm glad they're mine.

But Karen would be furious.
I'd mention trends for styling shacks,
But then she'd just be curious
About potential mental cracks.

Uncle Dermot offers hope
When screws are loose and light has died.
When I'm supplied with too much rope
He'll stop a noose from being tied.

He knows a squared hypotenuse
Can save the lives of tree-bound cats.
He's satisfied with rotten views
As long as he can muse on maths.

In seeking scientific truths
He treats his soul to great delights,
Tracing knowledge to its roots
Where hidden depths affect the heights.

He's certain science will reveal
The underlying truths of life.
He'll raise the veil to view the real
And blaze a trail where fog is rife.

The facts of life above the ground
Are blooming in eternal spring.
Inspiring scenes and soaring sound
Invite his nightless soul to sing.

He built a lab inside his shed.
His bed is there beneath his notes.
Schemes and thoughts invade his head
In dreams of steam on stately boats.

He gets assistance from Eileen,
A widow with a probing mind.
She'll help draw back life's drapes to glean
The gleaming truths he hopes to find.

The bright lights of their mental skills
Can make the dark recesses glow.
They'll camp at night on lonely hills
To see a stunning stellar show.

He'll undertake experiments
To understand the laws of chance,
And be the lord of dance in tents
As star-filled summer nights advance.

I hoped that Dermot could provide
A way to clean the stain I'd made,
Some good advice before it dried
Or some device to make it fade.

He'd no such thing to move the stain.
Instead he told me what to say,
The calming words to form a chain
And charm the looming storm away.

Amazingly, this method worked.
Karen's anger soon declined.
I found out where her laughter lurked.
It's striking sound confirmed my find.

When unconfined by anger's walls
Her laugh rang out in songs of glee,
As unrestrained as waterfalls
On mountainsides I long to see.

We got on like a house on fire.
My uncle's lines were dynamite.
I complimented her attire
And her two eyes were shining bright.

Her gaze revealed the root of my
Unfurnished soul with tarnished ground.
My house that fire would beautify
Was graced by her sweet laughter's sound.

She brought some potted plants as well.
She often called to say hello.
We'd go for walks to flee the smell.
Sparks of love began to glow.

But then one day her husband called.
I saw him with his gun outside.
He rang the bell and there he stalled.
I crept upstairs where I could hide.

The house on fire from our bright sparks
Had surely caused her spouse's ire.
Heartfelt talks and walks in parks
Ensured my future days seemed dire.

I turned to Dermot once again.
I thought I'd use his charming lines,
The words to make her husband grin,
And thus defuse alarming mines.

Instead he had a new machine,
A weapon made to frighten mice.
Karen's husband fled the scene
When I displayed this fine device.

It left a hole in my front door
And scorched the carpet in the hall,
A clear improvement on before,
A floor to match the blackened wall.

Karen rarely visits me.
Her husband never ventures near
The sombre place that proved to be
The source of his oppressive fear.

The Cold Snap

2010-01-14T02:24:00.000-08:00

They call it a spell or a stretch or a snap.
The average road is a treacherous trap.
Drivers leave ditches enveloped in ice,
Parking there based on their sat nav's advice.

Sermons from snowmen are going unheeded.
A post-Christmas diet is urgently needed,
But certainly not a compulsory fast.
Stocks of essentials are being amassed:

Big stacks of toothpicks for teeth after eating
The ten bags of Chip Stix for heart-warming heating,
And good anti-freezes like brandy and malt.
The neighbours are borrowing sugar and salt.

The sorrowful robins are borrowing bread.
Blackbirds need brioche before they're well-fed.
Magpies eat mince pies and big plates of peas.
Orderly crows will form queues for blue cheese.

Northerly breezes shoot razor-sharp arrows.
Creatures in burrows will envy the sparrows.
People who hibernate in the Bahamas
Will not need to purloin new fur-lined pyjamas.

The weather forecast couldn't be more exciting
If they dressed in leather and danced in strobe lighting
While bleakly reciting the negative figures
With maps showing snow clouds and fingers on triggers.

On tree trunks the cold frost can sink its sharp teeth.
I've seventeen blankets defending my feet,
And long johns long gone past their pristine condition.
Foolhardy nocturnal poachers gone fishin'

Receive the reproach of a vigilant cop
And thieves who take their frozen fish from a shop.
A sensible person takes hot drinks and slumbers
While temperatures tumble to curious numbers.

Ice queens and snowmen fight demons in dreams.
They roam on the plains in their powerful teams.
Screams come from snow-covered homes in the gloom.
Ominous ice cream van music brings doom.

At nightfall the spirits are starting to fret.
This frightful bad weather is colder than death.
Chattering teeth muffle bitter refrains.
Shivering spirits hold quivering chains.

I hear them when I stay inside by the fire.
I keep burning coal till I start to perspire.
My hair is a haven for ashes and soot.
I can't hide my pride at the smell from my foot.

The water's been frozen for over a week.
I'll never complain about how things are bleak,
Or grumble about the high cost of a plumber.
I'll save my supply of complaints for the summer.

The Three Musketeers

2010-01-07T02:29:00.000-08:00

When I was a boy and the sky in the summer
Was always a beautiful blue,
I formed humble dreams of becoming a drummer
With more number ones than U2.

I practised my craft by repeatedly pounding
Some buckets and old biscuit tins,
Creating a clamour that some found astounding.
I frightened the trash out of bins.

When not beating songs out of innocent things,
I played with the gang on our street.
We made tennis rackets with musical strings,
And used them with springs on our feet.

We'd cycle in circles for whole afternoons,
Kept busy with dizzy sensations.
At sunset we'd sit and start counting the moons.
We always had high expectations.

With forty-three hours in each day in July,
Time still flew by at great pace.
Walls that have now become small were too high.
Everything shrinks except space.

The universe used to have visible edges,
That astronauts mapped with precision,
With angels rehearsing at heaven's green hedges,
Revising their lines for a vision.

I nurtured my dreams of becoming a star.
I started a band who could stare.
'The Three Musketeers' had a new bass guitar,
An instrument made out of air.

With three younger brothers my drumming could bloom.
We didn't need four to perform.
Our bass player claimed to join in from his room,
From where he conducted a storm.

Apart from my drums and invisible bass,
Bill played his wall-paper flute.
Roy's tennis racket was strummed on his face,
Or skilfully kicked with his boot.

Our much-loved aunt Martha took hold of the reins.
She managed the band from the start.
She taught us to stop using most of our brains,
And freed us to play from the heart.

I never knew we could use less of our minds,
And that we'd appreciate more.
She found that each day brought astonishing finds,
The treasures we've learnt to ignore,

Like green plastic clothes pegs on white garden chairs,
Or rain drops enriching a rose.
She never looked hurried or harried by cares.
She'd sail around worries and woes,

Happily wearing appalling apparel.
Her colours engaged in a quarrel,
Clashing like squirrels and cats in a barrel,
Or Hardy in trouble with Laurel.

She got us a gig at an old people's home,
Despite a light sense of misgiving.
We'd only performed to a motionless gnome.
Our songs made him strain to start living.

Our stage was a neatly-mown, little-known lawn,
Surrounded by sycamore trees.
Our absent bass-player seemed very withdrawn.
The crowd was the source of unease.

The prospering size of the crowd was surprising,
But only the cats were awake.
We started a song about launching a rising
With weaponry made out of cake.

And then came a song about being well-fed,
And food with a terrible smell,
And breakfast in bed with inedible bread.
Our gig went incredibly well.

The thrill of our triumph inspired us to leap,
To honour an excellent day.
We woke all the old folk who'd fallen asleep,
And made all the cats run away.

Hilda's Fourth Husband

2009-12-31T03:52:00.000-08:00

I listened to Hilda till late in the night.
Her florid accounts of adventures took flight.
She struggled for words to describe how she pined.
She loved her third husband who lived in her mind.

She spoke in great detail of his sad demise,
Recalling his fall and the look in his eyes,
The moment he knew that the end was impending.
He looked for a stairway he'd soon be ascending.

He'd spent his nine lives on near-misses with death,
His triple heart by-pass performed by a vet,
Or trying to flee from a murderous archer.
I'd no need to know of his sombre departure.

I've heard that her fourth husband lived without fear,
And met a spectacular death late last year.
I wanted to know more about the event.
I mentioned the end of this much-admired gent.

But she only spoke of her third husband's life,
And striving to thrive in the role of his wife,
When he was a diplomat, known for his charm,
Proud to have Hilda adorning his arm,

The star of arrivals at opulent balls,
Entering heavenly embassy halls.
On dance floors she fluidly flowed with the sound,
A glide that made others seem glued to the ground.

She'd play the piano with flawless finesse,
Caressing the keys often pounded in stress,
Instructing small hammers to strike tightened strings.
Unlike the destruction a bomber's raid brings,

These minor collisions occasion blue notes,
An ocean of music for souls in their boats,
Where soaring emotions can revel in storms,
And dance with the devil in musical forms,

Or shine in the shimmering water of bays,
Fantasy visions on halcyon days.
The only explosions are fireworks in ports,
Or pirates escaping from improvised courts.

In between pieces she treasured the pause,
The rapturous praise and euphoric applause.
She always felt pleased with her effort's effect.
Famous musicians expressed their respect.

They'd join her to trigger ecstatic ovations
And bring a strong sense of historic occasions.
Poor Number Three would seem lost and forlorn.
The wind-battered sails of his soul would be torn.

He hated the men playing melodies with her.
Malevolent jealousy made him as bitter
As any Herculean tropical lemon.
It's typical of my relations with women.

They won't want to talk about things on my mind.
These matters are always abandoned, I find,
Dismissed from discussions with merciless haste,
Blocked by the wall of their personal taste.

Her fourth husband's shining in history's cast,
But mystery covers his trip to the past,
A prison where no living visitor calls,
And only the risen escape from its walls.

I've heard many rumours of schemers and scammers
And tales told by dreamers of gods wielding hammers
And fabled sea creatures who'd capture your crew
And eat your ship's engines with trees in a stew.

I've been made aware of more credible tales,
Of devious killers concealed in fake whales,
Grey submarines where great troubles are brewed,
Plans for providing the fish with fresh food,

Ample main courses of people on yachts,
Victims who fish from inside cooking pots.
I've heard of a gang who prepared a great feast,
And that is why Hilda's fourth husband's deceased.

To satisfy my growing need to know more,
I'll ask simple questions about Number Four,
And his stunning exit from being alive.
It's crucial if I'm to become Number Five.

The Sun has Set on Christmas Eve

2009-12-24T03:32:00.000-08:00

The sun has set on Christmas Eve
And zealous shoppers drift away.
Alan feels relieved to leave
An irritating working day.
The spirit of the season starts
His scrutiny of martial arts.

Jane, his aunt, has said he must
Attend her party after eight.
He'd really rather gather dust
Than meet a beastly festive fate.
Her parties always start to wane
When homemade wine locates the brain.

And headaches need a medic's hand
When un-melodic hunting songs
Are sung like cries that crossed the land
In feudal times where Jane belongs.
Stifled threats are nearly made
And pleading words are softly prayed.

He'd have to hear his uncle's tale
Of toil and turmoil soaked in fear
To keep his pain from going stale
And filter sounds in his good ear.
If he could alter future days
He'd paint blue skies with gloomy greys.

Alan's cousin Bob will boast
Of wealth he built with stunning tricks
And cunning stealth to flood the coast
With houses made of mud-like bricks.
Rumours of his looming fall
Will crumble like his strongest wall.

Alan wears a lifeless gaze
When Valerie begins to speak.
Her summaries of holidays
Make summertime seem dull and bleak.
Her odyssey through drudgery
Must be recounted publicly.

When faced with festive feasts he hides
At home alone in feeble light.
An old electric fire provides
The only warmth he needs tonight.
His hall is decked with insect trails
And pesticide from Christmas sales.

He knows if he became au fait
With high life where the rich go free,
And met Miss World in Saint-Tropez,
He'd keep his mild misanthropy.
Tantrums thrown by trophy wives
Are deadly when they come with knives.

He's not opposed to company
Or ill-disposed to idle chat
With those who'll only grudgingly
Concede the world's no longer flat.
A policy of fallacy
Embellishes reality.

He talks to friends who share his views,
Who strive to win immense defeats,
Who don't believe the evening news.
They see through lies and sly deceits.
The farces we adore last
Till the fact-based weather forecast.

He loves the woman in the shop
Who hates the feats achieved in sports.
She'd like to see the stars of pop
Be tried for music crimes in courts.
Few will ever understand
Her reasons for despising sand.

She tries to rock the boat and rile
When keenly seeking basic truths
With bitter letters leaking bile.
Her style evokes dyslexic youths.
Irrational dislikes ignite
An inner flame that's burning bright.

He's spending Christmas Day at home.
His family return to base.
The restless ones who love to roam
Reveal a smiling, sunburnt face.
These widely-travelled rovers crave
The gifts they'll get if they behave.

He'll gladly join the merry horde
To hear his father's long tirades
Against the glasses he'd afford
If he could sell his hearing aids.
He's angered by designer frames.
He'll pay for gnomes but not for names.

He loves to rant about events
That happened in the distant past,
Deaths of those who lacked the sense
To know that bullets travel fast.
He rails against the photo shoots
In futile wars and land disputes.

Alan's always glad to see
He's so alike his father now.
It's good to know they'll never flee
From any chance to start a row.
His father's anti-pigeon views
Have lit up more than one short fuse.

A Christmas Story

2009-12-17T05:49:00.000-08:00

Gwen's Christmas List

Gwen would like less of the strain and the stress,
But things will turn out calm and bright.
As Christmas draws nearer you'll frequently hear her
Reciting a list late at night.

Her list comes in handy. It's better than brandy
For clearing her mind of the fog.
Without it she'd buy an enormous mince pie,
And antlers with lights for the dog.

She'd smile at her pet. The rest she'd forget,
The hundreds of jobs to complete,
The cleaning, the mopping, the hazardous shopping
In merciless blizzards and sleet,

The arduous baking resulting in aching,
Repetitive strain injuries.
The lights need great labours. Competitive neighbours
Have polar terrain in their trees.

Their land of fake snow has a glimmering glow.
It's visible for many miles.
The luminous igloo is home to a big crew
Of elves wearing up-to-date styles.

The huge plastic Santa would struggle to grant a
Request for a doll or a train.
There's sadness in seeing this globe-trotting being
With trend-setting elves in the rain,

Stuck in a tree to display manic glee.
The tree house contains Mrs. Claus.
Some say she's raving, mechanically waving,
But no one knows why she has paws.

Gwen buys the lights that surprise winter nights.
Her husband arranges their show.
He faces the grim breeze on luminous chimneys
That imitate dawn's warming glow.

There's much to be doing while Gavin is screwing
The thousands of light bulbs in place.
No item is missed when exhausting the list,
Competing with time in a race.

Words must be written on cards with a kitten
Who's dressed up as Santa to fuel
The soul's central heating. A seasonal greeting
Can make someone stop being cruel.

Friends and relations infuse these occasions
With laughter and warm festive cheer.
Dwindling supplies can extinguish their joys.
The mood runs on mulled wine and beer.

The one way to master her fear of disaster
Is buying enough drink for dozens.
This guideline applies to the biscuits she buys.
They'll satisfy ravenous cousins.

Last year their lighting was fresh and exciting.
The roof was acclaimed as outstanding.
A luminous Rudolf looked like he approved of
The snow army's sly rooftop landing.

Tiny snow soldiers had straps on their shoulders
For parachutes so they could drop,
Softly, like snowflakes, unlike rain with no brakes.
They looked like a cloud's bumper crop.

They lit up at night to exhibit their might.
Gavin felt well-founded pride.
The kids helped as well. When one soldier fell,
They lifted the patient inside.

Amy wrapped tinsel around her red pencil.
Ben thought fake snow helped the mood.
They noticed their mother looked bothered. She'd shudder
When she was considering food.

She thought of their oven and how she would shove in
A turkey who's grossly obese.
These birds are unheeding of her eager pleading.
They're obstinate when they're deceased.

She thought of the fruit-cakes, the sweet things and toothaches,
The biscuits extending their greeting.
Hoodwinked by puddings, all manner of good things
That trick us into over-eating.

She'd need strength and patience when hungry relations
Arrive early on Christmas Day.
They'd eat all before them to battle with boredom
While children contentedly play.

She knew she'd be stressed and deprived of her rest.
Cooking for twelve would be trying.
They might truly hate what they find on the plate,
But thankfully they're good at lying.

Ben's Letter to Santa

The lights on the tree and the snow soldiers' glow
Delighted the kids with their bright festive show.
Amy kept smiling and Ben would start singing
When thinking of what Mr. Claus would be bringing.

One thing for certain, the words 'reindeer sweater'
Would not be appearing in his Santa letter.
He'd plenty of sweaters, twenty too many,
Given by aunties or knitted by granny.

Ben made a list of the things he would like.
The first was a football. The last was a bike,
And in between these were ten pages of toys,
Like big Lego tigers with green Day-Glo eyes.

He set about cutting out things he'd abandon.
The first was a top hat a fat dog could stand on.
But it wasn't easy to choose the right train.
He thought he'd go crazy with toys on his brain.

One day in school he consulted a friend.
He told Jack about the short list he must send.
Jack started laughing and shaking his head.
He did this for several minutes and said,

"I thought you'd have figured the truth out by now,
That doubt would have triggered a straightforward 'how?'.
How does he travel so fast and so far?
Does he have a licence for even a car?

"They say he can go round the world in one night,
His sleigh pulled by reindeer who've taken up flight,
Despite a complete lack of wings or propellers,
There to be shot down by angry toy-sellers.

"And he enters houses by going down chimneys,
Even when owners would gladly lend him keys.
He's famously fat. This can't help his cause.
My granddad Seamus looks like Santa Claus,

"And he needs a stair-lift to get up the stairs.
Sometimes he struggles to stand up from chairs.
Chimneys don't come with convenient lifts,
Or ladders for people delivering gifts.

"With so many chimneys and rooftop ice-skating,
Grim news on his knees would surely be waiting
When he sees his doctor to treat aching limbs.
He'd be sent for gym work to make sure he slims.

"They tell us he uses his magical powers
To visit all houses, from shacks to stone towers,
But this is a lie. I've seen through their ruse.
I know why the truth isn't shown on the news.

"When Santa's deciding who's naughty or nice,
He won't ask the elves to provide their advice.
He tries to make certain that no one is missed.
All of our names are on his 'naughty' list,

"Apart from the names of a handful of children
Whose parents are given a landfill to build in,
Kids whose great deeds include saving a whale,
Saints who fight greed when not feeding the frail.

"Parents would like us to keep on believing
So we'll be convinced we've a chance of receiving
A present from Santa Claus on Christmas morning.
Parents know this is why we'll heed their warning

"To be well-behaved while the sleigh bells are ringing,
While log-fires are lighting and choirs are singing
The old Christmas carols we're learning in class,
While people have fake plastic snow on their grass.

"The truth is we'll always have too many flaws.
We'll never be good enough for Santa Claus.
He's not the great generous, jolly toy-giver.
He only has eight or nine gifts to deliver."

Ben spent some time contemplating this claim,
Looking for ways he could clear Santa's name,
But not even one minor flaw could be found.
He had to concede that this theory was sound.

Amy was stunned when he told her the reason
Why Santa gets all his work done in one season.
She said she was bothered and taken aback.
She knew there was truth in this theory from Jack.

It seemed as if Santa and his team of reindeer
Would not meet the soldiers or plastic elves chained here.
Amy and Ben had thought he understood
That they really cared and they tried to be good,

Even though they have been known for behaviour
That made their aunt Tabitha pray to her saviour.
When she's looking after her nephew and niece,
They laugh when she threatens to call the police.

They'd often imagined when Santa examined
The time Amy claimed that a man made of jam went
Around the front rooms with a mischievous plan.
She blamed curtain stains on this blackcurrant man.

They used to believe that he'd laugh at this lie,
And smile at their tale about half of a pie,
The bit that was stolen by robbers or robots
Who steal pies and donuts. If threatened they throw pots.

They now saw that Santa's considered reaction
Would certainly be one of dissatisfaction.
A permanent place on the list for law-breakers
Was laying in wait for the lying pie-takers.

But they couldn't give up their dream of acquiring
A present the magic reindeer in the sky bring.
They made it their mission to take drastic measures
And enter the league of elite little treasures.

They started by stopping insulting each other.
They worked hard at helping their father and mother,
Doing the dishes as well as they could,
Glad to be trusted with spoons made of wood.

They visited elderly neighbours and listened
To stories of mornings when icicles glistened
On noses and toes as they journeyed to school,
Walking four miles in the frost like a fool.

Amy and Ben never wavered from doing
The things they detested. With good deeds accruing
They felt they were nearing their glorious goal,
A place on the list with the kids who mine coal.

Christmas Eve

On Christmas Eve, as darkness fell,
The carol singers called around
To demonstrate their insulating,
Decorated wall of sound.

They sang and then departed
To distribute more festivity,
And tender heartfelt sentiments
A singer stores and gives for free,

Specifically in places
Where a poverty of charity
Inhibits all exuberance
And makes some people guarantee

That in their hospitality
They'll emphasise the 'hospital',
Where Christmas puddings shrivel
In a tiny bowl a wasp would fill.

