I’d always stay on till the slow dance
till the lights came on at the end
watching the snogging and groping
drunkenly jealous of them.

I’d sit on the steps to the dance floor
clutching my overpriced beer
dreaming of grasping that blonde one
and sticking my tongue in her ear.

I wasn’t the one for the chat up
and I couldn’t rely on my face
and yes I’m a pretty good dancer
but sweating won’t get an embrace.

So, I’d grumpily watch the Romantics
as they left in the back of a Cab
they’d be getting a one night stand
I’d just get a kebab.

Sadly, all  of the above is one hundred percent true.

Over at Harry’s Kebab
they say
He pisses in the fat
they say
The meat
they say
is captured cat
yet knowing that
they queue and queue and queue
for Pissy Chips
and Cat Kebab

Harry’s Kebab was a takeaway kebab van parked inthe car park over the road from a nightclub in Redhill called Millionaires (or Mares as it was called).
All the things I’ve listed I’ve heard said about the place, as it probably is for any kebab van. Although, how you piss in burning hot chip fat in such close quarters without getting your todger burned is beyond me…

The Red Phone Box
stood alone on the road
near the
grey moorland
anticipating
Stranded Hitchhikers
Escaped Lunatics
People who’ve spotted
big cats
and those who’ve survived
Werewolf attacks
Detectives investigating hounds
Archeologists inspecting Mounds
Convicts on the run from the Coppers
Policemen out searching for corpses.
So far
this week
all that’s stood in its light
is a slightly lost Dentist
and me
on my bike.
Never has a phone box failed to live up to so much potential.

Don’t ask me where this came from because I don’t know. Blame Mondays.

White Pepper
in the small, cut glass Pepper Pot
sprinkled liberally onto
the overcooked, over salted veg
served by my Nan
on Sunday dinners.
Gravy in a boat.
Great slabs of Yorkshire Pud
Roast meat and potatoes
then for afters
Nothing with chunks of tinned fruit
or Mandarin Segments served
in their juice.
After the washing up
we would quietly play
whilst Granddad shouted at the wrestling
and pretend
not to hear my Nan.

This was all sparked when I bought some White Pepper on Saturday and the smell brought back all these memories. Those were the days when Sundays were done properly.
And look, fifty poems! That’s amazing, it is for me anyway. I still have a long way to go but it feels like a mini milestone of sorts. I might celebrate with a homemade cookie.

My pen worries at the paper
words and phrases tumble
restlessly from my pen
no form, no function
no method, no plans
Just chance meetings
random pairings
rag tag ideas and
half formed thoughts
jostling for attention.
Then somehow
I have to make sense of it all
bring peace from the chaos
It’s like herding cats
or catching the moon in a pond
with a net
with your eyes shut
or just getting through the day.

I’ve done that cliche thing, I’ve written a poem about writing a poem. Shocking,but it’s intresting to document my so called ‘writing process’.
It’s true as well, I’ll take a picture of my notebook at some point so you can see the madness.

Rain lashed and blustered
heading back to the car
I saw the Red Kite
Steady in the breeze
a sharp point focused
on unseen prey.
I blink.

Then it was gone.
Dived out of site.
Too fast to see.

If I had that concentration
just for a second
I could do anything.

I saw the Red Kite on holiday last year and was completely captured by it. I’ve been trying to write some sort of poem about it for ages. I’ve kept it simple because I was finding just throwing words at it didn’t help. It works I think…but that’s for you to decide.

As I attempted to cross the bridge today
the Troll beneath called out.
“You’re a talentless hack and you have no clue,
so just for today, no ideas for you!”
And those words stuck in my head like a crumb in a throat
and I’ve coughed and I’ve coughed and this is all I wrote.
So, to write a better poem than this is
avoid Trolls by keeping off bridges.

A bit of a struggle today I’m afraid, I will do better tomorrow.

You may not of heard of me
I’m the Master of the Seas
no Pirate King or Kraken
can get the best of me.

I punch out sharks and octopus
and kick Mermen in the nuts
at least, I kick them in the place
where I think they keep their nuts.

I sorted out a killer squid
who was lurking round the deep
I grabbed him by the tentacles
and slapped him round the beak.

And as for those Atlanteans
they were a motley crue
it’s me what went and sunk the place
and I keep ‘em down here too.

I hope you get the message
stay on land where you belong
if catch you diving round my shipwrecks
I’ll burst your aqualungs.

When I have nothing to say, I fall back to my imagination, which usually comes up with nonsense.

I’m the Saturday Magician
the stand in for the chap
who’s usually here on weekdays
and deals with all your crap.
I mean, deals out words of wisdom
from his esoteric tomes
consulting signs and sigils
then rolls his eyes and moans
and speak in tongues and gestures
with a lofty mystic air
and with a sense of theater
he rises from his chair
and proclaims your spell is cast
in a voice that’s rich with wonder
and for a touch of class
plays a tape of thunder.
Then you’re ushered from his presence
saying he has more spells to weave
and please don’t forget to pay the fee
to his assistant when you leave.
But on Saturdays, there’s only me
and I’m on time and a half
so be prepared to be amazed
but first, please pick a card.

I spend so long trying to craft something pretty, and clever and meaningful that I forget I’m actually pretty good at writing silly, funny things. I actually think I prefer to do that you know.

Shall we meet beneath The Shiver Tree
beneath it’s creaking boughs
where we shall wait till midnight
before we make our vows.

Using my brand new silver blade
it’s edge so sharply honed
we will carve our names into
the wood as white as bone.

And if the wind blows through the tree
and shakes, branch, twig and leaf
we may leave in happiness
forever blessed with peace.

But if the tree moves not one branch
though the wind may blow
once more I’ll use my silver blade
and then go home alone.

Stupidly, I managed to freak myself a little when writing this. I like the name The Shiver Tree for some reason, it sounded creepy so I thought I would write a creepy little poem. I also like the folk tale feel to it, I wanted it to sound like a legend or myth…I think I’ve done that.