1053 - Extended childhood

My life feels like an extended childhood
That’s now almost a half-century long
Tenacious innocence, belief in good
And that there’ll soon be an end to what’s wrong
A silly sense of humour, love of song
Some things have changed, it’s true; I eat less sweets
I’ve more experience since I’ve moved among
Adults, disguised as one of them; my feats
Have really been quite something, and my treats
The best times, something else, and sometimes rude
My very own musical, and I’ve sung
The lead role (rather badly) all these nights
My acting skills resemble that of wood
And audience reactions often stung
Thur 23 July 2009

981 - Through the office window

Perfect blue sky, or perfect nothingness
Pretty green trees wave goodbye, short-lived man
A spire points up into the blue: confess
Your sins, or sizzle in the frying-pan!
Happy in the moment, kids whoop and run
Let out of nursery for some fresh air
Happy that adults carry their burden
Of their own future burdens, unaware
Traffic, in ant-like lines, crawls off somewhere
This mortal snapshot, its lifespan far less
Than photos, paintings or images on
The internet, is preserved here with care
Sharing this feature with Shakespeare's sonnets
Outliving the source from where it began
Tue 12 May 2009

976 - Kids on a plane

I’m sitting on a crowded aeroplane
A warm evening at Paris Charles de Gaulle
The toddlers are all starting to complain
They don’t understand this waiting at all
Is it going home makes them wail and waul?
Red-faced, a tiny girl, despite cuddles
From Daddy, bellows; then suddenly, cool
Now the girl in the seat behind wriggles
But seconds later, she’s become all smiles
Is it their youth makes waiting such a pain?
The plane taxis, stomachs tighten, the small
Unaware of the sudden speeding wheels
Seconds ahead. The Mummies will explain
We’re flying faster than a cannonball
Thur 7 May 2009

812 - Sketches from the east coast mainline

The train took us north through pretty Yorkshire
Hills green and rolling, yellow towns nestling
Historic Durham Cathedral, higher
And therefore nearer to God, its choir sings
Plenty of eye candy, pretty young things
Sharing the ride, some jumping off before
Saying goodbye with eyes, pulling, dragging
Their cases elsewhere, gone forevermore
Alternate rain, hail, sun, cloud and much more
In windy Newcastle, but they don’t tire
Schoolkids leap and shout, homeward journeying
Back up to Edinburgh, then change for
Glasgow Central, eighth floor, Thistle. Try a
Japanese sushi. Now TV watching
Mon 24 Nov 2008

811 - Cold calculation

A wet and potentially stressful day
As all days are, although thankfully I
Am too slow to perceive just how much they
Should stress me, so I just conceive the lie
That it will be fine later, and I fly
In the face of the late November wind
Which slows me further. I know I must try
And do what the grass does in the storm, bend
And sway and even sing, and in the end
The wasteland will be green and kids will play
They won’t be scared of monster’s evil eye
Or calculating adders to offend
No matter what, we all go our own way
(Today was fine, despite that old grey sky)
Sun 23 Nov 2008

677 - Noises from above

Singing and clapping in her bed upstairs
My daughter, five, too excited for sleep
I think she's happy - I can hear the airs
From Mary Poppins, not counting of sheep
Hush! All is quiet now. Will slumber creep
Into her room to claim her soon? Surely
As darkness keeps falling from space so steep
Her shadowed face, her eyelids so heavy
Will slink like a black cat in jungle tree
Into the silence, into lofty lairs
Above the soil and grass, where night birds cheep
And gravity can't spoil, lovely and free
Necklaces strung with pearly moons, and stars
Sprinkled on cornflakes. Now it's safe to peep
Sat 12 July 2008

650 - Father's Day

It's Father's Day and farther from when they
First fought their way through watery tunnel
Finally caught head first feet last to say
Cough cough wah wah when slapped and wrapped in towel
Off to be weighed then the new made bundle
Is offered right away to dad to hold
That awful fright to think I might fumble
Or stumble then humble and glad. Arms fold
Under this wonder our two forms foretold
When they formed into one and thunder lay
With forked lightning electric storm cuddle
Connecting sudden showers of pure gold
This resurrecting power is today
Respected re-erected tearful
Sun 15 June 2008

