Couch Potato

A tongue-in-cheek musing on moving less in middle age.

 

As I sit and watch the telly,

I’m distracted by my belly;

Crafted out of cake and chips,

Like my massive arse and hips.

I should shift them off the sofa,

Make myself get up and go for

Exercise: a swim, a walk,

The thought of which now makes me balk.

When I was younger I would go out

For a bike ride, not a blow out.

Now I rarely move a limb

It’s no surprise I can’t get slim.

But moving has become much harder

Due to visits to the larder.

Which is where I’m often found

And why I’m getting far more round.

As I sit and read the paper,

I see folks whose figures taper.

I’d just love to be like that

But tasty food has kept me fat.

Cat Owners

Cat owners can’t have lovely things.

They wouldn’t stay lovely for long.

They’d end up in tatters and frayed.

I wish I could say I were wrong.

 

Cat owners can’t have a lie-in.

The miaowing begins around dawn.

A cat doesn’t care if you’re snoring

Or whether your curtains are drawn.

 

Cat owners can’t make a big fuss

About sifting and cleaning the litter.

Or the cats might start pooing elsewhere

And their owners would just become bitter.

 

Cat owners can’t be in control

Of how their cats choose to behave.

A cat will do just what it pleases

All the years from cradle to grave.

 

Cat owners lose meals to their cats

And they’ll use your best clothes as a bed.

It’s better to simply accept

That the cats own their owners instead.

How Far?

How far must I go

Before I know it’s too far

And I can’t return?

 

So far that your voice

No longer reaches my ear

For all your shouting?

 

So far that your face

Is invisible to me

For all its brightness?

 

So far that your life

Ceases to have a meaning

That I understand?

 

How far can I go

Without severing the thread

That joins me to you?

Voter Fatigue

I’m sick to the back teeth of voting,

I’m really fed up with that cross.

Not least because most of my choices

Have been on the side of a loss.

I don’t want the Tories in power,

I don’t want to leave the EU.

I didn’t choose chocolate digestives

And I’m baffled they ever got through.

I’m dreading the team on my doorstep,

Insisting that they are the best,

That they will keep every promise

And not lie to me like the rest.

My TV’s already a nightmare.

My nerves are beginning to fray.

As it seems that, for no valid reason,

Farage has been on every day.

I’m sick to the back teeth of voting,

It’s all unbelievably bleak.

Especially now that it seems like

It’s happening every week.

Although it’s a bit of a nuisance,

There’s no way I’m going to abstain.

No matter who ends up in power,

I vote for my right to complain.

Pressure

Today’s the day the words won’t meet the page,

Nor will the lyrics fasten to the air.

The actor stands upon the empty stage

And bows before an audience not there.

 

Today’s the day the wren hunts down the hawk,

The hare bolts to the gorse to flush the fox.

Upon the cliff the eagle strips the nest

And lets the eggs fall down upon the rocks.

 

Today’s the day when nothing can be done,

And all the hours are crushed under the weight.

Now each must slow before they seek to run

Into the fractured dawn that’s made them late.

 

Before the ice incites the flickering flame

The victim offers up their tortured name.

Dark Skies

 

Long days, black nights, waiting for the dawn’s light,

Nestled safe and out of sight and cushioned from the sorrow.

Warm breath, still air, fighting back the urge to care,

Knowing that the truth lies there and praying for tomorrow.

 

Head back, eyes wide, searching through the dark skies,

Far from all the hurt and lies and wrapped in peals of thunder.

Lips closed, hands clasped, watching clouds go sweeping past,

Mind at peace and calm at last and saved from going under.

 

 

 

Real Life Blues

Woke up this morning,

Didn’t know what to do,

Checked the BBC to see

If we’re still gonna leave the EU.

I’ve got the blues.

I’ve got the real life blues.

 

Turned on the kettle,

Put the toast on my plate,

But I’m all out of teabags

So the drink will have to wait.

I’ve got the blues.

I’ve got the real life blues.

 

Logged onto Twitter,

To look for some jokes,

Now I’ve been insulted

By seven random blokes.

I’ve got the blues.

I’ve got the real life blues.

 

I checked my emails,

For offers of work,

But it’s mostly just LinkedIn

Trying to get me to follow some jerk.

I’ve got the blues.

I’ve got the real life blues.

 

Turned on the TV,

To watch something light,

When quite without warning,

Mrs Brown comes into my sight.

I’ve got the blues.

I’ve got the real life blues.

 

So I went out walking,

To clear my head,

I wish I’d been careful

‘Cause I stepped in some dog crap instead.

I’ve got the blues.

I’ve got the real life blues.

 

Gave up on the day.

Lay down to sleep.

But as I was drifting off

My alarm just started to beep.

I’ve got the blues.

I’ve got the real life blues.

 

I woke up this morning,

Like I already said.

If I’d had any sense at all

I’d have stayed in my lovely warm bed.

I’ve got the blues.

I’ve got the real life blues.

I’ve got the blues.

I’ve got the wasted day blues.

 

 

 

 

 

 

More or Less

The more I say, the less I see.

The more I see, the less I hear.

The more I hear, the less I think.

The less I think of me.

 

The more I feel, the less I care.

The more I care, the less I hurt.

The more I hurt, the less I trust.

The less I trust in me.

 

The more I want, the less I have.

The more I have, the less I use.

The more I use, the less I keep.

The less I keep with me.

Remembering the Dead

On 15th April 1989, 96 Liverpool fans lost their lives at Hillsborough Stadium.  After years of cover-ups, an inquest found that they had been unlawfully killed and that the actions of the dead and the other fans had played no part.  At 3:06 pm, Liverpool will fall silent in their honour and, later, the bells of both cathedrals will ring out for them.  RIP.

 

When the town falls silent,

When it bows its head,

When the candles flicker

We’re remembering the dead.

When the bells are readied,

When the names are read,

When the prayers are muttered

We’re remembering the dead.

When we offer comfort,

When the truth is said,

When we shed a tear

We’re remembering the dead.

When the lives are honoured,

When justice lies ahead,

Then we’ll never walk alone

Remembering the dead.

There But For the Grace of God

A study by the homelessness charity, Shelter, showed that more than 1 in 3 workers in the UK are one payday away from not being able to pay their rent or mortgage. Furthermore, 3 times as many homeless people as those in secure accommodation have suffered a significant relationship breakdown.  The people we see living on the street have met a bump in the road and fallen off.  That could be us.

 

There but for the grace of God go I,

Haggard face: drawn, grey.

Searching bins for scraps of food

And nowhere safe to stay.

 

There but for the grace of God go I,

Ragged clothes: worn, old.

Carrying a crumpled world

And shaking with the cold.

 

There but for the grace of God go I,

Huddled frame: weak, thin.

Drinking to shut out the pain

And ready to give in.

 

There but for the grace of God go I,

Broken life: smashed, spent.

Spiralled since the job went west

And, with it, all the rent.

 

There but for the grace of God go I,

Mind in bits: cracked, beat.

One relationship breaks down

And home is now the street.