I have written and performed poetry for about the last 20 years, although some attempts were made a lot earlier. This collection came out just as Lockdown came in around February 2020. It’s available for £10, including postage in the UK. A second collection is in the pipeline. Here are some examples of my poems.
Lockdown Chrisps
Ding-dong. Bang, bang
‘Behold, I stand at the door and knock
If anyone hears my voice and opens the door
I will come in to him and eat with him
And he with me’
I have been waiting
For over six long weeks for this moment
Demand has gone through the roof –
The deliverer has shoulder-length hair
And a beard
‘Just sign here, mate.’
‘Do you want to come in and share with me?’
‘Are you kidding? Thanks, but
I’ve got another 100 deliveries’
The second the door shuts
I start tearing at the excess packaging
The pass-the-parcel music has stopped
And the prize is all mine
There it shines in silver and gold
Air tight
I pull the two sides of the
Sealed for freshness foil pack apart
And an indistinguishable whiff of
Something vaguely meaty
Lingers in the air
Like a ghostly fart
The two fingers and thumb
Of my right hand
Crane in to pick out
A single potato chip
These are no ordinary crisps
These are Jesus Chrisps
With that silent aitch
Longpig and Burgundy
Full bodied and full blooded
Well, here goes
Also Sprach Zarathustra plays in my head
As the space chip approaches
The entrance to
My gaping cakehole
The advertising slogans trumpet
‘Savour the flavour
Of your savoury Saviour’
‘Take the test and feel blessed’
And I was thinking to myself:
This could be heaven
Or this could be hell
I’m salivating in the hope of salvation
Just get on with it, for Christ’s sake!
The chrr-isp lands on the tip of my tongue
The salt hits first, then the umami kicks in
The taste is not unpleasant
A bit like chicken
So far, nothing special
No chrispy epiphany
I have another, then another
And the pack soon lies empty
I wait to be filled
With a spiritual glow
A love for my fellows
But nothing happens
A bastard kid is still kicking a ball
Outside against a bastard wall
A neighbour continues his incessant drilling
I’m still less into hugging and more into killing
I take a look at the wrapper
There’s a photo of a man in white
‘Endorsed by Francis Pope’
A Pope Francis lookalike
‘If you like this, why not try our
Smokey Satan
Dead Sea Salt and Ninevah
Or Wholly Roast Beef’
I am not convinced by this chrispy inanity
Even though a percentage of sales goes to charity
Some might say it’s all rather in poor taste
And that the firm should be shut down post-haste
It depends if you believe in miracles
Or prefer evidence that is empirical
Maybe you need more faith
To believe they’re divine
Anyway, on to the blood
Let’s crack open the wine.
CHRISTMAS POST
I am the white male
Sorting the post
To all parts of Devon
From north to south coast
I stand at my station
Facing forty eight holes
Letters envelop me
Square fish swim in shoals
They all have their place
From Axminster to Zeal
But finding it fast
Is quite an ordeal
Some take so little time
In writing the address
Jumbled up letters
An illegible mess
Put them with the missorts
And the strays for London
Bag up the tornaparts
That have come all undone
Keep up the momentum
Unload another crate
Returns to Age Concern
‘They’re all dead now, mate.’
This strange conveyor belt
Where I’m the one moving
Piped music is painful
Not at all soothing
Daft DJs spit froth
Spin crap Christmas tunes
My brain’s going soft
At least it’s lunch soon.
East Seventeen versus EX17
‘Don’t say it’s the final kiss.’
It’s Crediton, that’s where it is
In between chulmleigh and Cullompton
That poor Brian Harvey got dumped on
Run himself over with his own car
Who’d want to be an ex-pop star?
How do you run yourself over with your own car?
Sidmouth is a place for an old ass
To take it easy over Christmas
There’s a steady stream of
Cheques for the Sanctuary at Muletide
Michael Bublé’s voice grates on the ears
It makes me want to pull mine off
He sings like a sickly sweet robot
Or an infant with whooping cough
The paper deluge comes to a halt
All mail sorted and boxed for the night
Til the next day when it all starts again
With new post and more musical shite
Penguins In The Lost & Found
1.5 million Adelie penguins
Have been found living off the
Danger Islands
In Antarctica!
The mystery ‘piano man’ found wandering the streets of Sheerness in a soaking wet suit and tie in April 2005 didn’t speak for 4 months.
He drew a picture of a grand piano.
When they brought him one, he played non-stop for 4 hours.
ORCHASTRATION!
A colony of men and women in evening dress
Lurk around the shingle beaches near Dungeness
Some say they played in orchestras far and wide
But now they’re all washed up, sat down side by side
Their evening dress is much the worse for wear
Their instruments salt-caked and tuneless
This self-effacing tribe
The Last of the Musicians
Keeping their positions
Strings with strings
woodwind with wood.. W.. I …N …D (blown)
I don a penguin suit in order to gain their trust
Slowly some of them open up
I played the bassoon in the London Philharmonic,
But I had a penchant for the odd gin and tonic
The snitch who played timpani had it in for me
I lost my job and my need for booze became chronic
Have you ever seen
some people lose everything?
First to go is their mind
A foghorn sounds, the silence is shattered
like ageing gazelles they scatter.
A lone tuba player emerges from the mist
A broad grin on his deranged boat-race
They re-group and start chanting
We’re lost without our music
We’re caught in a trap
We’re looking for a leader
There’s still a way back
A conductor, a pied piper
To pick up the baton
We need Simon Rattle
It feels like 1812
And we’re scarred from the battle
Give me the melody
That’s all that I ever need
Music Is Our Salvation
I decide it’s time to leave
But the fog has set in.
‘Let’s start you off with the triangle.’
Seal Haikus
Double-take revealsIt’s no diver, but a seal!I leg it to shore. Furtively sleepingSeal in a rubber dinghyYou look so at home. Swimming round Shag RockDo my goggles deceive me?No. Seal caught napping. At a safe distanceMy short-term swimming partner.Seal of approval....
The Best Fish Disco In Town
You never know what to expect in the underworld. Take today. I swim out past the wastelandsWhere the discarded crab shells litter the floor, Like so many abandoned tanks on the roadside Then, Bang! I’m into a victory tickertape fish paradeShiney slithers spin and...