Poems

THE GOAT WHISPERER


Ray’s day wasn’t going so well;
In fact, it had been a lousy year.
Things just seemed to be going to hell
And he felt like shedding a tear.

He and the missus hadn’t been married too long;
They was practically newly wed.
But she kept complaining day and night
‘Bout there being no action in their bed. 

“I’m tired and weary, I is!” Ray exclaimed.
“And I’m dead on me feet at night!”
“Well, how ‘bout giving me love in the morning?”
Said the missus trying to avoid a fight. 

But Ray had an answer for that one, too.
“I got lots of work in the morning
Feeding them cows and pigs and goats.
Now please don’t be giving me no warning.”

So Ray went off to tend to his chores;
A farmer’s work is back-breaking stuff.
Just then he found a note his wife wrote
Stashed in the pocket near his old tin of snuff. 

“I’m making your favorite ploughman’s lunch,
A sandwich prepared with loving care.
I’ll bring it to ya ‘round half gone noon
And you can plough me in the sweet fresh air.” 

Well, Ray got busy and sorta forgot
‘Bout his wife coming round near noon.
So he went to the back of the barn for a nap
But the missus arrived a moment too soon. 

She let out a scream and covered her eyes
For the sight she beheld was too crude.
Right there in the hay like two lovey birds
Lay a goat and Ray in the nude!

Poems

GUEST POST: TWO WEEKS IN NEWBO


FINDING SOMETHING OR SOMEONE YOU TRULY CONNECT WITH IS A REAL TREAT AND THAT’S JUST WHAT HAPPENED WHEN I READ THIS DELIGHTFUL POEM BY PAUL GRIFFITHS, MY FRIEND FROM ACROSS THE POND. THE BEAUTY OF PAUL’S WRITING SPEAKS FOR ITSELF BUT THE FACT THAT THE POEM BROUGHT BACK MEMORIES OF PLACES IN MY OWN BACKYARD SUCH AS CONEY ISLAND AND ATLANTIC CITY MADE IT EVEN MORE SPECIAL. I’M SURE YOU’LL ENJOY “TWO WEEKS IN NEWBO” AS MUCH AS I DID. COME ALONG WITH ME ON A LITTLE VACATION. THANKS, PAUL!

New Palace Amusement Arcade

I’ll tell ya I love New Brighton.
Locally known as little San Tropez.
It’s a fantastic little place.
A place to while those hours away.

Just looking out across the Mersey.
Getting lost in life’s constant ebb and flow.
Hoping that my ship will come in.
Wondering where that ship may go.

Sailing off to the far horizon.
Disappearing beneath the setting sun.
Kid starts screaming at his fallen ice cream.
Then he starts screaming at his mum.

Snapped back to reality.
Right back to the here and now.
The ice cream man ducks for cover.
He reads the Mother’s mind somehow.

She grabs the cornet from her sobbing son.
Then she marches to the ice cream van.
For a moment there was a Mexican standoff
Between her and the ice cream man.

The kid got his 99 with raspberry sauce.
At the expense of a few expletives being said.
These New Brighton fish wives speak a strange local dialect
Unbeknown to us Posh folk from Birkenhead.

That’s why I love New Brighton.
There are so many things to see.
This little village is a hidden Pearl of a place
Nestled on the banks of the Great River Mersey.

I love the grand Art Deco design for the tuppenny arcade.
To be hit with that unmistakable smell of doughnuts freshly made.
Ticker tape parade of yellow tickets thousands of them in all
Gets you a paper aeroplane or a multi-coloured little bouncy ball.

New Brighton’s bygone days are over, those crazy golden years
Of grand ballrooms and iron towers, and sepia photos of the pier.
But that was a different time and time always shapes a place.
I guess that’s what makes New Brighton a special little space.

Grab a bag of fish and chips down by the seafront.
Take a healthy slow stroll along the prom.
Nod my head in respect for the Black Pearl.
Can’t believe it’s gone.

But the flotsam and jetsam is a gathering
Right where the Black Pearl used to be.
To be built on the bones of fallen pirates
Rising once again to sail the seven seas.

