Monday, 2 December 2013

Jesus remember me

Jesus remember me when I’m all alone
Jesus remember me when I’m far from home.

O-O-OH O-O-OH Remember me
O-O-OH Remember me

Jesus remember me when I am in danger
Jesus remember me when I when I face immortal foe


Jesus remember me as the sun begins to fall
Jesus remember me when in darkness you I call


Jesus remember me when I’m by your side
Jesus remember me at the final eventide


Jesus remember me when I come into your Kingdom
Jesus remember me when I come into your Glory

O-O-OH O-O-OH Remember me
O-O-OH Remember me
Repeat Chorus

Wednesday, 27 November 2013

Deja vu

This is another of the songs I wrote when I was in the church

I was nailed up next to Jesus and there, before my eyes
A roman soldier speared him, and much to my surprise
His blood it flowed quite freely and then I saw the sign
Above his head a notice that would stand the test of time

The crowd around the spectacle the mocked him and they jeered
They didn’t know the power he’d have all throughout these years
The man they nailed up to the cross who bought us all good news
Was the undisputed leader the king of all the Jews

I looked at him and in his eyes the soul of all mankind
Why couldn’t these people see this they really must be blind
And quietly as he hung there these words he spoke for you
“Father please forgive them for they know not what they do”

My heart filled with emotion and deep love for this man
If I could be there with him do you really think I can?
I said, “Lord please forgive me for all the wrong I’ve done.
He said “I’ll have a place for you beside my fathers throne

And a light came from the heavens and the father of that man
Said, “Come up here beside me and join the son of man
All bathed in light the angels sang glory to the lord
And all around I saw them there was a heavenly hoard

There was Abraham and Moses and David up on high
Saints and sinners all of them around them glorified
Then somewhere in the distance a rumbling was heard
And Jesus Christ our saviour was there to give the word

He said he’d take the sinners and pardon every one
If only they believed in him , well he was God’s only son
The people all around him sang glory to his name
They sang the very praise of him life never would be the same.

And suddenly this wonderment for all its heavenly guise
Slipped into the distance as I opened up my eyes
I heard the keys a clanking as they opened up the door
And suddenly I realised just what they came here for

Today I go to Calvary to pay there for my crimes
And the horror rose inside of me as I longed for better times
The dragged me to the courtyard and whipped me to the floor
And all that pain and suffering I couldn’t take ant more

I could hear the people  shouting at the man who’d just been led
And very soon that wretched man would oh so soon be dead
I put a shoulder under the wooden cross that was there
With my last remaining energy I raised it in the air

I stumbled through the crowd that stood outside the gate
Those people didn’t know me but they cursed me with their hate
I knew I wouldn’t be alive next time the sun went down
I carried the cross upon my back to a hill outside of town

I was nailed up next to Jesus and there, before my eyes
A roman soldier speared him, and much to my surprise
His blood it flowed quite freely and then I saw the sign
Above his head a notice that would stand the test of time

The king of all the Jews
The king of all the Jews
Praise to the Lord
Praise to the Lord

Wednesday, 20 November 2013


I am not a great one for the church though I used to go regularly. I was in my late thirties when I joined the church band and started writing songs, this was one of them. It was a favourite among the band members.











Friday, 11 October 2013

Just Like You

Last year I heard about the International Day of the Girl then I wrote this.


I am human just like you.

I laugh just like you.

I cry just like you.

I can read just like you.

I can walk just like you.

I smile at the sun just like you.

I have dreams just like you.

I have needs just like you.

I have desires just like you

I do most things just like you.

Just like you I have sex.

Except, I’m only 10, so not like you at all.

Help me!


International Day of the Girl is here again.

Saturday, 17 August 2013

What's that all about?

I don’t have the art work for my book much less a publisher yet here I am sitting in the pub writing the follow-up.

What's that all about?


Thursday, 11 July 2013

Diane Cook

          Has it really been fifty years since I last saw Diane Cook? She was a lovely girl. My memories are quite clear. We were eleven. She had bobbed hair and the cutest smile. I was in love. She lived at No 2 Oxford Close, which was a cul-de-sac just off Cambridge Road. We were in the same class at Sherwood Park Primary. I don’t know when she came there but I was always at that school. The girl’s school uniform was a green jumper and grey pleated skirt she looked good in that. I kissed her as often as I could, which means while no one else was there to watch. She said she didn’t mind me kissing her but not to be too rough. I would hold her hand and carry her school bag to the crossroads where I went left and she straight on.
          I was once invited to tea at her house. I was overjoyed. As you turn into Oxford Close, it was the first house on the right hand side. It was a very nice house, with leaded bay windows. Her parents were middle class. I remember there was a garage at the bottom of the garden. I was invited to help with a nature project, Diane had found an abandoned nest, that of a blackbird, in a bush in the back alley. She wanted me to blow the eggs. She would then have this nest and eggs in her room with other exhibits. I don’t really remember tea.
           I don’t remember how much I saw of her after that, but at the end of the school term we never saw each other again. She went to the Girls Grammar and I to the Secondary modern. I did speak to her on the phone once, I was about fifteen, but nothing came of it. I bet she would have made a great ‘dolly bird’ in the sixties. A few years ago I made contact with an old secondary school chum, John Challis. He remembers her in her late teens. She was a friend of his now wife.
          Despite the life I have had I long for those days when I had no cares in the world and my idea of sexual excess was stolen kisses. Diane was my first love. I probably don’t remember all the details but the images in my head never fail to excite the eleven-year-old boy in me when I recall those early days. Good times!
          I would love to see who she became, what she achieved.

Monday, 17 June 2013

Will I Ever Learn

Well back in nineteen sixty-nine I got married and things went fine
And I couldn’t wait to go home to my wife at night.
But after just one year, well I’d cry into my beer
Cause I didn’t wanna to go home and that ain’t right.

Well when seven years were gone I kinda struck out on my own
I couldn’t stand her moaning all the time
Ya’ see I had lots of pay and she would spend it every day
And all the bills she ran up I do decline.

Well I spent some time on my own while I built up my new home
It was a struggle I don’t mind telling you.
Then I met a pretty girl in her hair she had a curl.
Boy I was sold and married number two

Well we had some fun for a time, but then I laid it on the line
Get off your ass and go and get some work.
Well she rode off on her horse and got herself a divorce of course
And all the lady left me was my shirt.

Now I’m on my own again its been eight years maybe ten
And I got plans to stay here on my own
It’s taken me a while but my house is filled with style.
And this time I’ll be hangin’ on to my home.

Now don’t she look a pretty gal maybe I am ready now
I hope my luck will change around about here
Hey lady I would like to see if you could be my number three
Come on over and have yourself a beer.

