My poetry never gets read
it hides in street corners instead
it lurks in the shadows of grey days
and seeps like a Smokey cigar out the window in a haze
It gathers at poetry recitals
where it splutters and mumbles
my poetry is just a distraction
an interaction between a mad man and an audience
an ordinate scream
like pissing in a stream
and wondering what it smelt like
starving poets told to go on hikes
My poetry never gets read
it feeds the angels instead
but they don’t share
enough to tell
what poetry of mine is from heaven and what is from hell.
I just like writing
poetry which is like lyrics without musical interlude
I know it’s rude but never mind you won’t read it anyway
and if you do have nice day…
In my wondering
I am an imp
an upstart crow
with a limp
a little bit more
than your average trickster
but a little bit less
than my average best
a sour tongue lemon zest
drinking from a plastic beaker.
This gingerbread man is ninja
he throws sweet stars and then
he jumps out of windows from tall houses
and lands on his feet and his trousers
are still clean
this ninja ginger bread man is a lean mean fighting machine
because he doesn’t want to get beaten or even worse eaten.
Do vampires get tooth decay?
Do werewolves get fleas?
Do zombies have to use prosthetic knees?
Do fairy tale princesses always say please?
Can witches have white weddings?
What do mummies have for their bedding?
Do Orcs have to shave?
Do angels ever misbehave?
What is a goblin’s average height?
And do ever they get tall?
Do giants ever start off small?
I’d like to ask these questions
If you have some thoughts or suggestions,
Please get in touch
My address is;
1 The Wizards tower
Pancake pancake why won’t you mix?
Pancake pancake why do you stick?
Pancake pancake why don’t you go to plan?
Pancake pancake why do you get burnt in the pan?
Pancake pancake this should have been fun
pancake pancake why do you run
when you’re stuck to the ceiling it’s no fun
Pancake pancake I would have had you with lemon and syrup
but I am laughing and crying so much I have got the hiccups.
Sitting in your old arm chair,
With a devil may care,
Talking about the ingratitude
Eating microwaveable meals,
I still love you,
I remember the times when I was young,
and you helped me,
when I was stung,
by a wasp,
or fell over.
Life is hard,
it makes you,
Please think of the things you’ve shown me,
Rather than talking about the things that make you despair
I know behind the passive aggression you still care,
I know I sometimes take the Mick,
But really Grumpa,
I can see all your tricks,
There is still, to my surprise,
magic behind those eyes,
And bedtime stories waiting to be read.
Don’t lose the thread
We all need a grandfather like you,
For you have all the experience,
You will know what to do!
Thoughts should fill my mind
but I am blind.
my words just hot air
and my tears just water
I sink beneath the autumn leaves
I am just caught here.
my sentiments just cliches
my ideas yesterday views
the true artists leave me
they pick apart my clues
My brain just wreckage
my poems just spoken
all thats left of me is shopping carts
and Tesco’s tokens
My wages are benefits
My unemployed gains
I am picking apart the drains
for my blood stains
everything I do
I haven’t even got a clue…
When Facebook is filled with memes
broken pictures and shattered dreams
when you respond with a haha like
but no one recognises your plight
when they are too busy finding out their character is that of a potato
and you get ignored but don’t hate though
when they share posts like who would narrate your life
and you want to get out of that conversation because it probably be piers Morgan and his wife
remember you chose to live on Facebook and be a troll
and life is out your door and off your phone which is sucking away your soul.
Don’t you remember when we were kids
when you proposed to your childhood crush with a hula hoop ring
sung nursery rhymes and pretended to be king
of a castle and that your friend was a dirty rascal
played hop scotch in the playground
and run across and TIG your it
and you ran across the school yard with glee
just because you could with me
we though it was great to grow up
but we sometimes miss those days
finger painting and art
now all we dream of is shopping carts
and money ain’t it funny
how growing up was a trap
and how we used play was so inventive
creating pretend treasure maps.