Nescafe Double Choca Mocha


Nescafe Double Choca Mocha

It’s a double choca mocha sort of day,
When the sky outside is dull and grey
My synapses need a swift kick,
Of a tasty double choca mocha hit.

The kettle can’t boil fast enough,
I hover impatiently with my mug.
Willing the water to just boil quick,
Longing for my choca mocha hit.

At last the kettle finally boils,
So the hot water I can pour.
The choca mocha I reverently sip,
Caring not that it burns my lips.

 

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The Ballad of Peter and Ryan – the extended mix.


peter and ryan

The scene is the local tavern
Where boozing are Peter and Ryan.
Who tonight both can be found,
Terribly drunk on red wine.
They are having an argument
Peter claims Ryan’s a virgin.
Ryan defends his honour,
Peter says he’s full of wind.
Ryan takes offense at the slur
He wobbles to his feet.
Looking unsteadily at Peter
Who struggles to rise from his seat.
Ryan opens his mouth wide,
His eyes angry and red.
”Peter I have something to say,
So pin back your ears to your head.
Peter your wife’s a scarlet woman,
She has been unfaithful to you!
One marvellous wild night with me,
Plus one with the orchestra from Crewe!”
”Ryan you have gone too far sir,
When you slander my wife that way.”
”Peter open your ears man,
Don’t be deaf to what I say.
She has a meter on her bed,
She is a tuppenny whore.
She is unfaithful to you sir,
Her bedroom has a revolving door!”
”My god Ryan I demand satisfaction.”
”Ironically Peter that’s what your wife said!”
“I challenge you to a duel Ryan you cur,
Where I’m going to shoot you dead.”

Next day the sun rose bright and early
As the two ex-friends met up.
But as the pistols were loaded,
Suddenly Peter’s wife turned up.
”Oh don’t die over me,” she cried,
“My life is not worth a dime.”
Peter yes I’ve been unfaithful,
But I thought of you each time.”
These words enraged Peter,
Who aimed his pistol sight.
And let off a dastardly shot,
Which killed his tearful wife.
Ryan shook his head,
Then while Peter wasn’t looking.
Turned upon his heels,
And into the wood went running.
Peter reloaded his pistol,
Wondering why people laughed.
Then he realised that Ryan,
Was running away down the path.
Peter took careful aim at Ryan,
Then pulling the trigger shot him dead.
It was all agreed a superb shot,
A veritable triumph in lead.
The crowd cheered happily and wildly,
None thought Ryan’s death sad or cruel.
For surely they said death’s inevitable,
When two people fight a duel.
Peter walked over to Ryan,
Who in best melodrama tradition.
Was dying of a mortal wound,
But still able to give exposition.

Ryan looked up at Peter,
“Of my death you sir can brag.
But I will not deny one thing
Your wife was a very good shag!”
Peter looked rather sad,
As Ryan convulsed and died.
“Oh Ryan we could still be friends,
If only you would have lied.”
Ryan opened his eyes,
“Peter I’m not quite dead yet.”
Peter seemed annoyed at this,
So shot Ryan again in the head.
Now on a hill stand two graves
Everyday Peter visits them.
On them red roses he lays,
And if you happen upon him
As he pays his daily respects
Then you just might hear
His sighed words of regret.
“My wife, my love I miss you
More than life itself.
I didn’t mean to shoot you
I couldn’t help myself.
And Ryan you have shown me
The terrible dangers of drink.
Why did I challenge you to a duel?
I just really didn’t think.”
Then to the tavern Peter walks away
Tears clouding his eyes,
Tumbling all down his face
As he drowns his memories with red wine.

 

 

The Ballad of Peter and Ryan part 1.


peter and ryan

A long time ago I used to take part in a writing challenge where you had three ideas and you had to make a fifty word story out of them. From that idea came these two foolish gents Peter and Ryan and if I can find it in my archive I’ll dig out the full poem that this turned into.

