The Trouble with Me

Me number one says we’ll do it

Me number two says we won’t 

Me number one says we’ll have to,

Me number two says we can’t

Me number one says we bloody well will,

Me number two sits and cries 

Me number one wants to smash number two

right in her stupid wet eyes.

Me number one wants to wave and shout out

Hey! Look at me! Over here!

Me number two says please don’t do that

or they’ll see that I’m quaking with fear.

Me number one sometimes just disappears

  and leaves number two all alone

then me number two sits hugging herself

and is frightened to answer the phone.

Swinging between these extremes wears me out

if only they’d both go away

then maybe another, a me number three,

could emerge and be normal one day.

Or me number one and me number two

might get blended together some way,

but I’m worried about what I’d lose if they did-

if you mix black with white you get grey.

A La Carte or Off His Trolley?

A poem Sir? We serve organic, free range and hand reared, or would Sir prefer genetically modified, or perhaps, mechanically rendered verse?

T#95

William and Catherine got Married

When Cath set eyes on Bill

he was in uniform,

just back on leave a little while,

and next time he came home they wed,

no time to wait in wartime.

You never knew, you know?

A forties wedding

home-made dress and ration cake

with garden flower bouquet,

then he had to go away.

When he came back

she realised

she didn’t know him, really,

but they rubbed along alright,

until he died, in 1975.

Cathy was a swinging chick,

a sixties girl with bouffant hair

and pale pink lips.

Billy took her on his scooter

each weekend,

to Brighton or Southend,

though her dad

was not best pleased.

Soon, a baby on the way,

they settled down 

to married life,

Cathy loving every bit

of being a mother 

and a wife,

while Billy serviced 

motor cars 

for Ford.

Katy, full of confidence

in her abilities,

believed in meritocracy, 

and money.

It was Thatcher’s Britain after all,

where finance ruled. 

She chose her course with care,

deciding that the city would appeal

to her mendacity.

Then at a party, meeting Will,

a rugger bugger he,

clean cut, strong and buff.

A golden couple they became

with rosy future beckoning,

though she didn’t

take his name.

In April now, Two Thousand and Eleven,

a different century,

and predictably our nineteen-eighties

golden couple broke apart.

Katy’s on a holiday to get away

from all this royal wedding fuss

and also as she knows

her ex, her Will,

will be ubiquitous

his sports career 

has set him up in media

and she really doesn’t want

to see his so-familiar face

in forty six inch digital HD.

Cathy is a royalist right through,

a gran as well and even, now,

with little baby Tyler,

a great-grandmother, too.

She’s been baking for a week

and everything’s decked out

in red, white and blue.

Everyone is coming to the party

although Billy 
would be happy

down the pub

he’s not allowed, today,

and secretly

he’s rather proud-

Our Cathy

puts on a good spread.

In the care home, Cath

has been put

with a forgotten cup of tea

in front of the TV,

flag in hand,

though she doesn’t really

comprehend 

what’s going on.

Now a memory is stirred

and anxiously she asks

Where’s Bill?

When’s he coming home?

They don’t tell her that he’s dead,

she’ll only get upset, again,

so pointing to the screen

the staff say

Look, Cath, Look,

William and Kate,

its their big day,

their Wedding Day

today.

Marriage Guidance Already

The wedding is the easy part 

but marriage taxes heart and mind, 

for prince and commoner alike.  

Just, speak gently to each other, 

and be kind



T#94

Wedding Days

Petal confetti floats down, drifts across pavements. 

The cherry trees celebrate spring nuptials, 

all the birds and the bees getting married.



T#93

When Elvis met Sybil

Blend orange and blue, any medium you wish, 

you won’t get yellow-turquoise with iridescent pink. 

Breeding fish is elementary magic, I think.

Yes I am obsessed with my fish at the moment and yes, two of them are called Elvis and Sybil. 

Ethel also lives with Elvis. 

Those who know me might recognise the names of two of my aunts. 

Yes, I named my fish after my aunties.

I do not, however, have an uncle called Elvis.