(Stop playing and say )

Will I ever learn
Hell no its all part of the growin’

Saturday, 8 June 2013

Slow Down

Out on the highway four hundred miles a day
Looking for a night stop so I can go inside an’ play
There in the distance through the trees I saw a light
And then I saw a sign that said “Stop here for the night”

Slow down, pull in over there
Slow down, find yourself a chair
Slow down, have a beer or three
This is the best-darned night stop that you will ever see.

I stepped down from my truck and moved on through the door
An’ dancing there in front of me, in the middle of the floor
The cutest little red haired babe that you will ever see
I gave her the eye and she was standing next to me.

Slow down, this could take all night
Slow down, this girl would do alright
Slow down why don’t I have another beer
I’m gonna start a party and it starts right here.

While I was dancing and giving her a hug
We were sliding on the floor going chug-a-lug-lug
Her voice was deep, she had stubble on her face
Man Oh man what a terrible mistake

Slow down put it in reverse.
Slow down she’s in a different universe.
Slow down she was a part-time male nurse
I feel so bad someone please call me a hearse

Slow down, slow down, slow down . . . . . (to fade)

Chord sequence

Out on the highway four hundred miles a day
Looking for a night stop so I can go inside an' play
There in the distance through the trees I saw a light
E                                                                             A
And then I saw a sign that said “Stop here for the night"

Slow down, pull in over there
Slow down, find yourself a chair
Slow down, have a beer or three
E                                                                               A
This is the best-darned night stop that you will ever see

Sunday, 2 June 2013

The Lock

                                                                               clink clack, clink clack, clink clack

                                                                               It’s a sound boaters know well

                                                                               as they draw the paddle

                                                                                to let the water run out

                                                                                let the boat come in.

                                                                                Drop the paddle

                                          Only ten locks today in thirty miles

                                         Then twenty eight in ten miles

                                          Blistering work these locks

                                          Relentless and tiring

                                          Walking one to

                                           the next

Tread the path leading the horse

It’s a never ending day

onwards and up

then down



Friday, 31 May 2013

He didn’t do it!

It was only a short walk to his house. What could happen? As it happens a lot. A man ran out of a shop followed by another, very angry. The first man ran across the road and was hit by a car. He was hurtled in the air and landed on our man. The follower attacked our man, who was unconscious, believing him to be the perpetrator. Police arrested him and despite his injuries and carted him off to jail. To cut a long story short, today he was leaving jail after serving four years for something he didn’t do.

100 words

Sunday, 26 May 2013

The MAN (song lyric)

The sun is slowly setting beneath the darkening sky.
The moon grows ever brighter, did you ever wonder why?
The stars shine in the distance of the early evening sky.
And the sea rolls on along the sloping shore.

And it seems to be a part of a great and glorious plan
But the earth lies here in danger from the endeavours of the man

Don’t you know the world is dying, can’t you see the signs.
It’s oh so easy to shut it from our minds.
Ask yourself the questions, find the answers if you can.
Why do all children starve at the hand of the man?
In the cities all the people seem to live in fear.
Things are getting worse year after year.
Some old girl is beaten within an inch of her life.
Why did the man give the man a knife?

Guns and bombs and flying machines are the tools of the war.
Killing people wholesale is that what men are for.
Murder rape and pillaging armed robbery and cheats.
Laser guided missiles exploding with white heat.
Tell me the answers if you think you can.
Why is the man inhuman to the man?

Thursday, 23 May 2013


Anytime you walk
Beside the river
Carefully watch
Down along the waters
Edge you will
Hurriedly jumping
In the grass
June bugs hide
Keeping dry under
Leaves out of the way of
Munching predators
Noisily searching
Out their lunch
Periwinkles reflect the
Quiet sun
Radiating way up in the
Sky bathing the
Utterly oblivious to
Xed the
Zebra crossing.

Just a minute

It takes a minute for sixty seconds to tick by. One by one the sweep of the second hand passes each mark. Now it’s 5, Falling towards 10. Relentlessly onward never stopping. 15 never ceasing on it’s way around the clock face. This is the easy bit. 20 working towards the nadir 25 and then 30. On the upward path now 35 dragging on upwards to 40. 3/4 of the way now and it has reached 45. It is harder on this section 50. The zenith now in sight 55. Tick, tick, tick,60 at last and on we go 5


(100 words)

Monday, 20 May 2013

Diesel Bug

Short Magazine article
The EU are proposing an end to olive oil dipping dishes in restaurants for our protection. We already have laws (in this country) that cover any harm that might be done by bad hygiene practice.

What we don’t seem to have is a law that prevents Cladosporium Resinae (diesel bug) cross contaminating fuel tanks. Is your supplier supplying you good fuel or contaminated fuel? Does he know? Does he care? Has his delivery nozzle been in a tank that is contaminated before you arrived? Does he care enough to clean his nozzle after each delivery? Can you check that the fuel you are given is bug free?

The simple answer is that all suppliers should be compelled to treat their supplies. Whether that be producers main suppliers or retailers is for the clever people to work out. It cost about thirteen pound to treat 2500 litres that’s less than half a penny a litre. Fuel tax could be reduced by half a penny a litre to ensure that suppliers do this cost free. It is easier (more accurate) to treat 2500 litres than it is to treat 10, 20, 30 or even 100 litres. The %age error is far smaller. As of yet it is not know if under-treatment is effective or if over treatment is in some way damaging to engines.

Rather than some boaters and some retailers treating their supplies it would make sense for all suppliers to treat their fuel. That way we know that all fuel tanks are treated properly and the possibility of cross contamination is reduced to an absolute minimum or even zero.

Why should all suppliers be required to treat their supplies and not boaters. Well boaters are a varied bunch of individuals who have their own Ideas about where they will spend their money. Some will, some won’t treat their tanks. No amount of legislation will make Joe Bloggs treat the fuel going into his tank if he doesn’t want to. To check that his tank had been treated before a fuel nozzle is put in his tank will be cost prohibitive. I rest my case.

