My kind of Poetry.

There are more than a few people, some whom I am in regular correspondence with, who claim that poetry needs to be deep and meaningful and shouldn’t rhyme.  This, to me, is nonsense.  For me poetry has to float, to almost sing and the way to achieve this feat, -even without Iambic Pentameter yuck – is rhythm and most important, wherever possible, to make you laugh.  The poetry of my youth and into adulthood hasn’t been Tennyson or Keats but Wendy Cope and Alfred Noyes, Lewis Carroll, Edward Lear, the list continues, and… the sheer brilliance of Spike Milligan, short ditties and limericks to make the sides ache.

So now you know what I like now you can see my influences in what I write.  Apologies for the quite obvious lack of iambs, anapests, dactyls and trochees – I’ve been doing my homework.


How proud I feel I could be

If I was a fifty pound note

For only the rich to see

With superior colours, pictures and indents.

Neatly folded

For upper class gents.

Not a scrappy old fiver or even a ten,

Maybe a twenty, that would be close enough,

Then again…

I want to be

The richest note of all

The one that can’t be draw from a wall.

Fifty the number,

The only number for me.

The largest number of note, half a century.

The note only banks will change.

That never goes unchecked

Or gets short changed.

If reincarnation is for me,

A fifty pound note

I’d be happily.

To pay for champagne and truffles; to give to Valet’s as tips

Looked after carefully

Without any rips.

 Why Oh Why?

Today I squashed a fly that was buzzing round my head.

I lashed out and trapped him, and then I left him dead.

I don’t know why I killed the fly, he didn’t do no harm.

With the paper I reached out and across his back my arm.

The guilt I feel inside me has built throughout the day.

This little guy, a harmless fly on his back now lays.

I know he was not the last fly that will ever fill the sky.

But still I feel I shouldn’t have killed that poor defenceless fly.

So why oh why did I kill that fly when I woke out of bed today?

He was just trying to survive, with other flies at play.

His life has been ended, taken away by me.

Left a  poor, decomposing fly, for everyone to see.

But if flies have a heaven, happy he will be.

I hope he will not seek his revenge, and come back to haunt.

So why oh why did I squash that fly that was buzzing round my head?

I don’t know why I squashed that fly; the thought will be always in my head.

I can’t possibly stop the poetry section of the blog without including one or two of the truly huge poems I have written.  This next poem is still – as they all are – incomplete, but here it is.  This poem, in particular, is a play on words.

All that’s left

As I walked along I saw a keep left sign.                                                                                                                  So I turned left and walked until I left the sign behind.                                                                                            I stopped and was left waiting for a bus, along with many more.                                                                    The bus left on time but there were no seats left, so I was left standing by the door.

We left the town centre and left into open land.                                                                                                     I reached and pressed the buzzer, all with my left hand.                                                                                   The bus left quickly and left silence in the air.                                                                                                      But I had left myself plenty of time so I was not left to care.                                                                                 I left the bus stop and walked along what was left of the road.                                                               Grooves and bumps had been left by all the heavy loads.                                                                                      I trekked left along a track, left of the river.                                                                                                              I had left my coat behind, the cold wind left on me a shiver.                                                                             On the left up ahead I saw a country pub.                                                                                                              I’d left early, so was left hungry.  I left to get some grub.                                                                                       I went round to the left of the bar, stood and was left to wait.

The bar was left empty, so to a man (left wiping tables) I said ‘excuse me mate.’

He left what he was doing and walked around the bar.

And as he did a man left and shouted out ‘tara.’

I left my thoughts of my walk and was left to decide what to drink.

When left with what food to have, I was not left to think.

I paid the barman with all the change I had left, and left to find a seat.

Where I was left waiting, for my food, to eat.

I wasn’t left very long before hot food left the kitchen.

The smell of the dishes left in front of me, left my nostrils all a twitching.

I left no food on my plate, but the dregs I left in my glass.

So I left the table and towards the man left at the bar, ‘another beer’, I ask.

I Left the bar with another pint.

Too many more and I’ll be left without my sight.

Another then another glass I left empty on the table.

My head was left fuzzy, my legs left unstable.

Left to make decisions, I got up and left the bar.

I left a smudge of my arm as I bumped along the left side of a car.

Left feeling fragile, I headed left down the lane.

And pitter patter left my shirt soaked, as the sun left down came the rain.

As a group of bikes ridden by those with toned muscles left me behind.  I was left with admiration.

And one quick look at my watch on my left arm left me to realise.  I should’ve left for the station.

I reached the station with a minute left before the train left to go.

Only to find the train was left running slow.

The train had left ten minutes late.

So I was left to calmly wait.

After left for twelve minutes, the train suddenly appeared.

I climbed on board and left out of the rain left me feeling cheered.

I left the train as it pulled up.

I left my hat on board, just my luck.

I left for left luggage.

Where I was left to explain.

So I said ‘I left my hat on board as it had been left washed by the rain.’

The man left a form in front of me which I was left to complete.

And while he left to input all I said, I was left to take a seat.

He left me with a number to call to see if my hat had been left.

So I left and took the paper, left it in my pocket, close to my left breast.

I was left exhausted as I arrived home.

Left to me were messages, left on my answer phone.

I left some bread under the grill, and left waiting for it to pop up, back and forth I was left to walk.

I left the kitchen as the phone rang, and I was left to talk.

I was left with a furious anger as all I’d left for was a cold call.

After I left them my colourful response, I left the phone back on the wall.

I’d left the bread toasting for too long.

It was left all black and burnt, and now my dinner was gone.

