Tweets 1

TEACHING
I certainly never thought much of the pay
but I did get a lot of holiday.

NOSE DROP
It seems to me now that I'm old
the end of my nose is always cold.

MALE SECRETS
The world of men is a charnel house
full of the bones from skeletons in cupboards.

She asked me to write her a poem.
No need, I said, you ARE one.

The women I want just don't want me

and the ones I don't want do.

EPITAPH

Gym junkie, gardener, poet, dancer.

PRAISEWORTHY TOLERANCE

Though murderous muslims test society

normal folk aren't murdering muslims

I'm really trying to ignor all those offers aimed to please;

I'm really tired of being conned by all the Ts and Cs.

I hate this damned detritus of the floor.

As soon as I've cleaned up there's always more.

AFFAIRS

Sex is a superficial sore.

Love is the cancer at the core.

Years calm appetites

but fail to banish fantasies.

Everybody else's death

is easily understandable.

Only our own isn't.

Do hunky guys with bigger dicks

feel extra pressure on their pricks?

SEEDLINGS

Home them longer

till they're stronger

to thwart the thugs 

of this year's slugs.

Nothing feels finer

than a woman's vagina.

A change of mood

I played all night, ignored the scatter-gun
approach of those around me, trusted in
the colours only and the stats displayed
which all the time were in my favour.

I didn't really think of it as fun
but rather just the challenge of trying to win,
to beat the nervous stress of being afraid
to lose as a lifelong frugal saver.

But I was losing badly. Just a run
of bad luck. It can't last. It will begin
to change. Schoolboy probability made
it sure. My confidence didn't waver.

Eventually though, some doubt began to rankle.
The rumble of the windowless casino seemed
the sound of turning wheels digesting money.

The croupier's 'No more bets' among the jangle
of competing voices could be deemed
a new and different meaning not so funny.

On the one discreet clock only the angle
of the hands proved time was passing. Cleaned
out again, the cashpoint closed me down.

Time to drive home. Outside, new daylight
filtered through the air. I drove too fast,
enraged at my stupidity in wasting
self denying, miserly hoarded cash.
Away from the city the sun was an angry boil
on the hills. Reaching the scarp I braked,
ready to descend, then stopped, amazed.
Below, the usual landscape had been flooded.
Only the tops of the tallest trees reached up
for help. The white lake below stretched
to the Weald in the distance. The surface
was tumbled as if boiling. The white fog
dissolved the red mist in my mind. I sat
quietly for a while considering Nature,
Science, Beauty, The Littleness Of My
Puny Life. Driving on again
I forgot the money, just glad to be alive.

Jewels

Raised up from clay to velvet beds,
clean polished faces winking wealth,
cut gems adorn decrepit heads
and nestle skin past youthful health;

cold shards of rock armoured in gold
and silver glint eternity
while stony silences unfold
a coolness for mortality.

The shower of goldfinch comes to ground
beneath a golden oriole;
pearl bordered skippers zig zag round -
an airy, dancing, vital shoal.

Jewels that live, like rubythroat,
should stun us more than minerals;
both rich and poor alike can gloat
at silver throated emeralds.

Spring is coming to a winter garden

Goldfinch dip down from the frosted bushes to perch on the feeder but the blackbirds ignore the bread thrown out on the lawn for them, only pausing to peck occasionally at a more tempting morsel. The scene resembles a teenage dance floor in a music-less interval. The boys chase the girls and see off other boys while the girls chase off unwanted boys and in their excitement even chase each other. In the overhanging oak, staid pigeons seated around the edge of the action, oversee the actors, monitoring each fluffing flutter and remembering with nostalgia the lost vitality of youth.

What matters?

Not where you've been
and what you've seen
nor who you've known
or what what you own
and certainly not what you've earned
but rather what you've learned.

Not your good looks
or published books;
not your physique
however sleek;
not what you've won
but what you've done
to make life fair
by what you share.

Not fine careers
all through the years
(respected names
untouched by blames),
not what you wear
but how you care
for others who
have need of you.


Not what you drive
or how contrive
the deals you make
and cuts you take;
not where you live
but what you give;
not how you live
or how you die
unless you question "Why?

Leda and the swan do not offend me
although their progeny were problematic;
if Midas' wife is happy being bullied,
it's not my business what makes her ecstatic;
but women should consider how their issue
affects the general gene pool of the race;
the minotaur warns how a loss of virtue
can cause a bigger problem than disgrace.
Presumably way back in ancient history
some silly girl could not resist the call
of amorous rodents which explains the mystery
of why there's genes of lemming in us all.

I hate old folks yet have to see them everywhere:
clogging up the buses, littering the parks,
impeding daytime shopping when they should be home in care.
They vacillate at ATMs and dawdle on the walkways;
their zimmer shopping trolleys cause a clutter in the cafes;
their shiny tortoise vehicles plough wide furrows in pedestrians
and looking in their faces you can see the kind of mess they're in.
I hate their sagging skin, their stooping postures, shuffling walks;
I hate their creaky movements, vapid gestures, halting talk;
I hate their dowdy clothes, their grey and thin, if any, hair
and all the things that start to fail with no hope of repair.
I hate the lack of beauty, any semblance of vitality
and hate to think that this will be my future as normality.
I hate to see what I will be (and probably am already).