Ben and Amy watched their mother
Anxiously peruse her list,
Terrified her thankless task
Would come to grief because she'd missed

A critical ingredient,
And dinner guests would be aghast.
She knew she would be stressed until
Saint Stephen's Day arrived at last.

Gavin spent some time replacing
Lights that lost their inner glow
And fixing decorations that
Were in a war with sleet and snow.

He revelled in the heat he felt
When on the 'Welcome' mat inside.
He sat down by the fireplace
And felt completely satisfied.

After some disparaging
Remarks about the soldiers' skills.
He told the kids his father's tales
Of seeing blizzard shows on hills,

Of carolling at caravans
In hurricanes that foster woes
And lights that ran on paraffin
Illuminating Rudolf's nose.

He said this festive season
Was a marathon and not a sprint.
The Christmas tree was dressed in lights.
The angel's eye began to glint.

Ben believed that this must be
Her way to say they'd made the list.
This would be ignored by any
Self-respecting fatalist.

They left some beer and biscuits out
For Santa Claus that Christmas night,
But not enough to make him pause
Before the fire and miss his flight.

They went to bed and tried to keep
The glow of dreams from lighting rooms
In sleepy heads while Santa's sled
Was generating sonic booms.

They couldn't stay awake for long,
Despite a very strong defence
Against the slow advance of sleep
That keeps them from the best events.

They both woke up at six o' clock
When they could hear their mother's words
As she implored the turkey to
Cooperate like other birds.

They ran downstairs and found the tree
Protecting gifts from thieving hands.
They'd made the list, like saintly kids
Promoting peace in distant lands.

Ben was overjoyed to find
He got his train and plenty tracks.
He thought he'd heard its whistle blow
Last night when Santa emptied sacks.

He'd gladly spend all Christmas Day
Just playing with the signal box
And eating chocolate polar bears
That Santa left in big red socks.

Amy was delighted with
The doll who said 'My name is Kath'.
Kath would wet her clothing and
Was glad to take the blame for that.

They went to mass that morning
And they tried to look self-satisfied
To tell their friends their appetites
For toys had all been gratified.

They smiled like cats who've just acquired
The finest cream a feline knows.
It comes from cows who graze in fields
Where summer winds will ease their woes.

But Ben and Amy were surprised
To see their friends with sunny smiles,
Despite displaying sweaters
Made in fluffy Easter bunny styles.

Jack said he heard Santa trip
And rant about the boat he sold.
Underneath the tree he left
A fork-lift truck, remote controlled.

Barry got a bike despite
The decent deeds that he'll evade.
Animals are scared of him
And they are right to be afraid.

Ben kept thinking of his friends
And how they'd made the grade despite
A need to treat encounters with
Glasshouses as displays of might.

He wished he hadn't wasted time
With neighbours who complain all day.
A minute's vacuum cleaning
Seemed to make an evening drain away.

But then a notion dawned on him:
He'd benefit from worthy deeds.
He'd built up plenty credit
Being sensitive to other's needs.

And he could use his credit now,
A gift from which he'd never run,
A licence for the greatest feat
Of misbehaviour ever done.

People will be terrified
Of water bombs and prams with cats.
Clothes will stink of something that
Will trigger thoughts of vampire bats.

After they came home from mass
The kids became engrossed again
In toys until the relatives
Arrived with tales of ghostly men.

Granddad said he saw these men
Fix Santa's sleigh, like pit-stop crews.
Cousins showed off presents brought
With chocolate bars in socks and shoes.

Dinner was a great success.
Gwen began to feel at ease.
Ben considered scaring crowds
And hoarding unappealing cheese.

Men in Black

2009-12-10T05:26:00.000-08:00

I used to be the singer
In a mediocre country band.
We felt the lack of glamour
When our drummer played with one free hand

To block the stray projectiles
And the bottles that were thrown at me.
We claimed it was intentional
When we performed atonally.

The audience were totally
Opposed to so-called tunes we played
And lyrics based on poetry
That glorified a moonlit glade.

Our lead guitarist left us
To pursue a solo folk career.
His songs evoke a longing
To prevail in life and soak in beer.

Even brainless people with
A pea inside a paper skull
Could see that we were scuppered
And a split was inescapable.

After we agreed that we
Should terminate our enterprise,
All I saw were sombre crows
And grey, depressing winter skies.

I had to find a medium
To vent my inner voice in song
And moderate the tedium
That made each day seem twice as long.

I joined a choir and there I felt
Like athletes getting running shoes,
As satisfied as astronauts
On lunar hills with stunning views,

Or maths professors shunning stress,
Their time consumed by numerals.
We dressed in cheerless black attire
That's suitable for funerals.

A memory reigns over me.
I feel a need to let it out:
A funeral I never will
Be able to forget about.

An ancient man called Hanrahan
Had left for his last resting place.
He'd shown repentance at the end,
Persistently requesting grace.

He'd much to be remorseful for.
His skills had amplified his flaws.
It seems he'd been resourceful
In concealing deeds outside our laws.

His family inherited
His fortune and his properties,
Countless china teapots and
A tendency to shop for these.

Emotions at his funeral
Were heightened by the sound we made.
We sang our hymns astounded at
The diamonds that we found displayed.

We looked down from the gallery
On mourners in the pews below.
I fell into a reverie
On where my missing shoes might go.

I pictured them on riversides
Where they decide to stay for good,
Never to go back and be
Disgruntled with the way I stood.

The priest was in full flow as I
Imagined shoes command a raft.
When I heard him talk of ships
And setting foot on land I laughed.

The mourners all looked up to see
Who'd added to their sad distress.
They couldn't spot the culprit
But a few may well have had a guess.

The people who seemed most composed
Still looked as if they were annoyed.
I feared the growing fury of
This family who I'd avoid.

They'd claim to own the Eiffel Tower
And sell a tree new leaf attire.
It seemed they were imagining
A meeting with the gleeful choir

When they'd be unimpeded by
The scruples they were known to lack,
Attacking to annihilate
Despicable sick clones in black.

The few remaining hymns we sang
Took on apocalyptic tones.
I'd have to flee before too long
And find a place a critic owns,

Invisible to enemies.
I'd wait until the coast was clear.
A cabin covered by the trees
To hide a head that's hosting fear.

When the final note was sung
We realised we shared a plan,
Deciding to descend the stairs.
Some of us got scared and ran.

I'm advocating cowardice.
I won't have people knocking it.
We headed for the side-door
But some men in black were blocking it.

They asked which one of us had been
So happy in their time of woe.
Eyes, it seemed, were trained on me.
I feared that local crime would grow.

By using friends as human shields
I managed to evade the men.
I went outside and ran away
But soon I needed aid again.

The men in black pursued me through
The alleyways and narrow streets.
They saw me as the sort of prey
A bullet or an arrow meets.

My fear was that before too long
They'd get a chance to shoot at me.
It's true to say I'd be afraid
If somebody said 'boo' to me.

The flames of hope had dwindled
But I still had embers of the fire.
When I turned a corner
I encountered members of the choir.

They wore their Christmas sweaters
And their woolly hats in festive red.
I took a break from my escape.
I chose to stop and rest instead.

They had a hat and scarf for me,
A sweater with a fat reindeer.
A crowd soon gathered round us
To create a Christmas atmosphere.

The men in black ran down the street,
Seemingly oblivious
To my participation and
Applause the crowd were giving us.

People are complaining that
They're seeing Santa's face too soon.
Christmas starts so early now
But we looked out of place in June.

Star Fish

2009-12-03T06:38:00.000-08:00

Marjorie cooks with exceptional skill.
Treating her friends to her food is a thrill.
She feels satisfied when completing a meal.
Friends are content with their end of the deal.

They're fond of her food and its magical smells.
Her wooden-spoon wand wouldn't work without spells,
Recipes sweetly recited like verses,
The inverse of recipes dressed up as curses

From communal ovens of covens in caves,
Where gravy is bubbling in pet rabbit graves.
Her pastries entice. They're flawlessly dressed.
They taste twice as nice as their look would suggest.

Her friends have mixed feelings when thinking their teeth will
Knock walls in her cake that's shaped like a cathedral.
Marzipan people look up to admire
The low-in-fat steeple restored after fire.

She rarely got plaudits when learning her craft.
It took years of painful hand-burning, hard graft,
And training from Henry, a chef whose creations
Have triggered spontaneous standing ovations.

He'd preach fervent views on all features of food,
How creatures with pincers complete your good mood,
The careful addition of relish to dentures,
The best way to finish a salmon's adventures,

Or how to embellish the texture of liver.
She worked in his restaurant next to a river,
A place that is famous for its food and wine,
Where some of the great and the good come to dine.

She burnt all before her when learning her trade,
But Henry was certain that she'd make the grade.
He said trial and error and fire were her friends,
Constant companions on working weekends.

Henry would spend his spare time catching fish,
Dreaming of finding a star for a dish.
Most of the salmon who came to audition
Wore strong lemon perfume that roused his derision.

Some fish were plastered in garlic sauce make-up
That Henry found horrid. He told them to wake up
And see that they never would find fame and slaughter.
He'd throw them back into the crystal-clear water.

During a riverside breakfast at nine,
A beautiful salmon swam right past his line,
Completely ignoring alluring new bait,
While he contemplated its plate-starring fate.

Henry persisted in his special quest.
The salmon steadfastly resisted arrest.
He promised a strong cast for his shopping list,
The costliest parsley sauce known to exist,

Salad ingredients dressed to the nines,
The best new courgettes and the finest of wines.
But this salmon's shyness would keep it afar.
It showed little need to be his latest star.

His chase of the fish soon resembled a craze.
His mission to catch it consumed nights and days.
He'd try to persuade it that he'd make its name,
Describing the trappings and trimmings of fame.

His kitchen was suffering from his neglect.
Marjorie feared her career would be wrecked.
She needed his guidance, the facts he imparted,
His skill at extinguishing fires she had started.

An obstinate fire was refusing to fade,
Despite the repeated entreaties she made.
She needed her boss for these flames to be fired.
A diver provided the help she required.

He said there was one thing that no one could doubt:
His talent for stunning a salmon or trout,
Simply by looking extremely surprised.
This was how they should proceed, he advised.

He went underwater and lay there in wait.
The fish soon arrived for its battle with bait.
He switched on the headlights of his widened eyes.
The salmon succumbed to his dazzling surprise.

Henry was able to wade through the river
Without instigating the most meagre quiver
In either the diver or his frozen prey,
The paralysed fish who could not swim away.

He used his bare hands to ensnare his new star.
He thought of the tales he'd inspire at the bar.
Henry's elation engendered a song,
But his jubilation did not last too long.

Marjorie heard as her soaking boss sighed,
And said that the salmon seemed slightly cross-eyed.
He let the fish go to play bait-teasing games,
And went to his kitchen to put out the flames.

In the park at night

2009-11-26T07:00:00.000-08:00

A bright full moon above the park
Illuminates the empty lawns.
A summer day awaits the lark
Who ushers in the blushing dawns.

The sky can boast a star-filled cast,
Their act eclipsed by lunar rays.
Phil would like the night to last,
But soon he'll feel the sun's fierce gaze.

Night provides a hiding place.
A spacious hood conceals his head.
He wears his shades to shield his face
From eyes that should be closed in bed.

It's wise to wear disguises here
And use a pair of well-trained eyes.
Avoid the source of noises where
The trees conceal the skilful spies,

And shrubberies where trouble brews
To spoil the tranquil summer breeze,
Like submarines with ruffled crews
Who'll pummel ships on calm blue seas.

He sits and waits as stray cats stroll
Down concrete paths on nightly jaunts.
He brought a rose that plays its role
With petal clothes it brightly flaunts.

Louise will soon receive the rose.
His fears will fade into the black.
He loves the way she leaves their woes
Exposed to joy's intense attack.

She's indisputably unique,
Unlike his friends in many ways.
She goes to plays that seem too bleak
For him to bear on happy days.

She reads a lot. She feels a need
To feed her mind with knowledge found
In academic books that lead
Their readers into fertile ground.

She's not impressed by his new car,
Though his blue Porsche has many charms.
She likes the slow cars that go far
On fuel that's grown on local farms.

Louise is nothing like his ex
Who skis while in her model pose
And never falls. Louise elects
To wear out-dated, dreary clothes.

Being seen with her would blight
The reputation he has gained.
He'd rather meet her late at night
Than have his hard-won image stained.

This is why he sits and waits.
Fears are fostered in his head.
The creaking sound of rusting gates
Creates a sense of doom and dread.

A figure dressed in black arrives
To test his fast-declining will.
Visions of new graves and knives
Inflate the fear defining Phil.

Dark sunglasses hide the eyes,
But still a smile lights up the face.
Louise arises from her guise
And falls into their warm embrace.

He wonders why she wore these clothes
And chose to blend in with the night.
He thought she'd use a look that shows
Their love to everyone in sight.

He thought she'd want to shout about
This man she met who stole her heart.
He tries to clear his mind of doubt
And treasure time until they part.

Dreamland

2009-11-19T09:04:00.000-08:00

Whenever she feels it's a strain to stay standing
Andrea will dream of escape.
Coping with eight screaming kids is demanding,
More tiring than keeping an ape.

In dreamland ice creams don't mean trips to the cleaners,
A world free of crimes against homes,
Where lists of her miscreant kids' misdemeanours
Do not fill up numerous tomes,

Where good-humoured people have long conversations
In warm rooms with wood-burning stoves.
Floorboards are free of unsafe perforations
Where kids thought they'd find treasure troves.

Sleep isn't broken by junior ghost-busters
Applying their foul-smelling potion.
Dark eerie attics will never host clusters
Of kids on the verge of commotion.

Chefs who toast custard will clean up the mess.
Meal-times are conflict-free zones.
She isn't repeatedly asked to address
Requests for extravagant loans.

In dreamland she's no trouble falling asleep,
And dreams are not raided by dread,
And scenes of her home's rubble all in a heap,
While wrecking balls wait to be fed.

The lawns are much greener and winters are warmer
In dreamland where she'd like to linger.
But sadly reality calls to inform her
There's something attached to Mike's finger.

Mike's always putting his hands into places
Where insects or animals dwell.
He's a detective who only takes cases
That start with an unpleasant smell.

The twins always look like they're plotting and planning.
Andrea tries reading their minds.
She feels like she's been doing nothing but banning
Explosives and traps of all kinds.

They'd just reached the end of another school week,
And brought more dismay to their mother.
Amy and Alice displayed a cruel streak
When they played a trick on their brother.

They told Will a monster was secretly sleeping
Beneath all the junk in their shed.
He'd wake after dark and go stealthily creeping.
You'd still hear the clunk of his head.

His bucket-shaped head couldn't help make a racket
Because of loose parts made of metal.
His eye balls leaked oil that left stains on his jacket.
When angered he boiled like a kettle.

Will was afraid of the shed's latest menace,
This monster in search of food hampers,
A creature who'd eat your pet hamster called Dennis.
He hoped it would rather eat campers.

Will had to act to protect his small pet.
Attack was his form of defence.
Armed to the teeth he'd defeat this tall threat,
And make the bad monster past tense.

He entered the shed well before darkness fell,
And quietly took out the things
That would be good weapons. William could tell
What could become arrows or slings.

He took out the shovels, the pitchforks and spades,
The petrol can, hammers and rakes,
The shears and its gardening friends that had blades,
The ropes and the short timber stakes.

He made his own monster with various tools.
A pitchfork made up its right arm.
This furious thing would defeat any fools
In search of a new brand of harm.

He used a paint tin for the head of his creature.
He painted fierce eyes that were glaring.
He called it 'Miss Carter', after his teacher.
They shared facial features and bearing.

Will thought the monster would fear these proud eyes,
But after the dark had set in,
His creature fell over and made a loud noise.
Miss Carter would not stand again.

He felt sure the noise must have woken his foe.
The monster would be full of ire.
He panicked in dread of his imminent woe.
That's why he set their shed on fire.

Andrea has thought about buying a pet,
A present for Christmas this year.
Maybe an ape who would issue a threat,
Ensuring serene Christmas cheer.

She knows she's just dreaming. They'll show her they care.
Her anger will soon fade away.
They'll do something charming, disarming her glare.
They won't be alarming all day.

Her kids make her smile with their spirited wave,
And they'll entertain her, not rile her.
She'll cave in and get them the puppy they crave,
Maybe a friendly Rottweiler.

Norman's Fear of Mice

2009-11-12T07:39:00.000-08:00

When Norman hears a mouse inside
His house he'll scream incessantly.
As soon as he's identified
The source of his distress he'll flee.

He'll wake up all the neighbours
And he'll run in circles on the lawn.
He'll stay outside, despite the cold,
Until he sees the light of dawn.

Historically, hysterics have
Been common in his family.
Uncle Peter was a priest.
In homilies he'd damn a tree

That failed to make a feast of fruit
Or sticks to beat the beast to hell
(Chased away, insisting he's
Not hurt or in the least unwell).

He'd cook a flea or butterfly
Who'd dearly love to book a flight.
You'd hear him mutter gratitude
To God each time he took a bite

From sandwiches with slices of
The butterfly or flea he'd cooked,
Blissfully oblivious to
How bizarre he must have looked.

Many aunts and uncles have
Exhibited a seasoned craze,
But Norman says the source of his
Great fear lies in his childhood days.

His nanny always looked as if
She had a little lamb to slay.
When he was only ten months old
She took his much-loved pram away.

His tenure as an infant ended
Instantly and he was left
To find his food and dine alone
And then defend his room from theft.

He found that independent life
And fending for himself was hard.
His solo expedition to
The kitchen door was often marred

By fights with teddy bears on flights
Of stairs and fast-inflating fears
When teddies made their threats to start
A fire when they were wet with tears.

Baddies were defeated and
The foes disguised as potted plants
Waited patiently to pounce
But failed to halt his slow advance.

The cat who blocked the kitchen door
Was kind enough to let him in.
She purred a lot of words about
Returning to the vet again,

And how her friend's cavorting with
An alley-cat who will be at
The park to fight a tabby in
A tiny, tattered Trilby hat.

Norman listened as the cat
Communicated her complaint
About the constant rain and staying
In because of its constraint.

When he got away from her
He crawled in through the kitchen door.
The cupboards high above his head
Enthralled him as he crossed the floor.

The dog was there to lift him on
A chair from where he reached the fridge.
His caring canine butler re-arranged
The stools to make a bridge

That took him to the cooker and
The cupboards for the pans and pots.
The butler got the cutlery
And battled underhand robots

Who cut the tops off tins and cans
That bled red beans and garden peas.
He signed a new peace treaty with
The cat and chose to pardon fleas,

A truce that would allow the dog
To concentrate on making sure
His miniature commander would
Remain contented and secure.

Cutting coriander brought
A risk that he would come to grief.
He could have suffered injuries
While tenderising sirloin beef.

He managed to avoid a single
Injury and he enjoyed
The meal he'd made. His garlic sauce
Became a source of special pride.

His chocolate mousse dessert would not
Disgrace a chef who strives for fame.
Norman would remain unknown.
He couldn't even say his name.

He made a pot of tea for two
And put a nice array of cheese
On china plates, with chocolate treats
And crackers too, a tray of these.

The dog admired his master's traits
When Norman asked him to sit down
Without commanding 'sit!' and then
Responding only with a frown

If he played dead instead or stayed there
Standing with a stupid grin.
The dog ate all the crackers and
He put the crumbs into the bin.

A mouse believed the cheese was much
More appetising than the mousse.
His journey to retrieve a piece
Would terminate the pleasant truce.

Before he reached the table he
Was spotted by the clever cat,
Who saw right through the sheep disguise
And straightaway she smelled a rat.

She chased the mouse around the floor.
The dog joined in to make them stop.
The mouse led his pursuers over
Chairs and 'cross the table top.

Norman watched in horror as the
Dinner plates were smashed to bits,
A loud symphonic medley of the
Crockery's new Greatest Hits,

And into this cacophony came
Noises of the pots and pans,
Falling to the floor where they formed
Piles with flour and fruit and cans,

And all the other food knocked down
With knives and forks and jars of jam.
Milk and honey mingled with
The broken eggs and damaged ham.

A monumental mess was made.
The mouse did not receive the blame.
Norman was accused of it.
He tried his best to clear his name,

But no one understood him even
Though the dog gave his support
For Norman's version of events
In their informal kitchen court.

His parents didn't trust him
In the kitchen till he turned eighteen.
And even then they only let him
Heat a solitary bean.

This trauma is the source of his
Aversion to the mice he hears.
He can't explain why ice cream cones
Should trigger overwhelming fears.

Dinner With Friends

2009-11-05T05:00:00.000-08:00

I like to spend free time with friends,
Like Hilda, Liz and Seamus.
We'll waste the days on long weekends
When Liz pretends she's famous.

She won't say no to photographs,
Signs autographs for children.
Her charity for slow giraffes
Supports her state of chilled Zen.

So she says in interviews
With make-believe reporters.
When old giraffes are sent to zoos
The judge in her cat court purrs.

She gets respect in trendy clubs
And restaurants where waiters
Would part a tiger from her cubs
And threaten alligators.

Seamus drinks and eats a lot.
He seems to take great pleasure
From cream-filled cakes. He greets a pot
Of stew as if it's treasure.

Of all the local restaurants
His favourite's in the castle,
Where Jack the ghostly jester haunts
And always causes hassle.

People leave when he performs
His jokes from times gone by,
When all these dining rooms were dorms
For men condemned to die.