Thursday, 16 May 2013

My Day

It was five o’clock in the morning when I awoke. What a stupid time to get up, I thought. So I made a cuppa and went back to bed. I read yesterdays Telegraph, finished the crossword. Completed the Suduko then read some of my book. The tea went straight through me and as I stood in bathroom draining it away I thought how badly the bathrom needed a clean. A layer of Talcum powder lay on all surfaces, dulling the sheen that they normally have. It was still early, before seven, I decided to clean the bathroom.
In the corner was a pile of dirty washing. I took it next door and put it in the machine. Looking around the office, which was where the washing machine was kept, I thought, I really must put in some work there too. Back in the bathroom the task looked daunting. I went to the kitchen to get the cleaning stuff from under the kitchen sink. Looking around it occurred to me I had let my standards fall, as low as a dosser. I took cloths and cleaning stuff passing through the bedroom. I wondered why my bed had evolved into a clean clothes and book storage area. The cupboards were virtually empty. Why did I find it so difficult to put the clean laundry away?
I cleaned the walls above the gunnels; brushing of the dust and spraying on wax polish returning the wood to somewhere near its former glory. Toilet pan, sink and then shower followed by the lower walls then finally the floor. The whole task only took an hour, which surprised me although the room was only six feet by six feet.
Time for a quick cuppa, then on with the rest. Having an untidy space has an unhealthy effect on one’s psyche. It brings you down and makes you depressed. It makes for a very sad self. I walked back to the bathroom and was pleased with the result. This spurred me on to do more of my home. As you work on from one end to the other the euphoria builds, but towards the end you start to flag and the office never gets done. So now as always I have a nice clean living area, kitchen, bedroom and bathroom, but I am left with a very untidy office, as is the norm. Maybe I should start with the office next time.

The Boat

From high on the hill the scene across the valley was one of rolling countryside. Fields of wheat and barley broken up by hedgerows of hawthorn and of hazel. Dry stone walls along the lanes butting up to houses at the outskirts of the village. Tall stands of pine on a hill on the other side of the great divide, a tarmac road skirting its edge and disappearing down behind the hill. Away down the slope to the left a meadow leading on to a copse of birch trees. In the corner a hump back bridge over a canal, the canal winding its way around a hummock and following a similar path to the stream. A fairly typical English country scene.

Down at the canal bridge just short of a willow whose fronds are touching the dank muddy water moors a laden narrowboat. A figure is standing on the bridge, head in hands.

Through the side hatch of the boat a pool of blood is forming on the floor, a man makes gurgling sounds as the lifeblood drains from the deep gash in the side of his neck. The figure on the bridge, a woman sobbing, drops a knife over the parapet into the water. The life of a working boating family is a hard one, made all the more difficult by the by a brutal man. Her face once more damaged and swollen by the hands of the man she once loved. Her tears fell freely, she sobbed. Though she knew what she had done she was not sorry for him. Whatever the outcome now her life could not be worse than the last ten years.

Leaving You (Robert’s Song)

Song lyric

I was looking back on our life
and saw how things were going
I couldn’t really take the blame
I gave you everything you asked for
But still you asked for more
it seemed to me your life was just a game
It’s no good sayin’ sorry
the time for cryin’s over
I really need to start anew
I found someone who needs me
For who I used to be
she loves me and she’s different to you
I will not say I’m sorry I will not tell you lies
I’m changin’ to how I used to be we’ve had our time together
And I want to leave you easy gotta start myself a brand new me
Now it’s time that I was leavin’
I have somebody waiting
This is the last time I’ll be around.
I’m leavin’ you for ever
To start my life on over
gonna tune my guitar to a brand new sound
I will not say I'm sorry no I will not tell you lies
I’m changin’ to how I used to be we’ve had our time together
And I want to leave you easy gotta start myself a brand new me

Tuesday, 14 May 2013

True story of a country man.

It was a bright sunny morning. Martin awoke early as he always did. He had breakfast then set off in the 4×4 to the far side of his land. He liked to walk there with his dog, Goff. Turning into the field he notice that a travellers encampment had taken up residence. He got out of the vehicle and let Goff out the back. They started off across the field. A traveller approached him and said, “ Don’t let that dog off in here”.

“Why not?” says Martin.

“Coz I got 4 pit bulls in my van and I will let them out,” he said, “They’ll tear your dog to pieces”.

“Oh,” says Martin and he turns and walks back to his 4×4. Taking the shotgun off the rack behind the seats he breaks the gun and quickly pops two cartridges into the breech. Turning back to the traveller he says, “Go on then let your dogs out, you will be surprised how fast I can reload this gun”.

“Ya mean it don’t ya!” said the man.

“Try me,” said Martin, “You come trespassing on my land and threaten me and my dog. Now you and your mates get off my land else I will let you have both barrels and then I will sort your dogs. Do you understand me?”

The man said nothing, just turned called out to his friends and got in his van and drove out of the field. The others followed him.

Moral of the story? ‘Don’t fuck with Martin’.

Monday, 13 May 2013

A Soldiers Life

War is never futile if it is a just war.
A soldier’s life is never wasted if the soldier believes in why he is giving it.

A soldier's life.
It belongs to me it's mine.
I give it in defence of freedom.
I have considered the risk.
I am trained as best I can be.
Our enemy must be stopped at all costs.
If I help to defeat him I die not in vain,
but in glory
knowing I have served my country.
This is my choice.
Because of sacrifices made before
I can choose I have that right.
Do not decry my action.
Join me.
The alternative is unthinkable.
The freedom of my country
from tyranny and oppression
is worth my life.
It is all I have to give.
Freedom is not cheap.
Please do not waste it
decrying my sacrifice.


There I was just
rummaging around,
finger up my nose,
a hand scratching my bum
Its a long held past time
rummaging for lumps of solid snot.
Mum says I shouldn’t do it,
one day my brain will cave in
But it is so annoying when
solid snot gets stuck
just out of reach
I wiggle my finger tip,
twist it round
and round
but the all illusive
snot ball
is nowhere
to be found.
My second knuckle
nearly gone, I’m just
scratching the back
of my eyeball, but
Wait a minute
what’s that I feel,
yes it is!
Lying prostate
under my brain
it’s no wonder I
can't think straight
its sticking all my
thoughts together.
Ah Gotcha!!!!!

