Written after a visit to Carnac Stones
Written after a visit to Carnac Stones
On the chalet roof opposite ours
the seagulls strut and march,
patrolling their runway.
Machine gun cackles warn
errant pigeons to land elsewhere.
On a signal known only to them
the seagulls take off, flying high.
Then feathered dive bombers peel off out of the sun,
screaming they swoop
no ice-cream cone is safe.
Observation shows the seagulls have a strict hierarchy.
They know who should have the best perch
who screeches early to wake the tourists
but most important of all,
which of them gets to shit all over our cars.
Hesitantly I Google next week’s 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 charger I think,
Finding it in the usual plug.
An 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
plus 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.
Hoping the case doesn’t 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.
We are the grey haired army,
Abroad and on the lash again.
Walking sticks and lagers ready,
We wobble off ships and planes.
We’ve got our kids inheritance,
We’ve cashed in our pensions.
We’re getting obscene tattoos,
In places you shouldn’t mention.
Hopping in and out of hotel beds,
Laughing as we trash cruise ships.
Playing naked oily Twister,
Ignoring our dodgy arthritic hips.
Bill has only got one kidney,
Doris has a new glass eye.
But there’s no stopping us,
If some cheap sangria we spy.
We’ll riot as we drink the lot,
Pogo dance all through the night.
Shovel down kebab and chips,
Vomit it up, then have a fight.
Then when the holiday’s over,
We stagger home a little slower.
Our only holiday souvenirs,
Sunburn and hangovers.
I think I want to be a Saga Lout when I retire.
Time to go home tomorrow and then I predict my weekend will be soaked up with gaming and other essentials of life so here’s one last holiday poem, a sort of summary of my time here.
When I’m old I’ll sit on the beach
Then to show I have no fear.
Challenge the sea to a staring contest
Armed only with my chips and beer.
As the tide goes in and out
Our battle will rage hard.
As we stare and stare
Till I play my trump card.
Full of beer and chips
I’ll walk into the sea.
To its watery majesty.
The sea will ask “why?
You had me beat?
Why do you now drown?
Return to the beach.”
I’ll just smile nicely
Whispering to the sea
“I have always loved you
Now together we will be.”
This morning saw our holiday take a stop off at the Jurassic coast as fossil hunting was on our mind ( I harboured a dream of being an archaeologist when I was young) but how times change as the many signs tell you it seems you can look but not touch when it comes to these elusive objects. So I was quite surprised as we strolled round Budleigh Salterton that with all the protection given to the vast amount of heritage lying at our feet that several shops sold the elusive fossils you were not supposed to pick up, how does that work ?
Anyway I digress and here comes the laboured metaphor , sometimes poems are as hard to come by as fossils and sometimes even after you’ve found them its better to put them back than tart them up and try and flog them to unsuspecting visitors.
Never being one to follow my own advice here’s a poem inspired by fossils.
Buried away from the sun
Hidden from the light
Lie my unfinished poems
Out of mind and out of sight.
Until the poet’s neediness
Outweighs his ideals
And he digs up a fossil
Surely it’s no big deal ?
Tart it up with a photo
On the blog stick it
No one will guess
It was once rubbish.
And that your poetic fossil
Was better left unfound.
Left for another day
Safe in the ground.
I’ve heard in Whitby they like to use a lot of beef fat
In their numerous fish and chip shops. Well fancy that !
And while some may consider this policy egalitarian
This is not a view held by those who are vegetarian.
A poem dedicated to my good friend Andy about his recent holiday to the seaside resort of Whitby .
The waves lap gently on the shore,
As just for an hour or a little more,
We all sit down upon the sand,
Our buckets and spades close at hand.
And while the gulls so rudely screech,
We make sandcastles on the beach.
These simple structures give simple pleasures,
And bring us all joy without measure,
Then after we’ve made a castle so firm,
It’s time for each of us to take a turn.
To raise up our trusty spade,
And joyfully destroy what we’ve just made.