The scarcity of customers
Means Seamus rarely waits.
He'll eat non-stop and trust a nurse
To help when he eats plates.

Before he sleeps he'd love a bit
Of beef washed down with stout.
In dreams he's seen Liz shovel it
Into his open mouth.

On some weekends we'll go for walks
On trails through vales and hills.
In woodland Hilda's nature talks
Provide delightful thrills.

While feeling overwhelming joys
From sounds the birds and bees make
And Hilda's words, we'd hear the noise
Of Seamus eating cheesecake.

We told him he was gluttonous,
That groans came from his ground.
We had his front door shut on us
The next time we called round.

He wouldn't speak to us for weeks.
We missed the jokes he told,
The lies about his friend who seeks
An Eskimo's lost gold.

He'd entertain us with his dance
When winter rain confined us
To a house. We loved his rants
Against past lives behind us.

Without us there to hear him talk
He'd much more time to eat.
There was no dance or nature walk
To activate his feet.

He put on weight. We had to act,
To eat some humble pie,
And stop him when he felt he lacked
An apple crumble high.

We made a massive chocolate cake,
So big it's marked on maps.
It made some folk feel shock and shake
In fear of its collapse.

'Sorry Seamus' were the words
We chose to write in icing.
Seamus cut the cake in thirds
With virtuoso slicing.

By giving us a slice he said
We'd solved our friendship's crisis.
His bites seemed bigger than his head
As he devoured his slices.

When he's with us he can't consume
Each frightened piece of food.
His dancing feet fight winter gloom
And leave a summer mood.

Unlocking Memories

2009-10-29T10:22:00.000-07:00

Sometimes when perusing the files in my mind
I'll find some obscure memories.
Once I remembered my mission to make
A fortune from my slimmer bees.

I put the bees through a tough training regime.
My A-Team-like bee team could beat
The bees from the hives where indiscipline thrived,
Where honey would taste of defeat.

People could easily tell from the noise
That my recruits were the bee's knees.
Others were toes. Their buzzing was prose.
Mine filled the warm summer breeze

With poetic buzzes in old red brick gardens
Where slow-headed people will pause
To listen to verse that's composed with a grasp
Of nature's strict metrical laws.

The bees in my hives were as busy as beavers.
They were high achievers who glowed.
They thought of MacGyver as their ideal leader.
I've seen webs of spiders explode.

I hoped to make money from their golden honey
That had the sweet taste of success.
But people reacted as if I was selling
Glass jars that contained a duck's mess.

Before I discovered these memories of
My doomed-to-bust bee industry,
I wasn't aware I had done such a thing.
My mind tells me that it must be.

Unlocking these memories leaves me in shock.
I gasped at my bee escapade.
Once I discovered that I once invented
A scissors with one extra blade.

The files that I find in my mind help explain
My feelings for hot air balloons.
I raced a balloon against people allowed
To bring guns but not their harpoons.

Some former whale-hunters took part in these races
To chase the great whales of the sky.
These vast levitating leviathans left
From Munich one day in July.

Thousands of people turned out at the start
To see us depart and wave flags.
Some of my rivals brought kitchen utensils
In countless suitcases and bags.

One of them brought his piano, his oboe,
His double bass and his bassoon.
He'd be near the end of his list of supplies
If he'd started reading last June.

The basket that hung from his massive balloon
Had fireplaces for freezing weather.
The four spacious rooms had impressive oak chairs
Upholstered with soft maroon leather.

My only luggage was one huge red bag,
And this contained nothing but air.
Discontent reigned in the minds of my rivals.
I sensed it from my airborne lair.

Lacking their weight I went straight to the front.
Our two-month-long race seemed decided.
Newspaper hype helped inflate my repute.
My rivals were harshly derided.

In my head the yearning to fly in the sky
Was not to defy God's directives.
I loved seeing awe on the faces below.
I felt the warm glow that respect gives.

But as I flew over a snow-covered peak
I feared God's contempt for my flight.
I'd dreamt I would die on a diet of wine.
My future did not seem this bright.

It wasn't a heavenly hand from above,
But many strong men down below.
Through aerial fishing they landed a whale
And dealt my grand race plan a blow.

Their hook hit my basket and they pulled me down.
Their task was to intercept me.
My rivals had hired them. They didn't believe
That airborne whales must be kept free.

They led me away down a steep mountain slope.
I made my escape with a leap.
My soft landing left me with hope that I'd meet
The nice death I'd seen in my sleep.

I followed a path that led into a forest.
Those fishermen followed me in.
I told God I'd certainly settle for death
With dark chocolate gateau and gin.

Before I'd gone far I encountered a woman
Who dragged me away from the path.
At first I thought this must be God's final offer.
I wasn't disgruntled with that.

But she had a great hiding place in a hollow.
We heard my pursuers run past.
The sound of their footsteps soon faded away.
For once I was glad they were fast.

Her name was Brunhilda. I owed her my life,
And maybe a dark chocolate death.
I sensed that a Black Forest gateau was looming.
We hadn't escaped the woods yet.

Hunger and cold were still threatening life,
But she had a knife and a match.
Brunhilda soon killed a wild boar and she lit
A fire for cooking her catch.

We spent that cold night in a desolate clearing,
Warmed by the heat from the flames.
At dawn we set out to retrieve my balloon.
Millions would soon know our names.

The crowds were ecstatic when we won the race.
We went to great banquets with princes.
We received accolades, honours and plaudits.
I learnt what her mischievous grin says.

She needed adventure. She easily found it.
We faced an array of grave dangers.
Ghostly grave-diggers worked hard to confine us
In tombs with mysterious strangers.

In doom-laden rooms near an old fog-bound wharf
There loomed a most serious threat.
We fought off ten henchmen and fled on a boat
Without getting injured or wet.

For years I did not have the slightest idea
That these events had taken place.
I still can't remember remembering them
Before I remembered the race.

Sometimes I wonder did I really race
A hot air balloon at high speed.
But it would explain the 'Brunhilda' tattoo
That I need a mirror to read.

Good Deeds

2009-10-22T03:18:00.000-07:00

Dan gladly spends his free time helping friends.
He rightly takes pride in his labours.
He's always performing good deeds, such as warming
The houses of elderly neighbours.

He lights homely fires and fights flames on tyres,
And tries to end warming that's global.
He plants many trees after trips overseas.
His aim to build wind farms is noble.

He cycles, recycles, lets nephews be rivals
To see who'd do most to decrease
Their carbon footprints. Their father put tents
Outside where they wage war in peace.

They're growing potatoes and learning to hate crows
Who pose as respectable chaps.
Their power is solar to save all things polar,
From poor little bears to ice caps.

Dan's stocks of spinach are often replenished.
His green fuel is crucial for saving
The lives of bad swimmers or masterly slimmers
Who've learnt to resist every craving.

Their sub-zero sizes leave them in disguises
As cardboard cut-outs of themselves.
He earnestly preaches on spinach and peaches
Till they crack and empty his shelves.

He feels ten times bigger when filled with the vigour
He gets from the spinach he eats.
He'll do any deed if it helps those in need.
He frustrates the progress of cheats.

His trousers got wet but he be-devilled Death
When he rescued Sue from the river.
When her breath was bated he knew she awaited
The warm kiss of life he could give her.

With no need to share his recycled air
Their first kiss was slightly delayed
Till later that night as a waiter in white
Was counting the money he'd made.

After their dinner the strong feelings in her
Came out in a rapturous song
That captured the mood. Bright stars had been screwed
In skies where they feel they belong.

Everything seemed as if it had been dreamed
By someone who's prone to romance.
His gift of a rose might nauseate those
Who waste student loans and blow grants

On imprudent ways to induce a nice haze
And make them feel nauseous and blue.
The rose-hued romance and impromptu slow dance
Were much better suited to Sue.

Ronan was raging and planning on waging
A war to defeat his new foe.
He'd win back Sue's love by distressing the dove
Who longs to see harmony grow.

He shattered the peace and he scattered wild geese
With his battle cry to foretell
His forceful assault. It came to a halt
When he paused to ring Dan's doorbell.

Their battle began. Ronan and Dan
Fought bravely in graveyards and playgrounds.
They fought for a week on a snow-covered peak
Till they became thinner than greyhounds.

With neither the winner they paused for their dinner.
The spinach worked wonders for Dan.
When fighting resumed, an ending soon loomed.
Ronan surrendered and ran.

Sue was delighted and Dan was invited
To lunch with his number-one fan.
She sings frequently and she keeps weekends free
To see the great deeds done by Dan.

Edgar's Sense of Humour

2009-10-15T02:38:00.000-07:00

Edgar enjoys telling terrible jokes
And working to pull off a prank or a hoax.
No one will laugh at his humour but him.
At best he's offensive. At worst he is grim.

But he thinks he's blessed with a great comic flair.
Others feel cursed when he chooses to share
His jokes about wakes when the corpse lets out gas
And makes the priest faint at the funeral mass.

Because of his pranks his friend's dog is now blond,
And his cousin's bed is in his uncle's pond.
He's unpleasant medicine, maximum dose.
His family wish that he wasn't so close.

They'd like to be able to view him through Hubble.
Bursting his bubble would treble the trouble.
The practical jokes and the pranks that he plays
On his enemies will receive words of praise

From armchair commanders whose minds have been skewed
By make-believe wars representing a feud
Between them and family members who claim
That their wives have tarnished the family name.

It's best to pretend that you find Edgar funny,
That days on his planet are placid and sunny,
A great place where acid's not needed to get
As high as a kite or the mightiest jet.

People who cross him will soon get a pot
Of noxious revenge that is served piping hot.
Terry, his brother, once told him he had
A head full of hair that would suit someone mad.

Edgar's expression soon suited his hair.
Urges to shoot could be seen in his stare.
Purging a root would eradicate thorns.
Using brute force to get rid of it warns

All other plants and his chance-loving brothers
That he'll bring them bother and he knows their mothers.
He'd tell her when they're bad, and they'd rather be
Shot in the hair half of their heads for free,

And have heavy shot-putters stand on their foot,
And see their white T-shirts meet goth-friendly soot.
They'd laugh if the air half of their heads was shot.
It's frequently hit and they're laughing a lot.

Edgar's mad air half is proud of its hair.
Never suggest it will leave his head bare.
His brother's barbed words made him ponder a plan
To make Terry wonder should he leave his clan.

He didn't use guns he'd concealed in fake nuns
Who'd offer his brother a choice of iced buns.
He didn't rely on his mother to make
Terry feel terror and shudder and shake.

He got his revenge with his own sense of humour,
By steadfastly spreading the credible rumour
That Terry taught cats how to smoke cigarettes.
This angered the people who spoke to their pets.

Edgar's 'Plan B' was a punch in the face.
But Plan A worked well and events moved at pace.
Terry keeps laughing. You'll know from his glee
That dozens of people enacted Plan B.

Hello

2009-10-08T11:59:00.000-07:00

Rebecca's always full of life.
She has a great proclivity
For instigating anything
Resulting in festivity.

A bevy of the recently-bereaved
Would find that revelry
Was greatly to their liking
With a little dash of devilry.

She doesn't use exotic spells
Or pills or magic potion.
A single swirl or pirouette
Can bring a whirl of motion

To the limping legs of those who are
Opposed to dreaded dancers.
Ask her simple questions and
She'll sing you lengthy answers.

The most reluctant singers
Never persevere for very long
When straining to refrain from
Joining in with her endearing song.

Scrooge himself could not resist
The blissful sound surrounding him.
He'd cast away the shackles
And the mocking demons hounding him,

And break the rocky ground inside
His heart where human feeling died.
He'd sing and let his spirit soar
To clouds where flying boar reside.

Trevor thought that feelings were
Reserved for those with time to spare,
Who think it's quite tyrannical
To shorten lengths of long free hair.

He used to be anaesthetising
Mice with sheer monotony,
A feast of information on
The finer points of botany.

But then he met Rebecca
And she broke his opposition
To the notion that emotion
Should be freed from inhibition.

When he heard her singing
He was captivated by the sound.
He let his legs go dancing
And he tried to follow them around.

They never strayed too far away
From where Rebecca put her feet
When she would utter poetry,
Entreating guests to sit and eat,

And treat themselves to nights
Devoid of dread and great anxiety,
Abandoning bewilderment,
Restraint and their sobriety.

He danced with her and he professed
A love to last for evermore,
A feeling she had spotted in
The dreamy smile that Trevor wore.

She'd seen it many times before
In men who can't resist her charms.
They start to hear the angels sing
In screaming kids and car alarms.

They'll cast aside a past of posting
Hateful mail to Santa Claus
And frequently supporting
Opposition to a worthy cause.

They get a craze for doing good
And filling days with worthy deeds.
They find holistic remedies
To satisfy sadistic needs.

Trevor realised that he
Had rivals for Rebecca's heart.
He started to despise them when
He saw them strive to get the part.

His rivals hated him as well.
Undoubtedly they all were dim.
He needed to impress her to
Ensure she'd trip and fall for him.

Some men simply plead with her
And tell her that they need her,
Whereas others serenade her
Wearing leather like the leader

Of a motorcycle gang
Whose only guide is 'Easy Rider'.
Those in Lederhosen
Feed her lies on what's inside her.

They tell her that her eyes are like
Two windows to her soul's retreat,
A sunlit land where little lambs
Will leap for joy when angels meet.

Trevor couldn't bring himself
To say these things or sing a song
About the way she made him feel
Alright when all around was wrong.

He thought she might be happy
If he wore his best grey suit for her.
He'd visit her and dazzle her
And maybe play the lute for her,

Or else he'd play the kettle drum
As softly as a petal falls,
Rising to a noise to rival
Devils kicking metal walls.

Or else he'd hire an orchestra
To play when darkness starts to beat
The daylights out of daylight
In the blue sky's undisguised retreat.

And he could hire a choir as well
To light a fire inside her heart,
A sound that swells to reach its peak
As church bells ring and fireworks start.

But he found that his favourite
Elaborate devices
For enticing her into his life
Were scuppered by high prices.

So in the end he baked a cake
And added lemon icing.
Her heart would melt when tasting it.
To make it more enticing

The top would need a word or two.
He couldn't think of what to say.
'Happy Birthday' wouldn't do
Unless he were to wait till May.

He chose to write 'hello' on it.
His simple prose beat poetry
And songs performed by lovesick men
On rose-strewn rugs below a tree,

And all the other plots and plans
Employed by those who played the game.
The capture of Rebecca's heart
Became their one and only aim.

Trevor was the winner with
His cake that said 'hello' to her.
They ate it after dinner and
It clearly brought a glow to her.

She can't resist a slice of cake
With lots of icing placed on top,
And Trevor's tasted nicer than
The cakes she purchased in the shop.

The Hovercraft

2009-10-01T05:17:00.000-07:00

Ben and Bob liked tennis.
They argued over scores.
One Saturday the menace
From the clouds kept them indoors.

Their goth friends who adored doom
Would enjoy these rainy days.
They sat in boredom's boardroom
And they tried to think of ways

To spend their afternoon,
To make the time fly by,
Until the crescent moon
Would embellish plain black sky.

They thought about attending
A display of dance routines
By Owen, who'd be mending
Broken engines and machines.

The engines always won.
Their victories enraged him.
For others it was fun
Watching power tools upstage him.

He couldn't stand a gloater
Or the resolute defiance
Of a small lawnmower motor
Or an obstinate appliance.

His anger made him hammer
Bits and pieces into place.
His garage lacked the glamour
Of a large performance space.

This didn't hold him back.
The crowd would call for more
When he'd finished his attack
And he'd let out his last roar.

Ben and Bob agreed
That these dances would provide
The diversion that they need
Till the rain-soaked day had dried.

But they missed Owen's show.
When they reached his garage door
He had finished with his foe.
It was scattered on the floor,

A former tumble dryer
That refused to be repaired.
He showed his inner fire
And his grievances were aired.

Ben and Bob saw tears
Welling up in Owen's eyes.
They get appalling fears
When another person cries.

They wanted to abandon
Owen's garage with great haste.
They'd rather climb Mount Brandon
In their bare feet while being chased

By savage dogs and manic goats
And women they had riled
By telling oft-told anecdotes
That once left them beguiled.

But Owen started talking
Just before they could retreat.
A course of steadfast walking
Was abandoned, and their feet

Engaged in steadfast standing
As he spoke about his life.
He said it needs re-branding
And a sharp decrease in strife.

He told them many tales
Of his father's skill with tools.
His father's gladness fails
When he has to suffer fools.

But he reassures his son
When Owen fails to fix
An engine or a gun
Using spanners, shouts and kicks.

His father's name is Edward.
He's known for miles around.
Statues and the dead heard
His machine to dig hard ground.

It used to be a drill until
He modified its parts.
It could bring fear to a hill
And to mountains' granite hearts.

It took ten men to man it.
These men were hard as nails.
The government had to ban it
After hills turned into vales.

Edward spent ten years
Working on his hovercraft.
People were in tears
As they rolled around and laughed

After seeing Edward's blueprints
For his boat that lacked a hull.
They looked to see if new dents
Had been added to his skull,

Or else he'd opened mental doors
To ghosts who live in fumes.
His hovercraft would have three floors
And twenty-seven rooms.

The bar would be adjacent
To the gents'. He was emphatic
That he couldn't have a basement
So he planned a spacious attic.

A snooker room and music hall
Were also planned beside
A prison cell where drunks could brawl
And criminals could hide.

Edward didn't take the chance
To gloat when he unveiled
His hovercraft where friends could dance,
Play snooker and get jailed.

People would applaud
When they saw the mammoth gears.
When he planned a trip abroad
And he needed volunteers,

Seven friends assented,
None of them faint-hearted.
Their heads might have been dented.
Undaunted, they departed.

They travelled for a year
Over foreign lands and seas.
They learnt to lose their fear
Of the leaves from talking trees.

They came across magicians
Who could make a mouse grow tall
And men on expeditions
To retrieve their cricket ball.

They brought back many presents,
Like plants and magic bells,
And statues made by peasants
Who reside in giant snail shells.

When Owen reached the end
Of his tales about these trips
He'd lost the will the mend
All the leaks where water drips.

The sun came out again.
He left his fierce guard cat.
He went with Bob and Ben
Down a narrow, winding path.

A line of trees and bushes blocked
Views of the hovercraft.
The bar on-board was still well-stocked
And it remained well-staffed.

Edward and his friends were there.
Ben and Bob felt awe.
They both were seeing something rare
In everything they saw.

Edward spoke of foreign lands
Where days could last for months,
Where mighty men with many hands
Took part in daunting hunts.

The bar man pointed out
That the jukebox needed fixing,
And he was plagued by doubt
Without songs for cocktail mixing.

Owen said he'd do the job.
He seemed extremely keen.
He entertained both Ben and Bob
With his new dance routine,

A dance that left the music dead.
Edward watched and cried.
"That's my son," he softly said
With undeniable pride.

Leopards and Tigers

2009-09-24T07:18:00.000-07:00

Martin will talk until daylight is dim
To pass on the truths that were given to him.
Flaubert and Pooh Bear appear in his dreams.
They show him that life isn't all that it seems.

They tell him the truths he will pass on to us.
He says you should always beware of a bus
That sounds as if it's in a terrible mood.
The foul-tempered ones may regard you as food.

Birds are to blame for the weather being cold.
Tow-trucks and most traffic lights are controlled
By leprechaun kings in resplendent regalia.
An area of Ireland the size of Australia

Has been sold to someone for under ten grand.
He plans to farm ducks on his fertile new land.
Martin has recently said he's been filled in
On how ancient mariners pose as young children.

These naval commanders, their ages unknown,
Are pushed in their buggies, but when they're alone
They transmit their thoughts to some friends of their ilk
And knock back the cognac like it was just milk.

Lay-abouts lie about what they've been doing.
They spend their days thinking and drinking and chewing.
They like to chew jam and make marmalade bubbles.
Their long harmless lives are devoid of great troubles.

Rest without stress is their job's greatest perk.
They're kept very busy avoiding all work.
They'd start to feel dizzy if they did too much.
Some won't go out without taking their crutch

To use as a valid excuse to sit down.
These make-believe invalids move around town
With breath-taking speed if the need should arise,
Chasing a free Holy Grail with French fries.

But Martin has said that it's all just an act.
It's drama-free fiction that's dressed up as fact.
The truth is they meet in a warehouse at night,
An unseen display of their undoubted might.

After they've split up into hunting groups
They set foot outside with the soft tread of troops.
They try to track down deadly tigers and leopards
Who come out at night time and terrify shepherds.

These curious cats can be heard whistling tunes
While walking through woods or exploring the ruins
Of castles and churches beneath star-filled skies.
They roam around houses where strange stifled cries

Would not be surprising. These houses make people
Retreat to the safety of their church's steeple.
The leopards and tigers are drawn to these places
Where absolute darkness hides hideous faces.

The camouflaged hunters will stealthily creep
Through woodlands and fields where the cows are asleep.
The farmer who owns these oblivious cows is
Afraid of the shadows cast by the dark houses.

The hunters are scared when approaching a foe,
But still they resist the temptation to go.
The leopards and tigers will smile when surrounded,
A smile with the menace to leave a poor clown dead,

But still no one flees from the scene of the battle.
When two armies fight over borders their spat'll
Be written about in the history books.
Tomes are required to record lives of crooks.

