Pass slowly over me

Nice poem from Stephen Tanham. I like this one.

Sun in Gemini

Pass slowly over me

Blue and pearl of July sky

Lift from this day

A living crown of summer’s leaves

And place it on my hidden head

As lasting ghost of sky that shone

▵

This done, let me pass this way 

When days are dark and short

And ground is mud and slush

When man and dog have weary feet

Their homeward trek near ended 

To wooden fire that warms the soul

▵

With shortened strength in darkening eve

Let me pause a breath, remembering

And reaching back, pull down that crown

Then, for a heartbeat, blaze within

Uniting dark and light in song of human tide

Whose role and right is seeing both.

▵

©Stephen Tanham 

View original post

Advertisements

Travelling with Kids

We’re all going on a summer holiday,

On Friday everything will be alright,

We’ll be travelling down to the ferry,

That takes us to the Isle of Wight.

 

We’re going with our two granddaughters

As soon as we set off you can bet,

One will feel sick, the other will need to ‘go’,

And they’ll both ask “Are we there yet?”

 

It’s a four hour journey to the ferry,

But we’ve played this game before.

I’ll ask Mummy to bring their DVD players,

To make it a bit less of a chore.

 

Their daddy and his little brother

Hated long journeys as well,

They’d play thumb wars on the back seat,

Shout, punch each other, and yell.

 

“You get in the front, and you stay in the back!”

I’d shout at the top of my voice.

I would have preferred to go back home on my own,

If I’d been given the choice.

 

They’d always listen to a Postman Pat tape,

But after the twenty first repeat,

It kind of grates upon the nerves,

And makes you fidgety in your seat.

 

“Are we there yet” would come the question,

And I’d look around and say “Don’t! –

When we get there we’ll be there,

And until then we won’t.”

 

“But I’m bored!” would come the cry,

And a foot would kick his brother,

“He kicked me!” A voice would whine,

“I hate him!” Yelled the other.

 

Then magically we had arrived.

The sun came out to play.

Two little boys were let out from their cage,

To fight another day.

The Crozier Estate

My teenage years were spent living miserably in an 8th floor flat on an infamous London council estate, which many years later I found out was at one point home to the ‘Shoe Bomber’ too.  I’ve changed the name of it (just in case!) in the poem below.  It’s all true by the way, but the photo underneath is just one I saw on the Free Photos site showing a similar block of flats:

 

In nineteen hundred and seventy one
The Crozier Estate had just begun.
Four thousand souls in the September heat
Made themselves at home amongst the London concrete.

Flats, maisonettes, and houses galore,
Had risen up from an airfield's floor.
Grey breeze blocks had been cobbled together
To give the people a happy ever after.

For eight long years I stayed there with my dad and mum
Until my day of freedom could come.
When I could leave the place where few trees grew,
And where the council had slowly let
All the eggs sink in one rotten basket.

When the original tenants did move or die,
With relish arrived the work-shy.
Over the sound of the TV at night,
Police outside would break up yet another fight.

Ambulances were two a penny
In the days when there were many.
A&E doctors came to dread the state
Of the inhabitants of the Crozier Estate.

In nineteen hundred and ninety four,
My mum, now a widow, heard a kick at her door.
It wasn't the first time, and she knew for sure
That she must move to where we were.

The estate had sunk to a new level of low,
Mildewed, decaying, unloved, and so...
We took my mum on a little ride
And moved her out to the countryside.
She hated it, this new place of hers,
And took the piss out of the villagers.

In two thousand and ten the bulldozers came round
And razed the estate down to the ground.
But like a phoenix it rose again without a hitch,
And is now a billion pound 'des res' for the rich!

Who’s Worse?

Here I sit and drink my tea

Before my appointment in Oncology.

A sea of people pass before my eyes,

Fat ones, thin ones; every shape and size.

On their way to who knows what?

Maybe to see a doctor and find out what they’ve got.

Whatever they have I bet I can see

Someone here who’s worse off than me.

Yes, there he is, a little old dude

In a wheelchair and with an oxygen tube.

***

Here I sit in my wheelchair and seethe

‘Cos I’ve smoked all my life and now I can’t breathe.

I’m on this pill and that one, green, red and blue,

Still no difference; I can’t even walk to the bloody loo.

Never mind, my old lady will wheel me off

To Respiratory, where they’ll get me to cough

And breathe out into that tube which I can’t do,

Because of cigarettes, ‘cos I’ve smoked quite a few.

Oh well, Maybe I can see

Someone here who’s worse off than me.

There she is, poor old cow,

No arms, no legs, just a torso.

***

My motorised wheelchair is the best,

I get around from east to west.

Along the hospital corridors I fly

To see my mate who’s going to die.

I was born this way, I know no other,

I’m used to it; it’s really no bother.

I overtake a dude with an oxygen mask,

Who’s wheezing like every breath’s his last.

