A Walk in the Rain

Dinner With Friends

2009-11-05T05:00:00.000-08:00

I like to spend free time with friends,
Like Hilda, Liz and Seamus.
We'll waste the days on long weekends
When Liz pretends she's famous.

She won't say no to photographs,
Signs autographs for children.
Her charity for slow giraffes
Supports her state of chilled Zen.

So she says in interviews
With make-believe reporters.
When old giraffes are sent to zoos
The judge in her cat court purrs.

She gets respect in trendy clubs
And restaurants where waiters
Would part a tiger from her cubs
And threaten alligators.

Seamus drinks and eats a lot.
He seems to take great pleasure
From cream-filled cakes. He greets a pot
Of stew as if it's treasure.

Of all the local restaurants
His favourite's in the castle,
Where Jack the ghostly jester haunts
And always causes hassle.

People leave when he performs
His jokes from times gone by,
When all these dining rooms were dorms
For men condemned to die.

The scarcity of customers
Means Seamus rarely waits.
He'll eat non-stop and trust a nurse
To help when he eats plates.

Before he sleeps he'd love a bit
Of beef washed down with stout.
In dreams he's seen Liz shovel it
Into his open mouth.

On some weekends we'll go for walks
On trails through vales and hills.
In woodland Hilda's nature talks
Provide delightful thrills.

While feeling overwhelming joys
From sounds the birds and bees make
And Hilda's words, we'd hear the noise
Of Seamus eating cheesecake.

We told him he was gluttonous,
That groans came from his ground.
We had his front door shut on us
The next time we called round.

He wouldn't speak to us for weeks.
We missed the jokes he told,
The lies about his friend who seeks
An Eskimo's lost gold.

He'd entertain us with his dance
When winter rain confined us
To a house. We loved his rants
Against past lives behind us.

Without us there to hear him talk
He'd much more time to eat.
There was no dance or nature walk
To activate his feet.

He put on weight. We had to act,
To eat some humble pie,
And stop him when he felt he lacked
An apple crumble high.

We made a massive chocolate cake,
So big it's marked on maps.
It made some folk feel shock and shake
In fear of its collapse.

'Sorry Seamus' were the words
We chose to write in icing.
Seamus cut the cake in thirds
With virtuoso slicing.

By giving us a slice he said
We'd solved our friendship's crisis.
His bites seemed bigger than his head
As he devoured his slices.

When he's with us he can't consume
Each frightened piece of food.
His dancing feet fight winter gloom
And leave a summer mood.

Unlocking Memories

2009-10-29T10:22:00.000-07:00

Sometimes when perusing the files in my mind
I'll find some obscure memories.
Once I remembered my mission to make
A fortune from my slimmer bees.

I put the bees through a tough training regime.
My A-Team-like bee team could beat
The bees from the hives where indiscipline thrived,
Where honey would taste of defeat.

People could easily tell from the noise
That my recruits were the bee's knees.
Others were toes. Their buzzing was prose.
Mine filled the warm summer breeze

With poetic buzzes in old red brick gardens
Where slow-headed people will pause
To listen to verse that's composed with a grasp
Of nature's strict metrical laws.

The bees in my hives were as busy as beavers.
They were high achievers who glowed.
They thought of MacGyver as their ideal leader.
I've seen webs of spiders explode.

I hoped to make money from their golden honey
That had the sweet taste of success.
But people reacted as if I was selling
Glass jars that contained a duck's mess.

Before I discovered these memories of
My doomed-to-bust bee industry,
I wasn't aware I had done such a thing.
My mind tells me that it must be.

Unlocking these memories leaves me in shock.
I gasped at my bee escapade.
Once I discovered that I once invented
A scissors with one extra blade.

The files that I find in my mind help explain
My feelings for hot air balloons.
I raced a balloon against people allowed
To bring guns but not their harpoons.

Some former whale-hunters took part in these races
To chase the great whales of the sky.
These vast levitating leviathans left
From Munich one day in July.

Thousands of people turned out at the start
To see us depart and wave flags.
Some of my rivals brought kitchen utensils
In countless suitcases and bags.

One of them brought his piano, his oboe,
His double bass and his bassoon.
He'd be near the end of his list of supplies
If he'd started reading last June.

The basket that hung from his massive balloon
Had fireplaces for freezing weather.
The four spacious rooms had impressive oak chairs
Upholstered with soft maroon leather.

My only luggage was one huge red bag,
And this contained nothing but air.
Discontent reigned in the minds of my rivals.
I sensed it from my airborne lair.

Lacking their weight I went straight to the front.
Our two-month-long race seemed decided.
Newspaper hype helped inflate my repute.
My rivals were harshly derided.

In my head the yearning to fly in the sky
Was not to defy God's directives.
I loved seeing awe on the faces below.
I felt the warm glow that respect gives.

But as I flew over a snow-covered peak
I feared God's contempt for my flight.
I'd dreamt I would die on a diet of wine.
My future did not seem this bright.

It wasn't a heavenly hand from above,
But many strong men down below.
Through aerial fishing they landed a whale
And dealt my grand race plan a blow.

Their hook hit my basket and they pulled me down.
Their task was to intercept me.
My rivals had hired them. They didn't believe
That airborne whales must be kept free.

They led me away down a steep mountain slope.
I made my escape with a leap.
My soft landing left me with hope that I'd meet
The nice death I'd seen in my sleep.

I followed a path that led into a forest.
Those fishermen followed me in.
I told God I'd certainly settle for death
With dark chocolate gateau and gin.

Before I'd gone far I encountered a woman
Who dragged me away from the path.
At first I thought this must be God's final offer.
I wasn't disgruntled with that.

But she had a great hiding place in a hollow.
We heard my pursuers run past.
The sound of their footsteps soon faded away.
For once I was glad they were fast.

Her name was Brunhilda. I owed her my life,
And maybe a dark chocolate death.
I sensed that a Black Forest gateau was looming.
We hadn't escaped the woods yet.

Hunger and cold were still threatening life,
But she had a knife and a match.
Brunhilda soon killed a wild boar and she lit
A fire for cooking her catch.

We spent that cold night in a desolate clearing,
Warmed by the heat from the flames.
At dawn we set out to retrieve my balloon.
Millions would soon know our names.

The crowds were ecstatic when we won the race.
We went to great banquets with princes.
We received accolades, honours and plaudits.
I learnt what her mischievous grin says.

She needed adventure. She easily found it.
We faced an array of grave dangers.
Ghostly grave-diggers worked hard to confine us
In tombs with mysterious strangers.

In doom-laden rooms near an old fog-bound wharf
There loomed a most serious threat.
We fought off ten henchmen and fled on a boat
Without getting injured or wet.

For years I did not have the slightest idea
That these events had taken place.
I still can't remember remembering them
Before I remembered the race.

Sometimes I wonder did I really race
A hot air balloon at high speed.
But it would explain the 'Brunhilda' tattoo
That I need a mirror to read.

Good Deeds

2009-10-22T03:18:00.000-07:00

Dan gladly spends his free time helping friends.
He rightly takes pride in his labours.
He's always performing good deeds, such as warming
The houses of elderly neighbours.

He lights homely fires and fights flames on tyres,
And tries to end warming that's global.
He plants many trees after trips overseas.
His aim to build wind farms is noble.

He cycles, recycles, lets nephews be rivals
To see who'd do most to decrease
Their carbon footprints. Their father put tents
Outside where they wage war in peace.

They're growing potatoes and learning to hate crows
Who pose as respectable chaps.
Their power is solar to save all things polar,
From poor little bears to ice caps.

Dan's stocks of spinach are often replenished.
His green fuel is crucial for saving
The lives of bad swimmers or masterly slimmers
Who've learnt to resist every craving.

Their sub-zero sizes leave them in disguises
As cardboard cut-outs of themselves.
He earnestly preaches on spinach and peaches
Till they crack and empty his shelves.

He feels ten times bigger when filled with the vigour
He gets from the spinach he eats.
He'll do any deed if it helps those in need.
He frustrates the progress of cheats.

His trousers got wet but he be-devilled Death
When he rescued Sue from the river.
When her breath was bated he knew she awaited
The warm kiss of life he could give her.

With no need to share his recycled air
Their first kiss was slightly delayed
Till later that night as a waiter in white
Was counting the money he'd made.

After their dinner the strong feelings in her
Came out in a rapturous song
That captured the mood. Bright stars had been screwed
In skies where they feel they belong.

