Going to the gym

Gym junkies aren't all massive musclemen
though some indeed resemble dinosaurs
for others only work out now and then
preferring the role of anatomy bores.

Discussing biceps, triceps, deltoids, abs
and pecs they could be biped carnivores
salivating over the choicest slabs
of meat. Beware the way they flex their jaws.

The aims of younger men are sometimes set
on more than merely strength. In threes and fours
they build self-confidence by pumping sweat,
encouraging each other with group applause.

Maturer men have more to lose than gain
when they decide to venture through the doors.
They push their paunches ahead of them in vain
attempts to find somewhere to park their flaws.

And old men are still searching for the truth
about their being robbed, a loss which gnaws
away their self-esteem  -  their stolen youth.
Grasping dumbells is like clutching sraws.

Most ladies don't want muscles but to trim
their bums and thighs. Hard exercise restores
their hope of making pecs work quite uplifting.
At least it makes a change from household chores.

And why does going to the gym suit me?
A little exercise of will ensures
invigorated limbs and vanity,
reward enough for all the sprains and sores.

Strange

how the hours pass so slowly
yet the years go by so fast.

Not exactly a bedroom but none the less
on the pavement in front of a shop
someone had made up their bed.

Although it was only a sleeping bag,
it was tastefully patterned, quite clean
and clearly most carefully spread.

Its position was expertly chosen,
tucked below the shop front overhang
where people weren't likely to tread

and the rain wouldn't reach from the nearby street
while the glass might just radiate heat -
a bedroom for someone well bred.

The tenant was not yet in residence
but, as  if on a bedside cabinet,
an up-market coffee cup said

"I'm certainly down but I'm not yet out.
If you give me a chance, I'll rise again.
Be thankful it's not you instead."

An Olympic Diet ?

The menu that's on offer is what's unsold
after the use-by date and consequently
dishes that once were hot have now gone cold
and what before was spicy now seems dicey.
Yet I see those over there have younger fare
with leaner meat, smooth skin and gleaming hair
so why should I settle for silver when there's gold?
Because, you silly sod, you're much too old.

Not dead but not moving except the chest swell;
not dead but not seeing with white marble eyes;
not dead but not hearing the news that we tell
with no independence from now till she dies.

This is the lady was brought up too well
to complain that her eyesight was failing
so now she inhabits her own little hell
but still with no ranting or railing.

Glaucoma took one eye and gave her a hint
that she'd better look after the other
but reading her book she continued to squint,
determined to not be a bother.

So now she is blind and can't read anymore;
she's no use for diary planners,
can't live for the crossword as she did before  -
a martyr to middle class manners.

Referendum 2016 - the Brexit politicians

It's not just the photo'd immigrant queue
all flooding into our country
but the siren call that we and you,
we the people all together,
will not be told just what to do
by foreign Brussels bureaucrats
who anyway don't have a clue.
Take back control. It should be us
telling you yokels what to do.

Evatra, Madagascar

The view is beautiful, a photo made for dreams
where breakers charge the beach, wave upon wave,
in playful threat that tumbles into gleams
of white teeth smiles of children which engrave
the memory and windblown hair that streams

above the crests. The sand-bar echoes sea
into the still lagoon where the wind skims
the surface into rippled tracery
of ducks and drakes. Later, as the sun dims,
the moon lays on the lake an icy sheen.
But other eyes observe a different scene.

This is a prison where the inmates own
no crime but still are sentenced poverty;
the sullen villagers are daily shown
the passing tourist's latest novelty -
the video camera, watch or mobile phone

still light years out of reach of those who dwell
distant as aliens from outer space,
so far apart their worlds. Those who can sell
the tourist services, however base,
convince themselves that they are doing well

but all will suffer. Nobody enjoys
their poverty except it seems the fate
of all, which every tourist wave destroys.
When sense of deprivation causes hate,
what will they think and do as men, those boys
with home-made boats on string their only toys ?