Peter took careful aim at Ryan,
Then pulling the trigger shot him dead.
It was all agreed a superb shot,
A veritable triumph in lead.
The crowd cheered happily and wildly,
None thought Ryan’s death sad or cruel.
For surely they said death’s inevitable,
When two people fight a duel.

The Face Behind the Scooby-Doo Mask


My trembling hand removes your disguise
And you stand revealed before my eyes.
The face behind the Scooby- Doo mask
The villan revealed at long last…

Is….

That of my former high school teacher
The verbal bruiser and beater.
Your sentence will be I do decree
To be told ” could do better, ” constantly.

Or will I find….

The face of my old church minister
Who thought all I liked evil and sinister.
This will be your sentence I insist
You have to prove to me god exists.

But I could find….

My own face staring back at me
Who is basically just plain lazy.
My sentence for being an idle lout
Is to finally sort yourself out !

 

I’ve been debating with myself about putting this poem up on the blog because of its content and what it says about me. I mean I don’t normally write what I call “angst ” or ” a cry for help ” poetry but recently with my mercurial mood I find my pen turning to topics like this so here it is for better or worse.

One and a half years of poetry


I like odd anniversaries and I note that give or take a day that today is the one and a half-year anniversary of this poetry blog.

The blog was started as a place where my poetry segments for DDO cast could easily be found and mutated from there into a place for all my poetry. So if you are a first time visitor or an old friend have a look around, there are three pages where you can download my spoken poetry segments or in some cases even listen to them and as a start here are some links to other posts.

My first written poem on the site can be found here

The most popular poem on the site can be found here

A poem that won third place in a regional poetry contest can be found here

Normally my favourite poem is the last poem I wrote however I do have a soft spot for the poems found here and here

Enjoy !

A Town without Pity


In a town without pity
There’s a barman always bitter.
As its said there’s a hole
Where his soul used to be.

And it’s quietly spoken
That his bar will never open.
As no one can afford the price
The barman has set.

And there on the door its pinned
The bars prices for a drink.
And they all cost
An hour of true love.

And all the angels on the pins
Have bought an end to dancing.
As a protest that the bar
Has shut it’s doors.

And at them the barman laughs
Cos he has done the math.
And he knows someone
Somewhere has some love.

But this way they never pass
So the barman just wipes a glass.
As a silent tear fills
The corner of his eye.

But here’s the curious fact
True love has been and passed
They at the time just
Never felt thirsty.

 

 

 

 

 

Seaside View


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.
Quietly submitting
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.”

Fossil hunting and poetry


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.

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.

Overcast but not out


It’s overcast at the seaside again today but I refuse to write about such an easy target after all I’m on holiday and anyway we’ve just visited the national trust property A la ronde .

Now for those who think visiting stately homes is a bit stuffy or the hobby of pensioners I say don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, A la ronde has a very interesting history and if you are in this area of the country I would certainly recommend a visit.

What got my interest most though was I set out with the specific purpose of writing a poem about the house and it’s history, no getting distracted by the journey or the weather. This idea was made doubly hard as last night in the local pub eating our tea we were treated to the poetry inspiring sight of a stretch limo off loading a hoard of children who along with their harassed moms invaded the pub for their tea. But I put aside any poetical social commentary and instead wrote this poem instead…

Around A la ronde

In 1796
2 spinsters
Built 1 house
With 16 sides.

Hexadecagonal
Highlights include
The shell gallery
” a fragile jewel ”
And a wet walk.

Friday melancholia


To be read quickly, preferably by muttering under your breath at work.

 

Melancholy is brewing in the corners of my mind
Stirring up stormy thoughts of being unkind.
For today I am afraid there will be hell to pay
To any fool who thinks of getting in my way.

My angry tongue lashes out spitting acid rain
You’re caught in its shower, I feel no shame.
My torrent of outpouring hits you in the face
You search for cover seeking a safer place.

The lightning of my wrath always strikes twice
You ventured into my storm against the advice.
My vitriol, a hurricane from which none can defend

May brighten into sunshine by the coming weekend?