Last One

As April leaves and May comes into sight,

I pause to breathe a sigh of great relief;

This poem is the last I need to write

And so, I think I’ll keep my writing brief.

A lack of inspiration holds me back,

I have no motivation to begin.

A stimulus, a muse is what I lack:

No strong emotion bursts out from within.

But still, the thought of finishing this chore

May spur me on and help me to create

One final ode, so I need fret no more,

And then my writer’s block will soon abate.

This will soon be done now that I’m on it

As it’s just another bloody sonnet.

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Up Here

The view is so clear from the top of the hill,

There’s nothing the eye can’t see.

I stand in the breeze with my hair in my face,

Enjoying the peace in my favourite place,

The river below moving at its own pace

And my mind floating over it, free.

 

The sounds filter up the top of the hill,

Lyrical, soft, yet clear.

I close my eyes and I let them drift by,

Touching my thoughts on their way to the sky,

Bewitching me, though I can’t understand why,

And making me want to stay here.

99

I’ve got 99 problems and the fridge is one,

It won’t keep things cold because the motor’s gone.

I can’t buy myself my yoghurt in a family pack

Unless I’m going to eat the lot of them as soon as I get back.

 

I’ve got 99 problems and the cats are two,

As I’m sifting through the litter for a shovelful of poo.

There’s an ex-mouse in the kitchen that’s been scraped and squashed

And a hairball on a cushion that I’ve only just washed.

 

I’ve got 99 problems and my job is three,

‘Cause the boss needs a scapegoat and he’s looking at me.

A client sent instructions that don’t make any sense

And my wages for the week are twenty pounds and seven pence.

 

I’ve got 99 problems and this poem is one.

I started it five hours ago and still it isn’t done.

If it’s still like this by midnight, I’ll give up and go to bed.

I wish to God I’d tried to write a Limerick instead.

Night

Over the silent park the low mist hangs;

Blue and smoky shadow maps carved in relief.

Distant silver giants glimpsed through leaves

Glare across the distance.

Brush away the fog and bare the bones;

Chill fingers writing in the sky,

Stark words, bleak prose.

Step back into the small hours and give in.

Before Twitter

Before Twitter

I didn’t lose hours each day.

Before Twitter

I could watch films with subtitles.

Before Twitter

My laundry pile was smaller.

Before Twitter

I’d hear what my kids would say.

Before Twitter

I sometimes saw the sun.

Before Twitter

I wrote more than short lines.

Before Twitter

I’d often read a book.

Before Twitter

I got my housework done.

Before Twitter

I drank tea that was hot.

Before Twitter

I sometimes stretched my legs.

Before Twitter

I think I went to work.

Before Twitter

I don’t remember what …

Before Twitter

I rarely shared a joke.

Before Twitter

I rarely wrote a poem.

Before Twitter

Nobody saw my cats.

Before Twitter

I shied from other folk.

Fertile Ground

A lie can only grow in fertile ground,

A place where it is tended and well fed.

Where hot resentful rays shine on its leaves

And someone takes the time to dig a bed.

If someone chooses to believe the worst

There’s nothing that can stop it taking hold

Where envy, greed or hatred flower first,

A lie will soon be welcomed to the fold.

Yet where assessment, calm and unperturbed

Falls on the lies as they come into sight,

Their growth is likely to be so disturbed

That they can only lose in nature’s fight.

A lie will only thrive where thoughts are low.

Don’t nurture bold untruths, don’t let them grow.

Vistas

I lay all this beauty before you;

Sparkling vistas,

A wealth of precious gems, set in flawless blue.

You scan the horizon for flaws.

You question my judgement, my taste

You offer to educate me in your ways.

Why would I swap my treasures for grime?

Why would I swap my flowers for barbed wire?

Why would I swap my eyes for yours?

Leave me my flawless vistas.

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?