Everything seemed as if it had been dreamed
By someone who's prone to romance.
His gift of a rose might nauseate those
Who waste student loans and blow grants

On imprudent ways to induce a nice haze
And make them feel nauseous and blue.
The rose-hued romance and impromptu slow dance
Were much better suited to Sue.

Ronan was raging and planning on waging
A war to defeat his new foe.
He'd win back Sue's love by distressing the dove
Who longs to see harmony grow.

He shattered the peace and he scattered wild geese
With his battle cry to foretell
His forceful assault. It came to a halt
When he paused to ring Dan's doorbell.

Their battle began. Ronan and Dan
Fought bravely in graveyards and playgrounds.
They fought for a week on a snow-covered peak
Till they became thinner than greyhounds.

With neither the winner they paused for their dinner.
The spinach worked wonders for Dan.
When fighting resumed, an ending soon loomed.
Ronan surrendered and ran.

Sue was delighted and Dan was invited
To lunch with his number-one fan.
She sings frequently and she keeps weekends free
To see the great deeds done by Dan.

Edgar's Sense of Humour

2009-10-15T02:38:00.000-07:00

Edgar enjoys telling terrible jokes
And working to pull off a prank or a hoax.
No one will laugh at his humour but him.
At best he's offensive. At worst he is grim.

But he thinks he's blessed with a great comic flair.
Others feel cursed when he chooses to share
His jokes about wakes when the corpse lets out gas
And makes the priest faint at the funeral mass.

Because of his pranks his friend's dog is now blond,
And his cousin's bed is in his uncle's pond.
He's unpleasant medicine, maximum dose.
His family wish that he wasn't so close.

They'd like to be able to view him through Hubble.
Bursting his bubble would treble the trouble.
The practical jokes and the pranks that he plays
On his enemies will receive words of praise

From armchair commanders whose minds have been skewed
By make-believe wars representing a feud
Between them and family members who claim
That their wives have tarnished the family name.

It's best to pretend that you find Edgar funny,
That days on his planet are placid and sunny,
A great place where acid's not needed to get
As high as a kite or the mightiest jet.

People who cross him will soon get a pot
Of noxious revenge that is served piping hot.
Terry, his brother, once told him he had
A head full of hair that would suit someone mad.

Edgar's expression soon suited his hair.
Urges to shoot could be seen in his stare.
Purging a root would eradicate thorns.
Using brute force to get rid of it warns

All other plants and his chance-loving brothers
That he'll bring them bother and he knows their mothers.
He'd tell her when they're bad, and they'd rather be
Shot in the hair half of their heads for free,

And have heavy shot-putters stand on their foot,
And see their white T-shirts meet goth-friendly soot.
They'd laugh if the air half of their heads was shot.
It's frequently hit and they're laughing a lot.

Edgar's mad air half is proud of its hair.
Never suggest it will leave his head bare.
His brother's barbed words made him ponder a plan
To make Terry wonder should he leave his clan.

He didn't use guns he'd concealed in fake nuns
Who'd offer his brother a choice of iced buns.
He didn't rely on his mother to make
Terry feel terror and shudder and shake.

He got his revenge with his own sense of humour,
By steadfastly spreading the credible rumour
That Terry taught cats how to smoke cigarettes.
This angered the people who spoke to their pets.

Edgar's 'Plan B' was a punch in the face.
But Plan A worked well and events moved at pace.
Terry keeps laughing. You'll know from his glee
That dozens of people enacted Plan B.

Hello

2009-10-08T11:59:00.000-07:00

Rebecca's always full of life.
She has a great proclivity
For instigating anything
Resulting in festivity.

A bevy of the recently-bereaved
Would find that revelry
Was greatly to their liking
With a little dash of devilry.

She doesn't use exotic spells
Or pills or magic potion.
A single swirl or pirouette
Can bring a whirl of motion

To the limping legs of those who are
Opposed to dreaded dancers.
Ask her simple questions and
She'll sing you lengthy answers.

The most reluctant singers
Never persevere for very long
When straining to refrain from
Joining in with her endearing song.

Scrooge himself could not resist
The blissful sound surrounding him.
He'd cast away the shackles
And the mocking demons hounding him,

And break the rocky ground inside
His heart where human feeling died.
He'd sing and let his spirit soar
To clouds where flying boar reside.

Trevor thought that feelings were
Reserved for those with time to spare,
Who think it's quite tyrannical
To shorten lengths of long free hair.

He used to be anaesthetising
Mice with sheer monotony,
A feast of information on
The finer points of botany.

But then he met Rebecca
And she broke his opposition
To the notion that emotion
Should be freed from inhibition.

When he heard her singing
He was captivated by the sound.
He let his legs go dancing
And he tried to follow them around.

They never strayed too far away
From where Rebecca put her feet
When she would utter poetry,
Entreating guests to sit and eat,

And treat themselves to nights
Devoid of dread and great anxiety,
Abandoning bewilderment,
Restraint and their sobriety.

He danced with her and he professed
A love to last for evermore,
A feeling she had spotted in
The dreamy smile that Trevor wore.

She'd seen it many times before
In men who can't resist her charms.
They start to hear the angels sing
In screaming kids and car alarms.

They'll cast aside a past of posting
Hateful mail to Santa Claus
And frequently supporting
Opposition to a worthy cause.

They get a craze for doing good
And filling days with worthy deeds.
They find holistic remedies
To satisfy sadistic needs.

Trevor realised that he
Had rivals for Rebecca's heart.
He started to despise them when
He saw them strive to get the part.

His rivals hated him as well.
Undoubtedly they all were dim.
He needed to impress her to
Ensure she'd trip and fall for him.

Some men simply plead with her
And tell her that they need her,
Whereas others serenade her
Wearing leather like the leader

Of a motorcycle gang
Whose only guide is 'Easy Rider'.
Those in Lederhosen
Feed her lies on what's inside her.

They tell her that her eyes are like
Two windows to her soul's retreat,
A sunlit land where little lambs
Will leap for joy when angels meet.

Trevor couldn't bring himself
To say these things or sing a song
About the way she made him feel
Alright when all around was wrong.

He thought she might be happy
If he wore his best grey suit for her.
He'd visit her and dazzle her
And maybe play the lute for her,

Or else he'd play the kettle drum
As softly as a petal falls,
Rising to a noise to rival
Devils kicking metal walls.

Or else he'd hire an orchestra
To play when darkness starts to beat
The daylights out of daylight
In the blue sky's undisguised retreat.

And he could hire a choir as well
To light a fire inside her heart,
A sound that swells to reach its peak
As church bells ring and fireworks start.

But he found that his favourite
Elaborate devices
For enticing her into his life
Were scuppered by high prices.

So in the end he baked a cake
And added lemon icing.
Her heart would melt when tasting it.
To make it more enticing

The top would need a word or two.
He couldn't think of what to say.
'Happy Birthday' wouldn't do
Unless he were to wait till May.

He chose to write 'hello' on it.
His simple prose beat poetry
And songs performed by lovesick men
On rose-strewn rugs below a tree,

And all the other plots and plans
Employed by those who played the game.
The capture of Rebecca's heart
Became their one and only aim.

Trevor was the winner with
His cake that said 'hello' to her.
They ate it after dinner and
It clearly brought a glow to her.

She can't resist a slice of cake
With lots of icing placed on top,
And Trevor's tasted nicer than
The cakes she purchased in the shop.

The Hovercraft

2009-10-01T05:17:00.000-07:00

Ben and Bob liked tennis.
They argued over scores.
One Saturday the menace
From the clouds kept them indoors.

Their goth friends who adored doom
Would enjoy these rainy days.
They sat in boredom's boardroom
And they tried to think of ways

To spend their afternoon,
To make the time fly by,
Until the crescent moon
Would embellish plain black sky.

They thought about attending
A display of dance routines
By Owen, who'd be mending
Broken engines and machines.

The engines always won.
Their victories enraged him.
For others it was fun
Watching power tools upstage him.

He couldn't stand a gloater
Or the resolute defiance
Of a small lawnmower motor
Or an obstinate appliance.

His anger made him hammer
Bits and pieces into place.
His garage lacked the glamour
Of a large performance space.

This didn't hold him back.
The crowd would call for more
When he'd finished his attack
And he'd let out his last roar.

Ben and Bob agreed
That these dances would provide
The diversion that they need
Till the rain-soaked day had dried.