A Memorable Dinner

          Mike and I often went out to eat at night. It was simpler and cheaper than eating in. He had been in Kuwait longer than me and knew lots of places to eat and eat well. On occasions we would go into the poorer parts of the city. We both enjoyed the potluck that this provided. There was never any posh set ups, tables were usually Formica topped or had oilcloth laid on scaffold planks and biers. Eating spanners normally arrived with the meal, as did a glass of water. Such establishments had scrupulous hygiene standards, well by their ideal that was the case but there was a lot left undone. Occasionally cockroaches would join you for dinner. They certainly wouldn’t get a hygiene pass from the authorities here. We should have stayed with what we knew, but the food was often exceptional.
          On one occasion we took a taxi into the posh centre of the city, it was 11 September 2001. We had both been watching the events of the twin towers unfold on the TV. I thought I was watching a film at first, I didn’t realise it was a newsreel. Many of the people we lived amongst were Americans. The last thing we wanted that night was to listen to a bunch of rednecks putting the world to rights. We passed by parts of the city that we would normally like to go, parts that were still damaged from the war. Whole sides of buildings were missing but having nowhere to go the occupants were still living there, just a few blankets or a tarp tied in place for their privacy. A far cry from the luxurious apartment block we lived in on the edge of the city.
          At Maxims the doorman greeted us. Inside a waiter showed us downstairs to a table on the far side of the lower dinning area. This was fortunate for us. We ordered non-alcoholic drinks, as is the law in this Muslim state, and chatted about the events of the day. We gleaned information from some noisy Americans sitting across the other side of the restaurant, all conjecture of course. No we didn’t ask, but they have a way of permeating everywhere they go and to be fair they were angry, The Americans had never been attacked on their own mainland before. Welcome to the real world boys!
          We enjoyed dinner. It was of a better standard than our usual fare. Gulf states usually do seafood so very well and here was no different. Prawns are all grown and only a few fill a plate. They served fish we had never heard of and copious quantities of salad, rice, and side dishes filled all the space on the table left by the main course plates.
          There are many things you cannot do in a Muslim state and there are many things you should not do. Most people know what you can’t do, wine women and song sort of covers that, but what shouldn’t you do? Well one thing you shouldn’t be doing is going out to dinner the same day a bunch of Arabs blow up America, coz you just know these Arab boys are angry. If you do go out you should keep ya trap shut, coz you just know these Arab boys are angry.
          Well our American friends didn’t subscribe to this theory at all. “What we should do is bomb these Mother fuckers back to the Stone Age,” said one. This of course would be a pointless exercise because with the exception of mobile phones and motorcars they are still in the Stone Age. What they wanted their government to do to the Arabs was almost unspeakable. “Nuke the bastards,” said another. Well I am assuming you get the gist of this evening.
There were many nationalities sitting in that restaurant that night, me a Brit Mike an Aussie about ten Americans, not to mention Kuwaitis, Iraqis, and Afghanis. The last thing you need to do when you are sitting down to dinner with the ‘brothers’ of those who had just blown up your country is to mouth off. Americans, particularly rednecks, are good at that.
          It was at fifteen minutes past nine that the bomb went off. I know this because my watch broke in the explosion. There were several bombs in town that night all timed to go off together. We were lucky; the ceiling came down in the basement and showered us with debris. Two of the Americans were killed as a support pillar crashed on to their table. Mike and I ducked under the table and were waiting for the dust to clear. The front of the restaurant was blown out and the ground floor was destroyed. Many staff members were killed outright. The doorman ‘miraculously’ had crossed the street to use the toilet.
          I was bleeding from several wounds but only superficially. Mike had blood running down his forehead. “What the fuck was that,” I said. He said he thought the Americans were being too vociferous! “Wait a bit there might be another explosion.” We could hear sirens in the distance, but only in the distance, they didn’t seem to be getting any closer. A few people started moving so we got brave and came out from under our refuge. The sight before us was one of mayhem. Most of the ceiling was scattered on the tables and floor. People who looked like ghosts, covered in dust from head to foot, were standing surveying the scene with stunned looks on their faces. The support pillar that killed the two Americans was trapping another by the legs. We helped to lift it off him. Both his legs were smashed above the knees; he was rolling in and out of consciousness. The Americans dealt with him and their dead compatriots while all the time telling anyone who was in earshot what was going to happen to those ‘cowardly mother fuckers’. They just never learn. Mike and I tended to some of the others but most wounds were minor. The locals were apologising for the ‘outrage’ bought upon us in their country. Nothing we could say would placate them.
          Generally we got off lightly only two dead and one seriously injured. The rest of us had either got just cuts and bruises or were unhurt. We were all shocked! Slowly those of us that were walking got up the stairs and to the front of the building, what was left of it, where we were tended by the medics that eventually turned up.
          My overriding memory of that debacle that I shall never forget is a Kuwaiti police officer asking if I had paid for my dinner. It was totally surreal.

Sunday, 12 May 2013

The Ear Stabbing

True story, this actually happened.

I thought it was an odd thing to do at 47, getting my ear pierced, but someone bet me I wouldn’t do it. Well that was dumb, red rag to a bull an' all that. So I left the group I was with and found a jewellers upstairs. We were in Cribb’s Causeway. I sat in the chair waiting for the qualified ear stabber to get themselves ready. A small boy about 8/9 walked in to get his ear done too. He asked if I was having my ear done.

I said, “Yes.”

“You’re a bit old ain’cha mista,” he said rather cheekily.

“No,” says I, "Are you having yours done?"

"Yes," he said, "both."

Then came the ear stabber with the required equipment. He set up the tool to do the stabbing and as he pulled the trigger I screamed out loud. Arrrrgggghhh! I didn’t feel a thing. . . . . . . . . . but the boy did. He legged it followed closely by his mum. I apologised to the ear stabber for losing him a customer. He saw the funny side of it. The boy will be in his mid 20s now; I don’t supposed he ever got his ear pierced.

Wednesday, 8 May 2013

Small Parcels

(Song Lyric)

It's not the way that you look
Or the things that you say
Not the gleam in your eye
Or the smile far away….on your face.
It’s not the curl in your hair
Or your breath in cold air
Or the way that you feel
Lets me know that you're real
It’s just the way that you seem
To know all of my dreams
And the way that you find
To look into my mind
Little things come in small parcels
Your smile bright as a pearl
Little things come in small parcels
Little things mean more than the world