You see New Brighton is a magical place
Full of music, poetry and art.
I’ve even heard that you can find little fairies
Hiding in the woods somewhere down in Vale Park.

Or grab yourself a deckchair and hit the neo-classical bandstand.
Sit and listen to the little amphitheatre’s almost perfect wall of sound.
Chill and listen to some of the best of the local talent.
Bands come here to play from miles around.

Better still go and hit a pub, relax with a well earned beer.
Keep your eyes peeled for cut throat pirates or buxom buccaneers.
The pubs and taverns are all welcoming, easy come easy go.
.Just be patient with the yokels, some are just a little bit too slow.

But that’s the real beauty of New Brighton.
You slowly feel you’re traveling back in time.
And being a bit of a time traveler myself
I find that very concept in itself is absolutely fine.

So I’m not going abroad this year.
No, I’ll be going to little San Tropez.
Rhyl is so last year.
New Brighton is the future of local holidays.

We all like to escape to somewhere if only but for a day.
New Brighton is only up the road but it could be a million miles away.
I guess we all need a bit of a holiday, and with that being said,
I’ve Booked two weeks in Newbo for August, a mini break from Birkenhead.

PTG © copyright.

Poems

OUR ‘ENRY


Commemorated through the region
for his prowess and pugilistic might
was the one and only Henry Cooper,
a champion born and raised for the fight.

He and George were born on the third of May;
the two brawny lads were identical twins.
By the age of fifteen Henry excelled in boxing
with seventy-three out of eighty-four wins.

This proud son of South East London was a giant,
a lefty with a formidable uppercut jab;
cut-prone and no great defensive technician,
yet his glove on one’s jaw felt more like a stab.

Tall, broad-shouldered and athletic,
he cut an imposing figure.
With powerful fists licensed to kill,
his look was of sternness and rigor.

In September ’54 he fought Harry Painter;
it was his very first match as a pro.
The battle took place at Harringay Arena
where Henry soundly defeated his foe.

Our ‘Enry took off like a house on fire,
for nine bouts in a row, no one got in his way.
But he lost number ten on a technical knockout;
how ironic that match was at old Harringay!

Henry bounced back, never one to stay down;
every match for him was compelling and vital.
But he suffered a big loss on February nineteenth;
Joe Bygraves took the Commonwealth heavyweight title.

Henry was no fly-by-night flash-in-the-pan;
undefeated champ for twelve years was he.
Our ‘Enry fought with the greatest and best
including “The Louisville Lip” – Muhammad Ali.

The young champ was still known as Cassius Clay;
the year was nineteen hundred and sixty-three.
A great deal of ticket-selling for this long-awaited bout
created a massive amount of world-wide publicity.

In the fourth round Henry was leading on points,
Ali making little attempt at effective aggression.
Henry felled Ali with a left hook to the body;
“‘Enry’s ‘Ammer” it was called in the profession.

Well, Ali’s manager brought him to the corner,
administering smelling salts banned in the UK.
The prohibited act was witnessed by no one
and a rejuvenated Ali defeated Henry that day.

Decades later a vital extra six seconds
showed up in a long-missing recording.
If all things had been on the clear up and up
the headlines would have had different wording.

For a second time Henry went up against Ali
who was now world heavyweight champion.
Though cut and tired, Henry never hit the canvas;
a TKO was the decision and again Ali won.

Henry won forty out of his fifty-five matches
and in 1971 it was time to hang up his gloves.
But Henry was never really down for the count
and he had a rich life full of many great loves.

Jump back to the late 1950s
when Henry met the love of his life.
A Gina Lollabrigida look-alike
who he courted and took as his wife.

She was dark-haired, petite at just five feet tall
and her name was Albina Genepri;
a waitress at Henry’s favorite restaurant,
a beauty from the Apennine region in Italy.

Two people who grew up hundreds of miles apart
from similar backgrounds – both working middle-class.
Henry was a cockney bloke from Beckenham in Kent.
When Albina learned English, her accent was like cut-glass.

It was ironic but Albina hated boxing
yet she remained Henry’s strength and his shield.
He constantly asked her to come to his fights
but only one solitary time did she yield.

