Tag Archives: Poem

Feb 24 2015
4 Comments
Poetry, Writing

50 Shades of Ken

Some more writing for FAWM15. Draft musings that I thought I’d publish.

50 Shades of Ken

He cuts a figure
the shape of “O”
All hulked and hunched up
He’s feeling low.

She will not touch him.
He knows not why.
Been reaching for her
but she’s out tonight.

Shrugs off the covers
picks up a pen
torn scraps of paper
become a gem.

She wants attention
it cannot be.
The words are flowing
and he’s out to sea.

His phone is buzzing
His eyes aglow
New friends and faces.
Starts saying “no.”

She sits in waiting
For him to call
All slight and smoking
Staring at the wall.

He carries himself now
there’s no more need
All proud and puffed up
Alone but freed.

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Jan 21 2015
57 Comments
Poetry, Writing

Terry, Jeff, Colin and Bob

Terry, Jeff, Colin and Bob went to sea in a rancid boat.
They took some jerky and plenty of Bud,
all wrapped in a t-shirt (covered in mud.)

Colin looked over to Bob on his left,
as they nodded then bellowed an ode to Terry ‘n’ Jeff.

“O’ Terry and Jeff, Teff and Jerry, what wonderful friends you are,
you are, you are, you are.”

Then Terry looked at Jeff and Jeff looked at Terry,
before both of them sicked-up on Bob’s shoes.
Yes both of them sicked-up on Bob’s shoes, his shoes.
Yes both of them sicked-up on Bob’s shoes.

Another week another slice of Friday Flash Fiction over at Rochelle’s blog. This week I bring you this piece of randomness based purely on the fact that the Owl and the Pussycat jumped straight into my brain-box when I saw the photo.

I can but apologise to what I have done to that wonderful nonsense poem.

boatpilxr_-antiqued

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Oct 13 2014
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Poetry

Balsa Wood

Balsa wood doesn’t rot

Does it not?

Apparently not.

How much have you got?

How much of what?

Balsa wood (that doesn’t rot).

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Sep 02 2014
1 Comment
Poetry

The Carpet Cleaner

As the millionaire Chairman knelt on the ground
the workers around him could do nothing but frown.
For the silver haired leader, an octogenarian,
was restoring the carpet to a sparkling new state again.

With more cash in the bank than the east side of Surrey
he scrubbed at the carpet with blood, sweat and hurry.
When asked why he didn’t just replace the duff tile,
he looked up and responded with a wink and a smile,

“It’s the little things, dear boy, that lead to the big.
If I replaced every carpet, each time Sue dropped a fig,
I’d never have got to where I’ve got to today
(with Rita in Gloucester, and Joan in Herne Bay.)”

“Take care of the pennies and the pounds, they will follow.
A carpet cleaned here, means Sushi tomorrow.
Or lobster with Megan, in Clacton-on-Sea,
You’ll be tickling the rich, boy, take it from me.”

 

carpet-tiles-12.43.18-PM

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Jun 13 2014
3 Comments
Poetry, Writing

That Flag

That flag up in my window,
the one of red and white
It doesn’t mean I’m racist,
or looking for a fight.
It doesn’t mean I’m ‘chav-scum’
or ‘simple’ and on the scrounge.
It doesn’t say I’m full of hate,
or I’d kick you when your down.

That flag displays my passion,
support for England’s boys.
It shows my love, my dreaming,
my trust in them and Roy.
It says it’s time for football,
on an international scale.
It says I wear 3 lions
on my shirt, my heart, my smile.

So even though they’re miles away
I’ll hang my flag for them.
For Wayne, Joe, Glen,
and Chamberlain,
for Raheem and Studgie-D.
For Cahill, Hendo, LaLaLa
and our maestro, Stevie G.
Come on England!

 

3lions

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