T#92

School Days No. 4

Poor Colin was a man-sized boy, 

a lumbering lad, 

whose uniform would often split. 

He traumatised the entire school 

the day he wore a PE kit.

T#91

Cardigan Bay Sunset

I watched and waited with bated breath

as the molten orange sun dropped towards the sea,

half expecting a sizzling hiss and a rush of steam.



T#90

Three Perspectives

Perspective # 1 – His.

She was mesmerised by me

I could see it in her eyes

I put on all me best moves

though she was playin’ it cool, like

pretending not to notice

I could see she was impressed

she was just playin’ hard to get,

like they do.

When I went near another bird

she looked proper jealous, too,

I reckon I’m in there mate,

don’t you?

Perspective # 2 – Hers.

‘E was strutting 'is stuff

y'know, all puffed up

full of 'is own importance

thinking 'e was something,

like 'look at me darlin'

and I’m like 'you must be joking'

So I just kept nibbling 

at the buffet

turning me back and walking away

like 'No Way, Jose'.

Last I saw, 'e was pestering

some other bird, poor thing.

Perspective # 3 - Mine.

Pigeons, eh? 

The way they carry on.

Makes me wonder

how the baby pigeons

are ever born.

Or hatched.

Or whatever.

Have you ever stood and watched a group of pigeons? I always feel so sorry for the males, they try so hard and get constantly blanked by the females. 

For some reason, the ones in this poem seem to have a Liverpool accent when I read it out loud.

The Easter Story

So this man died, apparently. 

It happened because we’re so bad. 

Then he came back and eventually

moved in with his dad. 

I think. 

More choc?



T#89

Brown Magic

Teabags and peelings, lawn mowings, 

leaves and twigs and wriggly things. 

Slowly the transformation begins. 

Organic magic in the compost bin.



T#88

As long as you both shall live

He’s back.

When he left,

the air, unmenaced,

smelled of promise,

the furniture 

relaxed,

and walls 

breathed a sigh of relief.

Now

the odour of him

hangs

in the doorways,

his essence

stalks unsleeping hours,

and taints 

the contents of cupboards.

To the Gym!

Surprised about my size which can’t be justified I’m galvanised to minimise with exercise and realise the final prize. 

Thinner inner thighs.



T#87

No Inspiration

No poem, no clue, no idea, no ball games, No theatre (Japan), Lake No (Central Sudan), no: absence of, as in ‘no cup of tea’. Ah, no wonder.



T#86

How Dare You?

The pressure cooker helmeted hothead steams, boils over. 

A rush of blood, 

The Push, 

and the sad, slow stranger tumbles, over and over again.

With sincere condolences to the family of Ian Tomlinson, whose inquest is a matter of great interest.



T#85 

Mistress Jenny's Dilemma

Lumme said the comely wench, 

and lawks-a-mercy too, 

what a mound of toil for me to do. 

I’d better get off Twitter 

or there’ll be a how-de-do


Written for Jenni Waugh, who admits to being touched. In many ways.



T#84 

A Small Victory

As I sat on a hillock a linnet took exception to my presence, 

flashed his wings, chided me. 

I smiled at his impertinence 

yet, politely, left



T#83

The Sunday Bonus

better late than never, and the only one I have to offer for now.

Untitled

She took her love and swathed it up

in lengths of golden silk 

bound it fast with strings of pearls 

and glistening gossamer bows

She placed her carefully gift-wrapped love 

into a casket, jewel encrusted,

carved of rich mahogany,

with clasps of crafted gold

She made a raft of dreams and wishes

bound tightly up with make believe

and for a sail her soul she tethered,

to a mast of purest fantasies

She set her wrapped and coddled love

within its precious chest to sail

upon her heart-built craft

then, waiting anguished on the shore

she watched it flounder,

drowning

in the sea of his indifference

No more than anything else

Shiny black bin bag, filled with fresh air, tied to my head, carried round all day, open at bed time, find out what’s there, makes no sense.



T#82

The Epidemiology of Verse

The poet sneezed, scattering words across the page. 

Some readers were infected, spreading what they read. 

Others, immune, just didn’t get it



T#81