The Village

          In a small village there is no such thing as privacy. Often the smallest thing can go viral at the drop of a hat. Take Tilley, lovely girl, in her thirties clock ticking away. Her parents have had a boat here for many years. In fact she herself has a boat. She bought it last year. Max the local boat fixer did the Safety Cert and advised Tilley on its value. After the purchase Max helped to do those things that needed doing to make it comfortable. (Comfort, not being a part of the Safety Cert). I am not sure if Tilley and Max were together before the purchase or not, but they certainly were after.
          Well anyway it was some time later that the relationship went sour. Both of them are strong independent types, but Max likes to be in charge. Tilley was having none of it. She wants ankle biters and he can’t have them so I suppose the union was doomed to fail.
It was one night last week when I was cycling down to the Jolly that I saw Max head down as usual on his way to the village pub; which as it happened had just been taken over by a new landlord although this has no relevance to the story; I said hello as I cycled past and received a grunt in return. The following day it transpired, whilst talking to RT, that Tilley had just got married. Apparently to someone she met over the interwebbythingy. They had only been in contact three weeks! She felt compelled to tell Max before he heard it from anyone else, but of course that broke his heart. This was shortly before he grunted at me. Of course RT telling me was like God giving Moses the stone tablets soon everyone knew. With the aid of my mobile I doubt there was a house in the village that didn’t know in 15 minutes.
          What I found most surprising was that when I saw Max dog walking the next morning with Lilly, I was none the wiser, I hadn’t yet come by the knowledge that RT imparted to me later that day. But my telling Lilly was a non-starter because Max had told her on their walk. She knew! Can you believe she ‘forgot’ to mention it? “Call ya self a woman,” I said, “fine gossip you are. Biggest story since I got banned from using the club pump out and you said nothing!” Well OK it wasn’t the biggest story but I don’t want to tread on any toes, you know how it is. Although … Max being dumped by Jean after his return from America was quite big news here, slightly surpassed by the fact that he had a vasectomy because Jean didn’t want anymore kids which is the reason he can’t give Tilley a child … or anyone else for that matter.
          And today there I am walking Molly past Tilley’s parents boat and I get invited on board and introduced to the new hubby, Roland who, though shorter, is not unlike Max, except he doesn’t have that most annoying laugh, well cackle really. What an opportunity! Couldn’t resist telling my friend, she was surprised originally when I told her about the wedding. This socialising was great news to her. Now she knows she will call Tilley with congratulations.
          This is such a quiet village nothing ever happens here.

Tuesday, 7 May 2013

The Haircut

          So there I was on my way to the barbers, that’s what we older peeps call a hairdresser. I felt the need for a mowing if only because long hair takes so long to dry in this cold weather. It wasn’t particularly cold when I arrived at the barbers yet the man with the scissors wore a reefer jacket and a scarf. I think he was trying to look cool. He didn’t look cool at all. He looked to me like the sort of man that would use the word ’business' often, like they do in East Enders. As I walked in he looked at me and said, “You’re next.”
          I took a seat. I watched as he took eons cutting the hair of a youth in his twenties who was already seated and being done when I arrived. The end result could have been achieved with electric trimmers in about 30 seconds. However he could not have charged £13 if he had done it that quick. Why does the shortest of short haircuts take so long? The lad had ‘products’ applied before he stood up.
          What is it with ‘products’, “Would you like some products on it sir?” Well maybe I would, how about some 15/20 engine oil or yellow paint maybe some grated architrave. (Those of you that do not see the irony of this should be reading Janet and John books). What a silly thing to ask! Tell me what you have got. Ask me if I want conditioner or hair gel or whatever. Do not leave it to my clairvoyant skills to work out because I don’t have any.
          Another reason for having a haircut was some people’s idea that I had long hair to effect a comb over, which is certainly not true in my case. Me being blessed with a very full head of hair, I could have given Jedward a run for their money. Though even in the RAF I was often called 'Wiggy'.
          Anyway just before I fell into a coma my turn came. I got up from my vantage point and sat in the chair. Now at this point I like to nod off, but the chap insisted on asking how I wanted it. Isn’t it obvious? I have had it like this for ages. It grew this way because this is the way it was the last time I had it cut, it just happens to be longer. And besides it doesn’t matter what I say it will always come out too short.
          We decided on a not too short, short back and sides and he set to with the weed whacker making his way through the undergrowth to give him a starting place for the creating to begin. It was like a slash and burn exercise in the Brazilian jungle. Snip snip snip cut cut snip cut snip snip cut. Then all of a sudden, without any warning, it was done. I had twenty times more hair than the lad in front of me yet it took less time to cut. He picked up a mirror and showed me the back of my head. He asked me if I wanted any ‘products’. There was no evidence of any ‘products’ on display that I could see from which I could make an informed choice so I said, “No.” With that a young girl who had been perched on a broom at the back of the shop guarding the door marked “Private,” took that as her cue and flew across the room to sweep away the debris of which there was lots.
          There was an area of hair at the back of my head set off to one side that seemed to want fly on its own. I pointed to this and said it wasn’t right. He said, “You have some sort of squirling going on at the back there and I can’t do anything with it because you don’t want any products.” I assumed he thought he maybe might stick it down with some ‘product’ he bought from B&Q.
          I refrained from telling him that I was born with a double crown and that as a qualified hairdresser he really should be able to recognise that. He was the first person ever to have left that bit sticking up. In actual fact I walked in with a woolly hat on and that was part of the reason for the fly away hair, he should have seen that because he spoke directly to me when I walked in and I had the hat on then. “Well,” I said, “It can’t stay like that.” He let out a low level hurrumpfff and cut it some more then decided that the rest of the head had to be trimmed to match. In the end he didn’t do a bad job but as predicted it was now too short. Had I not said anything he would have had me walk out with a very poor haircut with which to demonstrate his skills.
          He parted me from 13 of my quids and didn’t even ask if I wanted anything for the weekend. You know, I never did understand what they meant by that, but I missed it, it was part of the ritual. I felt cheated. I did once asked for a pie and a pint and was shown the door, which was not a problem because I was finished there anyway.
          All in all not too bad, it will do, but young people shouldn’t be allowed to cut older heads, we are different to their younger clients and expect a service that doesn’t require ‘products’.

Monday, 29 April 2013


Litter, laying lonely,
lank, lost.
Lamppost, loutish local lad
leaned lazily,
lobbing lolly-sticks.

Lane’s lady lifted litter,
looking lovely,
Lugubrious lullaby,
laconic lilt.

Thursday, 25 April 2013




Betty, Betty, Betty.
Your hair like spaghetti.

A stoic pose.
A tiny nose.

Virgin’al parted hair.
Cold and empty stare.

Long and slender neck.
And beauty, ee by ‘eck.

Tuesday, 23 April 2013

The Wind That Never Dies

(to John Lennon)

In the austere silence of my early days of life,
There came a wind of change into the world.
A young man, an angry man, with oh so much to say.
Time would tell and he would have his way.

The songs came and very soon every one had heard,
The message and absurdity he penned in every word.
And it was the breeze of peace, that was this mans intent.
The life that was within him would oh so soon be spent.

Singing songs of tomorrow for peace through all of time.
The lives he touched were everyone’s not just yours and mine.

An anchor for the youth of nineteen sixty-three.
The words he wrote were beautiful, so beautiful to me.

Oh, John I am so sad you died before your time.
We’ll never know the heights to which you would’ve climbed.
And Yoko said, “There is a wind, a wind that never dies.”
So now I feel your spirit around me in the skies.

You didn’t want to be a soldier,
so sad that you should die.
I heard the news that day,
The tears fell from my eyes.