Henry was known as a prince among men
and a king of the ring in many a fight.
In 2000 he was dubbed “Sir Henry Cooper”
joining the ranks of paladins and knights.

One night on his way to a sporting event
Henry received a call from his son.
“Come back home, dad!” was the pitiful plea.
“Something terrible’s happened to mum!”

Their’s was a love that movies are made of.
Lives full of happiness and very few tears.
They both were the real deal, genuine article
and their marriage lasted forty-seven years.

Albina had suffered a heart attack,
her devoted life had come to an end.
Henry never truly got over the shock
but like a willow he learned how to bend.

Just three years later Our ‘Enry
quietly passed while watching TV.
His son said it was quick and painless;
“He’s with mum now for all eternity.”

He was a lovely gent and a good fella,
a great husband, dad and true friend.
All those dear mates of Our ‘Enry
were loyal right up to the end.

Henry & Albina Cooper
Henry Cooper was the only boxer
ever to be knighted.

Henry vs Muhammad Ali


Poems

THE HAPPIEST WIFE


There’s a quaint little road not too far from me
Where the sign by a hedge reads “Love Lane”.
People travel for miles and miles to see
The street with that enchanting name.

The houses all look like fairy-tale homes
As psychedelic butterflies flutter by.
Statues of toadstools, angels and gnomes
Make passersby grin and contentedly sigh.

There’s never a cloud-filled sky o’er Love Lane
And the flower gardens bloom all year long.
A gentle breeze spins the old weather-vane
While a cardinal whistles his song.

At the end of the street is a sweet little church
Which has seen brides and grooms come and go.
A duo of lovebirds comfortably nests on their perch
Cooing greetings to all those below.

Alongside the church is a babbling brook
Where ducklings are happily splashing.
A couple cuddles close with their poetry book
While their children are playing and laughing.

Love Lane can fill every heart with great joy
Like it’s Christmas or Valentine’s Day.
Sweet as a crush for a young girl and boy;
It’s just puppy love, or so people say.

Can a place like Love Lane really be true
Where peace, joy and harmony reign?
Is it possible to never feel lonely or blue;
To not suffer heartache or pain?

Someday as I walk down that storybook street
I’ll happen upon the true love of my life.
All the luckiest spouses on Love Lane do meet
And I know I’ll be blessed with the happiest wife.

Poems

GUEST POST: THE POIGNANCY OF A DYING SWAN


It’s a privilege to present to you a poem by my friend, Colin Cameron. I just came across this poem written by Colin on September 11, 2016 and was struck by the beauty and depth of this composition. The fact that this poem was originally written on September 11 is most profound indeed. Colin can be found on Facebook and is a member of Carefree Writers, also on Facebook. Check out his vast collection of poems on all subjects, from the ridiculously funny to the sublimely poignant. You will not be disappointed.

September 11, 2016

There’s nought so poignant than a dying swan

When such beauty wanes, like faded silken chiffon

A life of magnificence, dressed in majestic and Royal regalia

Of which only nature breeds others so familiar

No judgement on the world to bestow

Rose above the melee, so far, and way down below

In silence and romantic hue, with mate espoused for life

Intertwined necks and wings, as one they swam the lake no strife

In flight they were in unison, spans of angels wings

In jealous admiration, larks and starling sings

The ugly duckling story, fulfilled from page to fact

Remembered well, those cygnets, from eggs lovingly hatched

And now the song is almost at an end, full cycle but far too soon

Her mate succumbed to leaded weights, and fell to deathlike swoon

Solemnity overtook the swan, in her chest now beat a broken heart

Never had she loved so pure, they were destined never to part

And when she closed her eyes, for that final time

She cursed bitterly, that fisherman and his bloody line

Poems

OH, YE WHO CANNOT COMMIT


August 23, 2020

I’ve got little patience, I know that it’s true
For people who say “Sure, I’ll do it!
I’ve lots on my plate but this I can do!”
And they never do nothing but shit.

They sign up for that, they sign up for this
With the best of intentions behind it,
But the deadline they always just happen to miss
And they never do nothing but shit.

