Buzzing on the window
In desperation
The tiresome fly
Draws a lot of attention
Buzzing in people’s ears
In a fractious fly by
Again and again
Witless and wide-eyed
Landing in puddles of warm beer
And rubbing those front legs
Leaving a mess behind
And slurping up the dregs
Such an insignificant beast
With limited communication
You hang around in bars
An insect of your own creation
The bar was empty
But the air held a tension
A gathering of poets
Was what the poster mentioned
The wooden floorboards
On which I stood
Were sticky and stained
From the previous night’s alcoholic flood
The young girl behind the bar
Stuck out her furred teeth
Her eyes scanned over me
I stepped forward to speak:
‘What time does the poetry start?’
She grinned even wider before replying:
‘Oh, it’s been cancelled . . .’
I stared at her hairpin
It was a flower shape
Planted on her head
I nodded politely
Heart sinking like a lump of lead
An evening of spoken verse
Clearly wasn’t meant to be
I made my way down the stairs
Reeling from a rhyme robbery
Twice Upon a Rhyme (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
A week before the happy event
The Vicar, Bride and Groom all meet up
Everybody’s hoping for good weather
And more than one lens will zoom in
But this is 21st century Britain
Where the weather’s never great
All we can do is pray
That we don’t all get too wet
The day arrives, and so does a Rolls Royce
Ushers pass Order of Service into hands
An organist plays, the people wait
Oh, the groom looks grand!
Tailcoats and pointed shoes gather
Ladies are dressed to maximum frill
Heels click, and new shoes squeak
Wide brimmed hats are everywhere; that’s how it rolls
Nobody’s holding their breath anymore
The bride is walking down the aisle
It might be raining outside
But in the church, the sun shines from wide smiles
Bridesmaids in blue, walk behind
The bride, so serene, an angel in white
A journey towards the highest of passions
Each step closer to a heavenly height
The Vicar fluffs his lines
And gets the names wrong
But it doesn’t matter
Because these moments are gold
The congregation sing the hymns
And hit all the right notes
The Vicar reads the vows
Tears of joy flow from so many folks
Rings slide onto fingers
She’s no longer a ‘Miss’
He is her one true ‘Mister’
It’s sealed with a a tender kiss
The sign said for sale
And when the people moved out
Removal men came
To heave away the piano
Along with the beds and everything else
Until the house was empty
And standing forlorn
Like a dog without a tail
The letterbox flapped
And deliveries of junk mail
Landed in a pile
Gathering layers of dust
On a worn out, left behind, welcome mat
The doorbell didn’t ring
And no footsteps
Ran down the hall to answer it
The doors were all locked and bolted
Lamps left on timer switches
The seashells in the bathroom
Long gone with the goldfish
Now and then, people arrived
To poke around and peek in corners
Until, one day, a ray of sunshine came
And took the for sale sign down
Once again, the house could breathe
The world was returning
It might be two-year old terrors
Making mucky marks on the landing walls
Or people with a taste
For Sky dishes and wallpaper paste
The house opened its doors
And let them in
English: for sale sign (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Old photographs
Stuck in an album
Capture magic moments
And sometimes the hum drum
The river is black
In the photographs, and for real
Those murky waters
Hold a history hard to reveal
Performing arts (Photo credit: cynicalview)
I bought two tickets to see
The comedy maestro, Jack Dee
An 18th birthday treat
For a perfect princess
At the Royal Concert Hall, Nottingham
An evening of quirky jokiness
For a special occasion
I wanted the best
Including, if possible, a birthday dedication
I rang up to make the request
And was told to call back
On the day of the show
To speak with his manager
The man with the say so
So that’s what I did
He sounded surprised
When I asked him the question
I can’t be sure, but I reckon he rolled his eyes
‘Er, Jack doesn’t do dedications,
If he did, we’d be here all night,’
He muttered down the line
So I gave up, didn’t put up a fight
When the evening arrived
We sat in our seats, side by side
Jack made us all laugh
Our smiles stretched out really wide
At the conclusion of his set
He was called back for ‘More!!’
And returned with his electric guitar
Which was to become an instrument of torture
He stepped up to the microphone
And sang a few ballads
None of which were good enough
For Britain’s Got Talent
His tour continued
And I followed his tweets
As he travelled the length of the land
Every show sold out, he got bums on seats
Whenever on the road
He tweeted about his latest gig
With his views on the audience
Delivered with a cheeky dig
Sometimes I tweeted right back
But his use of twitter
Was a one way street
He never replied, not that I’m bitter
So, I know I’m missing out
On being ignored
But, I don’t follow Jack Dee
On twitter anymore
English: Twitter headquarters at 795 Folsom Street, San Francisco (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
It was the movie
Of his own life
Where various dramas
Played out
Over a number of years
He could follow
Instructions
To stick a skewer
Into a joint of roasted meat
To see if the juices ran clear
If he formed an opinion
He was never really sure
If it was really his own
He was a dreamer
Always with the ghost of an idea
He lived his life
Like a wrecked car
Wheels no longer turning
Broken mirrors, a bashed up bumper
He never got into gear
Ghost (Photo credit: Pétur Gauti)