And a thin woman sitting drinking her tea,

No hair under that scarf that I can see.

Poor lady, so sad to be that way,

At least I’ll see another day.

She gives me a smile as she sips her tea

As she probably thinks… there’s someone who’s worse off than me!

Santa and Chris do Christmas Eve

Here’s a little festive offering for you.  I’m out celebrating tomorrow, so see you all again on Boxing Day.

---

 

Through every house he’d crept to find

A glass of sherry left behind,

And oftentimes mince pies divine,

To fill the gap ‘till dinner time.

Santa Claus loved all things tasty,

But knew he mustn’t eat that pastry.

It played havoc with a resolution

To take good care of his constitution.

It made him bloat up full of air,

But Santa couldn’t resist such fare.

Reaching out to seal his fate,

He took a mince pie from a plate.

On the plate was a present list,

From a little boy by the name of Chris.

On the list read Santa Claus

The name of Skylanders Imaginators.

Santa burped and had some doubt

As to what little Chris was on about.

He’d never heard of such a game;

What happened to puzzles and Ludo,

And Scrabble and Cluedo?

Santa ate another pie

And shook his head and gave a sigh.

In his stomach he heard a sound,

But ignored the noise and skipped on down.

Next on the list was a Pokemon figure

Santa shrugged and started to snigger.

He was really, really none the wiser,

But he fancied another appetiser.

Down the little red lane into his belly,

Went three more pies and two glasses of sherry.

Santa squinted at the text

To see which toy that Chris wanted next.

When he read a Hatchimal

He let loose a laugh that resembled a howl.

His rumbling stomach did usurp

The laugh, and turned it into a burp.

The burp resounded around the place,

And all of a sudden he saw Chris’s face.

The little boy had heard a noise

And came downstairs to see what toys

Santa had left for a good mother’s son,

He soon found out that there were none.

Santa explained that he had some doubts

As to just what Chris was going on about.

He asked the boy if he would like,

A puzzle, a toy car, or even a bike.

Chris shook his head and looked down at the flooring,

And said all three were really boring.

Santa decided such an ungrateful wretch,

Could make do with just an Etch-a-Sketch.

Chris took one look at the toy,

And suddenly was a happy boy.

He said he’d always wanted one of those.

He twiddled the knobs as Santa fell into a doze.

All that pastry had knocked him out,

While the glasses of sherry had made him stagger about.

When he woke up Chris was gone,

His head ached a lot with the advent of dawn.

He saw a note that the boy had left,

When he read it, he felt somewhat blessed.

‘Thank you Santa’, Chris had scrawled,

My Etch-a-Sketch is the best present of all!’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For Marc and Lisa on their Wedding Day.

When my son Marcus married the love of his life, Lisa, back in 2010, they asked me to compose a poem which could be read out at their wedding reception.  I came up with the ditty below, which caused a few laughs at the time, and a few tears.  It tells the story of how they met as young teenagers back in 2002, in those heady days when both sets of parents doubled as unpaid taxi drivers.

Two brown soulful eyes,

A handsome face I see.

I look at Marcus

And he looks at me.

 

He’s quiet and shy,

Where I go

There he’ll be.

I cuddle Marcus,

And he cuddles me.

 

Not keen on playgroup,

Doesn’t want to learn,

Two sad brown eyes

Await my return.

 

First day at school

He’s grown so tall,

He’s made me a picture

To hang on the wall.

 

Now he goes to big school,

Runs for the bus so as not to be late,

Waves goodbye at the garden gate.

He visits friends who live near and far,

One day he sees my old guitar.

 

“Teach me some chords Mum”,

The guitar’s in his hand,

Before you know it,

He’s joined a band.

 

He grows his hair

His friends aren’t posh,

Some of them

Don’t appear to ever wash.

 

“We need a singer”

Who will it be?

I place some adverts.

We wait and see.  

 

A girl replies,

She sends a text.

They arrange to meet

On Saturday next.

 

She arrives in a car

With her father and mother,

They’ve both come to see

Who’s got his eye on their daughter.

 

Her father Dave jumps out

And shakes Marc by the hand,

Mother Mandy’s less keen,

Lisa’s only fifteen.

 

Marc has long hair, big boots,

A leather jacket and all,

Amanda’s phone is by her ear

In case Lisa has to call.

 

Ex- ‘Mod’ Dave can’t believe it,

He’s in for a shocker.

He never thought his daughter,

Would want to go out with a rocker.

 

They walk and talk,

The time flies by,

Now Lisa meets us

Who are waiting nearby.

 

They come towards us

Hand in hand,

That’s quick work thinks I,

It pays to be in a band.

 

She’s a very sweet girl

With long dark hair,

She answered the advert

For a dare.

 

My son is in love

The world around him grows dim.

He cuddles Lisa,

And she cuddles him.

 

And so it must pass,

It’s part of nature’s plan,

From mother to wife,

Now he’s grown to a man. 