I talked with a woman a few months back
Who said she liked writing quit a bit.
I gave her the name of a person to contact.
She never wrote back; she was all full of shit.

Then there’s the school coach who wears many hats;
From one sport to the other he’ll flit.
He promised to buy all the baseballs and bats
But in the end he did nothing but shit.

A friend said he’d come over to move my piano;
I took off the front door so it would fit.
The hours went by and my friend was a no-show.
Turns out he was worthless as shit.

My cousin said she would do Christmas dinner;
A stressful undertaking, I freely admit.
We all did our share, Mom’s pie was a winner
But my cousin forgot; she did nothing but shit.

The kids in our school rehearsed for the play;
The secretary said she would schedule it.
A lot of other things seemed to get in her way
And you guessed it; she didn’t do shit.

‘Twas the big wedding day for my sister Doris;
The guests looking ’round for someplace to sit.
But something went terribly wrong at the florist;
There were no lovely flowers. The wedding was shit.

My daughter-in-law joined a poetry group;
Every week she wrote poems to submit.
Soon the size of the group started to droop
And after a while it all turned to shit.

We hired a fellow to paint our new house;
The bright yellow color didn’t suit it.
He bought the wrong paint; it’s called “Dead Grey Mouse”;
Now our house just looks like a pile of shit.

There’s always that loud sloppy drunk at the bar
Who promised his wife he would quit.
He’s done this too often; he’s gone way too far,
But he’s wasted and gives not a shit.

I have a good friend who is constantly late
And I really don’t know how she does it.
She’s never on time for a meeting or date.
We’re all waiting but it doesn’t mean shit.

The guy next door lost another great job
And he swears that he didn’t deserve it.
Well, everyone knows he’s a big lazy blob;
He’s a loser and he’s useless as shit.

Folks love to say when you’re part of a team
You must do your fair share and get with it.
So I work my ass off and it just makes me scream:
“I’m the only one who gives half a shit!”

We placed an advertisement in our local newspaper:
“Free Christmas tree. Brand new. We can’t use it.”
A woman called: “Put it aside and I’ll take her!”
We waited till midnight; she was just full of shit.

I drove my dear friend to the store for a gift.
Her car had a flat; she couldn’t drive it.
“I’ll pay for the parking as a thanks for the lift.”
But didn’t because she was all full of shit.

Why can’t some people just do what they say?
Why’s it always so hard to commit?
Well, you know what? At the end of the day
I guess they were all full of shit.

Poems

NO JOKE!


August 14, 2020

Death is no laughing matter;
It isn’t some practical joke.
It doesn’t care if you’re thinner or fatter;
Death comes to all sorts of folk.

Death isn’t anything new, we all know
It began in the Garden of Eden.
Cain, he killed Abel, it was mano a mano;
He was jealous and just had to get even.

Death came to Caesar as quit a surprise
At a meeting in the Theatre of Pompey.
The Senators punctured his back and his sides;
“Et tu, Brute?” was all he could say.

Death for young Romeo was a goblet of poison
Which he drank thinking Juliet was dead.
She found her dead lover, stabbed herself in the bosom
And dropped dead at the foot of his bed.

Death is the bloody result of world war;
Brave men within earshot of guns.
Grenades flying high like a bird on the soar;
Frightened lads crying out for their mums.

Death is something we don’t like to ponder;
It gives us the cold sweats and chills.
Not so for a psycho who’s out on the wander;
Killing quenches his thirst for cheap thrills.

Death is merely a passage of sorts,
Ambiguous though it may seem.
Don’t forget what your mom used to say ’bout your shorts,
“If you die they had better be clean!”

Death can sometimes be quit accidental;
Even crossing the street isn’t easy.
Finding oneself in the path of a rental
Will most certainly make you feel queasy.

Death likes to climb into bed when you’re sleeping;
Some say it’s the most pleasant way.
Under your bloomers and sheets it comes creeping;
Good thing you had no plans for the day!

Death can be so inconvenient!
It shows up when you haven’t a hunch.
One minute you’re pitching your new camping tent
And the next you’re a hungry bear’s lunch.