But they missed Owen's show.
When they reached his garage door
He had finished with his foe.
It was scattered on the floor,

A former tumble dryer
That refused to be repaired.
He showed his inner fire
And his grievances were aired.

Ben and Bob saw tears
Welling up in Owen's eyes.
They get appalling fears
When another person cries.

They wanted to abandon
Owen's garage with great haste.
They'd rather climb Mount Brandon
In their bare feet while being chased

By savage dogs and manic goats
And women they had riled
By telling oft-told anecdotes
That once left them beguiled.

But Owen started talking
Just before they could retreat.
A course of steadfast walking
Was abandoned, and their feet

Engaged in steadfast standing
As he spoke about his life.
He said it needs re-branding
And a sharp decrease in strife.

He told them many tales
Of his father's skill with tools.
His father's gladness fails
When he has to suffer fools.

But he reassures his son
When Owen fails to fix
An engine or a gun
Using spanners, shouts and kicks.

His father's name is Edward.
He's known for miles around.
Statues and the dead heard
His machine to dig hard ground.

It used to be a drill until
He modified its parts.
It could bring fear to a hill
And to mountains' granite hearts.

It took ten men to man it.
These men were hard as nails.
The government had to ban it
After hills turned into vales.

Edward spent ten years
Working on his hovercraft.
People were in tears
As they rolled around and laughed

After seeing Edward's blueprints
For his boat that lacked a hull.
They looked to see if new dents
Had been added to his skull,

Or else he'd opened mental doors
To ghosts who live in fumes.
His hovercraft would have three floors
And twenty-seven rooms.

The bar would be adjacent
To the gents'. He was emphatic
That he couldn't have a basement
So he planned a spacious attic.

A snooker room and music hall
Were also planned beside
A prison cell where drunks could brawl
And criminals could hide.

Edward didn't take the chance
To gloat when he unveiled
His hovercraft where friends could dance,
Play snooker and get jailed.

People would applaud
When they saw the mammoth gears.
When he planned a trip abroad
And he needed volunteers,

Seven friends assented,
None of them faint-hearted.
Their heads might have been dented.
Undaunted, they departed.

They travelled for a year
Over foreign lands and seas.
They learnt to lose their fear
Of the leaves from talking trees.

They came across magicians
Who could make a mouse grow tall
And men on expeditions
To retrieve their cricket ball.

They brought back many presents,
Like plants and magic bells,
And statues made by peasants
Who reside in giant snail shells.

When Owen reached the end
Of his tales about these trips
He'd lost the will the mend
All the leaks where water drips.

The sun came out again.
He left his fierce guard cat.
He went with Bob and Ben
Down a narrow, winding path.

A line of trees and bushes blocked
Views of the hovercraft.
The bar on-board was still well-stocked
And it remained well-staffed.

Edward and his friends were there.
Ben and Bob felt awe.
They both were seeing something rare
In everything they saw.

Edward spoke of foreign lands
Where days could last for months,
Where mighty men with many hands
Took part in daunting hunts.

The bar man pointed out
That the jukebox needed fixing,
And he was plagued by doubt
Without songs for cocktail mixing.

Owen said he'd do the job.
He seemed extremely keen.
He entertained both Ben and Bob
With his new dance routine,

A dance that left the music dead.
Edward watched and cried.
"That's my son," he softly said
With undeniable pride.

Leopards and Tigers

2009-09-24T07:18:00.000-07:00

Martin will talk until daylight is dim
To pass on the truths that were given to him.
Flaubert and Pooh Bear appear in his dreams.
They show him that life isn't all that it seems.

They tell him the truths he will pass on to us.
He says you should always beware of a bus
That sounds as if it's in a terrible mood.
The foul-tempered ones may regard you as food.

Birds are to blame for the weather being cold.
Tow-trucks and most traffic lights are controlled
By leprechaun kings in resplendent regalia.
An area of Ireland the size of Australia

Has been sold to someone for under ten grand.
He plans to farm ducks on his fertile new land.
Martin has recently said he's been filled in
On how ancient mariners pose as young children.

These naval commanders, their ages unknown,
Are pushed in their buggies, but when they're alone
They transmit their thoughts to some friends of their ilk
And knock back the cognac like it was just milk.

Lay-abouts lie about what they've been doing.
They spend their days thinking and drinking and chewing.
They like to chew jam and make marmalade bubbles.
Their long harmless lives are devoid of great troubles.

Rest without stress is their job's greatest perk.
They're kept very busy avoiding all work.
They'd start to feel dizzy if they did too much.
Some won't go out without taking their crutch

To use as a valid excuse to sit down.
These make-believe invalids move around town
With breath-taking speed if the need should arise,
Chasing a free Holy Grail with French fries.

But Martin has said that it's all just an act.
It's drama-free fiction that's dressed up as fact.
The truth is they meet in a warehouse at night,
An unseen display of their undoubted might.

After they've split up into hunting groups
They set foot outside with the soft tread of troops.
They try to track down deadly tigers and leopards
Who come out at night time and terrify shepherds.

These curious cats can be heard whistling tunes
While walking through woods or exploring the ruins
Of castles and churches beneath star-filled skies.
They roam around houses where strange stifled cries

Would not be surprising. These houses make people
Retreat to the safety of their church's steeple.
The leopards and tigers are drawn to these places
Where absolute darkness hides hideous faces.

The camouflaged hunters will stealthily creep
Through woodlands and fields where the cows are asleep.
The farmer who owns these oblivious cows is
Afraid of the shadows cast by the dark houses.

The hunters are scared when approaching a foe,
But still they resist the temptation to go.
The leopards and tigers will smile when surrounded,
A smile with the menace to leave a poor clown dead,

But still no one flees from the scene of the battle.
When two armies fight over borders their spat'll
Be written about in the history books.
Tomes are required to record lives of crooks.

But no one will know about leopards and tigers
And hunters who'll never seek someone to buy furs.
These creatures are rarely defeated in fights,
But sometimes they choose to retreat when their bites

Are useless, left toothless by powerful spells
Cast by magicians awoken by bells.
When leopards and tigers can't kill with their mouth
They turn into fire that quickly burns out.

They're gone when their foul-smelling smoke has dispersed.
It seems they retreat to a house that looks cursed,
And they stay inside for a week or a month,
But they can't resist being part of the hunt.

The hunters work hard just to keep them at bay.
The night work means they try to get rest by day,
Or so Martin says, but sometimes it seems
Like something created by actors in dreams.

But Martin was right about teddy bears who
Enjoy scratching itches and sniffing the glue
That's put on their eyes just to keep them in place,
Under the eyebrows stitched onto their face.

I've seen these bears scratch when they wrongly assume
That they're all alone in an attic or room.
They get great relief and release pent-up tension
By scratching in places I'd rather not mention.

No More Missing Socks

2009-09-17T03:48:00.000-07:00

Lynn hardly ever tracked down missing socks.
To make their escapes they would have to pick locks
And show much more cunning than foxes or thieves.
No one will know when a single sock leaves.

She knew there was no point in fighting these foes.
She'd wear two odd socks that would clash with her clothes,
Affecting her statuesque pose and her poise,
A fashion mistake worse than wearing odd eyes.

But some pairs of odd socks got on very well.
After a while she could easily tell
Which personality types would get on,
And which individual socks would be gone

If they had to spend one more night with their partner.
At times she was sure she could hear a sock's heart purr
In perfect contentment with their latest pairing.
Her feet liked the contented clothes they were wearing.

Lynn got great pleasure from feeling the heat
When she took her shoes off and put up her feet
In front of the fire on cold winter nights
When Jack Frost puts in his sharp false teeth and bites.

The socks she was wearing would cuddle together.
This odd couple might look like white chalk and cheddar,
But their solid bond went much deeper than looks.
Theories on pairing socks weren't in books.

If this book existed, Lynn would have read it.
She formed her own theory. She wanted to spread it.
She started by making a short presentation
To the Town Council. The standing ovation

Never arrived. Instead her sock system
Brought stunned disbelief then a brief paroxysm
Of laughter and tears to the mayor of the town.
She felt that she could have come dressed as a clown.

Despite this reception her system soon spread.
Friends wore compatible odd socks in bed.
This led to a sudden new craze in foot fashion
That helped bring about an explosion of passion.

Socks wouldn't make their escape late at night
To flee from a partner they saw as a blight.
They were all glad to be paired with a sock
Who wasn't just randomly plucked from the flock.