But no one will know about leopards and tigers
And hunters who'll never seek someone to buy furs.
These creatures are rarely defeated in fights,
But sometimes they choose to retreat when their bites

Are useless, left toothless by powerful spells
Cast by magicians awoken by bells.
When leopards and tigers can't kill with their mouth
They turn into fire that quickly burns out.

They're gone when their foul-smelling smoke has dispersed.
It seems they retreat to a house that looks cursed,
And they stay inside for a week or a month,
But they can't resist being part of the hunt.

The hunters work hard just to keep them at bay.
The night work means they try to get rest by day,
Or so Martin says, but sometimes it seems
Like something created by actors in dreams.

But Martin was right about teddy bears who
Enjoy scratching itches and sniffing the glue
That's put on their eyes just to keep them in place,
Under the eyebrows stitched onto their face.

I've seen these bears scratch when they wrongly assume
That they're all alone in an attic or room.
They get great relief and release pent-up tension
By scratching in places I'd rather not mention.

No More Missing Socks

2009-09-17T03:48:00.000-07:00

Lynn hardly ever tracked down missing socks.
To make their escapes they would have to pick locks
And show much more cunning than foxes or thieves.
No one will know when a single sock leaves.

She knew there was no point in fighting these foes.
She'd wear two odd socks that would clash with her clothes,
Affecting her statuesque pose and her poise,
A fashion mistake worse than wearing odd eyes.

But some pairs of odd socks got on very well.
After a while she could easily tell
Which personality types would get on,
And which individual socks would be gone

If they had to spend one more night with their partner.
At times she was sure she could hear a sock's heart purr
In perfect contentment with their latest pairing.
Her feet liked the contented clothes they were wearing.

Lynn got great pleasure from feeling the heat
When she took her shoes off and put up her feet
In front of the fire on cold winter nights
When Jack Frost puts in his sharp false teeth and bites.

The socks she was wearing would cuddle together.
This odd couple might look like white chalk and cheddar,
But their solid bond went much deeper than looks.
Theories on pairing socks weren't in books.

If this book existed, Lynn would have read it.
She formed her own theory. She wanted to spread it.
She started by making a short presentation
To the Town Council. The standing ovation

Never arrived. Instead her sock system
Brought stunned disbelief then a brief paroxysm
Of laughter and tears to the mayor of the town.
She felt that she could have come dressed as a clown.

Despite this reception her system soon spread.
Friends wore compatible odd socks in bed.
This led to a sudden new craze in foot fashion
That helped bring about an explosion of passion.

Socks wouldn't make their escape late at night
To flee from a partner they saw as a blight.
They were all glad to be paired with a sock
Who wasn't just randomly plucked from the flock.

Anthony's Homemade Cider

2009-09-10T04:17:00.000-07:00

Anthony made cider
From the apples in his orchard.
It made him sing and sound as if
Some small dogs were being tortured.

He sang a song he wrote about
A moat he tried to build.
He'd float a boat inside it
When his garden moat was filled

With water from the drain pipes
But he didn't get that far.
He dug a hole that filled with rain
And then he drove his car

Into the hole one rainy night.
It was truly stuck.
Anthony was mocked by his
Arch-enemy, a duck.

His song went on for half an hour.
The neighbours called around.
They were all well-able
To identify the sound

Of songs induced by alcohol.
The Hulk would fall if he
Took a sip of Anthony's
Now famous herbal tea.

Some believe it's mostly rum
And others think it's gin.
His latest batch of cider
Was inside a metal bin.

The neighbours congregated
In the garden as the sun
Hid behind the mountains
And the day was nearly done.

The homemade apple cider
Made the neighbours sing along
With Anthony's great chant in his
Exciting hunting song.

He used to hum and sing this song
And bring a small packed lunch
Whenever he went hunting
On the basis of a hunch

That he would find some thing he'd like
In some peculiar place.
He'd surely face a crisis
If he thought he'd have to chase

And bring harm to an animal.
He thought they had more charm
When they lived in the forest
Rather than on someone's farm.

And all of them had much more charm
When they were still alive.
He'd no desire to kill them
And he loved to see them thrive.

His hunts have ended with the
Capture of a candlestick
Or tiny plastic blackbirds
Hiding underneath a brick.

He came across a rocking horse
That grazed on grass around
The woods despite the sparse short grass
Where moss and rocks abound.

When he had sung his hunting song
The neighbours all agreed
That hunting was the one thing
They would definitely need

Before they found an ending
For this interesting night
As they were joined by shadows
And the rising full moon's light.

Anthony assented to
His guests' sincere request.
He led the hunting party
Down a path into the west.

They didn't stop their singing
When they didn't know the words.
The party was observed
By the animals and birds.

A barn owl looked and listened
But he couldn't give a hoot
About the need to sing at night
And other faults of youth.

They didn't leave the footpath
When it went into the woods,
Where they saw twenty people
Who were dressed in robes and hoods.

These people formed a circle
In a clearing where a sheep
Looked like he was hoping
He was dreaming in his sleep.

The happy hunting party
Were intruders in this play,
And they were made audition
For the dreaded role of prey.

They stood inside the circle
And they listened with concern
As someone listed out the things
This cult would like to burn.

The cult could find a fault
In nearly everything they saw.
Even cloudless summer skies
Exhibited a flaw.

They were far too blue.
Would it hurt them to turn green?
And flowers were too friendly.
Nature's hippy dean

Should not allow the students
To grow freely as they please,
And bring in rules on covering
The naked limbs of trees.

They'd like to ban all cars,
And let empty roads enthral.
Modes of transportation
That refuse to move at all

Would then become compulsory.
We'd ride lethargic mules,
Donkeys, pigs and garden seats
Or even human fools.

The fools would wear a pointy hat
That bears the letter 'D'.
When they're not playing taxi
They'd arrange the chairs for tea.

Tea and cakes at three o' clock
Would be a thing of fear.
If someone were to miss it
They'd be sentenced to a year

Working in a toy shop
Where the only toy was mud,
And every customer complained
That they'd been sold a dud.

Houses would be banned as well.
We'd live in holes instead.
Six or seven fools would join
To make a single bed.

This is what the cult believed.
They never once felt doubt.
They were set for action
But before they brought about

Their plan to spread the good life
They would need a sacrifice,
Something less than elephants
But more than rats or mice.

Anthony decided he
Should speak up in defence
Of simple joys and ample highs
With cans of beer in tents.

He spoke of lazy Saturdays
And jokes concerning pants,
And sipping homemade cider
While the moths perform their dance.

The cult conferred amongst themselves.
Doubt had raised its head.
They were clearly taken by
What Anthony had said.

The leader spoke. He said he hoped
The sheep would understand
Why they had to abandon
All the rituals they'd planned.

The metal bin of cider
Was too tempting to ignore.
They all went back to empty it
And sing till they were sore.

Going Underground

2009-09-03T05:48:00.001-07:00

This is Karen's view of life:
House and husband make a wife.
Wife and husband join to make
Children who'll keep them awake.

Kids turn people into parents.
Man and wife or those who share tents
Suddenly find they've become
Parents of a child or some

Children they've not met before,
Little people who can roar
Like tiny alcoholic lions,
As sensitive as active mines.

You'll have to tip-toe round the room.
Their eviction from the womb
Will make them prone to fits of rage.
It's clear the play pen is a cage,

A stage for kids to act out plays
And get applause. The parents praise
Every single sound produced
By the captive reading Proust.

He's more advanced than other babies.
For his first photo he could say 'cheese'.
Parents must accept their roles,
Abandon dreams of scoring goals,

Or being birds, graceful larks,
Or growing beards to look like Marx.
Lifelong dreams of being a truck
Invariably become unstuck.

You won't perform for massive crowds
Or sail the skies on fluffy clouds.
You'll be on board the good ship Ground
And there you'll push the kids around

In expensive new wheelbarrows
While single friends fire crossbow arrows
From a yacht when they are drunk,
Or dance all night to jazz and funk.

Karen wants to do these things
Before exchanging wedding rings
And settling down with her new spouse
In their superb suburban house.

She seeks adventure all the time.
She'd rather not commit a crime.
There are legal ways to find
The kind of fun she has in mind.

You don't need yachts or burning cars
Unless you're backed by lucky stars
And pray out loud to bless us, Mary.
Crossbows aren't necessary.

She loves exploring caves and holes
Created by the human moles
Who'd rather tunnel underground
Than make a whispered word-like sound,

Their insufficient contribution
To debates on air pollution.
They won't pollute the air with words
Like interjections dropped by birds.

Other people make them fearful.
Their best pretence at being cheerful
Brings the gas-lit glow of gloom
And silence to a crowded room.

They clear all minds of sunlit bays
And paint depressing winter days
On city streets as afternoon
Performs its final sombre tune.

Night and fog envelop all.
Streetlights fuelled by gas will call
The hidden people to their mass
Where they'll turn solid gold to brass.

They're enthralled by winter nights
When all the city's must-see sights
Cannot be seen. They disappear.
Their absence aids the atmosphere

That makes most people stay inside,
A sense that Death has found his bride
After centuries of waiting
And in their love they're celebrating

Nothingness and emptiness.
It seems like more will soon be less.
Summer days can seem this bleak
When those hole-dwellers start to speak.

They need to hide or run away.
They'd love if night replaced the day,
Replete with fog and sounds of hounds.
The ghosts of dogs mark out their grounds.

With no darkness to confide in,
Without a fog-filled night to hide in,
They use their tunnels to escape
Despair of their life's pear-like shape.

Karen has encountered these
Tunnel-dwelling folk who freeze
When she appears and says 'hello'.
If she smiles as well they'll go.

Some will slowly thaw and talk
Or they'll communicate through chalk.
Once she found a cave that led
To tunnels that filled souls with dread,

But she went on. Adventure beckoned,
Electrifying every second.
She met a group of tunnel folk.
Before she said a word they spoke.

They said they'd formed this force to fight
An evil subterranean blight,
Beings from an ancient race
Who fiercely guard their hidden base.

The rocky ground began to shake
And Karen feared a great earthquake.
She heard a loud, ferocious roar.
The tunnel folk went to their store

Of guns, grenades and ammunition.
They told her she could join their mission.
This adventure, she conceded,
Was much more than she really needed.

She left the tunnel and the cave
Before this place became her grave.
She soon forgot the tunnel's menace
And sought adventure through lawn tennis.

Pond Patrol

2009-08-27T03:50:00.000-07:00

Don't question this. Don't ask me why
I think your tailor sold your sty.
These visions come to me sometimes.
Some are scenes of future crimes.

I've seen scones taken by a bird,
A week before this theft occurred,
And once I saw a pirate raft.
A lawless crew controlled this craft.

I've seen grandfathers and grandmothers
Operating oars and rudders,
Chased by pirates 'cross a pond,
Stunned by how their grandson conned

And tricked them into purchasing
This old row boat he said would bring
Long afternoons of relaxation.
They'd watch the problems of this nation

Evaporate before their eyes.
Even energetic flies
Would be too lazy to pursue
A course of action they might rue

If it upsets and thus incites
The rowers to turn out fly lights
And flatten flies whose flight paths pass
Right over heads or round a glass

Of lemonade that women made
For floating picnics where a raid
By wasps would spread great panic and
Make rowers head straight for dry land.

I saw this happen in my vision.
The wasps sent them to their collision
With the old ramshackle raft.
The pirates commandeered the craft

And made grandparents part with cash.
I saw their plunder of the stash
Of lemonade and homemade buns.
They showed delight by firing guns.

I saw it all. I had to act
To stop these scenes becoming fact.
Despite the dangers and the fears
I found some willing volunteers

For my police force by the pond.
Some recruits think they're James Bond.
They talk like him, but that's okay.
We keep the pirate rafts away.

While standing by the pond at night
The visions come in lurid light.
I had a vision of a crowd
Of teddy bears, their voices loud,

A symphony of joyous noises.
Mother Nature gave them prizes:
A sunny day, a cloudless sky
Left soaking in a deep blue dye,

The sounds of busy honey bees,
The music for a life of ease
To drown the sound of grinding gears.
The teddy bears had left their fears

At home to entertain pet scarecrows.
Every tiny teddy bear nose
Smelled the cheese in picnic baskets.
The battered tartan Thermos flask gets

Used for lemonade in June.
Some teddies hummed a happy tune
As they were walking down the paths
Towards the woods, past sleeping cats.

They made sure they weren't crushing bugs
When they put down their picnic rugs.
They ate iced buns and jam-filled cakes
That only Granny Bear still bakes.

Sugar made the young ones run.
Parents let them have their fun.
Their motto is to spread a light
In lives of friends, to quench the night,

And only take if they can give,
To live and let all others live,
Let Nature mollycoddle all
As teddy bears play volleyball.

Some teddies sang while others danced,
But things turned sour as hours advanced.
The ones who had been drinking beer
Destroyed the happy atmosphere.

A fight began and soon it spread.
A bottle bounced off one bear's head.
Impressive fighting skills were shown.
Punches, kicks and stones were thrown.

Many suffered injuries.
Some were hiding in the trees.
I saw it one week in advance.
My vision gave the bears a chance

To leave the woods with memories
Of carefree fun amongst the trees.
A day of peace: this was our goal.
Some officers from Pond Patrol

Were there before the fighting started
To make sure that the drunk bears parted
From the woods. They had a choice:
To head for home as meek as mice

Or face arrest and great distress
If they refused to acquiesce.
The trouble-makers left the woods.
Some heads were hidden under hoods.

The ones who stayed behind all praised
The pond's police who had erased
The violence from this summer day
That soon will feel the sun's last ray.

Richard and his Authors

2009-08-20T05:37:00.000-07:00

Richard held a party
In a club where snooty waiters
Made shirtless lager drinkers
Feel like lowly, worthless traitors.

A happy six-piece jazz band
Kept the drinkers entertained.
The waiters kept the guests they liked
Well fed and well champagned.

Richard danced on tables,
Drank from shoes and fell off chairs.
The night became a blur,
Free of memories and cares.

He woke up after midday
With reminders of the night.
The warm glow of the party
Still emitted heat and light

That fought the aches and pains
And defused his brain's landmines,
And infused a rosy tint
In mental scenes of sampling wines.

He whistled, smiled and skipped until
The club sent him the bill.
The sight of all those zeros
Left him feeling slightly ill.

They wanted twenty grand to pay
For all the damage done.
Some friends of his discovered
That destroying things is fun.

This bill included all the food
And alcohol consumed.
Unless he grew a beard and fled
He feared he would be doomed.

Some very shady people
Owned this club and they explained
That they would not look kindly
On a person who refrained

From paying bills in full.
They'd be like bulls who feel
A burning, red-hot rage
At an obvious raw deal.

And they'd insist on borrowing
Some favourite body parts.
They've been known to get a loan
Of livers, brains and hearts.

Richard didn't have the cash.
He didn't want to lose
The body parts he hoped to harm
With years of drinking booze.

He rounded up his authors
And explained his latest plight.
He put them in his study
And he made them work all night.

He spent that night at parties.
He was able to forget
About the fact that bits of him
Were clearly under threat.

He woke up in the morning
And had breakfast in his bed,
With remnants of his happy dreams
Still lighting up his head.

While Richard drank his tea and ate
His toast he heard his authors
Summarise the story that would
Calm these troubled waters.

They said he'll find a treasure map
Inside an old sea chest.
He'll leave then to retrieve the loot
And on his lonely quest

He'll encounter many dangers
And partake in speedboat chases.
He'll face the wrath of pirates
And of snakes inside suitcases.

Despite the constant gunfire
And explosions all around him
He'll finally find the treasure.
Gold and diamonds will astound him.

He'll get back home to safety
And he'll pay his bill in gold.
Richard thanked his authors
For the story that they told.

He gave his full approval
To this ending they had planned.
They made sure he'd be entertained
When he departs dry land.

But they forgot to mention
That he'd shortly get engaged
To a woman who was beautiful
But easily enraged.

She'd wrestle with a crocodile
And win inside one round.
Those who criticise her
Often end up gagged and bound.

The Crock of Gold

2009-08-13T06:08:00.000-07:00

I found a crock of gold
When I was walking in the woods.
I used the gold to purchase
These essential household goods:

A silver bowl for caviar
With caviar inside,
A clock that shows the movement
Of the planets and the tide,

A jewel-encrusted bread knife
That has known the blood of Orcs,
And many bottles of champagne
With self-removing corks.

I hired a famous architect
To make my new front door.
It has an elevator
From the cat flap to the floor,

With 'Cat' in diamond letters
Just to keep small dogs away.
This will come in useful
Should I get a cat some day.

I bought a cement mixer
With an engine by Rolls Royce.
Its full-time operator
Likes his cocktails mixed with ice.

Late one night a leprechaun
Arrived at my front door.
He failed to knock the door down,
Which is why he curse and swore.

He tried to use the cat flap
But he didn't realise
How fat he had become.
His mirror told him lies.

He knew that this old mirror
Was an unrepentant liar.
It reflected ice and water
When confronted by a fire.

The leprechaun chose not to doubt
The image that he saw.
His excellent reflection
Lacked a blemish or a flaw.

The face lacked warts or wrinkles.
The teeth were sparkling white.
The many throbbing bulges
Came from muscles of great might.

He cursed the lying mirror
When his flabby layer of fat
Left him lodged inside the cat flap
Just above the 'Welcome' mat.

The two doors of the elevator
Closed on his red nose.
He launched a stream of insults
To dismiss his raging woes,

But still the woes kept mounting.
His plight became much worse.
He was spotted by a cat,
A black four-legged curse.

This cat passed by each day
And he never paid attention
To the word in diamond letters
That I scarcely need to mention.

But when he found the rear end
Of the leprechaun it felt
As if he'd just inherited
An uncle's creamy wealth.

He used this strange protrusion
From the cat flap as a tool
For sharpening his claws,
Just like he'd learnt in school.

He loved the sound effects
When he sunk his paws' sharp claws.
For him this large posterior
Possessed no signs of flaws.

The sound effects reflected
The leprechaun's unease.
In between his chilling
Maledictions, screams and pleas

He told me he had come here
To retrieve the gold I took.
The nicest names he called me
Were 'degenerate' and 'crook'.

When he'd exhausted all these names
And curse-related jargon
I pointed out it might be wise
To reach some sort of bargain.

His position had been weakened
By the fact that he was stuck.
A deadly, dreadful drought had dried
His reservoir of luck.

The cat ensured that our
Negotiations were completed
In under twenty seconds.
Agreement was then greeted

By a handshake and the leprechaun's
Removal from his trap.
He swore he'd never have
Another similar mishap.

The deal meant I could keep the gold
I found, and I agreed
To act as fitness trainer
In my small friend's hour of need.

I made him train twice daily
In his little private gym.
Seven months of exercise
Has left him looking slim.

The leprechaun is fit.
He's lost a lot of fat.
He slides in through the cat flap
Like a sleek and silent cat.

He avoids the elevator.
He'll use the stairs instead.
He's working on developing
A very healthy dread

Of all unhealthy foods.
Junk food has been banned.
He says he'd rather eat things
He has grown on his own land.

His mirror doesn't need to add
Imaginary brawn,
But it often adds a cat
Just to scare the leprechaun.

The Interesting Badger

2009-08-06T02:44:00.000-07:00

When the interesting badger comes out late at night
The boring barn owl always sighs
And says, "It's not fair. It just isn't right.
I know some more interesting flies.

"And yet he's been featured in ten magazines.
He does photo shoots every week.
The badger looks weird in his four-legged jeans.
His strange little face lacks a beak.

"A face with no beak is a lot like a gun
That's lacking a barrel or trigger.
Using this weapon would only be fun
If it frightened Pooh Bear or Tigger.

"About once a week I'll see camera crews
Following our 'interesting' friend.
His views on good shoes are regarded as news,
As is his ideal weekend.

"There's little of interest in this badger's life.
His life has a thick layer of dust.
Trees are intriguing. This oak tree is rife
With tales of betrayal and lust."

The barn owl is boring because he spends hours
Explaining the intricate plots
Of soap operas seen in the trees and wild flowers,
Acted by bees, birds and moths.

Every so often he'll pause to complain
About the unwarranted praise
Heaped on the badger, his unwitting bane,
Who poses with his thoughtful gaze.

The badger was cast in the leading male role
In a nature film shot on location.
This film brought him fame and more rooms in his hole.
He opened a brand new train station.

But I've been informed of a little brown mouse
Who's much more intriguing, I think.
He wears a top hat when he exits his house.
He'll doff it and smile with a wink.

His hobby is talking the frogs into buying
Full-length fur coats and fur hats.
That's why you'll see tiny clothes lines with coats drying
And ponds that attract jumping rats.

This new fashion fad for fur coats on the frogs
Is down to the mouse and his wiles.
He's turned his attention to magpies in clogs.
He'll be the creator of styles.

My Time in Parliament

2009-07-30T03:45:00.000-07:00

When I was elected to parliament
I lived in an empty beer barrel and spent
Weekends in a tent. At least once a month
I'd capture my food in a weekend-long hunt.

Apricots, crows and ice cream would be caught.
All of these things would be put in a pot.
I'd make a nice broth that would last me for weeks.
Still I can savour the flavour of beaks.

My colleagues in parliament all spoke in song.
The way to be heard was in singing along
And hoping you'd get your own solo so you
Could speak without banging a desk with your shoe.

We wrote our own musicals during each session.
To pass legislation we did an impression
Of stars from the cast of a top Broadway show.
We passed laws to make sure that hamsters would glow.

