I am what I am
and don't give a damn
about who my ancestors were.

They're strangers to  me
and always will be -
an anonymous Him and Her.

Driving has its ups and downs
and I don't just mean the potholed roads.
One day you catch all the traffic lights green
but then turn in the bus lane a yard too soon
unaware of the watching camera
and a charge that's anything but fine.
An empty road is a brief enjoyment
before a T-junction tailback queue
caused by a cautious driver ignoring
the long gaps in the crossways traffic
in case that stretch of road is needed
for a jumbo jet emergency landing.
Stopping to let an on-coming car pass,
you get no gestured thanks from its driver
and later the woman who won't pull over
despite your obvious right of way
V signs you when you beep your horn.
There's the careful driver who won't overtake
the weekend cyclist labouring uphill,
unconcerned by the queue he's causing;
and the polite driver who stops to allow
a car from a side road to filter in,
delaying the traffic waiting behind him
unaware that the road will be clear
as soon as a few more cars have passed -
too kind to the side, a pain to the main !
But in fact road traffic is a great example
of cooperation by all involved.
Sure there are accidents, some of them fatal,
and sometimes drivers break the law,
but if some committee were asked to approve
the idea of vehicles travelling fast
in opposed directions able to pass
each other a matter of inches apart,
no way would it be allowed.

How on earth did the idea start

that allotments are somewhere to relax?

Those TV programmes where old men

never need to bend their backs

but chat over cups of tea in their sheds

admiring their shiny sheets of black plastic

beside their DIY barely raised beds.

No need anymore for winter digging

or hours bending over summer weeding.

So there's plenty of time to just stretch out

on comfy chairs with integral table

admiring the plot where the kids are able

to play on the artificial grass !

The Boss

That power corrupts is no defamation
but rather too kind an explanation.

Size doesn't matter, width or height,
nor favoured hand, be it left or right.
Muscles don't count, tattooed or clear,
nor tone of skin softly smooth or sere.
Clothes are irrelevant, rough or formal,
bust size also, enhanced or normal.
Don't bother about the type of hair,
straight or curly, sleek or bare !
nor the colour, black, red, fair -
the person you're looking at isn't there.
Ignore the skin whether dark or pale
and also the gender, male or female,
shape of nose or size of chin -
the person themselves is somewhere within.
Perfect teeth are just for feeding,
stick-out ears are not worth heeding.
That shape of eyes doesn't matter is clear;
likewise colour but you're getting near.
We all know appearances tell lies
but look more closely into the eyes.
Through the pupils you'll find the guide -
the person you want is deep inside.

Poetry on the page is almost dead;
very few will read it anymore.
No-one now needs to see sounds in their head,
well, not many young folk that's for sure.

They get their poems by way of charting pop
never really knowing that it's there.
Sometimes lyrics help tunes reach the top
showing real poetic flair.

Disciplined by music's steady rhythm
and savvy about the appeal of rhyme,
wordsmiths learn by experimenting with 'em,
creating poems time after time.

The only snag with poetic recognition
is the narrow range of topics sung about.
Most pop music only deals with passion
which is why those lyricists lack clout.

I like to think of myself as far-seeing,
not stuck in the past but pretty progressive,
ahead of my time and forward looking,
clearly self-starting and very proactive.

Indeed it's clear when I have some chore
or job around the house to do -
I seem to get to steps three and four
without considering steps one and two.