Anthony's Homemade Cider

2009-09-10T04:17:00.000-07:00

Anthony made cider
From the apples in his orchard.
It made him sing and sound as if
Some small dogs were being tortured.

He sang a song he wrote about
A moat he tried to build.
He'd float a boat inside it
When his garden moat was filled

With water from the drain pipes
But he didn't get that far.
He dug a hole that filled with rain
And then he drove his car

Into the hole one rainy night.
It was truly stuck.
Anthony was mocked by his
Arch-enemy, a duck.

His song went on for half an hour.
The neighbours called around.
They were all well-able
To identify the sound

Of songs induced by alcohol.
The Hulk would fall if he
Took a sip of Anthony's
Now famous herbal tea.

Some believe it's mostly rum
And others think it's gin.
His latest batch of cider
Was inside a metal bin.

The neighbours congregated
In the garden as the sun
Hid behind the mountains
And the day was nearly done.

The homemade apple cider
Made the neighbours sing along
With Anthony's great chant in his
Exciting hunting song.

He used to hum and sing this song
And bring a small packed lunch
Whenever he went hunting
On the basis of a hunch

That he would find some thing he'd like
In some peculiar place.
He'd surely face a crisis
If he thought he'd have to chase

And bring harm to an animal.
He thought they had more charm
When they lived in the forest
Rather than on someone's farm.

And all of them had much more charm
When they were still alive.
He'd no desire to kill them
And he loved to see them thrive.

His hunts have ended with the
Capture of a candlestick
Or tiny plastic blackbirds
Hiding underneath a brick.

He came across a rocking horse
That grazed on grass around
The woods despite the sparse short grass
Where moss and rocks abound.

When he had sung his hunting song
The neighbours all agreed
That hunting was the one thing
They would definitely need

Before they found an ending
For this interesting night
As they were joined by shadows
And the rising full moon's light.

Anthony assented to
His guests' sincere request.
He led the hunting party
Down a path into the west.

They didn't stop their singing
When they didn't know the words.
The party was observed
By the animals and birds.

A barn owl looked and listened
But he couldn't give a hoot
About the need to sing at night
And other faults of youth.

They didn't leave the footpath
When it went into the woods,
Where they saw twenty people
Who were dressed in robes and hoods.

These people formed a circle
In a clearing where a sheep
Looked like he was hoping
He was dreaming in his sleep.

The happy hunting party
Were intruders in this play,
And they were made audition
For the dreaded role of prey.

They stood inside the circle
And they listened with concern
As someone listed out the things
This cult would like to burn.

The cult could find a fault
In nearly everything they saw.
Even cloudless summer skies
Exhibited a flaw.

They were far too blue.
Would it hurt them to turn green?
And flowers were too friendly.
Nature's hippy dean

Should not allow the students
To grow freely as they please,
And bring in rules on covering
The naked limbs of trees.

They'd like to ban all cars,
And let empty roads enthral.
Modes of transportation
That refuse to move at all

Would then become compulsory.
We'd ride lethargic mules,
Donkeys, pigs and garden seats
Or even human fools.

The fools would wear a pointy hat
That bears the letter 'D'.
When they're not playing taxi
They'd arrange the chairs for tea.

Tea and cakes at three o' clock
Would be a thing of fear.
If someone were to miss it
They'd be sentenced to a year

Working in a toy shop
Where the only toy was mud,
And every customer complained
That they'd been sold a dud.

Houses would be banned as well.
We'd live in holes instead.
Six or seven fools would join
To make a single bed.

This is what the cult believed.
They never once felt doubt.
They were set for action
But before they brought about

Their plan to spread the good life
They would need a sacrifice,
Something less than elephants
But more than rats or mice.

Anthony decided he
Should speak up in defence
Of simple joys and ample highs
With cans of beer in tents.

He spoke of lazy Saturdays
And jokes concerning pants,
And sipping homemade cider
While the moths perform their dance.

The cult conferred amongst themselves.
Doubt had raised its head.
They were clearly taken by
What Anthony had said.

The leader spoke. He said he hoped
The sheep would understand
Why they had to abandon
All the rituals they'd planned.

The metal bin of cider
Was too tempting to ignore.
They all went back to empty it
And sing till they were sore.

Going Underground

2009-09-03T05:48:00.001-07:00

This is Karen's view of life:
House and husband make a wife.
Wife and husband join to make
Children who'll keep them awake.

Kids turn people into parents.
Man and wife or those who share tents
Suddenly find they've become
Parents of a child or some

Children they've not met before,
Little people who can roar
Like tiny alcoholic lions,
As sensitive as active mines.

You'll have to tip-toe round the room.
Their eviction from the womb
Will make them prone to fits of rage.
It's clear the play pen is a cage,

A stage for kids to act out plays
And get applause. The parents praise
Every single sound produced
By the captive reading Proust.

He's more advanced than other babies.
For his first photo he could say 'cheese'.
Parents must accept their roles,
Abandon dreams of scoring goals,

Or being birds, graceful larks,
Or growing beards to look like Marx.
Lifelong dreams of being a truck
Invariably become unstuck.

You won't perform for massive crowds
Or sail the skies on fluffy clouds.
You'll be on board the good ship Ground
And there you'll push the kids around

In expensive new wheelbarrows
While single friends fire crossbow arrows
From a yacht when they are drunk,
Or dance all night to jazz and funk.

Karen wants to do these things
Before exchanging wedding rings
And settling down with her new spouse
In their superb suburban house.

She seeks adventure all the time.
She'd rather not commit a crime.
There are legal ways to find
The kind of fun she has in mind.

You don't need yachts or burning cars
Unless you're backed by lucky stars
And pray out loud to bless us, Mary.
Crossbows aren't necessary.

She loves exploring caves and holes
Created by the human moles
Who'd rather tunnel underground
Than make a whispered word-like sound,

Their insufficient contribution
To debates on air pollution.
They won't pollute the air with words
Like interjections dropped by birds.

Other people make them fearful.
Their best pretence at being cheerful
Brings the gas-lit glow of gloom
And silence to a crowded room.

They clear all minds of sunlit bays
And paint depressing winter days
On city streets as afternoon
Performs its final sombre tune.

Night and fog envelop all.
Streetlights fuelled by gas will call
The hidden people to their mass
Where they'll turn solid gold to brass.

They're enthralled by winter nights
When all the city's must-see sights
Cannot be seen. They disappear.
Their absence aids the atmosphere

That makes most people stay inside,
A sense that Death has found his bride
After centuries of waiting
And in their love they're celebrating

Nothingness and emptiness.
It seems like more will soon be less.
Summer days can seem this bleak
When those hole-dwellers start to speak.

They need to hide or run away.
They'd love if night replaced the day,
Replete with fog and sounds of hounds.
The ghosts of dogs mark out their grounds.

With no darkness to confide in,
Without a fog-filled night to hide in,
They use their tunnels to escape
Despair of their life's pear-like shape.

Karen has encountered these
Tunnel-dwelling folk who freeze
When she appears and says 'hello'.
If she smiles as well they'll go.

Some will slowly thaw and talk
Or they'll communicate through chalk.
Once she found a cave that led
To tunnels that filled souls with dread,

But she went on. Adventure beckoned,
Electrifying every second.
She met a group of tunnel folk.
Before she said a word they spoke.

They said they'd formed this force to fight
An evil subterranean blight,
Beings from an ancient race
Who fiercely guard their hidden base.

The rocky ground began to shake
And Karen feared a great earthquake.
She heard a loud, ferocious roar.
The tunnel folk went to their store

Of guns, grenades and ammunition.
They told her she could join their mission.
This adventure, she conceded,
Was much more than she really needed.

She left the tunnel and the cave
Before this place became her grave.
She soon forgot the tunnel's menace
And sought adventure through lawn tennis.

Pond Patrol

2009-08-27T03:50:00.000-07:00

Don't question this. Don't ask me why
I think your tailor sold your sty.
These visions come to me sometimes.
Some are scenes of future crimes.

I've seen scones taken by a bird,
A week before this theft occurred,
And once I saw a pirate raft.
A lawless crew controlled this craft.

I've seen grandfathers and grandmothers
Operating oars and rudders,
Chased by pirates 'cross a pond,
Stunned by how their grandson conned

And tricked them into purchasing
This old row boat he said would bring
Long afternoons of relaxation.
They'd watch the problems of this nation

Evaporate before their eyes.
Even energetic flies
Would be too lazy to pursue
A course of action they might rue

If it upsets and thus incites
The rowers to turn out fly lights
And flatten flies whose flight paths pass
Right over heads or round a glass

Of lemonade that women made
For floating picnics where a raid
By wasps would spread great panic and
Make rowers head straight for dry land.