We brought in a law to provide new hair styles
For people who always display manic smiles,
Escape routes for people who go on blind dates,
And nappies for monkeys who use roller-skates.

Our much-admired Speaker spoke only in tongues,
Tongues that resided in dens in his lungs.
They'd come out and shout words like 'liar' or 'cheat',
Hoping to lure juicy flies, which they'd eat.

I miss those old days. They're lost to the past.
I knew at the time that the fun couldn't last.
People who go into politics now
Don't debate how to amuse a bored cow.

Appearances are all-important these days.
Feigning concern has become this year's craze.
They never conduct their proceedings in song.
They're all filled with fear that they'll say something wrong.

And yet what they say never seems to be right.
They'll never point out what is black and what's white.
They're not allowed have manic smiles and a perm,
And they can't bring games on the last day of term.

I lost an election because camera crews
Were there when I outlined my strongly-held views
On sweeping up deserts and spring-cleaning farms,
And using relaxing harp sounds for alarms.

Poor Little Fred

2009-07-23T03:53:00.000-07:00

His parents decided to travel the seas.
Despite his repeated emotional pleas
They left him behind. Poor little Fred.
He had to live with his aunt, who was dead.

They didn't have much. To get pocket money
He trained twenty spiders to make their own honey.
He sold spider honey in marmalade jars.
He made enough money to buy chocolate bars.

But he needed more. He wanted to buy
A black Batman mask and a cape for his fly.
So he got a job he could do at weekends.
He sacrificed time he would spend with his friends.

He had to sweep carpets, cut lawns and wash dishes.
He took up his new post against his aunt's wishes,
But she couldn't stop him from taking this job.
His weekend employers were Martha and Bob,

A friendly old couple who lived in a house
Along with a dog and a quick-witted mouse.
The mouse wasn't welcome, but he wouldn't go.
He turned out to be an exceptional foe.

They left out a trap. They felt sure he'd sniff
The cheddar and its overpowering whiff.
The mouse extricated the cheddar with ease
And left a note saying 'IOU some cheese'.

Fred manufactured a trap of his own,
A small shoebox room with a miniature phone.
When the mouse answered the phone he could hear
A warm female mouse voice massaging his ear.

The mouse didn't notice that he had been trapped
Till he was set free. He'd have to adapt
To his new life in a house where a ghost
Loved to blow his runny nose on hot toast.

Fred made a fortune from his new invention.
His spending attracted the neighbours' attention.
He bought his aunt flowers and things made of gold.
She came close to forming a smile, so I'm told.

And he bought some gifts for his parents as well:
A carton of perfume without any smell,
Chocolates that tasted of parsnips and chives,
And porcelain cats who had lost many lives.

The One Thing She Wants

2009-07-16T03:40:00.000-07:00

Liz had a house overlooking a bay,
A ten-year-old cello that she couldn't play,
A garden with pumpkins, potatoes and peas,
And plenty of pollen in flowers for bees.

She also had mice and a dog with a hat.
Most of her friends would be happy with that,
But she wanted more. It wasn't enough
To have such a dapper housemate who said 'woof'.

She wanted a coat that was navy or black
With a luminous blue lightning bolt on the back.
She found such a coat in a second-hand shop.
The sight of the bolt made her skip and then hop.

She wore it for weeks and she kept spinning round.
The lightning bolt went from her neck to the ground,
But after a while, spinning round lost its thrill,
And wearing her coat while she stood very still

Wasn't as good as she thought it would be.
While she was standing she started to see
The thing that she wanted was one Viking helmet.
Her neighbour's black bull was undoubtedly hell's pet.

He'd eat in one bite all the dinner a whale ate.
Her war with the bull would be stalled at a stalemate
If she had two horns on her head just like his.
Her days would be filled with a beautiful fizz.

So she bought the helmet and walked past the gate
Where her foe was passing the time being irate.
They stared at each other. His eyes were on fire,
A frightening gaze that could easily fry her.

But when she returned later on that same day
She watched as the mighty black bull looked away.
She started to gloat to a dance music beat.
The new Viking headgear was working a treat.

But after a few weeks it lost its appeal.
The bull stayed away and she started to feel
That horns on her head were no longer required.
There was one thing that she greatly desired:

A cuckoo clock in which the cuckoo has been
Replaced by an owl who will keep the clock clean.
She bought such a clock but it didn't take long
For her to grow tired of the owl's hourly song.

Now she believes she's discovered the truth.
Being a crime-solving amateur sleuth
Will make her feel happy, just as content
As nuns who give up eating chocolate for Lent.

Her sidekick will be a well-groomed magic fox
Who'll sniff out the clues like her dog sniffs her socks.
Waiting for her magic fox is exciting.
She thinks of the crimes and the wrongs they'll be righting,

The villains they'll catch and the victims they'll aid.
They won't run and hide from a hood with a blade.
They'll be good at sensing when play becomes foul.
They'll track down the cuckoo replaced by the owl.

A Game of Lunch

2009-07-09T03:30:00.000-07:00

Sean played a quick game of lunch against Ann.
He scored shortly after the first half began.
The way he achieved this surprise early score
Was simply reminding her of how she swore

When she was assaulted by one little moth.
It didn't touch her sister, Lucy, the goth,
But it attacked Ann on that warm summer night.
It thought that her face was a source of bright light

Because of the make-up that she had applied.
It flowed like red hot lava streams when she cried.
You'd damage your eyes if you stared at her face.
Her friends all wore shades when they went to her place.

He knew that he'd scored when a frightening scowl
Appeared on her face. She'd spotted a foul.
But she had to pick the ball out of the net,
And try hard to sharpen her offensive threat.

The score-line remained at one-nil until near
The end of the game. Spectators would cheer
If they saw her score such a well-taken goal.
She mentioned his grandmother's use of a bowl

In cutting his hair at least once every week.
She seemed to like it. For him it was bleak.
It made him look stupid till he was eighteen.
But now he just looks a lot like Mr. Bean.

The pain of the past could be seen in his eyes.
He wasn't expecting her to equalise.
In the top corner she'd buried the ball.
Their lunch was soon over. The score was one-all.

The replay took place over dinner that night.
Both were determined to put up a fight.
Ann scored the first goal, a biting remark
About being afraid of a Jack Russell's bark.

This is what Sean said to level the score:
"At Halloween fear made you slam the front door
Into the face of your niece, who was dressed
As a large Tweetie Pie who had sweets in a nest."

Ann didn't lose her composure and falter.
She mentioned his infamous fall at the altar
When he was best man on his best friend's big day.
He used an F word that made the priest pray.

They kept throwing insults and raking up dirt.
The score was eight-all at the end of dessert.
They went back to her place and coffee was made.
They needed it for extra time to be played.

He thought that he'd won with a goal near the end.
He brought up her worship of each fashion trend.
This had resulted in many strange looks,
Hats made of pencils and coats made of books.

But this just reminded her of all the times
He's been found guilty of gross fashion crimes.
Trousers with flares that had curious stains.
They emptied the carriages on crowded trains.

When he played guitar in a band with his friends.
They travelled to gigs in a van on weekends.
But unlike most other contemporary bands
They had a song about licking their hands.

He was afraid she'd recall other songs
And some of the band's more bizarre fashion wrongs.
And she was afraid that he would remember
The great Christmas party they had last December

When she sang the hand-licking song late at night.
She got all the dance moves and actions just right.
And so they agreed that a draw would be best
Before they discussed his disgusting brown vest.

Chloe's Songs

2009-07-02T06:09:00.000-07:00

Chloe writes a song a day.
She sings them for her friends.
She sings in pubs and plays
The concertina on weekends.

She wrote a song about the day
Her cat burst a balloon.
She wrote about the joy she feels
When staring at the moon,

And the woe of Phil the Fluter
When the flow of water took
His favourite stick of dynamite
From his garden's brook

To the mighty ocean
Where it's surely lost for good.
She wrote about her uncle
And his finger made of wood.

My favourite song by Chloe
Is the one she wrote about
The time she caught a butterfly
That flew into her mouth.

She was singing at a barbeque.
She'd just begun a song
About a zoo with chickens,
But it didn't last too long.

The people in the garden
Were distracted by the food.
The song was background music
In a lazy summer mood.

They didn't look towards her
Till she coughed and then they saw
A creature from the depths of her,
Defying nature's law,

Flying round the garden
And defiling hearts and minds.
They wished their mental windows
Had been covered up with blinds.

People chose to flee the scene.
They ran into a field.
It seemed to them that distance
Was the most effective shield

To protect them from the horror
That emerged from Chloe's mouth.
I'm a little teapot
With a handle and a spout.

This disguise protects me.
It's the shield I always use
When I'm in a spot of bother
Or when sailing on a cruise

And I'm trying to avoid
A single lady who's intent
On making me her husband
Coz she thinks' I'm like Clark Kent,

And that when I lose my glasses
I'll become a Superman.
I'd cook for her and sing to her
And bravely thwart the plan

Of an evil genius
Who has a manic laugh,
Who sits behind a mammoth desk
And strokes a pet giraffe.

The guests who fled the party
Had to stop to take a rest.
They saw another menace
Slowly coming from the west.

The fluffy clouds in summer skies
Are spies in cloud disguise.
When they slow their pace you'll see
Their terrifying eyes.

All the guests were terrified.
They ran back to the house.
They felt they needed shelter
Just like any little louse

Will need a head of hair
If they're going to stay alive.
I've seen them having parties
On the roof of my friend Clive.

The house's new inhabitants
Located hiding places.
Curtains, rugs and table cloths
Obscured the fear-filled faces.

Chloe and the teapot
Stayed outside to guard the drink.
We'd many hours together
To discuss our lives and think

About such weighty topics as
The universe and time
And teaching quantum physics
Through the medium of mime.

Miming came in handy when
Our words were slightly slurred.
I filled a cup with tea,
Added sugar and then stirred.

It tasted quite peculiar.
I went back to the gin,
And then I tried the whiskey
Before making tea again.

As night set in the people
Who were hiding ventured out.
They could hear the stream of music
Flowing from my spout.

They started to relax
And the music made them dance.
They didn't mind when someone's cat
Began to spit out ants.

In Chloe's song about these strange
Events she mentioned me.
She says I fell asleep on chairs
And woke up soaked in tea.

Things in my Head

2009-06-25T06:10:00.000-07:00

I've been playing with a bull
And idiotting a ball of wool.
I've been fooling with my fall.
I've been pushing a roll of wall

Down a hill until I come
To where I left my kettle drum.
I'll plug it in and make some tea,
And field these questions thrown at me.

"How can you eat your crutch like that?
Why do you sniff all the worms in your path?
Might they not climb up your nose
And find the place in your brain where woes

"Are boiled in pots and stored in baths
And hopes are crushed like grapes in vats,
Squashed by feet attached to legs
That hang from wires. They're held by pegs."

I try to answer all they ask.
I'll gladly undertake this task.
Answering helps me unwind.
I'm not afraid the worms will find

The kitchen in my brain where peas
Are trained to fly like bumble bees
And go up other people's noses
While they're busy sniffing roses.

The peas will pick the locks of doors
Inside the brains of dreary bores
And paint the walls of rooms with thoughts
Baked by chefs with rows of noughts

But not one cross. They all look mad
And scary too when they are clad
In blood-stained clothes emitting smells
That wear their garish clothes and bells.

These one-eyed chefs adore their knives
Much more than life itself or wives.
They love to cook or bake their theories
And think of people who'll soon fear peas.

The worms will be led to a room
Where TV screens defeat the gloom.
The worms will see all that I do,
Like wearing red and saying 'boo'

To sleeping bulls who lie in shade,
Or hammering the scones I made.
They'll see me kick a ball of smoke
And pick up shards of glass it broke.

A Free Dinner

2009-06-18T06:51:00.000-07:00

I walked for many days on hills
And through a mountain gap
Until I came across a town
Not marked on any map.

I ventured down an alley
Guarded by an alley cat.
He spoke in broken English
But I didn't stop to chat.

I found a place to stay
Above a pub where evil lurked.
The taps poured out brown water
But at least the damn things worked.

I had a bath and washed my face
To lose the smell of sweat.
I read the news on my tattoo,
The forfeit of a bet.

Because I incorrectly called
The outcome of a race
I had a page of newsprint
Written on a private place.

I've never bought a paper since.
The news remains the same.
Politicians work both night
And day at shifting blame.

I brushed my hair to excavate
The ancient coins and earth,
And then I had to brush my face
Till it was free of dirt.

I wore my suit when I went out
To seek what I could find,
Something burning brightly to
Illuminate my mind.

I roamed the streets. I passed the homes
And clubs of ill-repute,
Where everyone has firearms
And a tendency to shoot

When they perceive an insult
Or the slightest little slight.
Fights decide who'll be the rightful
Owner of the night.

I passed the pubs and hubs of vice
With prices on the door.
All the staff possessed two legs
And some possessed two more.

I came across a building with
A dark, foreboding look,
A place where scheming butlers
Would be murdered by the cook.

Something drew me in,
Even though I was afraid.
As soon as I set foot inside
My fear began to fade.

Crystal chandeliers illuminated
Spacious rooms.
Countless happy dancers let
The music's jazzy fumes

Affect their minds and bodies
And their feet became a blur.
The legs of people who were
Sound asleep began to stir.

Waiters dressed in white served drinks
To writers who expressed
Their love for one great writer
And their hatred of the rest.

My stylish new surroundings
Left me in a happy mood
Until I saw the crazy prices
Of the drink and food.

A woman there perceived
The disappointment on my face.
She said she'd make me dinner
If I went back to her place.

She promised me some wine as well.
I wouldn't have to pay.
I said I'd be delighted
And I let her lead the way.

We walked down streets in darkness
To the other side of town.
It seemed her house was wondering
If it should topple down.

Inside she started working on
A late-night meal for two.
She put what looked like beef into
A pot of Irish stew.

She used a carving knife to cut
The gravy in a dish.
Dessert was chocolate gateau
But it smelled a lot like fish.

She made a pot of tea and raked
Some sugar from the rug.
She evicted all the insects
Who were living in my mug.

I was shocked. I couldn't quite
Believe that she would do
So much to make me feel at home.
Our time together flew.

While she read my tattoo,
I enjoyed my cup of tea.
This was the nicest dinner
That I'd ever had for free.

The Price of Success

2009-06-11T07:02:00.001-07:00

I treasure all that life entails.
When my most recent mission fails
I'll say 'hooray' and celebrate.
I love what high-achievers hate.

Failure's nicer than success.
Being good at playing chess
May well inspire respect and awe
And compensate for some great flaw.

But this success means spending hours
Strengthening your mental powers,
Gazing at a board of squares
And facing bishops' vacant stares

While I'd be at the estuary
Where two fake bishops blessed my tea.
These bishops wore more jewellery
Than Mr. T. In fooling me

They told me they had just said mass
To a most angelic class
Of pupils from a local school
Where light and mindless kindness rule.

The children's smiles were disconcerting.
The bishops heavy hearts were hurting.
I had a thermos flask of tea.
The bishops' eyes lit up with glee

When I poured tea for them in mugs.
They told me that their favourite drugs
Were tea and cake. I quelled their hell
When I gave them some cake as well.

They blessed my soul before they left
On a raft acquired by theft.
The sun above makes me feel blessed.
It tells me I'm a welcome guest.

On riverbeds of mud I stand.
I search for buried treasure and
Retrieve detritus when the tide
Goes out and leaves no place to hide

For old umbrellas, broken planks,
Shredded documents from banks,
Tangled nets and ropes in knots,
Bins and cans and pans and pots.

The office-bound can have success
And days indoors and waves of stress.
Film stars can't steal a raft
Without being seen and photographed.

I'll stay out in the sun till nine
Without being seen, and then I'll dine
On fish I found. My makeshift shack
Has candlelight to fight the black.

With peanuts I can pay my rent.
To celebrate a day well spent
I'll open my homemade champagne,
Made from aftershave and rain.

Fish don't like being caught

2009-06-04T05:45:00.000-07:00

Fish don't like being caught.
I'm sure they'd rather not
Be abducted from the water
And subjected then to slaughter.

Fish don't like baked beans
Or glossy magazines
With dozens of celebrities
Who spread throughout the web with ease.

They don't enjoy weekends
Spent on road trips with their friends.
They don't like barbeques
Or picturesque sea views.

Fish don't surf the net.
They'd surely sense a threat.
'Net' sounds worse than 'gun',
Though surfing sounds like fun.

If I had a genie's wish
I'd choose to be a fish,
Swimming freely in a shoal.
The zoo inside a bowl

Would be fine for those whose aim
Is a modicum of fame.
They'd have their fifteen minutes,
Or half an hour and then it's

A trip through death's wet moors,
Down the toilet, through the sewers.
And when it ends they'll be
Floating in the deep blue sea.

This would be their afterlife.
My sardonic laughter's knife
Would cut them up inside
If they hadn't gone and died.

I would be alive.
I'd be free to swim and dive
In their heaven, where they're dead
After being overfed.

If I should meet my death
On a hook or in a net,
I'll fail to keep life's lease
But my laughter will not cease.

As my heartless killers dine
The last laugh would be mine.
I'd taste like cheap hair gel
Because that's the way I smell.

A Good Fire

2009-05-28T06:31:00.000-07:00

Sue will glide through days of light
And land on cushions in the night.
Through dark and dreary days she wades.
The faintest light when daylight fades

Will make her want to start anew,
To take a plunge into the blue
And be prepared for what comes out,
A mud-stained boot, a silver trout,

A rusting shopping trolley full
Of eye-less toy sheep made of wool,
A diary of King L Kong,
A piece of string, a dinner gong,

Or dinner guests who sound like geese,
And geese who sound like someone's niece,
A niece who talks till people fall
And many armed policemen call

To tell her of the terror she
Has spread. She's made the neighbours flee,
And some have claimed the end is nigh.
Priests say we should pray and cry.

The town's stray dogs have gone for good.
A tall, thin man who wears a hood
Enjoys the sound. It's like a song.
He taps his scythe and sings along.

Sue's prepared for what each day
Will bring to her or throw her way.
She'll cope with things as best she can,
Though she avoids her niece, Diane.

But lately not a lot's been thrown
At her each day. She'd like her phone
To ring and when she answers it
She'd hear a friend who says she's with

A famous band who can't stop crying.
The friend explains that she's been trying
To comfort them with jam and bread
But this upsets them more instead.

She tried to keep them entertained
With puppets who are well house-trained,
But her sock puppets scared the band,
Though nervous children find them bland.

Sue would call around to see
If Jaffa cakes and herbal tea
Would help to halt the flow of tears
And chase away the gangs of fears.

The tea would work. The tears would cease.
The much-appreciated peace
Would be like when her niece departs
And lightens loads on leaden hearts.

In times of crisis, Sue will thrive.
But such a call might not arrive.
She might receive a late-night call
From her impulsive cousin, Paul,

Who'll say he stole a treasure map
From some well-mannered foreign chap
Who disappears in self-made fogs
And always brings out growls in dogs.

She'd settle for a call to say
Her aunt Yvonne has gone to Bray,
Or hear her neighbour tell her that
He's sensed great evil in her cat

Since it spent two weeks in the mire,
Or even that her car's on fire.
But no such call arrives for Sue.
Nothing rises from the blue.

The phone is sleeping in the hall.
Instead of waiting for a call
She'll have to be the first to act
To light the flame this day has lacked.

She thinks about what she should do.
She could eliminate the blue
And paint the town bright red instead,
Or maybe paint her garden shed,

Or paint sad faces on her knees,
But she decides against all these.
She goes to see her friend, Nicole,
Whose brother gave up burning coal

When he began to burn doll's hair.
For starting fires he has a flair.
He started burning other things,
Like teddy bears with angel wings,

And bowler hats containing fish,
His creature in a Petri dish.
They burnt outside a nurses' dorm
And this became his new art form.

For Sue he makes a fire with these
Ingredients: a set of keys,
A lock of hair, a fake eye lash
From a doll who just says 'Mash',

A box of coffee-stained phone books
And twenty plastic pirate hooks,
Topped off with two tractor tyres.
This brings the drama Sue requires.

The Clown

2009-05-21T06:25:00.000-07:00

The clown returned home to his house after nine,
Faced with a night on his own, drinking wine.
A knock on the door brought a quick change of plan.
He thought that it might be his mother and gran.

So he was surprised to see Melanie there,
His beautiful neighbour. Her visits were rare.
The clown was delighted. He asked her to enter
And silently thanked the great forces that sent her.

In his living room a pin's fall could be heard.
She took off her coat without saying a word.
While he did his best to compose basic prose
She held up and smelled the one red plastic rose

That stood in a vase on the table beneath
A painting depicting an old naval fleet,
Ships on rough seas with the wind in their sails.
Their sailors are vessels for rum and tall tales.

She put the rose back in its vase and she said,
"I've so many thoughts fighting wars in my head.
I need to bring peace, a permanent pause
To cat-like ideas extending their claws."

The clown couldn't speak. He smiled at her face,
Thankful to have this peculiar case.
He didn't know why she was talking to him
While outside the light of the evening grew dim.

She could have been anywhere other than there.
She could have gone off to a bar with her hair.
His mental detective was looking for clues.
His long snake-like laces in over-sized shoes

Slithered away while his brain was obsessed
With figuring out how he came to be blessed.
He started to think that he'd really been cursed.
The times labelled 'best' often merged with the worst.