602 - Preposterous Austrians

That Austrian fellow takes the biscuit
Locks one of his daughters up, ’84
Has seven kids with her, some never lit
By daylight, but, as ever, the wife saw
Nothing. Did she not wonder where the poor
Daughter was all this time? Or where hubby
Was when he was hidden beneath the floor
In those secret rooms, evenings spent busy
Abusing his grandkids of incest? Free
No longer, this is true, but often it
Is far too late by the time that the law
Discovers their deeds. In his seventies,
Surely no punishment can ever fit
His crime that every parent must abhor?
Mon 28 Apr 2008

599 - Lines to mine

Hey children! When I’m dead, will you read these?
Will you rethink the thoughts that I once had,
Then shaped into this finished form? Entries
Of emotion, observation, sad, glad,
On global websites and on paper (had
From the office). Will it really matter,
When I am dissolved, that I had not made
The grade, or taken holidays to where
Others have flown with BA, Ryanair,
And droned on about to my envious ears?
Will it matter that I was quite so bad
At living up to my promise? Unfair
Was life to me, and you maybe, but please
Look after these. Feel glad rather than sad.
Fri 25 Apr 2008

578 - Generations

A trip in the spring sun to Fun For All,
An indoor adventure playground in Macc
(That’s Macclesfield, folks). Five quid gets you all
That sliding, climbing, fighting. The boys whack
Each other, or some poor little girl’s back
With their feet as they hurtle down the slide.
The young risk-takers, head first down the black
And bendy chute, pretending that they died.
Another brace of mothers. Coffee, white,
With biscuit to dunk and news to enthral
About a mutual friend they knew way back.
They lean in close, black knickers, hips so wide.
Pregnant again? Eyes scan. A man, quite tall,
Buys coffee and, for his daughter, a snack.
Fri 4 Apr 2008

516 - Silly games

A day of two children’s birthday parties
A day when I woke up to some rare snow
A day when I had nowhere to put these
Few lines, because I’ve decided to go
From Yahoo’s blog site. Facebook awaits, though
I’ll leave it till tomorrow. Derby drew
At Birmingham, Villa from Mexico
Our last minute equaliser, but you
Know it’s too little too late. I hope to
Write plenty tomorrow, then later, seize
The chance to read in an open mike show
In Withington, at Fuel Bar, with the crew
From the Poetica group: Sarah Rees,
Andy N, Sam and not forgetting Jo.
Sat 2 Feb 2008

491 - Poet and babysitter

The babysitter writes his poetry
While naughty child still frolics high above.
The house may fall down round his ears as he
Composes self, composing lines with love.
Imagination warms him like a glove
His hand’s enclosed within as it draws lines
And curves and dots on paper, very rough
But temporary, transferred onto screens
Later, to be seen by similar minds
On different hardware in different country.
The babysitter, almost scared to move,
Listens. She’s quiet now. The chaos seems
To be replaced by order. Let her be,
And sleep will soon entrap her in its groove.
Tue 8 Jan 2008

471 - A novel approach

I’m off work today. First, I’ll write this, and
Maybe a bit of novel; then to see
My little Josephine in what is planned
To be a Christmas play at school, but we
All know that sometimes things go wrong. Maybe
She’ll throw a hissy fit like last year, when
Grandma and Grandad, her mother and me
All got there early and sat waiting. Then
She refused to play guiding star. And send
Santa away, she’s scared of him! And stand
Well back, coz Jo and mummy are poorly
With colds and bad throats, too. Well, it’s year’s end.
But before I go out, I’ll try my hand
At writing prose. (Harder than poetry!)
Wed 19 Dec 2007

460 - What a pantomime!