I saw this happen in my vision.
The wasps sent them to their collision
With the old ramshackle raft.
The pirates commandeered the craft

And made grandparents part with cash.
I saw their plunder of the stash
Of lemonade and homemade buns.
They showed delight by firing guns.

I saw it all. I had to act
To stop these scenes becoming fact.
Despite the dangers and the fears
I found some willing volunteers

For my police force by the pond.
Some recruits think they're James Bond.
They talk like him, but that's okay.
We keep the pirate rafts away.

While standing by the pond at night
The visions come in lurid light.
I had a vision of a crowd
Of teddy bears, their voices loud,

A symphony of joyous noises.
Mother Nature gave them prizes:
A sunny day, a cloudless sky
Left soaking in a deep blue dye,

The sounds of busy honey bees,
The music for a life of ease
To drown the sound of grinding gears.
The teddy bears had left their fears

At home to entertain pet scarecrows.
Every tiny teddy bear nose
Smelled the cheese in picnic baskets.
The battered tartan Thermos flask gets

Used for lemonade in June.
Some teddies hummed a happy tune
As they were walking down the paths
Towards the woods, past sleeping cats.

They made sure they weren't crushing bugs
When they put down their picnic rugs.
They ate iced buns and jam-filled cakes
That only Granny Bear still bakes.

Sugar made the young ones run.
Parents let them have their fun.
Their motto is to spread a light
In lives of friends, to quench the night,

And only take if they can give,
To live and let all others live,
Let Nature mollycoddle all
As teddy bears play volleyball.

Some teddies sang while others danced,
But things turned sour as hours advanced.
The ones who had been drinking beer
Destroyed the happy atmosphere.

A fight began and soon it spread.
A bottle bounced off one bear's head.
Impressive fighting skills were shown.
Punches, kicks and stones were thrown.

Many suffered injuries.
Some were hiding in the trees.
I saw it one week in advance.
My vision gave the bears a chance

To leave the woods with memories
Of carefree fun amongst the trees.
A day of peace: this was our goal.
Some officers from Pond Patrol

Were there before the fighting started
To make sure that the drunk bears parted
From the woods. They had a choice:
To head for home as meek as mice

Or face arrest and great distress
If they refused to acquiesce.
The trouble-makers left the woods.
Some heads were hidden under hoods.

The ones who stayed behind all praised
The pond's police who had erased
The violence from this summer day
That soon will feel the sun's last ray.

Richard and his Authors

2009-08-20T05:37:00.000-07:00

Richard held a party
In a club where snooty waiters
Made shirtless lager drinkers
Feel like lowly, worthless traitors.

A happy six-piece jazz band
Kept the drinkers entertained.
The waiters kept the guests they liked
Well fed and well champagned.

Richard danced on tables,
Drank from shoes and fell off chairs.
The night became a blur,
Free of memories and cares.

He woke up after midday
With reminders of the night.
The warm glow of the party
Still emitted heat and light

That fought the aches and pains
And defused his brain's landmines,
And infused a rosy tint
In mental scenes of sampling wines.

He whistled, smiled and skipped until
The club sent him the bill.
The sight of all those zeros
Left him feeling slightly ill.

They wanted twenty grand to pay
For all the damage done.
Some friends of his discovered
That destroying things is fun.

This bill included all the food
And alcohol consumed.
Unless he grew a beard and fled
He feared he would be doomed.

Some very shady people
Owned this club and they explained
That they would not look kindly
On a person who refrained

From paying bills in full.
They'd be like bulls who feel
A burning, red-hot rage
At an obvious raw deal.

And they'd insist on borrowing
Some favourite body parts.
They've been known to get a loan
Of livers, brains and hearts.

Richard didn't have the cash.
He didn't want to lose
The body parts he hoped to harm
With years of drinking booze.

He rounded up his authors
And explained his latest plight.
He put them in his study
And he made them work all night.

He spent that night at parties.
He was able to forget
About the fact that bits of him
Were clearly under threat.

He woke up in the morning
And had breakfast in his bed,
With remnants of his happy dreams
Still lighting up his head.

While Richard drank his tea and ate
His toast he heard his authors
Summarise the story that would
Calm these troubled waters.

They said he'll find a treasure map
Inside an old sea chest.
He'll leave then to retrieve the loot
And on his lonely quest

He'll encounter many dangers
And partake in speedboat chases.
He'll face the wrath of pirates
And of snakes inside suitcases.

Despite the constant gunfire
And explosions all around him
He'll finally find the treasure.
Gold and diamonds will astound him.

He'll get back home to safety
And he'll pay his bill in gold.
Richard thanked his authors
For the story that they told.

He gave his full approval
To this ending they had planned.
They made sure he'd be entertained
When he departs dry land.

But they forgot to mention
That he'd shortly get engaged
To a woman who was beautiful
But easily enraged.

She'd wrestle with a crocodile
And win inside one round.
Those who criticise her
Often end up gagged and bound.

The Crock of Gold

2009-08-13T06:08:00.000-07:00

I found a crock of gold
When I was walking in the woods.
I used the gold to purchase
These essential household goods:

A silver bowl for caviar
With caviar inside,
A clock that shows the movement
Of the planets and the tide,

A jewel-encrusted bread knife
That has known the blood of Orcs,
And many bottles of champagne
With self-removing corks.

I hired a famous architect
To make my new front door.
It has an elevator
From the cat flap to the floor,

With 'Cat' in diamond letters
Just to keep small dogs away.
This will come in useful
Should I get a cat some day.

I bought a cement mixer
With an engine by Rolls Royce.
Its full-time operator
Likes his cocktails mixed with ice.

Late one night a leprechaun
Arrived at my front door.
He failed to knock the door down,
Which is why he curse and swore.

He tried to use the cat flap
But he didn't realise
How fat he had become.
His mirror told him lies.

He knew that this old mirror
Was an unrepentant liar.
It reflected ice and water
When confronted by a fire.

The leprechaun chose not to doubt
The image that he saw.
His excellent reflection
Lacked a blemish or a flaw.

The face lacked warts or wrinkles.
The teeth were sparkling white.
The many throbbing bulges
Came from muscles of great might.

He cursed the lying mirror
When his flabby layer of fat
Left him lodged inside the cat flap
Just above the 'Welcome' mat.

The two doors of the elevator
Closed on his red nose.
He launched a stream of insults
To dismiss his raging woes,

But still the woes kept mounting.
His plight became much worse.
He was spotted by a cat,
A black four-legged curse.

This cat passed by each day
And he never paid attention
To the word in diamond letters
That I scarcely need to mention.

But when he found the rear end
Of the leprechaun it felt
As if he'd just inherited
An uncle's creamy wealth.

He used this strange protrusion
From the cat flap as a tool
For sharpening his claws,
Just like he'd learnt in school.

He loved the sound effects
When he sunk his paws' sharp claws.
For him this large posterior
Possessed no signs of flaws.

The sound effects reflected
The leprechaun's unease.
In between his chilling
Maledictions, screams and pleas

He told me he had come here
To retrieve the gold I took.
The nicest names he called me
Were 'degenerate' and 'crook'.

When he'd exhausted all these names
And curse-related jargon
I pointed out it might be wise
To reach some sort of bargain.

His position had been weakened
By the fact that he was stuck.
A deadly, dreadful drought had dried
His reservoir of luck.

The cat ensured that our
Negotiations were completed
In under twenty seconds.
Agreement was then greeted

By a handshake and the leprechaun's
Removal from his trap.
He swore he'd never have
Another similar mishap.

The deal meant I could keep the gold
I found, and I agreed
To act as fitness trainer
In my small friend's hour of need.

I made him train twice daily
In his little private gym.
Seven months of exercise
Has left him looking slim.

The leprechaun is fit.
He's lost a lot of fat.
He slides in through the cat flap
Like a sleek and silent cat.

He avoids the elevator.
He'll use the stairs instead.
He's working on developing
A very healthy dread

Of all unhealthy foods.
Junk food has been banned.
He says he'd rather eat things
He has grown on his own land.

His mirror doesn't need to add
Imaginary brawn,
But it often adds a cat
Just to scare the leprechaun.