Rose Ulett

She was just like any other mother in the street. Her education was small, but she was generous to a fault. The Great War was over 10 years past, but still there were wounded ex-soldiers begging in the streets. Every Saturday Rose went to the shop in Green Lane. There, leaning against the wall, propped up on one solitary crutch was a man playing an accordion. He wore a tattered uniform, his cap was on the ground. Rose had half-a-crown to her name, this was to feed the kids until payday. She always gave him sixpence. It never occurred to her that if he could change her half-crown, he had at least as much money as she, but as I said, ‘she was generous to a fault’. She handed him the half-crown and he handed her two shillings and sixpence in change; he never gave her copper. She in turn gave him back sixpence, the smallest coin she had.

Monday, 22 April 2013

Mr Grey

Who is Mr Grey she said
And then she wrote a poem
And thousands came to read
The words she wrote at hoem

Sunday, 21 April 2013

Forever to be free

Will you be there for me,
When the dark shadows fall?
Will you ever be there for me,
When in the darkness you I call?

There'll be many days go by,
And the bells will toll high.
And the love that I have for you
Will never ever die.

Oh when will you sing for me,
When I'm home from far away?
And when will you play for me,
When I'm dead and in my grave?

When the world falls around me,
Will you ever come to see,
The one man in the Universe,
Forever to be free?

Saturday, 20 April 2013

Scene from TV series (one of only two scenes I have)


Martin stands at the gate leading into the yard. A touristy type parks and approaches Martin in a bit of a hurry.

TOURIST: I say, my good man, is there a toilet?


Martin can be a man of few words when it suits him.

TOURIST: Well where is it I need to go.

MARTIN: Well you didn’t say that.

Tourist has pained expression on his face.

TOURIST: Well I thought that would be obvious!

MARTIN: Well no sir you just asked if there was a toilet, you didn’t say you needed to go.

TOURIST: Well where is it?

MARTIN: Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?

Tourist looking exasperated

TOURIST: Where is it, please?

MARTIN: Thank you. Manners don’t cost nothing you know. It’s through that gate and round the corner to your left.

TOURIST: (relieved) Thank you!

Tourist leaves to find the toilet. Hurries back seconds later. The pained expression on his face is now more urgent.

TOURIST: Its locked!

MARTIN: Aye! It always is.

TOURIST: How do I get in?

MARTIN: Well that’s simple. You need a key. Don’t you townies know anything?

TOURIST: Yes I know that, but where do I get the key?

MARTIN: You have to buy one.

TOURIST: But I need to go now!

MARTIN: Well you can’t go in that one.

TOURIST: Why not?

MARTIN: It’s locked!

MARTIN: it’s not a public toilet.

MARTIN: That’s why it’s kept locked.

TOURIST: Well why didn’t you say that?

MARTIN: You didn’t ask!

Martin looks down at the man’s nether regions as a wet patch appears.

MARTIN: There is a toilet across the bridge at Annie’s, but it doesn’t matter now you don’t need it.

Martin smiled. As the man walked away in embarrassment Martin says under his breath.

MARTIN: Seems like manners isn’t the only thing that townies aren’t taught at home.

Friday, 19 April 2013

The Orange

As I pluck you from the tree,
Soft and round you feel to me.
Tender as a young girls breast,
You entice me, you are the best.
Your jacket tight must be undone,
But wait this is not for everyone.

Take a knife and slice the fabric
I push under the pith, wet and stick– – – y
Your juices come on my fingers, running on the peel
Smelling sweet and sticky feel
How do you say I should eat of thee?
Should I rip your clothes off completely?

Spread you wide and into your innermost parts
with my tongue searching for your heart?
Or gently peel your segments one by one.
Eating each succulent piece as rays of sun
Allowing those juices which are the very blood of you
To dribble – down my chin.

I shall slowly devour you piece by piece till
at the end your remains lie still
torn upon the dirty floor
discarded like a $5 whore.

Thursday, 18 April 2013

About an Orange

“Write about an Orange,” she said,
“About an Orange!” Oh – my – head!
I know why she picked that fruit.
Because poetically it is a beaut.
There is no word harder to rhyme
I think that is what you will find
But me, I know the puzzle, still
you can make of this what you will.
There’s a park of similar name where I was born
I think it’s still there, I’ll check in the morn

Meanwhile an orange is a necessity
So I can set to, to write this ditty
About something I am sad to say
Does not enamour me in any way
All I need is to find a shop
So it’s on the bus that I must hop,
Cos in Oxford there’s an Orange store.
And I am pretty fairly sure
They will supply me with my needs
Maybe even one with seeds.

Ah! Wrong Orange that’s not fair.
They sell only mobile phones up there
So it’s in the market down at the back
There is a man who knows the crack
He’ll sell me an orange for my class
I’ll have to give him some of my brass.
At last I have my Object d’art
But I didn’t have to go quite that far
I could have stopped off in town.
Got one for only half a crown.

And of course less bus fare.
Too late now but I don’t care
Look at me. How I digress
Gosh this is a bloody mess
I am supposed to be writing about an orange
I must rhyme it with a park named Gorringe.
Else everyone will stop and say
You didn’t make that rhyme today.
Now leave me please I need some time
I have to write this bloody rhyme.

Wednesday, 17 April 2013

Leaving you

I was looking back on our life
and saw how things were going
I couldn’t really take the blame
I gave you everything you asked for
But still you asked for more
it seemed to me your life was just a game

It’s no good sayin’ sorry
the time for cryin’s over
I really need to start anew
I found someone who needs me
For who I used to be
she loves me and she’s different to you

I will not say I’m sorry I will not tell you lies
I’m changin’ to how I used to be we’ve had our time together
And I want to leave you easy gotta start myself a brand new me

Now it’s time that I was leavin’
I have somebody waiting
This is the last time I’ll be around.
I’m leavin’ you for ever
To start my life on over
gonna tune my guitar to a brand new sound

I will not say I'm sorry no I will not tell you lies
I’m changin’ to how I used to be we’ve had our time together
And I want to leave you easy gonna start myself a brand new me

The Mooring Bollard

The Mooring Bollard squat and round
by the lock side to be found.
Why it’s there I do not know,
like mushrooms they do seem to grow.
Black and white, three to a lock
they can trip, you get a shock.
An exercise in futility,
they’re no damn good to you or me.
Take them out the boaters say,
But BW will have their way.
We’ve started now so we will finish.
Oh, do get rid of them pretty soon-ish.
Three thousand pounds they cost to fit.
That’s a grand for every bit
of cast iron lump beside the locks.
We didn’t want these metal blocks.
Why is it that they do not listen?
To those that know the brickwork caisson.
They really should go run and hide.
They put them on the wrong bloody side!

Speaking from the inside.