 

But as we sit here today,

I’ll say to each and every one,

I’ve gained a daughter,

Not lost a son.

November

Thanks to Fabiola for inviting me to join her Sunday blog http://www.fabifabu.com/, which focuses mainly on DIY creative arts and food.  I’m hopeless at cooking and I can’t sew, and so all that’s left is for me to write a poem.  I’ve called it ‘November’.

Autumn leaves lie scattered where they fall,

No more do we hear the rooks’ loud call.

Jack Frost spreads tendrils far and wide,

Poor little robins have nowhere to hide.

As you step out for a winter walk somewhere,

Your breath clouds before you in the frozen air.

Put on a warm coat, gloves and scarf,

It’s November-time; don’t do things by halves.

Don’t forget the furry boots and a nice warm hat,

Put a basket by the fire for Kitty-cat.

Maybe it’s Bonfire Night or Thanksgiving you’re fond,

It all depends on your side of the pond.

But whether you’re British or whether from the USA,

November’s the same – it’s all cold and grey!

 

Annie Withinshaw’s Hallowe’en Surprise.

Thanks to Fabiola for inviting me to join her blog http://www.fabifabu.com/, which focuses mainly on DIY creative arts and food.

I cannot make any wonderful cakes and wreaths etc. like Fabiola does, but what I can do is create poetry.  So whenever I’ve thought of a new poem, I’ll add it to Fabiola’s Sunday blog (sorry I’m a bit late Fabiola, we were away this weekend).  With Hallowe’en just past on Monday, I thought I’d write a little poem with a ghostly theme.  I’ve called it ‘Annie Withinshaw’s Hallowe’en Surprise’.

 

The churchyard path does wend its way,

By mossy stones where bodies lay

Beneath the soil in eternal rest,

Their weary bones as dry as dust.

John De’Ath, a farmer’s son,

Had died in eighteen and seventy one.

By moonlight’s shadow on Hallowe’en,

He rises up to survey the scene.

A ghostly shroud in which he’d been bound,

Falls into pieces on the ground.

John is left in his birthday suit

To startle the choir,

He thinks it’s a hoot.

Floating in through the old church door,

He spies Miss Annie Withinshaw.

Annie had never seen such a sight

Of a naked man on choir practise night.

She grabs some specs from Mabel Fanlee,

To feast her eyes on John’s dingly dangly.

But John had been dead for many a day,

His manhood had simply rotted away.

His flesh was green, his eyes were gone,

There wasn’t much left of poor old John.

Annie stopped in mid carouse,

And fainted in the choir pews.

John felt guilty, turned and fled

To a draughty tomb and a cold, hard bed.

Bobshewawawah…

We’re spamming,  

I wanna spam it wit choo.

We’re spamming,

And I know you like spamming too.

 

Write a book, and I vow

You will do it anyhow,

I can always count on you.

‘Cos no one wants to pay the price

So our pride we sacrifice,

Spamming till the spamming’s through.

 

We’re spamming (spamming, spamming, spamming),

Uh-huh. I wanna spam it wit choo.

We’re spamming,

And I know you like spamming too.

 

Fifty tweets will allow

Us to sell a few books now,

Even if we lose our souls,

For I know that what is best

Is to have those Pinterest

Facebook and LinkedIn goals.

 

We’re spamming,

I wanna spam it wit choo.

We’re spamming,

Goodreads is another one too.

 

Don’t forget Instagram,

You can send a load of spam

On Mailchimp especially.

Get those newsletters out

And with no shadow of a doubt

You will make your readers scream….

 

Stop spamming!

Don’t wanna spam it wit choo,

No more spamming,

I’m gonna change what I have to do.

 

Gonna try for a vlog,

Gonna write super blogs

On WordPress, ‘cos I’ve seen the light.

All my time is taken up

Sending spam and doing stuff,

There’s never any time to write.

 

I’m not spamming,

Don’t wanna spam it wit choo,

Not spamming,

I think at last my spamming’s through.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sex Sells…

Here it is.

Take a look.

Check it out.

Buy my book.

 

Can’t you see?

It makes sense.

Seventy five pence,

Or ninety nine cents.

 

Why do you wait?

Chance your luck!

Or do you think

My book sucks?

 

I bet I’ve sold

More than you.

I’ve got an agent

And film rights too.

 

There’s ninety five photos

Of kinky fornication,

The rest of the book

Is my own creation.

 

It tells the story

Of a girl called Honey,

Who was a’ special’ actress,

Just for the money.

 

All day her clothes

Fell down to the floor,

She pouted until

She could pout no more.

 

She knew deep down

That she was a sinner,

But if truth be heard, 

She preferred …

A nice hot dinner.

 

She struck the poses

In my book.

Just to get you

Nice and hooked. 

 

Pay with cash

And you will find,

A free DVD

To blow your mind.

 

Thanks for that.

You’ve bought my tale,

Of how to make

Ginger Ale!