pOETRY

Words tumble out in a self-selecting way and contrive to mix together in some manner that makes sense (or nonsense). They sit next to each other and chat about the odd world they’ve been born into.

IT DOESN'T MATTER IF
IT DOESN'T RHYME

It all began…

.. nobody can remember quite when, least of all me, but it’s only relatively recently that the words found their way on to paper and from there to a book.

I guess being in a band and always close to lyrics made me more aware of words, but it is occasions and events in life that sometimes demand to be expressed, whether they are born of turmoil, love, grief or even chaos.

Sometimes they will nestle in some quiet corner or your brain, brewing or fomenting or delicately growing until they feel fit enough to be expressed through a form of words that never feels quite adequate, but is the best anyone can do. Or, sometimes, they just leap out and shock everyone. 

Sometimes they will proclaim ‘I am a poem’, other times they will reluctantly ask ‘Do you think I may be a lyric, in some song, maybe, please?’

Everyone should write something, even if you never show anyone and just enjoy it smugly.

Maurice the Biscuit Bandit

She lies there waiting, waiting for the steps.
An empty bed again, has he ever slept?
A crazy obsession, up and down the stair.
A tunnel vision Maurice, a bourbon custard dare.

She caught him out red-handed, but not without a fight.
It’s Maurice biscuit bandit, culprit of the night.
A cookie, a crumble, A Jammie dodger bun.
Happy in his never-ending world of biscuit fun.

And what a man, to see a room of shirts and ties.
But what a man, but to find a soul of many guise.
And heaven knows what he hides beneath his holy shroud.
A secret to himself again, a lord beneath the ground.

In no uncertain time, digestive will be soft.
The biscuit man becometh a blessing man of cloth.
Surely there’s no harm in his own addictive buzz?
Pulling strings to ring a bell, he just loves what he does.

A closet Jesus, Maurice, a religious dream.
The day of certain cometh, the crumb of custard cream.
She wakes up to an empty bed, another search for Maurice.
Returns with her frustrated hope, but to find a bowl of porridge.

What a mad house this is

Radio no signal, oven sitting cold.
all TVs in darkness, Grandma’s getting old.
Keys are in the bathroom, dog has lost his bone.
Nana’s in the backroom, searching for her soul.

Children playing music, followed by the orb.
Daddy’s seeing spectres, cry up to the Lord.
One collects the toenails, reach out for the mop.
Mummy’s heart starts racing, Then it seems to stop.

Puddles in the kitchen, lights are off again.
Everything no order, all is such a pain.
Auntie’s in the bedroom, guarding one and all.
The flowers and the evil, who’ll be next to call?

Father’s in the nuthouse, please call in the pope!
Mother’s lost her marbles, children have no hope.

What a mad house this is…

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