The Interesting Badger

2009-08-06T02:44:00.000-07:00

When the interesting badger comes out late at night
The boring barn owl always sighs
And says, "It's not fair. It just isn't right.
I know some more interesting flies.

"And yet he's been featured in ten magazines.
He does photo shoots every week.
The badger looks weird in his four-legged jeans.
His strange little face lacks a beak.

"A face with no beak is a lot like a gun
That's lacking a barrel or trigger.
Using this weapon would only be fun
If it frightened Pooh Bear or Tigger.

"About once a week I'll see camera crews
Following our 'interesting' friend.
His views on good shoes are regarded as news,
As is his ideal weekend.

"There's little of interest in this badger's life.
His life has a thick layer of dust.
Trees are intriguing. This oak tree is rife
With tales of betrayal and lust."

The barn owl is boring because he spends hours
Explaining the intricate plots
Of soap operas seen in the trees and wild flowers,
Acted by bees, birds and moths.

Every so often he'll pause to complain
About the unwarranted praise
Heaped on the badger, his unwitting bane,
Who poses with his thoughtful gaze.

The badger was cast in the leading male role
In a nature film shot on location.
This film brought him fame and more rooms in his hole.
He opened a brand new train station.

But I've been informed of a little brown mouse
Who's much more intriguing, I think.
He wears a top hat when he exits his house.
He'll doff it and smile with a wink.

His hobby is talking the frogs into buying
Full-length fur coats and fur hats.
That's why you'll see tiny clothes lines with coats drying
And ponds that attract jumping rats.

This new fashion fad for fur coats on the frogs
Is down to the mouse and his wiles.
He's turned his attention to magpies in clogs.
He'll be the creator of styles.

My Time in Parliament

2009-07-30T03:45:00.000-07:00

When I was elected to parliament
I lived in an empty beer barrel and spent
Weekends in a tent. At least once a month
I'd capture my food in a weekend-long hunt.

Apricots, crows and ice cream would be caught.
All of these things would be put in a pot.
I'd make a nice broth that would last me for weeks.
Still I can savour the flavour of beaks.

My colleagues in parliament all spoke in song.
The way to be heard was in singing along
And hoping you'd get your own solo so you
Could speak without banging a desk with your shoe.

We wrote our own musicals during each session.
To pass legislation we did an impression
Of stars from the cast of a top Broadway show.
We passed laws to make sure that hamsters would glow.

We brought in a law to provide new hair styles
For people who always display manic smiles,
Escape routes for people who go on blind dates,
And nappies for monkeys who use roller-skates.

Our much-admired Speaker spoke only in tongues,
Tongues that resided in dens in his lungs.
They'd come out and shout words like 'liar' or 'cheat',
Hoping to lure juicy flies, which they'd eat.

I miss those old days. They're lost to the past.
I knew at the time that the fun couldn't last.
People who go into politics now
Don't debate how to amuse a bored cow.

Appearances are all-important these days.
Feigning concern has become this year's craze.
They never conduct their proceedings in song.
They're all filled with fear that they'll say something wrong.

And yet what they say never seems to be right.
They'll never point out what is black and what's white.
They're not allowed have manic smiles and a perm,
And they can't bring games on the last day of term.

I lost an election because camera crews
Were there when I outlined my strongly-held views
On sweeping up deserts and spring-cleaning farms,
And using relaxing harp sounds for alarms.

Poor Little Fred

2009-07-23T03:53:00.000-07:00

His parents decided to travel the seas.
Despite his repeated emotional pleas
They left him behind. Poor little Fred.
He had to live with his aunt, who was dead.

They didn't have much. To get pocket money
He trained twenty spiders to make their own honey.
He sold spider honey in marmalade jars.
He made enough money to buy chocolate bars.

But he needed more. He wanted to buy
A black Batman mask and a cape for his fly.
So he got a job he could do at weekends.
He sacrificed time he would spend with his friends.

He had to sweep carpets, cut lawns and wash dishes.
He took up his new post against his aunt's wishes,
But she couldn't stop him from taking this job.
His weekend employers were Martha and Bob,

A friendly old couple who lived in a house
Along with a dog and a quick-witted mouse.
The mouse wasn't welcome, but he wouldn't go.
He turned out to be an exceptional foe.

They left out a trap. They felt sure he'd sniff
The cheddar and its overpowering whiff.
The mouse extricated the cheddar with ease
And left a note saying 'IOU some cheese'.

Fred manufactured a trap of his own,
A small shoebox room with a miniature phone.
When the mouse answered the phone he could hear
A warm female mouse voice massaging his ear.

The mouse didn't notice that he had been trapped
Till he was set free. He'd have to adapt
To his new life in a house where a ghost
Loved to blow his runny nose on hot toast.

Fred made a fortune from his new invention.
His spending attracted the neighbours' attention.
He bought his aunt flowers and things made of gold.
She came close to forming a smile, so I'm told.

And he bought some gifts for his parents as well:
A carton of perfume without any smell,
Chocolates that tasted of parsnips and chives,
And porcelain cats who had lost many lives.

The One Thing She Wants

2009-07-16T03:40:00.000-07:00

Liz had a house overlooking a bay,
A ten-year-old cello that she couldn't play,
A garden with pumpkins, potatoes and peas,
And plenty of pollen in flowers for bees.

She also had mice and a dog with a hat.
Most of her friends would be happy with that,
But she wanted more. It wasn't enough
To have such a dapper housemate who said 'woof'.

She wanted a coat that was navy or black
With a luminous blue lightning bolt on the back.
She found such a coat in a second-hand shop.
The sight of the bolt made her skip and then hop.

She wore it for weeks and she kept spinning round.
The lightning bolt went from her neck to the ground,
But after a while, spinning round lost its thrill,
And wearing her coat while she stood very still

Wasn't as good as she thought it would be.
While she was standing she started to see
The thing that she wanted was one Viking helmet.
Her neighbour's black bull was undoubtedly hell's pet.

He'd eat in one bite all the dinner a whale ate.
Her war with the bull would be stalled at a stalemate
If she had two horns on her head just like his.
Her days would be filled with a beautiful fizz.

So she bought the helmet and walked past the gate
Where her foe was passing the time being irate.
They stared at each other. His eyes were on fire,
A frightening gaze that could easily fry her.

But when she returned later on that same day
She watched as the mighty black bull looked away.
She started to gloat to a dance music beat.
The new Viking headgear was working a treat.

But after a few weeks it lost its appeal.
The bull stayed away and she started to feel
That horns on her head were no longer required.
There was one thing that she greatly desired:

A cuckoo clock in which the cuckoo has been
Replaced by an owl who will keep the clock clean.
She bought such a clock but it didn't take long
For her to grow tired of the owl's hourly song.

Now she believes she's discovered the truth.
Being a crime-solving amateur sleuth
Will make her feel happy, just as content
As nuns who give up eating chocolate for Lent.

Her sidekick will be a well-groomed magic fox
Who'll sniff out the clues like her dog sniffs her socks.
Waiting for her magic fox is exciting.
She thinks of the crimes and the wrongs they'll be righting,

The villains they'll catch and the victims they'll aid.
They won't run and hide from a hood with a blade.
They'll be good at sensing when play becomes foul.
They'll track down the cuckoo replaced by the owl.

A Game of Lunch

2009-07-09T03:30:00.000-07:00

Sean played a quick game of lunch against Ann.
He scored shortly after the first half began.
The way he achieved this surprise early score
Was simply reminding her of how she swore

When she was assaulted by one little moth.
It didn't touch her sister, Lucy, the goth,
But it attacked Ann on that warm summer night.
It thought that her face was a source of bright light

Because of the make-up that she had applied.
It flowed like red hot lava streams when she cried.
You'd damage your eyes if you stared at her face.
Her friends all wore shades when they went to her place.

He knew that he'd scored when a frightening scowl
Appeared on her face. She'd spotted a foul.
But she had to pick the ball out of the net,
And try hard to sharpen her offensive threat.

The score-line remained at one-nil until near
The end of the game. Spectators would cheer
If they saw her score such a well-taken goal.
She mentioned his grandmother's use of a bowl

In cutting his hair at least once every week.
She seemed to like it. For him it was bleak.
It made him look stupid till he was eighteen.
But now he just looks a lot like Mr. Bean.

The pain of the past could be seen in his eyes.
He wasn't expecting her to equalise.
In the top corner she'd buried the ball.
Their lunch was soon over. The score was one-all.