Death likes to hide in the darkest of places
Where junkies shoot up in the night.
But nobody sees the relief on their faces
When they finally give up the fight.

Death can appear right in front of your car
And you cannot control your Range Rover.
You slam on the brakes but you’ve gone way too far
And drive over the White Cliffs of Dover!

Death comes a-tapping on your neighbor’s back window
And you’re thinking “Thank God it’s not me!”
Next thing you know your poor wife is a widow
When you’re squashed by your dead neighbor’s tree.

Death has been known to appear at the station
While you’re waiting for the next express train.
There go your big plans for summer vacation;
But you made the late news – don’t complain!

Death frequently happens in bathrooms
After falling through the glass shower door.
It’s going to take more than a mop and some brooms
To clean all the blood off the floor.

Death will take all the fun out of life;
I hear that it happens quite often.
So have lots of sex with your perky young wife
Before they lower the lid on your coffin!

Death comes to all whether dirt poor or rich;
It’s never been known to discriminate.
You can be a real gent or a son of a bitch,
Pure of heart or brimming with hate.

Death will happen in every generation;
Today or tomorrow, no one can tell.
Whether a low-life or of high veneration
We’re all gonna end up in heaven or hell.

Death doesn’t come for a gain or a profit;
It’s certainly no money-maker
Unless, of course, you’re lucky to sit
In the chair of the rich undertaker


Poems

THE CIRCUS WAGON


February 9, 2020

Rumors the Clown is coming to town.

He’ll take your frown and turn it upside down.

Saturday night at Monument Park West.

Come see the joker who’s the best of the best.

Yes, Rumors the Clown is coming to visit

So run children, run, or you surely will miss it 

The circus wagon chugged through the streets

Extolling Rumors the Clown’s incredible feats.

The star of tv, the stage and the screen 

Would roll into town, a sight to be seen,

This violet-haired, bumbling, zoot-suited jester,

The idol of Harold and Mary and Lester 

The kids scampered home to ask mom and ask dad

“Can we go? Can we see him? We haven’t been bad.

It’s true! It’s true! We heard and we saw

Go look it up at the newspaper store!”

Nothing this special has happened before.

Rumors the Clown will be here for sure! 

The next day the newspaper store was a-buzz

As people poured in to make sure it was just

As their children had told them, their faces a-glow

Like the bright flaming torches at the juggling show.

Could it be? Was it true? Were their children mistaken?

Were dreams fed to them by somebody faking? 

The storekeeper shouted  “You all think you’re so clever!

Stop pushing and shoving! Such discourtesy – I never!

You’re all here in my store for the very same reason –

Are the Rumors rumors true or is somebody teasing?”

The children stood round with their eyes all a-gape

When a shout rang out “Here it is, right here on page eight!” 

“Make way! Let me through” the town librarian barked.

“I’ll take a close look with my assistant, Miss Lark.”

They put on their glasses and read every word.

Was the news printed here what the children had heard?

“Now quiet everyone while I read the whole story;

If you dare interrupt me you will surely be sorry!” 

Come one and come all to the best show in town!

We’re speaking of course of Rumors the Clown.

At Monument Park West on Saturday night.

The most splendid performance will thrill and delight!

Rumors will juggle, ride bareback and walk the high wire  

And perhaps – if you’re lucky – swallow a sword blazing with fire! 

The extravaganza is free of charge to all who attend,

Sponsored by philanthropists, doctors and the hospital band

For the benefit of sick children and orphans here and there

Who desperately need fun from some people who care.

Saturday at eight – write it down and be there!

Monument Park at the west wall – that’s where!  

“That’s tonight!” someone yelled and they ran home to dress

In their dandiest clothes so they’d all look their finest.

In dresses and new shoes and even a vest

They headed out laughing, not stopping to rest

They ran all the way to Monument Park West.

But when they arrived at the end of their quest

The west wall was locked, closed to all guests. 

“There’s nobody here! Where’s Rumors the Clown? 

The newspaper ad said the west side of town!” 

And everyone cried, even mean Mr. Brown. 

In his shop the printer wore a terrible frown. 