Triumphs soon turned into crushing defeats.
The bottomless black depth of night often beats
The daylights right out of his battered old soul
And makes him consider a job as a troll.

He wondered if she'd come to stab him and steal
His set of gold cups even though they're not real.
When he was exploring these thoughts he could hear
The odd word or two as she spoke of her fear

Of being alone late at night when she wakes.
To conquer her terror she gets up and bakes.
She makes countless nocturnal cakes every week.
Icing a cake before dawn can be bleak.

And then she went on to describe how she's bored
With most of the music that she once adored.
She hates her new job and her boss makes her sick.
She thinks that most people are hopelessly thick.

The clown realised that she meant him no harm
And he wouldn't need to switch on his faint charm.
She just needed someone to talk to, and he
Would gladly provide this good service for free.

She spoke till she looked down and saw something odd.
The slithering laces made her scream to God.
She jumped in the arms of the clown and they fell
Back on his couch. She said, "Call me Mel."

They stayed on the couch and she spoke about how
Her handbag was eaten by her cousin's cow,
And why she's afraid of some kids' TV shows.
They're like manic demons in ribbons and bows.

Anthony's Pram

2009-05-14T04:36:00.000-07:00

When Anthony was young
He enjoyed being pushed around
In his sturdy, spacious pram.
He would laugh on bumpy ground.

His mother was the engine.
For her it wasn't fun,
And when he turned sixteen
She refused to push her son.

But he was not deterred.
He made a makeshift sail.
He attached it to the pram
And he waited for a gale.

He had to add some steering
With a rudder made of wood.
A strong wind moved much quicker
Than his mother ever could.

One day he travelled miles
Over fields around his home
Till he found a garden shed
Posing as an aerodrome.

The planes were shopping trolleys
Fitted with red metal wings,
Steering wheels and car seats
That would make them fit for kings.

He took a pen and paper
From the pocket of his coat.
The paper was a letter.
He crossed out some words and wrote:

'Official Pilot's Licence'.
He showed this to the man
Who ran this rural aerodrome.
He said his name was Stan.

He happily let Anthony
Into a plane to fly
Amongst the many birds
In cloud gardens in the sky.

The take-off was successful
And he rose above the trees
But he struggled to control it
In the growing autumn breeze.

He nearly hit a pylon
And he barely missed a rock
When the trolley grazed a hilltop
While the pilot was in shock.

He somehow landed safely
In the field beside a lake.
He went into the water
Coz he couldn't find the brake.

He's now afraid of flight.
That's why he'll choose to stay
In the safety of his pram
On a windy autumn day.

Jeremy

2009-05-07T06:57:00.000-07:00

Jeremy's part of a theatre group.
His catchphrase is simply the plural of 'oop'.
He's accident-prone when he stands on the stage.
When he's expressing a torrent of rage

He frequently falls when he trips on a prop,
A table, a chair or a bucket and mop.
He'll try to go on with a mop on his head.
He'll speak of his wife and his brother in bed.

But he can't erase the effect of his gaffes.
The tragic turns comic and everyone laughs.
Even when he doesn't have any lines
His skill at demolishing furniture shines.

His fellow performers are eager to find
The reason why nerves take control of his mind
And blind him to feet that are placed in his path.
Standing on toes or the tail of a cat

Is something he'll do with an audience there
But he's not afraid of the crowd's intense glare.
Only when Sarah is in the front row
Does furniture turn into his most-feared foe.

When his fellow actors discover this fact
They urge him to turn on his charm and his tact
And then talk to Sarah and soon he will learn
There's nothing to fear and his stomach won't churn.

But he says, "I can't. My fear will still rule.
I'll say something stupid and feel like a fool.
I'll have to retreat from this most recent wreck
And press the red button attached to my neck,

"Releasing my head, which will fall to the ground
And land with a deflated basketball sound.
I'll kick my own head and I'll watch as it rolls
Into one of eighteen man-made head-sized holes.

"For this I'll receive warm applause and a prize,
A full year's supply of homemade shepherd's pies.
These I will feed to my head, which will stay
Down in the hole twenty-four hours a day."

They fail to convince him to conquer his dread
So they convince Sarah to join them instead.
They hope he will see there is nothing to fear
And he won't fall over whenever she's near.

At their first rehearsal with her he's afraid.
He thinks of the numerous errors he's made.
He knows he'll soon make a mistake and spread panic
And she'll get engaged to a race car mechanic.

But she gets there first. She trips on a mat
And knocks down a hat stand that holds a brown hat
Which falls on a cat, and covers its eyes.
The fall of the hat fills the cat with surprise

That makes the cat dash back and forth 'cross the floor
And crash into walls before finding the door.
The actors try catching the hat with a hook
Before it moves into the path of a cook

Who's holding a pot that's as big as herself.
The pot's much too big to be stored on a shelf.
She lifts it with ease because she's got four hands,
Though two of them do look like feet when she stands.

She fails to avoid an unfortunate fall.
She trips on the cat and she watches as all
The cabbage is spilled on the carpeted floor.
No one has seen this much cabbage before.

Jeremy smiles. He's filled with delight.
At last he feels free from his nerves and stage fright.
He spends a few hours with Sarah that day.
When they're not discussing their forthcoming play

They talk about fashionable hair styles for mops,
The great art of haggling in second-hand shops,
What you would say while you're hugging a tree,
And how many flies you could fit in a bee.

A Little Hobo

2009-04-30T03:28:00.000-07:00

I found a little hobo
In the cupboard by the sink.
I asked him how he got there
But he needed time to think

Before he could provide me
With the answer that I sought.
I performed a tap dance
While the little hobo thought.

I danced until exhaustion
Brought me to my aching knees.
The hobo kept on thinking
While he ate the age-old cheese

He had taken from the mouse traps
That were now stuck to his hand.
This always seemed to happen
When I left the traps unmanned.

Eventually he spoke to me.
He said his tale begins
When he was eating dinner.
He had found the food in bins.

It left him in the mood
For a snooze inside the park.
He made himself a pillow
From some dead leaves, moss and bark.

But soon he was awoken
By a voice that sounded grim.
The hobo felt quite frightened
When a man said this to him:

"You've stolen my sandwich.
For this you must pay.
And don't pay in frogs
If they're light blue or grey.

"The frogs must be purple
Or orange or red.
They must wear deodorant
If they are dead."

The little hobo left
To locate some frogs like these.
The frogs he'd seen before
Were as green as garden peas,

But not quite as delicious.
He loved his peas and mash
With strange, mysterious spices
That were added by the trash.

He searched both high and low
And the spaces in between,
But every frog he found
Was a blinding shade of green,

Until he saw a red one
As it hopped along a path.
It didn't stop its hopping
Till it reached a 'Welcome' mat.

It wiped its feet and went in
Through an open letter box.
The hobo took his boots off
And he nearly lost his socks

When they tried to get away.
In a second they'd be gone
If the hobo hadn't caught them
And then put his boots back on.

But then he saw a problem:
He couldn't get inside.
Though his frame was only little
And the letterbox was wide

He couldn't get his head in
And the cat flap was too small.
His boots would never desecrate
The carpet in the hall.

He went around the back
Of this house and there he found
An open downstairs window.
He went in without a sound.

But he triggered an alarm:
A scream that sounded shrill.
A woman was undressing
And she looked like she could kill.

He made a speedy exit
And he saw the frog again.
It hopped across the garden
And it had an evil grin.

It led him through more gardens,
Sheds and houses, dim-lit rooms
Where he was chased by people
Wielding frying pans and brooms.

It led him to a séance
Where a spirit was explaining
That the thing he misses most from life
Is firm, repeated caning.

The frog then came to my house
Where he found a place to hide.
To search the cupboard properly
The hobo climbed inside.

I said this was his lucky day.
I took him to the shed.
I had a box of dead frogs
And each one of them was red.

I used some strong deodorant.
The frogs smelled just like me.
I told the little hobo
He could have the frogs for free.

He shook my hand and thanked me.
His smile expressed delight.
I saw him eating dead frogs
As he walked away that night.

Black Metal Beetles

2009-04-23T03:36:00.000-07:00

That August day had gone has planned
Till evening time when jet-black clouds
Brought metal beetles to our land
And scattered panic-stricken crowds.

These beetles fell as soft as snow.
Their tiny parachutes delayed
Their meeting with the ground below.
A light-less night concealed their raid.

We all looked out at dawn's first light.
A thick black blanket lay upon
Each road and roof and field in sight.
The landscape's features were all gone.

This hard black snow lacked winter chills.
Parents watched as children played.
Sleighs and skis were used on hills
And beetle men were swiftly made.

I couldn't share their lack of fear.
I rowed my boat on beetle backs.
I fought the growing festive cheer
To keep my fear of their attacks.

But these small metal insects lacked
All signs of artificial life.
They never moved. This simple fact
Meant songs like 'Jingle Bells' were rife.

I felt great wonder when I found
That no two beetles were alike.
My small row boat made me feel bound.
I'd just made up my mind to hike

When each black beetle came alive.
They moved as one, a metal tide.
I saw my neighbour try to drive
His new car as he prayed and cried.

Many cars were swept away,
As were skiers and their skis.
Children held onto their sleigh
While others clung to trunks of trees.

I tried to row against the flow
Of beetles but I couldn't beat
Their awesome might. I didn't know
Where we would go on their wire feet.

The passengers of this black tide
Were envious of my row boat.
And though I took enormous pride
In my fore-thought, I didn't gloat.

The beetles knocked down poles and trees
And many houses in their path,
Intruding on mid-morning teas.
A startled man inside his bath

Was swept away into the west.
In this we didn't have much choice.
I hoped it would be for the best
And that the journey would be nice.

I came across a woman who
Was clinging to an old oak tree.
She feared she'd fall out of the blue
Into the black, till she saw me.

I steered my boat beneath her feet.
She dropped down from the branch above.
To feel a row boat underneath
Brought boundless joy and looks of love.

I'd brought along some carrot cake,
And tea inside a thermos flask.
We both agreed to take a break
And let the sea perform its task.

Our picnic helped us to relax.
We ate the cake from paper plates.
She told me some amazing facts
About the way the barn owl mates.

She spoke of other birds as well.
She loved to watch them from her house.
She gladly told me how to tell
A common pheasant from a grouse.

She told me all about the day
She drove her mother and Aunt Jill
To see a tall ship in a bay.
They had a great view from a hill.

They looked down on the town below.
From there they saw a theft take place.
Its progress was extremely slow.
The thief tried hard to speed his pace.

But it takes many hours to steal
An organ from a church alone.
He stopped for lunch. He made a meal
Of two small kiwis and a scone.

He stole the organ pipe by pipe,
Despite the people there to pray.
He looked just like the thieving type
With his dark mask and black beret.

They looked down on this crime until
The thief had nearly filled his van,
And then they travelled down the hill
To thwart the thief's ambitious plan.

They notified the town's police,
Who caught the thief before he fled.
The church gave him a sense of peace.
He calmly ate communion bread

While he was being led away.
She said the priest was pleased as Punch.
He practically insisted they
Should join him for a four-course lunch.

She spoke for many hours as we
Were carried swiftly over land,
And when the beetles reached the sea
They didn't gather on the sand.

The metal sea kept moving on.
It disappeared into the blue.
When all its metal parts had gone
We could appreciate the view.

I rowed the boat on gentle waves
While all around us people swam.
Some kids explored the nearby caves
And on the beach their aunts spread jam

On homemade scones they'd brought in coats.
The debris from the beetles' charge
Was used to make some basic boats
And one enormous floating barge.

The lack of beetles thrilled our souls,
A joy expressed in volleyball
Or simply digging useless holes.
A brilliant time was had by all.

The Fly

2009-04-16T03:19:00.000-07:00

One day as I cleaned out my uncle's pig sty
I gleaned this advice from a talkative fly:
Never eat butter you got from a pig.
Hogs may well fool you by wearing a wig.

I then made a brief mental note to be wary
Of people whose ears were unusually hairy,
Especially those bringing butter or cheese,
Whose scent comes before them when there's a strong breeze.

The fly said he'd learnt many lessons on life
From having a mind that's as sharp as a knife
And thousands of eyes that bring visual thrills,
Enhancing well-honed observational skills.

A dangerous, highly-trained spy, he is not.
He looks like a bland, inconspicuous dot
When he plays the role of the fly on the wall.
It's one of the numerous perks of being small.

He told me some stories that raised my eyebrows.
'Moo's of surprise could be heard from the cows.
Tales of affairs and of vengeance were told,
And stories of fools who were digging for gold.

I doubted the truth of a few of his tales.
He told me of people who surf clouds in gales,
And babies who hatched out of turnips at night.
By dawn they'd have learnt how to swim and to fight.

But most of the stories seemed truthful and real.
He said he had news of a poor sap called Neil
Whose girlfriend, Amanda, was cheating on him.
She'd fallen in love with a man at the gym.

Each evening they'd meet wearing brilliant disguises.
They often engaged in averting a crisis
When they faced a meeting with someone they knew.
Bushes or hedges would hide them from view.

He often dressed up as a priest with a beard.
Wild hair made him look like a beast to be feared.
She'd be a maid in a black and white dress.
In front of onlookers she'd watch as he'd bless

The sea and the sky and the birds in a tree,
A curious cat and a troublesome knee.
They'd go to a place hidden from prying eyes,
Where they could emerge from behind their disguise,

Discarding their clothes in a boathouse as night
Approached and provided the right sort of light
For people who'd rather avoid being seen.
Darkness provides an appropriate screen.

One night they were shocked to be caught in the act
By an admirable man with remarkable tact.
He owned this old boathouse, but he didn't stay.
He said 'Sorry Father' and hurried away.

Neil didn't know about any of this.
Ignorance often is needed for bliss.
She told him that she was conducting research
Into the history of her local church.

This was the story the little fly told.
It sounded familiar. It left my heart cold.
I told him that I was the Neil in his tale
And I'd been so blind I would have to learn Braille.

The fly was embarrassed. He said he must leave
To fly into windows with his best friend Steve.
I couldn't believe I'd accepted her lies.
I'd never remarked on her maid-like disguise.

But what could I do? It seemed far too late
For action. I had to accept my sad fate.
You'll drive yourself mad if you keep asking 'why?'.
I just wish I hadn't been told by a fly.

Martha Takes a Walk

2009-04-09T03:51:00.000-07:00

It's one of those days when nothing seems right.
The flowers look slightly afraid of the light.
The bread is too bouncy. The cat is too flat.
There's honey and milk in her favourite hat.

The chairs in the kitchen are inching away.
They'll be out the door by the end of the day.
The doorbell keeps swearing. The shed is on fire.
The grandfather clock is beginning to tire.

The bin looks unwell. It smells of old trout.
Before it gets sick she decides to go out.
She goes for a walk in the woods down the road,
Where nothing has ever been known to explode,

Where trees and wild flowers all thrive in sunlight,
Where peace and repose will arrive after night,
Where creatures are grateful for what the sun's heat gives.
They'll never release a long stream of expletives.

Martha begins to relax as she walks.
Her mood can be heard in her voice as she talks
To blackbirds and squirrels and small timid shrews.
She's gone from the world run on money and booze.

She walks down a wide sunlit path till she sees
An old bearded man in the shade of the trees.
The ground surrounding his feet is alive
With animals, birds and some insects who strive

To climb up his trousers. Some get all the way
Up to his shoulders where they stop to play.
As two tiny birds eat some seeds from his palm,
Martha says, "How do you reach such pure calm?"

He says, "You should hide in a soft mental hood,
Especially when things aren't going so good,
And things have a habit of doing just that.
The rain only comes when you don't have your hat.

"When life's looking pear-shaped there's no need to shout.
The play of the day will soon play itself out.
The stage will display scenes of trouble and woe.
The trick is to smile and say, 'On with the show.'

"And not be concerned with the words of the actors.
Invisible bards drive invisible tractors
To track down the people who've strayed from their herds.
The bards will entangle them in webs of words,

"In plots full of pratfalls and pitfalls in places
Where roads have deep potholes, and knots in your laces
Are always undone so you'll trip on the road.
The long swaying blades of wild grass will explode.

"The bards see themselves as the farmers of people.
A thoughtful, considerate farmer of sheep will
Make sure that his herd are kept mentally fit.
They need to be worried and hurried a bit.

"And so farmer bards will bring drama our way
To hasten the passage of time through the day.
But they go too far. They cause mental pain.
Ignoring their script is the way to stay sane.

"You've got to just let all the action go on.
You'll be there in person. You're mind will be gone.
Inside you'll be looking at cats on a wall,
Wondering which one will doze off and fall."

Martha is grateful for this good advice.
She says her goodbyes to the man and his mice.
She makes her way home where the table and chairs
Have got out but they fail to add to her cares.

She gives them a wave and she opens the door.
The bin has created a mess on the floor.
But Martha's not bothered. The smell's not so bad.
It's not like the noxious fumes made by her Dad

When he undertook his alchemical work.
He learnt from a well-dressed, mysterious Turk.
He spent countless weekends perfecting his craft.
Neighbours, work colleagues and friends would have laughed

If any of them had discovered the truth.
He said he was making an edible flute.
He failed in his efforts to make gold from lead.
He made many rose-scented snowflakes instead.

She looks out and sees the flames dance in a breeze.
The fire in her shed triggers warm memories.
She thinks of those days with her Dad long ago.
Nostalgia instils a warm internal glow.

Her house catches fire but this fails to erase
The smile on her face. She puts out the blaze
Using a hose, and she whistles a tune.
This seems like the best way to spend days in June.

She goes back inside when the flames cease their dance.
The mess from the bin is being cleared up by ants
While she makes the tea. She breaks into song,
Safe in the knowledge that nothing is wrong.

Rock Star

2009-04-02T03:34:00.000-07:00

Fred found fortune and great fame.
Countless strangers screamed his name
At concerts where he played guitar.
Fred's job title was 'Rock Star'.

But this was many years ago.
His fame has reached an all-time low.
He's noticed there's a glaring lack
Of paparazzi to attack.

If he could choose he'd say 'oh yes'
To gross intrusion from the press,
With TV camera crews as well
To make his life a living hell.

He waits while his Madeira cake browns.
He misses having nervous breakdowns,
And flying without ever knowing
The country where the band were going.

Nowadays he bakes and cooks.
He makes the cakes described in books
By TV chefs who live like stars.
They've got Jacuzzis in their cars.

They go to bars where groupies wait
With bated breath and tempting bait.
They swear and shout as much abuse
As ego-swollen bands let loose.

Fred remembers good old days,
Despite an alcoholic haze,
Days when they'd drive cars in pools
And open doors with power tools,

Even though they had their keys.
They'd always do just as they please.
But nowadays most bands are tame.
They'd rather not abuse their fame.

They don't throw knives or TV sets
Or take short trips in private jets
To have their pets' dry cleaning done.
They never talk to their best gun.

They dread bad press. It's sad to see
That every fad is said to be
The brand new rock and roll. It seems
That even dancers harbour dreams

Of being stars in sequined clothes
And stealing scenes on TV shows,
While modern rock stars love being seen
Saving fuel and being green.

Fred decides the time has come
To pound out beats on rock's war drum,
To call all former stars to arms.
They'll leave the safety of health farms.

They'll all re-form their bands and fight.
They'll wield guitars to make things right.
The younger bands won't stand the pace.
Their egos will be seen from space.

Fred will call his old band mates
And they'll display their former traits.
Drunken fights will be the norm,
Then healing in a nurses' dorm.

They'll go on tour and never tire
Of watching maids put out a fire.
They'll catch the world's lapels and shake,
As soon as Fred has iced his cake.

A New Start

2009-03-26T04:17:00.000-07:00

What can you do when your brand new canoe
Gets broken in two on the rocks,
When you're carried away and you're soaked by the spray,
And the water gets through to your socks.

This happened to me and I thought it would be
The end of my life on this earth.
My life flashed before me. Most of it bored me,
Apart from the day of my birth,

And this day as well just before my death knell.
The bits in between were all dull.
My best anecdote was about a blue boat
And some sweets eaten by a seagull.

I still feared the end as I rounded a bend.
The river was starting to slow.
Safety was gained and tranquillity reigned
In the river's serene, gentle flow.

I found I could stand and I knew that dry land
Would be under me and my feet.
My two feet were wet but I'd just cheated death.
The end of its threat was a treat.

I felt overjoyed. I swore I'd avoid
Sleep-walking through every minute.
A life full of highs was the glittering prize
And I was determined to win it.

Routine was my foe but I just didn't know
How I'd begin my attack.
Some people said I should dye my hair red
And that I should dress all in black.

A friend said they're wrong -- I should grow my hair long,
And sculpt it with gallons of gel.
My sister's advice was drink whiskey with ice,
And eat fudge till I felt unwell.

My brother said no -- I should buy a crossbow
And shoot at defenceless young trees,
Or swim with the sharks, go skating in parks,
And grow a thick beard full of bees.

He said my new start could be taking up art.
He thought I should try painting nudes,
Because art's fulfilling and frequently thrilling,
As long as it's women, not dudes.

I dwelled on this thought but I knew that I sought
Something I'd not done before.
Something exciting and fun would be my thing,
Or life would remain a dull bore.

To know what you're doing when going canoeing
Can only enhance the sport's thrills.
But it wasn't for me. I had started to see
That unhindered ignorance kills.