As there was no more bread left to eat.

I left hungry, and left towards my seat.

I was left feeling tired so I left a film half unwatched and left to get some sleep.

Left worn out, tonight, I wouldn’t be left counting sheep.

I climbed beneath the covers left draped across the bed.

And left all feelings of the day left inside my head.

I left my eyes closed long enough so I’d be left to doze off in the night.

And I was left with one last thought.  “Maybe all that’s left is right.”

And now, as it’s December, a Christmas poem I’ve been working on.

My Christmas


It will soon be Christmas, and the night is filled with a hush

Every little child, with excitement, they gush

On every street, in every house and in every flat

Young and old, together sat

A toast to the season with a glass of mulled wine

Sat round the fire, all having a good time

Tinsel draped and paper chains hung

Gold coloured coins unwrapped onto chocolaty tongues

Candles flicker the darkness, with cards placed along the hearth

The glee on everyone’s faces explodes in riotous laugh

The hour draws ever nearer, the fun has just begun

And joy is spread by a Christmas carol sung

The little ones, soon off to bed

A story and a kiss and ‘I love you’ said

Awaiting the man who makes dreams come true

With presents for all, for them, for me, for you

Dressed all in red, from his coat to his hat

A jolly old fellow with a belly plump and fat

Rosy cheeks and a twinkle in his eye

With magic he travel across the sky

Sparkling as up high he soars

The nicest man, Santa Clause

Across the globe he goes in search of all the good children

With goodness in their hearts, held within

Presents placed beneath the tree or hung in stockings

Toys and games and many more wonderful things

Then off he goes to every corner of the world

Delivering more presents to every good boy and girl

With his bright coloured sleigh pulled by his reindeer

High above the clouds, they travel the night sky, so clear

As they fly he cracks the whip and calls out their names

He cries out to them, ‘no child can be forgotten.’  For that would be such a shame

Lets go Comet and Vixen and Dasher and Prancer

Must keep going, don’t stop, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen and Dancer

Swooping across the skies and far away

To every home, a visit, they will pay

To more children half awake, too excited to sleep

Their eyes screwed up tight they keep, until

From bedrooms they creep across the floor

The tiniest raps upon the door

Parents cry out, ‘It’s too early’ or it’s too late

‘Go back to sleep, you’ll have to wait’

And the same, time and again

At 3am, 4am, 5am, 6am

Finally enough sleep is had and everyone will rise

A look out the windows to look for a white Christmas surprise

Is Frosty standing out on the lawn?

Will a sparkling landscape be this morn?

Outside of the houses will flakes cover lanterns or hanging reefs’ of holly?

A dusting of delight, flecking the sky, beautiful to see, then

Lights flicked on in the windows and upon the tree are lit

And the families together sit

Chocolate in mugs steaming

Marshmallows float along with cream in

Presents unwrapped and smiles spread from cheek to cheek

With flowing from tubs and boxes, sweets and treats

The ribbons and bows so bright with glitter

Lovely handmade woollen sweaters

The customary pairs of socks

Paper bundled and ripped open boxes

Hugs and kisses spread

And soon after, ravenous appetites must be fed

Onto the table goes the turkey roast

With more wine and beer, Merry Christmas is raised in toast

So many trimmings, sausages wrapped in bacon and balls of stuffing

Along with a thigh, a breast, a wing

Pudding with money within, custard and cream

So, so delicious, thank you Delia, you are a queen

Pull a cracker and out pops a joke and a silly hat

And everyone will have their fill, after a meal like that

With games to play, to win or lose, and

Maybe in the afternoon have a snooze

Upon waking there will be more mince pies and cakes, trifle and jelly

And the Christmas films on the telly

At the door will arrive one or two more guests

All dressed up in their best

Sandwiches and snacks placed on the table for all who want more food

With Christmas songs to set the mood

Party poppers go pop

Champagne bottles blow their tops

Couples kiss beneath the mistletoe

After not long it’s time for visitors, to their homes they go

The evening winds down after the thrills of the day

Toys and games are put aside, another time to play

And so soon the time is late and weary

With heavy eyelids making eyesight bleary

At the end of the day, when everything has been just right, it’s

Off to bed with a Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

Some work needed I admit, but no piece of writing I ever do will be complete, it’ll just get left alone.

To be continued…..

More too follow including updated versions of works that were on here.

This next one needs a lot of work.

Murderer’s wait

My heart clatters noisily

A pounding drum solo

Pulses behind my teeth

I have to relax.  Everything will be fine


For not wearing a seatbelt one hundred pounds

I cannot be stopped

Must be careful and examine

Every bulb.  Every pressure I must check


Shirt covered in blood and must be washed

The squares merge in a gloop

That grows, spreading across the floor

Chasms in the oak spread long


Will my torment last

I’m mortified by a moment’s lapse

Neither my hand nor knife did move

He fell to his doom


Upon me a judgement

My world be crushed

The coming days will be spent

Tumbling into walls


Ringing me an invisible barrier

Many long hours

Counsellors without knowledge

Into my psyche digging


For a hole six feet deep

Shiny shovel I must place

While wrapped in the carpets

I wait for the dark


Thoughts control me now

Weaved in to each other

All I can think is when

Waiting is torture


Is all I deserve

To engulf me

My brainwaves on overdrive as

In his chest the knife hilt still sticks

Crunch underfoot

As the silence of the forest

Will be destroyed by screeching of garden sacks

Dragged slowly through the emptiness


I feel inside me

Rotting a black lump

The twilight is only the wait

Now I mop and tidy, pretend and all will be OK.



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