He’d made a mistake – he deserves a fool’s crown 

For the “WEST” – not the “EAST”–  is what he wrote down. 

At Monument Park East Rumors sat crying alone 

The east side was empty for no one had shown.  

“My days as a great clown are over and done; 

It’s time to retire, go live in the clown home.” 

Blowing his nose Rumors pulled out his phone. 

“Bozo? It’s Rumors. And I’m so very alone.”

Poems

JUDAS BLUE EYES


November 25, 2018

Life was good

It was fine

A bit mundane

from time

to time

but fine and dandy

dandy and fine

Never once entered

my contented mind

to look for someone

or

cross a fine line

Who

could be

out there?

I never once

had a care

for a

mesmerizing

intense

blue-eyed

devilish

stare

Smooth

suave

and

sure of himself

Getting caught up

in spite of myself

A

Charming

Sexy

Funny 

Clever 

person

I didn’t know

existed

Ever

Never

I’m savvy

Street-wise

Nobody’s fool

No blinders on

Lady Green Eyes

Always so cool

Drawn to him

Dream of him

Laugh with him

Fun times begin

Really good friends 

That’s it

Nothing more

Though the roar

in my head

and core

screams

“Maybe more!”

Than friends

Exciting

Inviting

Igniting

Skywriting

Delighting

Inciting

private jokes

and

teasing

flirting

What does it matter?

Who are we hurting?

Close friends

Familial blends

All so natural

All so casual

Days

Weeks

Months

Years

Lunches

Dinners

Laughs

No tears

Holidays

Relations

Weddings

Vacations

never foretold of the

inevitable cessation

When did it change?

When did it turn?

I was about

to learn

and

to feel

the burn

of

Lies

Aspersions

Deceptions

Distortions

Evasions

Contortions

Deceptions

Fabrications

Hyperbole

Inaccuracy

Mendacity

Dishonesty

Insincerity

Falsity

Hypocrisy

Duplicity

This ideal

once heaven friend 

Now

Svengali

Machiavellian

Reptilian

Cheater

User

Liar

Abuser

Selfish

Shallow

Manipulative

Hollow

I was a friend

I was a fool 

To the bitter end

an unwitting tool

Too kind

So blind

Edged out

Left behind

Lied to

Why?

Once bitten

Twice shy

One step too far

behind my back

A devious blow 

Did he think

I wouldn’t know?

No

Apology

did

Judas Blue Eyes

see

He didn’t

even care

he was

losing

me

Obtuse and dense

Now past tense

Amazing how

caring

and

sharing

can turn

into hate

Fuck you, my once friend!

Too little too late

Poems

MY DARLING


October 1, 2017

Melt in my arms tonight, darling, for you’re safe in this room here with me

Rest your head on my chest now, my darling, think what tomorrow will be 

The moon is full now, my darling, the hushed trees making nary a sound

As snowflakes and crystals descend from the heavens tenderly kissing the ground 

The winter is here now, my darling, gone is the summer breeze song

But the fire is warm, the blanket is cozy and I’ll cling to you all the night long 

Close your eyes and sleep now, my darling, for you know I will always be near

Wipe the tears from your long golden lashes; ’twas a bad dream, there’s nothing to fear 

Hush now, no more crying, my darling, only sweet thoughts swimming round in your head

You’re so precious, my darling, my angel, very small yet so safe in my bed 

Tomorrow is Christmas, my darling, and the reindeer are pulling the sleigh

With Santa and candy and toys made by elves and he’s surely coming this way 

Chef has baked cookies, my darling, and the night servant has brought out a plate

To place on the mantle, my darling, for Santa…..his poor hungry tummy to sate 

What’s that you say, my sweet darling? Read one more story tonight?

Yes, of course, my sweet little darling, for I know all things will be right 

Just a short one, my sweet little darling, for the clock is beginning to chime

In just a few hours, my darling, you’ll awaken to a wondrous time 

Are you ready, my precious, my darling, for the story of fairies and plums?

Mommy’s here, my sweet angel darling, and here I’ll stay until our morning comes 

Sweet dream time is finally here

Merry Christmas, my child most dear