So here I type, an alleged “poet,”
Who in 1988 got an “F” in English Lit.
So now poetry for me is more like woodwork,
I hack away at words, trying to make them fit.
Which is a bit ironic really, as in 1986,
I can now actually own up and tell.
That in all of my woodwork exams,
I got an “F” as well.
Down by the lake’s shore,
Where its waters calmly lap.
Nature holds its court,
Among the green muddy banks.
Ducks waddle and dip their toes,
Trees bend and reach.
Geese strike a yoga pose,
Among the willows and beech.
Swans both big and small
Across the lake elegantly glide.
While among the rushes tall,
Nests with cygnets hide.
The lake is a place to pause,
To embrace nature’s calming effect.
A green kingdom with no flaws,
For all to stop, enjoy and reflect.
You told me that you wanted to go looking for a different me,
So although it was a struggle, I knew I had to set you free.
Then at last you could find someone who was perfect,
Until you found fault with them and moved on to the next.
You left a crimson trail of bruised and broken hearts,
As no one was good enough for your fresh start.
So you resorted to profiling and DNA matching,
To try to identify who you should be catching.
But despite all your questionnaires and surveys,
You couldn’t find a different me who’d even meet you halfway.
Because no matter how hard you look,
When they made me they burnt then threw away the book.
Everyone is different, but everyone is also me,
I needed you to discover that, so I set you free.
So when you returned to me from your futile quest,
I would be the different me that you loved the best.
But now you’re back, to my heart I must also be true,
That’s why I’m going looking for a different you.
I should have put the dinner in the oven on time,
I should have got the washing in off the line,
I should have tried to make words rhyme,
But nobody told me we had wine.
Now the grape has me firmly in its grasp,
Alcohol has my brain tightly clasped,
My liver surfaces for one last gasp,
As I empty another wine glass.
So I dedicate tonight to drowning my sorrow,
Glad that my legs seem quite hollow,
My jobs to hell in a hand cart can go,
After all there’s always tomorrow.
These words are explosives,
This poem is a bomb.
By starting to read it,
I’ve lit the fuse and run.
Now a crackling spitting flame,
Ignites my words one by one.
My work is burning bright,
Soon it will all be gone.
Then there’s nothing left to burn,
The fuse has reached the bomb.
And with the spluttering of a damp squib,
This poem is done.
Happy Black Country Day, and what better way than to celebrate than with a poem about my home town of Walsall which is a proud part of this great region.
My Roots are Showing
Air cushioned souls
descends a cobbled hill.
Worn stones with tarmac patches
wind past a church that
casts a shadow
over a town built before it,
But now living in it.
A town built on
lime and leather,
saddles and soot,
an arboretum and an art gallery,
Highgate mild and pork scratchings.
Foundations built to last.
A town where we’re not scared
to roll up our denim sleeves
to show our tattooed hearts.
A town I joyfully bounce through
pen in one hand, pasty in another
trying to capture its soul
I posted my photos on Twitter,
I shared my photos on Facebook.
I uploaded my photos to Instagram,
I put them up on my blog.
I organised my photos on my USB stick,
I burnt my photos on to a CD.
I edited my photos on my phone,
I stored my photos in a folder on my PC.
But suppose one day these systems crashed,
Where for my memories would I look?
They would be nothing but vanishing pixels
When they should have been safe in a book.
You’ve probably seen those perfect cartoon princesses,
With wardrobes full of glamorous dresses.
That fit elegantly around impossibly thin hips,
While they smile, flashing perfect white teeth and red lips.
Setting standards that are ridiculously high,
Making today’s kids aspire to what parents cannot buy.
I mean what pet shop stocks rabbits that sing?
Where can you find a cheeky snowman who does cute things?
Despite kids pleas you can’t let them live with dwarves in a shack,
Not unless you want social services on your back.
And as for meeting the prince of your dreams
They’re not nearly as common as cartoons make them seem.
So I say sod those perfect cartoon princesses,
Strangers to real life problems and stresses.
Stuck forever in an animated world that isn’t real,
Unable to change, grow or even feel.
Unable to hide away from all the laughter,
As we realise just how fake’s their happily ever after.