Hesitantly I Google next weeks weather.
Placing my trust in the digital forecast,
I hold its images sacred
As I begin my holiday packing.
I hunt down old wellies,
Finding them hiding under the stairs.
Next to optimistic sandals,
Which still have the price tag on.
I wonder that if I pack sun tan lotion
Then the weather gods will smite me with rain.
But can I run the risk of having none
And my body slowly turning a patchy lobster-red.
Don’t forget the chargers I think,
Finding them in their usual plugs.
Their electrical umbilicals
Restoring life to my phone.
Phone, I can’t go on holiday without that,
It would be like leaving an arm behind.
It’s a Sat Nav, my weather forecaster
And connection to the world.
With all the packing gathered,
Like a tired magician who knows only one trick.
I force my holiday gear,
Into a suitcase that looks too small.
I place the bulging case in the car boot,
Ignoring the precarious roof rack.
As what if the case bursts open and
My underpants cause a tailback.
My holiday awaits, hope I packed enough.
So with those wise words I’m off on my hols, normal service will be resumed the 1st August, take care folks.
Just as I sit down with my pen
Prepared to moan about the heat.
The wind quickly whips up
Clouds gather over our street.
If there’s one thing you can rely on
With the UK’s sun and rain.
Is that as soon as I prepare to write
It will go and change again.
Poets don’t carry cash,
Instead they carry words.
Words stuffed into pockets, mixed with fluff.
Words forced into wallets, alongside old receipts.
Words withdrawn from dusty old accounts.
Words gathered from faded ashtrays on windowsills.
Poets should be rich,
But they can be careless.
Because as they fumble for the right word,
They spill out like so much loose change.
Which rolls around the floor, unwilling to be caught,
Lost, until found and read by puzzled strangers.
Ask a poet and they will swear they have words on them,
But when they check they find nothing.
The words have tumbled into sofa like cracks of their minds,
There to gather dust along with other lost ideas.
A poet’s words start promisingly sharp and crisp,
Until they are nibbled by literary moths.
So they become tatty and unrecognisable,
Unaccepted and unusable.
Anyway as I said,
Poets don’t carry cash.
Instead they carry words.
Which inspite of all the trouble they have with them,
They love to spend freely.
I’m very excited to share with you today the finished covers for my next collection of poetry “Poems on the Bus. ”
Poems on the Bus front cover
Click to enjoy both.
Poems on the Bus back cover
Shot by talented photographer Andy Simon of Darkslide Photography and featuring local model Emma Dunn I’m sure you’ll agree they are excellent and will make my new book look fantastic.
The book will be launched at Southcart Books on Saturday 13th August at 1:30pm.
I fell in love with the girl,
Who works at the record store.
Every time I saw her,
My heart spun more and more.
She makes the shoppers dance,
She makes me feel alive.
She’s a mint condition 33,
While I’m just an old scratchy 45.
But her heart’s been made fickle,
By the industry she’s in.
Who she loves one week,
Is next week in the bargain bin.
So I’ll never make her top ten,
Or make a hit on her heart.
I’m no hot new entry,
Just the bottom of her chart.
When the fairy jobs were given out,
I was at the back of the queue.
So by the time I got my fairy role,
There was only one job left to do.
I really, really wanted to do teeth,
But I wasn’t quick enough.
So now the other fairies laugh,
As I’m the fairy of bum fluff.
Yes I’m the fairy of your crevice,
The fairy of your derriere.
Responsible for all the bottoms,
And removing the fluff there.
To do my job I have a special bag,
Plus a magic fairy pick.
That I use to pry out all the fluff,
If it gets sweaty and sticks.
There’s a question I often hear,
As I flutter delicately about.
Which is what do I do with the fluff,
That my magic pick digs out.
Well it’s all really very useful,
I often use it to stuff duvets.
Or if I see you laugh at me,
Bake you a funny tasting souffle.
If I’ve had enough of bums I remember,
My Mom’s words if I want to quit.
“Child, you have a dirty job,
But who else will clean up the sh*t.”
At the start of Wimbledon fortnight,
Every court is a pristine green.
The grass it seems has been combed,
Then groomed until it’s squeaky clean.
But as soon as the tennis starts,
Once the players enter the courts.
All that groundskeeper’s love,
Is quickly reduced to naught.
Because the serving of a tennis ball,
The tread of trainerd feet.
The slamming of rackets,
The tantrums of defeat.
Mean the once immaculate courts,
Now make the groundskeeper frown.
As their once verdant pastures,
Slowly turn a dusty brown.