There’s a place where I can go
When I’m searching for some peace
It’s a place of many wonders
Where my troubles can decrease

It’s a place where we all can go
It’s in all of us you see
Just take a look and you will find it
My place is inside of me

Of course I am speaking from the inside
Where my thoughts are all my own
Where I don’t find any evil
And I never am alone

If you look hard you will find your place
Search long ’til you feel the peace
Then you will be inside yourself
And your life will be at ease

The Infernal Machine

Joseph came up to the King
He said I have a wondrous thing.
Its a bit square and sort of round.
I made it from things I have found.

It’s the very best of its kind
There is none better you will find
It’s quite expensive it cost a lot
I will swap it for some land, a plot.

The King said “Nay, I’ll not give you land
For that you must make one thousand
So Joseph feeling quite rejected
Went to his house and there reflected.

I know he said I’ll make a machine
And make a thousand for the king
So he set to with hammer and nails
And in the wood holes he did bore

He went out and bought some spanners
And carried them home in his panniers
He put them beside the nuts and bolts
On the shelf with hooks that hold

He cut and drilled all through the night
And filed metal shapes till they were right.
Then screwed together the bits and pieces
And glued them up with dog faeces.

Then next day his job was done.
His machine was grand, the only one
It hummed and whirred and went tick tock
And buzzed and clunked like a broken clock.

At the press of a button it spat out a block
That was square and sort of round
He pressed again out came another
And another and another and another

In fact it didn’t want to stop
It just made block after block after block
Very soon there were blocks every where
He had to stack them high in the air

The king was pleased he said so.
He had his thousand blocks to go.
Joseph got his piece of land
But that is where his blocks now stand

For the one thing that Jo forgot
Was a button that would make it stop
So on the Infernal Machine worked
And in it’s duty never shirked

But Joseph he just sat and pondered
About the blocks he had to wonder
He had more blocks than he could use
Won’t that machine just blow a fuse?

More Nonstuff

I wonder why it is
when I wrote this in a tiz
people seem to read
but not be heard.

I think I’m right in saying.
we soon will all be playing
With a thing that’s made from watsits
And a few pounds of stuff

It will do exactly what we want it to
And then when we have had enough
It will sit there in a cupboard
At the bottom of the stairs

Tuesday, 16 April 2013


I could never be a party
To a spider eating pies
Or doggies munching cats
Much less horses wearing hats

A turtle dancing squares
Or a rigadoon from hares
A ladybird that buzzes
When it’s really not a bee

Does a Zebra wear pyjamas
Or a Tiger loving Llamas
Affect the way you see
The world you’re in.

Or should a Hippopotamus
Make love to a Rhinoceros
Or maybe Monkeys should
Stop climbing trees.

There are ants and Armadillos
Who seem to get lost in hedgerows
There’s a tree where wombats squat
And an Elefant who sneezes balls of snot

If you try to catch an eel
It is slippery to feel
And tomato soup is
Only served on Sunday

Saturday, 13 April 2013

100 word Drama

It was late. The pub had closed. Marcus was on his way home. In the darkness he heard a blood-curdling scream. He stopped in a shadow trying to work out from which direction it came. There was another scream followed by a gunshot, then another. Looking through the front window of a small terraced house he saw a man fall to the floor. A woman sobbed, "You've killed him, you've killed him. Another gunshot, she stopped crying. The titles rolled up the wide screen. A man in the house got up, quietly turned off the TV and left the room.

Friday, 12 April 2013

The Letter

When I saw my son marching off to war I was the proudest man on the street, well we were all proud. Our sons were off to fight the Huns. They had stood and were counted; counted as men who, at their country’s behest, would go and give the Germans a bloody nose.

I remember he looked smart in his uniform, marching smartly down the street, in his well-polished boots. This was the lad that I had nurtured from birth. The lad that I had loved from the moment he took his first breath. The lad that I, had taught to be … a man.

He wrote often about his life on the battlefields of Europe, sometimes every day. He gave good account of himself. Every letter signalled that he was safe, at least at the time of his writing.

My boy was a fine boy, any man would be proud to have him as a son. He stood tall, as his grandfather stood tall. He spoke his mind, he got that from me. He cared about the little things; he got that from his mother. She passed on some years ago. I watched him as he heard the news. His little lips quivering, tears in his eyes though not crying, no, not crying. He was the saddest I had ever seen him and there was nothing I could do to ease his pain. Oh I so wanted to ease his pain.

It was around the end of June his letters stopped coming. I thought he may have been part of the ‘Big Push’ and was probably too busy to write. A fighting man doesn’t want to be bothered with writing letters, does he? And then it came. Late one morning, in the second post it was. It was an official looking letter, a crisp white envelope with a typed address on its front and an embossed crown on the back. I had dreaded this since the day he marched off to war. I had wondered then if I would ever see him again. Of course I never let him know that, I couldn’t you see. I carefully placed the letter on the shelf above the fire in the best room. I would open it when I had finished tidying the house.

When he was small I remember his little hands, he was always so delicate … no … genteel is a better description, he got that from his mother as well.

The letter seemed to watch me as I went about my business. I cleaned out the ashes from the hearth; they were cool enough by then. After the dust settled I dusted the mantle shelf, lifting the letter then placing it back carefully so as not to disturb it.

Why? Oh why? Oh why had this happened? He was a fine lad, an English lad through and through. He was my child, my very own son whom I had loved and cherished and raised as best I could. As best I … knew … how. I picked up the letter. I shuddered at the thought of what it contains. I put it down again. Was this to be the darkest day of my life? Oh God! I hoped he didn’t suffer.

When he was ten he fell from a tree and broke his arm. He was lucky; it was a clean break, bent at a funny angle, but clean. I could see the pain in his face, but not one tear did he let fall upon his cheek. He simply refused to cry. Please God! Tell me it was quick.

I reached once more to the shelf and again I stopped. No, no, I must read it. It would be a dishonour to him if I did not read it now. I slowly opened the envelope and took out the plain white folded page it contained. The embossed crown on the back of the envelope was duplicated on the top of the page.

Dear Sir . . . . . . . . . . . . . it began.

Oh no! I cannot go on …

This is to inform you that His Majesty is extremely proud of your son Michael . . . .

This is it. He is dead. I know he is dead. This is my darkest hour. No longer will I have the companionship of my beloved boy and I shall die a lonely and bitter old man.

. . . . who, during the battle of the Somme acquitted himself with Honour and Valour. His Majesty is proud to award him this country’s highest honour, the Victoria Cross.

My God I couldn’t stand it! VCs are posthumously awarded I’m sure. My eyes glazed over and the words seemed to run, one into another.