I've found something new I can manage to do.
It's wearing two stilts on my legs.
Many the fall has forced me to crawl
Since I first extended my pegs.

But still I keep going. I'm seeing and knowing
A brand new perspective on things.
My much-improved height gives the feeling of flight,
As if I have sprouted two wings.

My eyes see much more on the faraway floor.
I've found one or two inner truths.
Kittens look smaller now I've become taller.
My new wooden feet are in boots.

I wipe them on mats. I love it when cats
Sharpen their claws on my stilts.
I've had some mishaps. Some women collapse
When I put on one of my kilts.

I look down on people. I'm like a church steeple
When I wear my conical hat.
I feel six feet longer. I'm mentally stronger,
But when I lie down I feel flat.

With consummate ease I have saved cats from trees.
I've tucked a bird into it's bed.
A fireman called Dave used his ladders to save
A cat who was stuck on my head.

Each hour of each day brings adventure my way.
Boredom is lost to the past.
Whatever I do feels exciting and new.
The river of time's flowing fast.

Katie's Farm

2009-03-19T07:19:00.000-07:00

Katie bought a farm
To escape from city life.
Months of rural charm
Have erased all urban strife.

She's satisfied her hunger
For a sense of inner peace.
She feels she's getting younger.
She is looking like her niece.

The farm's abundant chores
Give an unexpected high.
She longs to be outdoors
With a vast expanse of sky,

Escaping from her cage,
As soon as morning fog clears.
When she tells friends her age
They say, "Is that in dog years?"

She thinks that this refers
To her fresh-faced, youthful guise.
She says the fresh air blurs
All the lines around her eyes.

But I think that they say it
Coz she always wags her tail.
She'll gladly spend a day with
Sheep and wild flowers in the vale.

Last night I went to visit her
But she was not at home.
I met a good inquisitor
In Katie's garden gnome.

His red eyes asked me why
I had visited this place.
Great liars couldn't lie
When confronted by his face.

I turned the other way.
I decided I should wait.
Night engulfed the day
As I stood outside the gate.

I counted Katie's chickens
And then they counted me.
I'm equal to Charles Dickens,
At least in quantity.

I'm no less than Obama.
We both amount to one,
As does the Dalai Lama
And the man who weighs a tonne.

I count myself twice daily.
Many times I find
That my memory can fail me
And the number slips my mind.

I'm good enough for Katie.
She won't want more than one.
The expert groups who rate me
Say I'm twice as good as none.

I'm twice as good as Bertie.
She told me she can tell
That his aura is unearthly,
But I think that's the smell.

His strict organic farming
Has been frequently discussed.
Women find him charming.
Men have been nonplussed.

I don't know what they see,
Or more likely what they smell,
But there's so much more in me
And I own a car as well.

The foremost days of my life should
Arrive in my mid-thirties.
I believe I'm just as good
As forty-seven Berties.

This is what I told myself
To pass the time while waiting.
I'm a bargain on the shelf,
An entertaining play thing.

She looked glad to see me
When she came back home that night.
If Scottie tried to beam me
I'd resist with all my might.

Wild horses couldn't drag me
From this place, or not that far.
Ten grannies couldn't nag me
Into cleaning out my car.

I asked her if she'd like to
Spend an hour or two with me.
We'd walk or take a bike to
See the cats defend their tree.

Or go to play some bingo
In the local village hall.
The caller learnt the lingo
From an Eskimo called Paul.

He sings the bingo numbers
In a powerful tenor voice
While his Jack Russell slumbers
In the midst of dancing mice.

Katie didn't take long
To decide she'd like to hear
The bingo caller's love song
To the numbers he holds dear.

I felt like I'd been multiplied
By seventy-nine or eighty.
I felt such joy I could have cried
And this applied to Katie.

My Two Ghosts

2009-03-12T05:40:00.000-07:00

The ghosts who haunt my house at night
Would call each other names and fight.
I'd shout, "Shut up. I'm trying to think."
In truth I needed peace to drink.

The noise would cease and peace would reign.
From further fighting they'd refrain.
An hour or two of this would pass.
They'd be as quiet as folk at mass.

The whispering would then begin.
The lack of tonic in my gin
Would calm my nerves. I wouldn't shout.
Wisdom pours out from my mouth

After I've put good drink in.
I'd tell the ghosts the way to win
The game of life. They'd played a set
And stopped to play the game of death.

One night I dimmed lights in my head
And thought the time had come for bed
When suddenly a priest appeared.
He spat out words through his thick beard.

The words were weapons used on me,
To make my feet retreat and flee.
The crucifix in his right hand
Was telling me that I was banned.

I stood my ground. I told the priest
He wasn't talking to the Beast.
He managed to control his fear
And he explained his presence here.

He said his name was Father Jim
And that the ghosts enlisted him
To exorcise me from this place,
Evicting me from my own base.

This story made me feel ashamed.
The fault was mine -- myself I blamed.
I'd never failed to be unkind
To my two ghosts. I'd been so blind.

I'd shouted at them every night.
My bark was far worse than my bite
But still they lived in constant fear.
I vowed to fill their lives with cheer.

I asked them if they'd like to go
To see a match and they said no.
My offer made them more afraid.
They feared a trick, a trap I'd made.

I told them I had changed my ways.
From now on they'd get lots of praise.
I'd take an interest in their lives
And spend less time around my knives.

They realised there was no catch.
They let me take them to the match.
The ghosts said they enjoyed this outing.
I strained hard to refrain from shouting.

In this I failed, but all my words
Were aimed at two opposing herds
Who fought each other for a ball.
The ref advised against a brawl.

I bought some ice creams and some sweets.
The ghosts said 'thanks' for these small treats.
Since then we've been to many games.
We've seen the players' cars in flames.

We often play Monopoly,
And sometimes chess, improperly.
I'm sure our good rapport will last.
Their days of fear are in the past.

A Walk in the Evening

2009-03-05T09:20:00.000-08:00

Jenny takes a walk around
The edge of town at evening time,
Beyond the houses built behind
High walls where thieves and creepers climb.

Waning smiles and winning styles
Still fill the fields as evening fades,
A minor hint of menace and a
Sparkling glint of metal blades.

Fashion shows look like white sheets on
Clotheslines catching gentle breezes.
Laws on shoes are eased, releasing
Toes who thank their Moms and Jesus.

The sound of old typewriters
Reaches ears a hundred yards away,
Ears at either side of heads of
Actors who perform a play.

They're trying to decipher words and
Meaning in typewriter sounds,
And this provides the script for their
Eight-day-long play that still astounds.

Peter and his monkeys are the
Typists working on a novel
All about a builder with a
Shovel who creates a hovel,

Selling it for millions to a
Homeless man who gets the money
From a bank who check his income.
His career is stealing honey.

This man will put his hands in hives,
Infuriating honey bees.
People pay to lick his hands.
He'll take all credit cards and peas.

Jenny calls to Peter's place and
Asks if he would like to join her
On her walk around the town,
Then coffee in a local diner.

Peter leaves the house and all the
Monkeys who continue typing.
One of them pretends to type by
Tapping on the copper piping.

Peter walks with Jenny down a
Path that leads them round a field,
And takes them past a knight who wields
A gleaming sword and wooden shield.

He's fighting with a bishop to
Decide a minor land dispute.
Fighting is so futile. They're
Distraught when they recall this truth.

They'll have to share their feelings
Before reaching reconciliation.
They've just passed their courses to
Take up their latest occupation.

They stop to think of what they've learnt,
The coursework burnt onto their brains.
Jenny walks with Peter down the
Path that leads to narrow lanes

Where many people walk their dogs.
A fluffy, playful poodle bounds.
Aging heavy metal bands are
Holding onto baying hounds.

They walk around the pond where many
Women kneel to kiss old toads.
They haven't found Prince Charming but
At least one toad in ten explodes.

Peter feels as if a light
Has just come on inside his head.
He's found the perfect ending,
A good way to put his book to bed.

The homeless man goes to the beach
Where he's mistaken for a bear.
A supermodel kisses him
And he becomes a millionaire.

He doesn't question how it worked.
He doesn't know how much he's got.
Jenny goes with Peter back to
His place to explain the plot

To his hard-working monkeys who are
Tiring as the day departs,
But news of this new plotline is
Enough to light fires in their hearts.

The monkeys feel excited now they're
Sure they have an end in sight.
Jenny hears them typing as she
Looks out at the start of night.

Morning

2009-02-26T03:40:00.000-08:00

Morning is a time when I think clearly.
Questions seek the answers they desire.
Memories of where I put my beer tree
Emerge from underneath my mental mire.

Thoughts are entertained inside my mind's house.
I wonder why do cats and kittens purr.
Should a farmer's wife attack a blind mouse?
And how could three blind mice run after her?

I wonder why my musical went badly,
And why it got such terrible reviews,
Even though its star, a man called Bradley,
Was shown with sawn-off shotguns on the news.

Uncle Andy looks uncannily like Aunt Annie.
I wonder if the two are really one.
And can my local golf club really ban me
When my misdeed was having too much fun?

A brandy in the hand is necessary.
The mental side of golf can be too much.
This attracts the scorn of Mrs. Berry.
But she objects to playing with a crutch

Because a crutch would damage golf's aesthetics.
It would be a stain on their golf course.
That sort of thing might be fine in athletics
Or sports where cavemen shout until they're hoarse.

So I don't value Mrs. B's opinion.
Brandy is a most distinguished friend.
There's nothing wrong with playing golf with Jenny an'
Her best friend Sue who laughs for hours on end.

Golf can be as hard as treks through canyons.
Bunkers can provide a place to rest.
There's nothing wrong with playing with companions
Who play well when they're partially undressed.

The weather is eternally in turmoil.
Jenny always wears an overcoat.
Wearing much beneath it isn't her style.
Shocking people keeps her mind afloat.

Whenever Jenny blends into the background.
She'll come back to the foreground with real flair.
She can't endure a round of golf that lacks sound.
She'll make sure that her songs pollute the air.

She sings some songs by Schubert and by Mozart,
With lyrics that suggest we should relax.
As songs approach their climax, overcoats part,
And those who've stayed to watch fear heart attacks.

I don't believe our actions were uncalled-for.
For forgiveness I refuse to beg.
Mrs. Berry says that we appalled her,
But she was once offended by an egg.

A Good Wall

2009-02-19T03:58:00.000-08:00

It's evening in a garden
Full of people holding drinks.
Words have been abandoned.
They're replaced by nods and winks.

The people there are happy
With this fine day's peaceful end,
Forgetting the beginning.
Bad memory's a good friend.

If I remembered everything
I wouldn't do a thing at all.
I'd ask the question 'Why?'
And wait for answers from the wall.

And yes, I do a lot of that,
But it's not all I do.
I'm very good at chopping wood
And getting colds and flu.

The wall is a good friend of mine.
It hardly ever says a word.
Most of what you hear is useless
And dangerous, or so I've heard.

Strangers meet in happy times,
And sad times follow soon.
You'd struggle to avoid the pin
That bursts the red balloon.

The future's representative
Will often hide behind
The garden shed or hedges.
You'd have to be quite blind

Not to see through their disguise:
A red wig like a clown's,
Clown-like tear-soaked make-up,
And beer-stained wedding gowns.

Some people will ignore them,
Pretend that they can't hear
The sobbing from behind the hedge.
They'll shut the door on fear.

But fear can be a useful force.
My friend the wall agrees.
Its silence can express assent
And faint despairing pleas.

Shades of silence come and go
As evening enters night.
Other worlds are visible
In bright electric light.

The night is full of dangers.
Fears are warning signs,
Undermined by clown heads
But dressed up to the nines.

Twilight on suburban streets
Brings people out to play.
Some things are just beginning
As we near the end of day.

Old street fighters like the sound
Of crickets after dark,
A gleaming sword in one hand.
In the other hand, a shark.

Wielding weapons for the fight,
A trip down memory lane,
An old suburban avenue
Where clowns are in the drain.

You'll see their wigs through metal grills.
They're saying 'stop and think'.
You're fighting an old lady
Who is wearing her best mink.

Her coat's alive and full of teeth.
Your shark will be afraid.
Her many layers of clothing
Will soon repel your blade.

Run away into the night.
Fade into the dark.
Run away with stray dogs
Who'll leave behind their bark.

You'll hear the bark at midnight
But the dog is miles away,
Dozing with a pleasant dream
Or acting in a play.

Five or six street fighters
Will join forces in retreat.
They'll end up at a party
And they'll stare down at their feet.

Failures are forgotten,
Humiliations gone.
Minds erase the many words
That follow 'Dear' and 'John'.

Even when the clowns arrive
No one sheds a tear.
The end of day's a perfect time
To take a break from fear.

I'll be there with drink in hand,
Forgetting all I've done,
Or haven't done and will not do,
Remembering all I've won.

Or haven't won and will not win,
But winning is for losers.
Languishing in last place
Is the choice of clever choosers.

Taking part's important.
There's glory in each fall.
And all you need to take part
Is a sympathetic wall.

Holly and Billy

2009-02-12T08:15:00.000-08:00

Holly and Billy left home at half-eight
And they sailed away on the ocean.
The vast sunlit sea helped to empty their minds.
They threw over-board every notion.

They sailed to a peaceful and beautiful land
Where liquorice dogs lived in trees.
The dogs spent their days chewing old walking sticks
To stop them from eating their knees.

They met an old man on a tiny green lawn.
He sat there recounting his troubles.
His legs required threats and entreaties to move.
His eyeballs kept bursting like bubbles.

He had to inflate them fifteen times an hour
By breathing in through his left nostril.
The right one was cluttered with all kinds of junk.
He looked there for coins and his lost drill.

His wife wouldn't let him eat liquorice dogs.
She said that to eat dogs was wrong.
She made him eat lambs made of lettuce instead
And blue butterflies made of song.

Holly and Billy walked on down a path.
They listened to butterflies fly.
Never before had they heard music like
Those symphonies played on the sky.

Holly and Billy reluctantly left
This land they were starting to love.
When they arrived home the blue sea had gone black
And stars filled the sky up above.

They couldn't help smiling as they thought about
Their trip on the boat and their walk.
Their smiles didn't fade as they slept and they dreamt
Of a cold dreary day in Dundalk.

Jessica's Cat

2009-02-05T07:43:00.000-08:00

Jessica's cat was afraid of the moon.
A full moon would give him the shivers.
And he was afraid of being fried at high noon.
He thought great white sharks lived in rivers.

The cat's name was Puddle. He hated white clouds,
The monsters who dressed up as sheep.
The fat ones would dive and devour entire crowds
And spit out the shoes that were cheap.

Mice made him nervous. He'd seen Tom and Jerry.
He wore his ear plugs after dark
To keep out the sound of the mice getting merry
As well as the neighbours' dog's bark.

He'd cower whenever the clock struck the hour.
The cuckoo seemed slightly psychotic.
He feared that the clock possessed some secret power.
Its ticks and its tocks were hypnotic.

Jessica noticed the way that the clock
Could transfix the cat in a minute.
And he couldn't move when the speeches of Spock
Were read out by her brother Kenneth.

She thought it might help to take Puddle to see
A hypnotist who was well known
For working with cats. Puddle would be
A feline Sylvester Stallone.

This was the promise the hypnotist made.
The promise was certainly kept.
The new improved cat was no longer afraid
Of losing his tail while he slept.

He stood on the shed and swung claws in the air
To ward off the clouds in the sky,
And he apprehended a lone teddy bear.
The bear's owner started to cry.

The cuckoo seemed sad. He wore a black hat.
Beneath it his small head was wrapped in
A bandage he needed because of the cat
Who seems to enjoy being called 'Captain'.

Puddle responds when he's called 'Captain Kirk'
But 'Jim' or just 'Captain' will do.
He's caught all the mice and he's put them to work.
He seems to think they are his crew.

The mice all respect him, but maybe it's fear.
Some humans fear him as well.
Never speak Klingon when Puddle is near,
And never laugh at his hair gel.

The Bees Were Soon Made Safe

2009-01-29T03:41:00.000-08:00

The bees were soon made safe
By a bomb-disposal squad
Who feared their interference
Would infuriate their God.

But everyone seemed happy
And the sleek metallic bees
Were wearing smoking jackets
In the birds' nests in the trees.

Did God make these strange bees?
They asked themselves this question.
Do normal hives have traffic lights
That help avoid congestion?

If the bees, instead of stinging,
Cause explosions, spreading panic,
Is this the Lord's intention
Or the work of his mechanic?

Could a being made by God
Make these bees that blacken skies,
That make what they call music
But to teens sounds more like noise?

Could a being made by God
Make a man who'd make these bees?
And did he make the mouse whose nose
Exuded creamy cheese,

Which could be spread on crackers
And went very well with kiwis.
It made a lovely cheesecake,
Considering it was free cheese.

The mouse despised the cheese
That flowed freely from its nose.
Almost every time it sneezed,
The mouse would soil its clothes.

Did the devil have some input
In these very strange creations?
Did he make the Shetland pony
That fills up at petrol stations?

These questions brought concern.
People feared great foes.
Only prayer and alcohol
Could ease their inner woes.

Alan made the bees
And the pony and the mouse.
He works inside the shed
Right behind his parents' house.

He's fifteen years of age
And he's very good in school,
But it's in the garden shed
Where he feels that he can rule.

He's proud of his creations.
He's good at playing God.
Since Christmas he's been working on
Amphibious trout and cod.

These things owe their existence
To the brilliance of his brain.
Holidays with his parents
Always force him to refrain

From practising his hobby.
Last year he really missed it.
But he'd give it up if only
Stacey noticed he existed.

Hermann and Kate

2009-01-22T04:52:00.000-08:00

Hermann looked for ways to show
The love he felt for Kate.
His conclusion was that music
Was the way to demonstrate

The way she made him feel,
And she'd feel that way as well.
She got a thrill from orchestras
And from her own doorbell.

He tried to learn the trumpet
But he couldn't play a tune
Without scaring farmyard creatures,
Making cattle jump the moon.

He tried the violin
And the sound woke up the dead.
An irate pirate spirit
Swung his hook at Hermann's head.

It passed right through the head
And it tickled Hermann's brain.
It made him think of Woody Allen
Singing in the rain.

His single tuba lesson
Is remembered far and wide.
As the fires were being extinguished
Many young school children cried.

He finally found his forte
When he learnt to play the gong,
But it seemed to him the better way
To woo her was through song.

He'd write the song himself.
He would take great care to chart
The epic expeditions
She has started in his heart.

One sultry summer night he'd send
A text that says 'Please meet me
At the oak tree by the lake',
Where he'd serenade her sweetly.

It took him twenty days
To complete his song of love.
When countless sparkling diamonds
Filled a clear night sky above

They stood next to the lake
And he took hold of her hand,
And he hoped that this endeavour
Went exactly as he'd planned.

"I love you more than birds," he sang.
"I'd gladly give an arm
If I was sure this sacrifice
Would save your hair from harm.

"You're twenty times as good as hope.
You're better than world peace.
You make all supermodels
Seem like very ugly geese.

"It doesn't really matter
That your father wants to kill me.
Despite his groundless anger
I am certain we can still be

"The very best of friends.
We will often drink together,
Watch men chase leather footballs
In inclement winter weather,

"And shout abuse at players
Who can barely tie their laces,
And we'll all cheer home the winners
On a day out at the races.

"As soon as he says sorry
For suggesting I'm a lout
I'll tell him I regret the time
I punched him in the mouth.

"I'd do anything for you.
If you told me I could fly
I'd climb the hill and jump off
Without asking how or why.

"Many Jacks have done this
When you play the role of Jill.
Your fashion sense is razor sharp.
You're always dressed to kill.

"You've never strangled animals,
Despite what Debbie claims.
She's jealous coz her dress sense
Never murders, it just maims.

"There is sunshine in your smile.
There are rain clouds in your frown.
Your lips perform great miracles.
They cured Jack's broken crown.

"You're always kind to children,
Except when they start swearing.
What some will see as cruelty
Is really heart-felt caring.

"You're my guiding light.
You make my life complete.
Without you I'd be little more
Than two unhappy feet.

"You've changed me for the better.
When people get too loud
I now avoid the violence.
I don't despise a crowd.

"You make me want to join them.
Without you I'd just beat them.
I love you more than rainbows
And the crocks of gold beneath them."

She looked down at the ground
In the silent seconds after
His song came to an end
But they soon could hear some laughter.

There were people on a boat
Who had been there all along.
They'd struggled not to laugh
As they listened to his song.

He was filled with anger,
And from the old oak tree
He broke a branch and threw it
As the laughter ceased to be.

The people on the boat could see
The branch fly through the sky
So they took evasive action
To allow the branch pass by.

Their manoeuvres were successful,
Yet still were ill-advised.
They all fell in the water
When their rowing boat capsized.

Kate could only smile
And she looked into his eyes,
As if this was a carnival
And he'd won her a prize.

This was really Hermann,
The man she loved so much,
The man who'd punched her father
After stealing someone's crutch.

Spotlights in the Sky

2009-01-15T03:50:00.001-08:00

The homeless man played his guitar
Beneath the spotlight of a star.
He said that everyone possesses
A star whose light would always bless us,

And even though its light was dim
This darkness clearly suited him.
It left him free to wear old clothes
And grow long hair down from his nose,

And only wash in summer months
In rivers where those folk in punts
Could watch him as he had his bath.
He could house mice in his hat,

And let insects live on his person.
He was free to rant and curse an'
Shout his theories on why toenails
Can be used as seeds to grow whales.