The replay took place over dinner that night.
Both were determined to put up a fight.
Ann scored the first goal, a biting remark
About being afraid of a Jack Russell's bark.

This is what Sean said to level the score:
"At Halloween fear made you slam the front door
Into the face of your niece, who was dressed
As a large Tweetie Pie who had sweets in a nest."

Ann didn't lose her composure and falter.
She mentioned his infamous fall at the altar
When he was best man on his best friend's big day.
He used an F word that made the priest pray.

They kept throwing insults and raking up dirt.
The score was eight-all at the end of dessert.
They went back to her place and coffee was made.
They needed it for extra time to be played.

He thought that he'd won with a goal near the end.
He brought up her worship of each fashion trend.
This had resulted in many strange looks,
Hats made of pencils and coats made of books.

But this just reminded her of all the times
He's been found guilty of gross fashion crimes.
Trousers with flares that had curious stains.
They emptied the carriages on crowded trains.

When he played guitar in a band with his friends.
They travelled to gigs in a van on weekends.
But unlike most other contemporary bands
They had a song about licking their hands.

He was afraid she'd recall other songs
And some of the band's more bizarre fashion wrongs.
And she was afraid that he would remember
The great Christmas party they had last December

When she sang the hand-licking song late at night.
She got all the dance moves and actions just right.
And so they agreed that a draw would be best
Before they discussed his disgusting brown vest.

Chloe's Songs

2009-07-02T06:09:00.000-07:00

Chloe writes a song a day.
She sings them for her friends.
She sings in pubs and plays
The concertina on weekends.

She wrote a song about the day
Her cat burst a balloon.
She wrote about the joy she feels
When staring at the moon,

And the woe of Phil the Fluter
When the flow of water took
His favourite stick of dynamite
From his garden's brook

To the mighty ocean
Where it's surely lost for good.
She wrote about her uncle
And his finger made of wood.

My favourite song by Chloe
Is the one she wrote about
The time she caught a butterfly
That flew into her mouth.

She was singing at a barbeque.
She'd just begun a song
About a zoo with chickens,
But it didn't last too long.

The people in the garden
Were distracted by the food.
The song was background music
In a lazy summer mood.

They didn't look towards her
Till she coughed and then they saw
A creature from the depths of her,
Defying nature's law,

Flying round the garden
And defiling hearts and minds.
They wished their mental windows
Had been covered up with blinds.

People chose to flee the scene.
They ran into a field.
It seemed to them that distance
Was the most effective shield

To protect them from the horror
That emerged from Chloe's mouth.
I'm a little teapot
With a handle and a spout.

This disguise protects me.
It's the shield I always use
When I'm in a spot of bother
Or when sailing on a cruise

And I'm trying to avoid
A single lady who's intent
On making me her husband
Coz she thinks' I'm like Clark Kent,

And that when I lose my glasses
I'll become a Superman.
I'd cook for her and sing to her
And bravely thwart the plan

Of an evil genius
Who has a manic laugh,
Who sits behind a mammoth desk
And strokes a pet giraffe.

The guests who fled the party
Had to stop to take a rest.
They saw another menace
Slowly coming from the west.

The fluffy clouds in summer skies
Are spies in cloud disguise.
When they slow their pace you'll see
Their terrifying eyes.

All the guests were terrified.
They ran back to the house.
They felt they needed shelter
Just like any little louse

Will need a head of hair
If they're going to stay alive.
I've seen them having parties
On the roof of my friend Clive.

The house's new inhabitants
Located hiding places.
Curtains, rugs and table cloths
Obscured the fear-filled faces.

Chloe and the teapot
Stayed outside to guard the drink.
We'd many hours together
To discuss our lives and think

About such weighty topics as
The universe and time
And teaching quantum physics
Through the medium of mime.

Miming came in handy when
Our words were slightly slurred.
I filled a cup with tea,
Added sugar and then stirred.

It tasted quite peculiar.
I went back to the gin,
And then I tried the whiskey
Before making tea again.

As night set in the people
Who were hiding ventured out.
They could hear the stream of music
Flowing from my spout.

They started to relax
And the music made them dance.
They didn't mind when someone's cat
Began to spit out ants.

In Chloe's song about these strange
Events she mentioned me.
She says I fell asleep on chairs
And woke up soaked in tea.

Things in my Head

2009-06-25T06:10:00.000-07:00

I've been playing with a bull
And idiotting a ball of wool.
I've been fooling with my fall.
I've been pushing a roll of wall

Down a hill until I come
To where I left my kettle drum.
I'll plug it in and make some tea,
And field these questions thrown at me.

"How can you eat your crutch like that?
Why do you sniff all the worms in your path?
Might they not climb up your nose
And find the place in your brain where woes

"Are boiled in pots and stored in baths
And hopes are crushed like grapes in vats,
Squashed by feet attached to legs
That hang from wires. They're held by pegs."

I try to answer all they ask.
I'll gladly undertake this task.
Answering helps me unwind.
I'm not afraid the worms will find

The kitchen in my brain where peas
Are trained to fly like bumble bees
And go up other people's noses
While they're busy sniffing roses.

The peas will pick the locks of doors
Inside the brains of dreary bores
And paint the walls of rooms with thoughts
Baked by chefs with rows of noughts

But not one cross. They all look mad
And scary too when they are clad
In blood-stained clothes emitting smells
That wear their garish clothes and bells.

These one-eyed chefs adore their knives
Much more than life itself or wives.
They love to cook or bake their theories
And think of people who'll soon fear peas.

The worms will be led to a room
Where TV screens defeat the gloom.
The worms will see all that I do,
Like wearing red and saying 'boo'

To sleeping bulls who lie in shade,
Or hammering the scones I made.
They'll see me kick a ball of smoke
And pick up shards of glass it broke.

A Free Dinner

2009-06-18T06:51:00.000-07:00

I walked for many days on hills
And through a mountain gap
Until I came across a town
Not marked on any map.

I ventured down an alley
Guarded by an alley cat.
He spoke in broken English
But I didn't stop to chat.

I found a place to stay
Above a pub where evil lurked.
The taps poured out brown water
But at least the damn things worked.

I had a bath and washed my face
To lose the smell of sweat.
I read the news on my tattoo,
The forfeit of a bet.

Because I incorrectly called
The outcome of a race
I had a page of newsprint
Written on a private place.

I've never bought a paper since.
The news remains the same.
Politicians work both night
And day at shifting blame.

I brushed my hair to excavate
The ancient coins and earth,
And then I had to brush my face
Till it was free of dirt.

I wore my suit when I went out
To seek what I could find,
Something burning brightly to
Illuminate my mind.

I roamed the streets. I passed the homes
And clubs of ill-repute,
Where everyone has firearms
And a tendency to shoot

When they perceive an insult
Or the slightest little slight.
Fights decide who'll be the rightful
Owner of the night.

I passed the pubs and hubs of vice
With prices on the door.
All the staff possessed two legs
And some possessed two more.

I came across a building with
A dark, foreboding look,
A place where scheming butlers
Would be murdered by the cook.

Something drew me in,
Even though I was afraid.
As soon as I set foot inside
My fear began to fade.

Crystal chandeliers illuminated
Spacious rooms.
Countless happy dancers let
The music's jazzy fumes

Affect their minds and bodies
And their feet became a blur.
The legs of people who were
Sound asleep began to stir.

Waiters dressed in white served drinks
To writers who expressed
Their love for one great writer
And their hatred of the rest.

My stylish new surroundings
Left me in a happy mood
Until I saw the crazy prices
Of the drink and food.

A woman there perceived
The disappointment on my face.
She said she'd make me dinner
If I went back to her place.

She promised me some wine as well.
I wouldn't have to pay.
I said I'd be delighted
And I let her lead the way.

We walked down streets in darkness
To the other side of town.
It seemed her house was wondering
If it should topple down.

Inside she started working on
A late-night meal for two.
She put what looked like beef into
A pot of Irish stew.

She used a carving knife to cut
The gravy in a dish.
Dessert was chocolate gateau
But it smelled a lot like fish.

She made a pot of tea and raked
Some sugar from the rug.
She evicted all the insects
Who were living in my mug.

I was shocked. I couldn't quite
Believe that she would do
So much to make me feel at home.
Our time together flew.

While she read my tattoo,
I enjoyed my cup of tea.
This was the nicest dinner
That I'd ever had for free.