You are requested to attend the award ceremony at Buckingham Palace on September 18 where your son will receive his medal from the King.

His medal? From the King? My son? What evil is this? Is he dead or not? This is a joke. It has to be. What kinds of people play jokes like this? Am I not suffering enough?

Knock! Knock!

“Father, are you home?”

The Canal

Ancient road of water still
Through English fields winds on
Toward the slowly setting sun
Muddy ditch of nutrient soup
Blackening with the fading light
History of the revolution
Beginning the rise of Empire yet
Decaying with the loss of greatness
Far from former glory falls
Leaking through the boundary set
To trespass on another's space
But in the morning sun the evil fades
And myriad rays reflect the glory
Of a sceptered isle from long ago
When hard men in wooden boats
Carried wealth across the land
In times when English industry
Hungered for the cargos therein
And the market place craved
The product spewed from
Smokey city factories.
Overtaken by the rail company
Slowly faded into disuse
For many years this eyesore
In the throes of death left to nature
Disappeared 'neath both car park and estate
Filled with weeds and silt and supermarket trolley
Bicycles, milk crates, tyres, and all manner
Of junk, garbage, waste and trash
Stinking ditch of filth and mire
Yet men of vision equal to the original Canalers
Saw the waste of this historic water
Campaigning for keeping it open
That our children might marvel at its wonder
And continue in some small way to
Preserve the life of days gone by
Before the advent of rail brought it close
To its demise and sad finale
No longer do we see the many working boats
That once plied trade along the length
Of canals that covered the country
North to South, East to West
Instead the new boater of leisure
Sets forth from marinas across the land
To enjoy the sights of green landscapes
Rolling hills and open valleys
Tree lined fields and stones of long gone ritual
Viewed from calm waters through rush and reed.

Thursday, 11 April 2013


deliberately doling
dreary dreams.

dropping depression
down deeper.

dungeons devise
devilish doldrums

One hundred word story

I start with just one word,
and then add another
I think of my mum and
then write about mother.

A handful of ifs, and
more words besides,
and a cupful of buts,
then I write about chives.

I write all my thoughts on
a pad at my desk,
but I sometimes have jotters
tucked into my vest.

One hundred words
Not one hundred and one
No, it has to be right
now I have begun

There is no point
in this title I fear
To miscount the words
brings me no cheer.

It is nearly enough
99, one hundred.


Wednesday, 10 April 2013


The Falkland Isles

There’s a rock in the South Atlantic as big as you’ll ever see.
It’s got fousans o’ penguins and lots o’ sheep , but not a lot for me.
It’s bin ours for maybe ‘undreds or lots more bloody years.
They tried to take it away from us those Argie bleedin’ queers.

They came in the middle of the night
And gave our boys quite a fright
And their Capitan said “Go, now shift your limey ass.
These islands now belong to us, we’ll call them Malvinas.”

When the news got back to England ‘bout what the Argies did.
The then Prime Minister Maggie flipped her fragging lid.
She gathered up her tanks and boats and fighter aeroplanes.
And sent them off down south to get our islands back again.

‘Twas sometime afore they got to where they were supposed to be
Coz it’s a long way to down south ‘cross all that bleedin’ sea
When they arrived it was no joke they very soon could tell
They were shot at by the Argies , who had exocets as well.

The Brits set up an exclusion zone with a gert long piece of rope
Those scabby bloody’ Argies didn’t have a hope
The Belgrano crossed the rope time and time agen
So our navy sent it down with six hundred ‘n’ fifty men.

That’ll teach ‘em

Of course the biggest prize of all was ‘id far from the onslaught
The Twenty Fifth of May never left their bleedin’ port
A sad day came at great expense to the good old Brit taxpayer
Some Argie bleedin’ soddin’ git sank the Atlantic Conveyor.

God bless the good old Tommy as they went to fight the fight
They crept up on them Argies and gave them a bloody good fright.
They gave them a good seein’ to and sent the bastards home.
Never again on our fair isles will Argie soldiers roam.

This is a tale of the big boys giving it to the upstart gits
Never again will Argies stand against British ships.
This tale has a sad refrain I’m sure you’ll all agree,
God bless the boys who gave their lives . . . . . . for the oil under the sea.

Winter Fall

It’s cold outside
The dank night
Chills the bones
Windows closed
Against the cold wind
Leaves and litter squirl
Around in corners,
Trapped in spirals.

People wrapped up
Against the cold and
Hurry through streets
Their frozen breath
Carried away by
The cutting wind
Leaden footfalls
Labour along the path

Numb toes, cold
Frozen fingertips
Frosted paving
Glitters in the lamps
Lighting the streets
Slipping. . .
. . . . . . . . fall. . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . Crack!!!

Steel Dragons, Steel Skeletons

There is a place we used to go down by the riverside,
the meadow grass was soft and cool the trees there grew with pride.
We played there all the summer long, in this haven from the crowd.
We'd rest awhile and there enjoy the passing of the clouds.

We would fight the evil knights and dragons we would slay,
'Til twilight came to tell us of the closing of the day.
Life was oh so simple then, no worries did we crave.
At night in bed we all would sleep the slumber of the brave.

Then one day a man arrived with a tripod and a scale.
He measured to the riverbank and back up to the hale.
And when his task was over he took his tools away,
We never thought that he'd come back
but then again he may.

Late in the summer when we awoke, we heard a thunderous roar,
Steel dragons came into the lane and through the meadow tore.
They started work by tearing the grass from off the land.
By the time they had finished not one tree did they let stand.

Next there came the lorries with yards and yards of steel.
But no one ever asked us exactly how we feel.
The place where we all went, to spend our time in play,
Was totally destroyed in the space of just one day.

Giant concrete pipes sunk into the river silt.
Steel skeletons erected and to the sky were built.
Piles and piles of tarmac were laid upon the ground.
Then someone deigned to tell us, "This was to be 'Newtown'".

The Dragons kept on eating the grass from off the land,
And still no one ever told us exactly how we stand.
Then one day came the people; we knew just what they'd say,
"We're sorry we can't live here, there's nowhere nice to play."

The buildings are now rotting as the fabric falls away.
Steel skeletons lay rusting in the sadness of the day.
If only they had stopped to think, "What will our work become?"
There'd still be children playing, by the river, in the sun.

Tuesday, 9 April 2013

In the beginning

I visited a blog somewhere and noticed that the blogger had a separate blog for his Poetry. So I set up one for mine. It will include my poetry, prose, lyrics, shorts, plays, thoughts. You might like it you might not, but it cant hurt to look.
There should be some hectic writing as I upload stuff I have already written then it will slow down.