Slept till 8.30, looked at emails, then
Drove south to Wilmslow through rain from Salford,
Having remembered to pack book and pen
So I could write these lines just like I should.
Met wife and daughter by the notice board
That says ‘For Sale’ at the front of their house.
Wife went for haircut, we went, as rain poured,
To return library books. Quiet as a mouse
Daughter was not. Saw Santa. Filled our mouths,
Then rested, watched TV. But at seven
We watched Cinderella in panto. Lord,
It’s 35 years since I did that. Chose
Macdonalds drive-in meal for Jo, and when
Near home, egg fried rice, with curry sauce poured.
Sat 8 Dec 2007

423 - I speak with Fawked tongue

Remember remember in November
The fall guy that they put on the bonfire
Was Guy Fawkes a bad man, or a member
Of the wrong group? Does he deserve his pyre?
Should we preserve his image, pluck the lyre
In honour of his pluck, or castigate
Him as a nasty man prone to conspire
Against the general good, the hand of fate?
The fireworks start much earlier of late
Kids throw them, blow themselves up, dismember
Themselves or others. Brothers, town crier
Lord Mayor, Your Majesty, defuse the hate
Don't wait till we're reduced to an ember
Free speech or death! The plot sickens, good sire...
Thur 1 Nov 07

369 - My wife lost a child, so has been transfixed

My wife lost a child, so has been transfixed
By the seemingly endless sad drama
Transpiring in Portugal, where a mixed-
Up and messy missing child case is a
Regular read in papers, and on the
TV each night. Madeleine, nearly four,
Vanished in early May. The Policia
Now think her parents may have planned it, for
The dreaded DNA tests, using poor
Quality samples, suggest that they switched
Her body from the apartment by car,
The one they hired. We have faith in the law,
But occasionally it’s knocked for six.
Let’s hope they find her, not her murderer.
Sat 8 Sep 2007

262 - Both Terry Bull and girlfriend Mad Donna

Both Terry Bull and girlfriend Mad Donna
Feel very full to nerve ends of great love.
This miracle I certainly honour,
By bellyfuls of hurtful punches proved.
He hits her in the morning, his first move.
He hits her while he’s yawning, late at night.
He hates violence, but warns he won’t approve
Her taste in friends. Her unborn child feels fright.
Her son, but not his, recently turned eight,
Lonesome, forgotten, frequently on a
Mission to rot upstairs, sent with a shove,
Listens to rock, indecent words of hate.
Headphones on full blast, he starts to answer
Questions. He’ll kill them fast. They’ll be removed.
Thur 24 May 2007

257 - Two lovers flirt, then one, now mother, cries

Two lovers flirt, then one, now mother, cries:
A tougher birth no-one could ever know.
All over, but that start, those fluttering eyes
Made butterflies fly over the rainbow.
This beautiful new babe could never grow;
Though hurtful to mother, maybe he knew,
Though certain to part, he was of love’s flow,
So up above he and his dart both flew.
Through lightning flash, through thunder, under dew-
Bejewelled blades of grass, here, there he spies
Each flushing lover’s grasp, fair aims his bow,
Enflaming hearts, unshaming gasps: one, two.
And so, when claiming lovers’ parts, be wise:
The skies have eyes. And your prize? An arrow.
Sat 19 May 2007

224 - Kids drink and screw and stab and shoot, or so

Kids drink and screw and stab and shoot, or so
The papers tell us. Do they want to scare
Us into right-wing thinking, even though
Our lives are ever easier? They care,
Or so they claim, about justice, but their
Proprietors are tax-avoiding and
Manipulative. Does a millionaire
Get where he is by wringing of the hand?
Inheritance tax may not seem so grand,
But how else will the money ever flow
From haves to have nots? People will not share.
Above all, we have got to understand
That peace comes not from military show
Of force, or hard-line police, but being fair.
Mon 16 Apr 2007

209 - Sunday in April - beautiful, sunny

Sunday in April - beautiful, sunny;
The daffodils in bloom, blossom on trees.
Just right for driving down the lane to see
Brother and sister and their families.
Birds circle in the sky, borne by the breeze
Above a country churchyard where we play,
Looking at graves and Roman ruins; these
Are moments captured for another day
On film: the little things that children say
That may not be correct, grammatically,
But make such entertaining DVDs.
The church, locked, doesn’t ask us in to pray,
But bells ring out at four, the memory
Of rural order and old pieties.
Sun 1 Apr 2007