He'll try to sell a self-made seed
And no one will pay any heed.
He thrives in his star's dim spotlight.
He's free to fail and fall at night.

The glare of bright lights highlights flaws,
Breaches of unwritten laws.
Each mistake is magnified.
There's nowhere for a stain to hide.

You'd always wonder if your being
Really was a sight worth seeing.
He said it's best to live at night,
Outside the unforgiving light,

And let stars light your eyes with wonder,
Forget you've got to play roles under-
Neath the spotlights in the sky.
Gaze at distant worlds up high.

You can't compete with outer space.
It's got more features than your face.
He said in darkness he could hide.
There's so much more to see outside.

What Daisy said to Dermot

2009-01-08T06:24:00.000-08:00

On Daisy's birthday, Dermot's gift
Of frozen chicken caused a rift.
She said, "This gift is just as bad
As that umbrella for your Dad,

"And tins of peaches for your mother.
You bought paper for your brother.
At his party you annoyed me,
Always standing right beside me,

"Talking loudly all night long,
Gladly ruining every song.
No one there was sorry that you
Lost some brain when you said 'achoo'.

"The bits of brain were borne away
By tiny worker ants who may
Have kept the brain bits on their heads
While they were resting in their beds.

"They started to behave like you,
Getting drunk and using glue
To stick the feet of other ants
To the stems and leaves of plants.

"They told crude jokes about bad dates
When body parts get stuck in gates.
Only they themselves would laugh,
And they'd remain blind to this gaffe.

"Yet they'd point out each gaffe they saw
In other ants. The smallest flaw
Would be exposed to ridicule,
Which often was prolonged and cruel.

"These ants were loud. They talked a lot.
They smelled of sweat when it was hot.
They couldn't sing. They couldn't dance.
They looked down on most other ants.

"One was so devoid of tact
The other ants just had to act.
To show him just how much they hate him
They covered him in jam and ate him."

Some slight remorse was all she sought.
It looked like he was deep in thought.
He said, "I wonder where I put
That cheese I found stuck to my foot."

Uncle Colin's Flower

2009-01-01T04:15:00.000-08:00

My uncle Colin possessed great will power.
He waded through sewers to grow a blue flower.
He happily did this in his later years.
You might think his brain was stuck in lower gears.

But he did it all for this flower he was given.
It didn't like sunlight and it wouldn't live in
The basement with mushrooms because they were lowly.
The glasshouse tomatoes were far too unholy.

The only place that the blue flower would thrive
Was down in the sewer. To keep it alive
Colin spent hours in the sewer every day.
Its colour began as a dull bluish grey,

But it became vibrant, as blue as the sky.
The sight of it left Colin wondering why
Some people love to spend spare time outdoors
Walking for miles on the hills' grassy floors,

And others stay in. They sit and they stare
At TV banality until their armchair
Becomes one more under-used bodily part.
The only bit that hasn't stalled is the heart.

Colin was perfectly happy below
In sewers where his favourite flower would grow.
Its petals provided a blue sky on days
When threatening rain clouds blocked out the sun's rays.

And even on fine days the flower's sky was bluer.
Its scent overpowered the smell of the sewer.
Watching it growing was much more exciting
Than films where men wielding sabres start fighting.

Its pace was much slower than 'Die Hard' or 'Speed',
But its many plot turns required constant heed.
And it flowered into a beautiful ending,
A sight that would easily justify spending

So many hours in the sewers where rats
Were so big they'd often pretend to be cats
And fool nice old ladies whose eyesight was bad,
Who'd give the big rats all the cat food they had.

Each day Colin's shoes needed washing with hoses,
But he still believed that his life smelled of roses.
The blue flower made up for life's trials and its smell.
A small piece of heaven was brighter than hell.

Christmas Day

2008-12-25T04:11:00.000-08:00

It's Christmas Day and the turkey is cooked,
And Santa left boots on the rooftop -- I looked.
We've heard carol singers expressing their joy,
Still celebrating the birth of a boy.

Gifts have been wrapped and the paper torn open.
We've had a nice message of hope from the Pope an'
From Auntie Eileen, whose smile lights the room.
From Granny and Granddad we've heard only doom.

And from Uncle Christy we've heard the same tale
He tells every year after brandy and ale.
He says he grew up on a farm in the west,
An idyllic childhood for which he feels blessed.

As midnight approached on one cold Christmas Eve
Christy was just about ready to leave
Familiar surroundings to enter a dreamland
Where large packs of wolves wearing waistcoats can seem bland.

Before sleep could claim him he heard an odd noise
That made the wolves hide and he opened his eyes.
He looked out the window. The fields were all white.
A blanket of snow kept the grass warm at night.

There in a field just a stone's throw away
Christy saw Santa touch down in a sleigh.
He rushed down the stairs and went out in the snow,
Expecting to hear at least one heartfelt 'ho'.

But as he got closer he saw something wrong.
The antlers were surely too straight and too long,
And they were on Santa. They grew from his head,
Which only confirmed what his brother had said,

That Santa, the elves and all of the reindeer
Are aliens fitted with fabulous brain gear.
Christy foresaw an unwinnable battle
When Santa Claus went to the shed to find cattle.

Christy was certain he must act to save
The cattle from kidnap. He had to be brave.
His mother's unique Christmas cake came to mind.
No one denied it was one of a kind.

The cake was enormous, as big as a van.
The glare from its icing would give you a tan.
It had its own engine to move it around.
Its four wheels would easily sink on soft ground.

The garage would house it until Christmas Day.
A homemade alarm kept the burglars at bay.
Christy ran back to the garage that night.
The cake's thick white icing reflected moonlight

As it travelled over the snow-covered land.
Christy's idea went exactly as planned.
Santa had led all the cattle away,
And tried to convince them to climb on the sleigh.

He stopped when he saw the white iceberg come near,
And quickly departed, impelled by his fear.
The cattle were saved, and Christy was glad.
He knew that his mother would surely be mad.

The cattle consumed the entire Christmas cake,
That took nearly all of a weekend to bake.
Not even the tiniest crumb could be found,
But they were the best-tasting cattle around.

Visitors on Christmas Eve

2008-12-18T03:59:00.000-08:00

Despite chaotic shopping
And the bitter Arctic breezes,
At Christmas time the milk
Of human kindness never freezes.

It's slightly alcoholic,
So it warms our cold insides,
And makes the mundane bus trips
Seem like magical sleigh rides.

Christmas decorations
Spread like ivy over houses,
Engulfing doors and windows
And inebriated spouses.

My mind will often wander
To one Christmas from my youth,
A time of awe and magic,
And of certainty and truth.

Late on Christmas Eve I heard
Some noises from downstairs,
As if someone had landed
And had crashed into the chairs.

I hurried down the steps
With no sense of trepidation,
But the person I encountered
Didn't meet my expectation.

He said he was Saint Patrick
And that Santa Claus was sick,
But he brought us Christmas presents:
A single Lego brick,

A withered sprig of holly
And a weather-beaten bell,
A crucifix, an orange
And some extra-strength hair gel.

I'd been growing out of Santa
(I was nearly twenty-one),
But I still believed in Patrick
And the saintly deeds he'd done.

He sat down by the fire
And he spoke about the ways
The country has diminished
Since his famous glory days.

"Greed's become the norm," he said,
"But greed will bring more harm
Than a team of cunning foxes
Working on a poultry farm.

"In otherworldly gardens
I have seen some wondrous sights
That have been destroyed by motorways
And other landscape blights.

"Why can't people walk?
It's much more fun than driving.
Leave a little early
And you won't be late arriving.

"And you'll save so much on fuel.
I know a man from Kerry
Who can walk for sixteen days
On a thin slice of a berry.

"TV's not so great.
There's more to see in holes.
You'll see some epic stories
If you stare at burning coals.

"Characters emerge
And they act out brilliant plays.
I saw one down in Wexford
And it lasted seven days."

He spoke for half an hour
About issues as diverse
As early Christian burials
And making your own purse.

A talking horse had been
Paying visits to our house
Ever since the sad departure
Of our singing, dancing mouse.

The doors would all be locked
But our talking friend would enter.
The horse's views on politics
Were slightly right of centre.

Ours were to the left,
And that's why we kept quiet
About the talking horse
And his visits every night.

The horse arrived when Patrick
Was discussing eating deer.
The horse said 'Merry Christmas'
And Saint Patrick froze in fear.

He stared in disbelief
Till the fear began to thaw,
Allowing him to realise
That he had dropped his jaw.

He picked it up and backed away.
He left the room in haste,
Departing through the window
As if he was being chased.

The horse said, "That's a pity.
I wish he could have stayed."
I suggested that his presence
Would be welcomed if he neighed

When meeting with the people
He has never met before.
Festive greetings send them
Through the windows or the door.

I told him he should wait
For at least a half an hour,
And start with simple sentences
Like 'I just ate a flower'.

Or wait till after drinks are poured
And quietly whisper 'cheers',
And only mention politics
To those you've known for years.

A New Light

2008-12-11T04:03:00.000-08:00

Happy and carefree, content with his lot:
Some of the many things Barry was not.
At peace with his hat, at war with his head.
He stood in his garden one evening and said,

"Beam me up Scotty or Sooty or Sweep."
He stood with his eyes closed till he fell asleep,
And dreamt of a woman who rolled two red dice
And spoke these wise words in a beautiful voice:

"If something is true it can also be false.
Boxing can also be seen as a waltz.
Black can be white, and white can be blue.
Pigs can fly airplanes and dogs can say moo."

When Barry emerged from his sleep is was night,
But he saw his life in a different light.
Beautiful women undoubtedly love him.
And yes, they avoid him. They think he's above them.

He's seen as a charming young prince, not a toad.
The portable TV is meant to explode.
The carpet got sick and the door broke itself.
The kitchen's graffiti was done by an elf.

'Loser' and 'tosser' are terms of endearment.
He didn't embarrass himself in a beer tent.
Crying in public's no reason for shame
If most of the onlookers don't know your name.

His trousers did not fall to ground on the street.
He rose above them with two floating feet.
The woman who threw a black cat in his face
Meant to invite him around to her place.

It's obvious that she's his number-one fan.
The diamonds he bought in the back of a van
Aren't just glass. His Monet is real.
In buying his Van Gogh he got a great deal.

His last driving test didn't have a slight hitch,
And he didn't crash his Dad's car in a ditch.
He just re-designed it to make it more flat.
Great car designers would praise him for that.

But still there's one thing that he just can't avoid.
His most recent girlfriend assuredly lied
When she said, "I'm leaving this country for good.
I've just got a job offer in Hollywood.

"They want me to star in a film with Tom Hanks.
I'm playing a nun who smokes weed and robs banks."
He's not searched for her. He's not keeping tabs,
But he saw her at work in a shop selling crabs.

Simon Says

2008-12-04T05:59:00.000-08:00

He won't object when called a geek
But Simon says he's not a freak.
He once got drunk on chicken soup
And got sick in a chicken coop.

That's why he doesn't drink or smoke.
He can't take fizzy drinks like Coke,
But when he lost his spectacles
He took some blue detective pills

To make him think like Sherlock Holmes.
He found two missing garden gnomes.
He solved the mystery of the light
That travelled 'cross the moors at night.

And just before he went to bed
He found his glasses on his head.
It's only normal to expect
The pills would have some side-effect.

He spent four hours preparing food.
His dinner brought a glowing mood.
Potatoes, gravy, steak and peas,
Some cauliflower and grated cheese,

And carrots too, all lost beneath
A layer of icing, Simon's treat.
The food erased all woes and cares.
He went out hunting teddy bears.

In the woods they breed like rabbits.
These bears have taken on the habits
Of teens who drink too much and smoke
And break car windows as a joke.

Simon crept down forest paths,
Ignoring squirrels, birds and rats.
He saw a teddy's furry head.
Its patched-up face was filled with dread

When it saw Simon aim his gun.
It thought its teddy days were done.
But Simon saw the teddy's arm
Was in a sling. He couldn't harm

A poor defenceless creature who
Just needed love and thread and glue.
He walked away with peace of mind.
The bear attacked him from behind.

He was shocked by this attack.
He couldn't get it off his back.
He hit the bear with sticks and rolled
Around the ground to break the hold.

But still the bear clung on and bit
Simon's neck, despite being hit.
When they arrived in town that night
Teddy's grip was just as tight.

"Get it off," Simon shouted,
And all this time he never doubted
The presence of the teddy bear,
But no one else could see it there.

His memories are slightly blurred,
But every day since this occurred
He's had to say, "My brain's okay.
The pills made me behave that way."

Martin's Robot Duck

2008-11-27T06:32:00.000-08:00

On sunny summer evenings
You'll see Martin in the park
With his little robot duck
Who can quack, meow and bark.

The duck likes milk and honey
Even though he doesn't need them.
Martin has no choice
But to buy the food and feed him.

Something has been hard-wired
In its electronic head
To make it want some milk
And some honey, but not bread.

But Martin's food's not wasted
On his small robotic friend.
All the milk and honey
Will come out the other end.

The robot duck releases them
Into two plastic bowls
By opening two doors that block
Two well-concealed steel holes.

Martin's always looking out
For ways to save his money.
That's why he drinks the milk
And he eats excreted honey.

He says they taste just fine,
Though some think it's obscene.
He makes the duck drink water
Just to keep the passage clean.

The robot duck has feathers
But his two webbed feet have no toes.
He's got photographic eyes.
He's always taking photos

Of Martin in the shower.
This tendency is odd.
No one else would look at him
Without clothes. Even God

Would wish he couldn't see all.
The duck can look for hours.
But Martin doesn't mind because
He hardly ever showers.

The robot duck had never
Felt a need to go away
Till he met a duck from France
Who wore a small beret.

Since then he's thought of travel
But he's got a fear of flight.
He thinks all planes are drunk
And that in the air they fight.

Martin can't trust pilots
Since he saw one steal a flute,
And laugh just like a madman
As he ran off with his loot.

So Martin and his duck
Stay at home throughout the year.
Neither minds admitting
They are grounded by their fear.

Martin's brother, Roger,
Likes to travel far and wide.
His letters come with photos
And they make a useful guide

To a strange, exotic jungle
Or a small unstable state.
Martin and his duck
Use these guides to help create

The atmosphere and ambience
Of places Roger's been.
They use some props and costumes
Just to help them set the scene.

So if you see them wearing
Alpine hats that have a feather
And leather Lederhosen
In the coldest winter weather,

Don't think the brains of Martin
And his robot duck have gone.
It's only mental travel.
Nothing funny's going on.

She's got the bread

2008-11-20T04:01:00.000-08:00

Clare thinks there's nothing at all left to say.
She's holding some bread in a threatening way.
I hope she remembers that she has a choice,
And that she will listen to this good advice:

Tears will soon flow and emotions will rise.
Friends will avoid looking you in the eyes.
Mice will refuse to eat cheese from your traps.
Your storm-force seduction won't turn on the chaps.

Dark soundtrack music will sum up your life.
At family dinners you won't get a knife.
You might get a small plastic spoon and a fork,
A weapon that's been rendered safe with a cork.

People will say that the flies often die
When they're close to you, and small children cry.
When you enter pubs, others will exit
As quick as a runaway prisoner legs it,

Tracked down by dogs who like leg bones to chew,
Who'd hide in the woods if they had to chase you.
Bands will play quicker to finish their set,
Even the ones who are darker than death.

Ladies whose job is to grow a thick beard
And their circus friends will all think that you're weird.
You'll be shunned by friends and by animals too
And even the Z-list celebrities who

Will do anything on reality shows,
Where they allow creatures to crawl up their nose.
Hobos will treat you as if you're unholy.
So put the bread down and just walk away slowly.

Peace

2008-11-13T04:17:00.000-08:00

Howard spends evenings delivering orders
At models of battles once fought over borders.
The stars of past wars appear in his daydreams.
They treasure his brilliant escapes and his schemes.

Admiral Nelson admires his swift mind.
Napoleon says, "We are one of a kind."
Monty consults him on matters of stealth.
Rommel will raise a wine glass to his health.

But soon they get bored of his war fantasies.
Their compliments cease and they don't want to please
The daydreams' director. This breakaway faction
Insist that he drops them from his mental action.

Howard refuses. He tells them they're trapped.
They're prisoners now and their future is mapped.
They'll stay in his mind and they'll gladly take part
In make-believe battles where death is the art.

The military men are unhappy with him.
They tell him his future is sure to be grim.
That night in a dream they are smiling with menace.
Their armies will soon use his head to play tennis.

Nelson, Napoleon, Monty and Rommel
Use soldiers on camels. He tells them his mom'll
Chase them away with a black frying pan,
But she's on a camel and so is his gran.

They chase him through deserts. He gets to the sea.
He sees an old ship and a good chance to flee.
But all of its cannon are aimed at his head.
Before they destroy him he wakes up in bed.

He can't sleep again. He fears this nightmare.
It's worse than the one with the drunk Yogi Bear.
Yogi was violent. He broke a pint glass,
And cried uncontrollably at Christmas mass.

Later that morning he goes to see Joan,
Who lives by herself but she's never alone.
She has mental actors performing her plays,
As well as some critics who only give praise.

But sometimes in dreams all the actors unite.
They write their own lines and they frequently fight.
The critics will damn her with scathing reviews
Of her writing skills and her favourite shoes.

To make sure her actors and critics remain
On their best behaviour at night in her brain
She tries to bring beauty to her waking hours.
She talks to the birds and she listens to flowers.

That's why she takes Howard to meet with her friends
Who have conversations each day with the winds.
They sit around fires and they sing about peace.
Their pets include chickens and pumpkins and geese.

When Howard is there they are hugging a bee.
They take off their clothes and sing songs to a tree
Where they've made a swing with some rope and a tyre.
They fly paper fighter planes into a fire.

At night in his dreams the attack recommences,
And this time he's trapped behind sharp barb wire fences.
All he has left is a blunt rusty blade,
But thousands of hippies now come to his aid.

Each time they shoot at their foe they say 'oops'.
Their huge paper planes carry hundreds of troops.
The flag of surrender is soon waved by Nelson,
And everyone dances just like Boris Yeltsin.

Time

2008-11-06T03:05:00.000-08:00

Sometimes time goes quickly
And sometimes it's as slow
As a snail who's frail and sickly
When he's feeling very low.

I make the snail go quicker.
I prod his brittle shell
By drinking homemade liquor
That smells like the snail's hair gel.

It roots me to the spot
And I tell the snail some tales
Of fights and getting shot
When I hunted hairy whales.

Dame Luck

2008-10-30T05:18:00.000-07:00

Paul is a stranger to fortune these days,
A victim to fate's unpredictable ways.
His old friend Dame Luck has become a lame duck.
He heard her loud quack when his left foot got stuck.

He stood in a bucket as he made his way
To his brother's wedding. For most of that day
He just had one shoe. His sock had a hole.
His big toe peeped out like a mortified mole.

Black cats keep crossing his path when he goes
Out to the clothes line. Scores of black crows
Perch in the tree near the line on the lawn,
With the bearing of bishops, and he's just a pawn.

They clearly look down on the clothes he hangs out.
His friends hate the hair that's surrounding his mouth.
To be out of favour with fashion, he's fated.
Even God thinks that his clothes are out-dated.

He doesn't know anyone older than God.
His nieces and nephews all think that he's odd.
At least once a week he will lose his car keys.
And super-intelligent mice eat his cheese.

He lost his best shirt and a tie in a bet.
He paid a small fortune to buy a new pet,
A fine talking dog, a black Labrador
Who only says 'woof' and he scratches the floor.

A rare bird has nested on his favourite hat
And he has no choice but to put up with that.
The bird often acts as if she owns the place
When regurgitating earthworms on his face.

He used to be lucky. He used to win bets,
And catch massive salmon with improvised nets.
Women would listen and laugh at his stories.
He'd get jars of honey from just three or four bees.

But he knew his luck was beginning to wane
When path-crossing cats were becoming his bane,
And then came the tree-full of arrogant crows,
And his girlfriend's oboe got stuck up his nose.

Living Next-Door to Alice Modlouse

2008-10-23T03:49:00.000-07:00

I love Alice Modlouse.
She's the one for me.
I love her more than unicorns
Or sugar in my tea.

Each word she says is music.
It's jazz with hints of blues.
It drowns out heavy metal
And the battles on the news.

With every step she takes
She elicits adulation.
She's poetry in motion
And she's read throughout the nation.

And she is proper poetry.
I'm just comic verse.
She's a red Ferrari.
I'm a former hearse

That is now in the possession
Of a clown who is depressed.
He's lost his clowning passion
And his dog has lost his vest.

Her helicopter umbrella
Makes her fly like Mary Poppins.
She works with tramps and dropouts
Till they're happy to be drop-ins.

Her father thinks I'm stupid
Coz my enemy's a balloon,
And sometimes I get nose bleeds
When I'm glared at by the moon.

But he thinks Transylvania
Is somewhere in Westmeath.
I would correct his error
But I'd fear my nose would bleed.

I've heard he bothers badgers
With his brothers after dark.
They go to bed when others
Exit dreamland with the lark.

And this I know for certain:
He claims he met the pope.
This man he met had trousers
That were held up with some rope.

I think the world should know this.
I'm not as thick as him.
He called the pope 'Your Holiness'.
The pope said, "Call me Tim."