The Price of Success

2009-06-11T07:02:00.001-07:00

I treasure all that life entails.
When my most recent mission fails
I'll say 'hooray' and celebrate.
I love what high-achievers hate.

Failure's nicer than success.
Being good at playing chess
May well inspire respect and awe
And compensate for some great flaw.

But this success means spending hours
Strengthening your mental powers,
Gazing at a board of squares
And facing bishops' vacant stares

While I'd be at the estuary
Where two fake bishops blessed my tea.
These bishops wore more jewellery
Than Mr. T. In fooling me

They told me they had just said mass
To a most angelic class
Of pupils from a local school
Where light and mindless kindness rule.

The children's smiles were disconcerting.
The bishops heavy hearts were hurting.
I had a thermos flask of tea.
The bishops' eyes lit up with glee

When I poured tea for them in mugs.
They told me that their favourite drugs
Were tea and cake. I quelled their hell
When I gave them some cake as well.

They blessed my soul before they left
On a raft acquired by theft.
The sun above makes me feel blessed.
It tells me I'm a welcome guest.

On riverbeds of mud I stand.
I search for buried treasure and
Retrieve detritus when the tide
Goes out and leaves no place to hide

For old umbrellas, broken planks,
Shredded documents from banks,
Tangled nets and ropes in knots,
Bins and cans and pans and pots.

The office-bound can have success
And days indoors and waves of stress.
Film stars can't steal a raft
Without being seen and photographed.

I'll stay out in the sun till nine
Without being seen, and then I'll dine
On fish I found. My makeshift shack
Has candlelight to fight the black.

With peanuts I can pay my rent.
To celebrate a day well spent
I'll open my homemade champagne,
Made from aftershave and rain.

Fish don't like being caught

2009-06-04T05:45:00.000-07:00

Fish don't like being caught.
I'm sure they'd rather not
Be abducted from the water
And subjected then to slaughter.

Fish don't like baked beans
Or glossy magazines
With dozens of celebrities
Who spread throughout the web with ease.

They don't enjoy weekends
Spent on road trips with their friends.
They don't like barbeques
Or picturesque sea views.

Fish don't surf the net.
They'd surely sense a threat.
'Net' sounds worse than 'gun',
Though surfing sounds like fun.

If I had a genie's wish
I'd choose to be a fish,
Swimming freely in a shoal.
The zoo inside a bowl

Would be fine for those whose aim
Is a modicum of fame.
They'd have their fifteen minutes,
Or half an hour and then it's

A trip through death's wet moors,
Down the toilet, through the sewers.
And when it ends they'll be
Floating in the deep blue sea.

This would be their afterlife.
My sardonic laughter's knife
Would cut them up inside
If they hadn't gone and died.

I would be alive.
I'd be free to swim and dive
In their heaven, where they're dead
After being overfed.

If I should meet my death
On a hook or in a net,
I'll fail to keep life's lease
But my laughter will not cease.

As my heartless killers dine
The last laugh would be mine.
I'd taste like cheap hair gel
Because that's the way I smell.

A Good Fire

2009-05-28T06:31:00.000-07:00

Sue will glide through days of light
And land on cushions in the night.
Through dark and dreary days she wades.
The faintest light when daylight fades

Will make her want to start anew,
To take a plunge into the blue
And be prepared for what comes out,
A mud-stained boot, a silver trout,

A rusting shopping trolley full
Of eye-less toy sheep made of wool,
A diary of King L Kong,
A piece of string, a dinner gong,

Or dinner guests who sound like geese,
And geese who sound like someone's niece,
A niece who talks till people fall
And many armed policemen call

To tell her of the terror she
Has spread. She's made the neighbours flee,
And some have claimed the end is nigh.
Priests say we should pray and cry.

The town's stray dogs have gone for good.
A tall, thin man who wears a hood
Enjoys the sound. It's like a song.
He taps his scythe and sings along.

Sue's prepared for what each day
Will bring to her or throw her way.
She'll cope with things as best she can,
Though she avoids her niece, Diane.

But lately not a lot's been thrown
At her each day. She'd like her phone
To ring and when she answers it
She'd hear a friend who says she's with

A famous band who can't stop crying.
The friend explains that she's been trying
To comfort them with jam and bread
But this upsets them more instead.

She tried to keep them entertained
With puppets who are well house-trained,
But her sock puppets scared the band,
Though nervous children find them bland.

Sue would call around to see
If Jaffa cakes and herbal tea
Would help to halt the flow of tears
And chase away the gangs of fears.

The tea would work. The tears would cease.
The much-appreciated peace
Would be like when her niece departs
And lightens loads on leaden hearts.

In times of crisis, Sue will thrive.
But such a call might not arrive.
She might receive a late-night call
From her impulsive cousin, Paul,

Who'll say he stole a treasure map
From some well-mannered foreign chap
Who disappears in self-made fogs
And always brings out growls in dogs.

She'd settle for a call to say
Her aunt Yvonne has gone to Bray,
Or hear her neighbour tell her that
He's sensed great evil in her cat

Since it spent two weeks in the mire,
Or even that her car's on fire.
But no such call arrives for Sue.
Nothing rises from the blue.

The phone is sleeping in the hall.
Instead of waiting for a call
She'll have to be the first to act
To light the flame this day has lacked.

She thinks about what she should do.
She could eliminate the blue
And paint the town bright red instead,
Or maybe paint her garden shed,

Or paint sad faces on her knees,
But she decides against all these.
She goes to see her friend, Nicole,
Whose brother gave up burning coal

When he began to burn doll's hair.
For starting fires he has a flair.
He started burning other things,
Like teddy bears with angel wings,

And bowler hats containing fish,
His creature in a Petri dish.
They burnt outside a nurses' dorm
And this became his new art form.

For Sue he makes a fire with these
Ingredients: a set of keys,
A lock of hair, a fake eye lash
From a doll who just says 'Mash',

A box of coffee-stained phone books
And twenty plastic pirate hooks,
Topped off with two tractor tyres.
This brings the drama Sue requires.

The Clown

2009-05-21T06:25:00.000-07:00

The clown returned home to his house after nine,
Faced with a night on his own, drinking wine.
A knock on the door brought a quick change of plan.
He thought that it might be his mother and gran.

So he was surprised to see Melanie there,
His beautiful neighbour. Her visits were rare.
The clown was delighted. He asked her to enter
And silently thanked the great forces that sent her.

In his living room a pin's fall could be heard.
She took off her coat without saying a word.
While he did his best to compose basic prose
She held up and smelled the one red plastic rose

That stood in a vase on the table beneath
A painting depicting an old naval fleet,
Ships on rough seas with the wind in their sails.
Their sailors are vessels for rum and tall tales.

She put the rose back in its vase and she said,
"I've so many thoughts fighting wars in my head.
I need to bring peace, a permanent pause
To cat-like ideas extending their claws."

The clown couldn't speak. He smiled at her face,
Thankful to have this peculiar case.
He didn't know why she was talking to him
While outside the light of the evening grew dim.

She could have been anywhere other than there.
She could have gone off to a bar with her hair.
His mental detective was looking for clues.
His long snake-like laces in over-sized shoes

Slithered away while his brain was obsessed
With figuring out how he came to be blessed.
He started to think that he'd really been cursed.
The times labelled 'best' often merged with the worst.

Triumphs soon turned into crushing defeats.
The bottomless black depth of night often beats
The daylights right out of his battered old soul
And makes him consider a job as a troll.

He wondered if she'd come to stab him and steal
His set of gold cups even though they're not real.
When he was exploring these thoughts he could hear
The odd word or two as she spoke of her fear

Of being alone late at night when she wakes.
To conquer her terror she gets up and bakes.
She makes countless nocturnal cakes every week.
Icing a cake before dawn can be bleak.

And then she went on to describe how she's bored
With most of the music that she once adored.
She hates her new job and her boss makes her sick.
She thinks that most people are hopelessly thick.

The clown realised that she meant him no harm
And he wouldn't need to switch on his faint charm.
She just needed someone to talk to, and he
Would gladly provide this good service for free.

She spoke till she looked down and saw something odd.
The slithering laces made her scream to God.
She jumped in the arms of the clown and they fell
Back on his couch. She said, "Call me Mel."

They stayed on the couch and she spoke about how
Her handbag was eaten by her cousin's cow,
And why she's afraid of some kids' TV shows.
They're like manic demons in ribbons and bows.