Every week, my dearest day
is when my buddies and I partake and play
our regular contest of cards.
What's great about codgers and cards
that would make an old duffer's day
and inspire pensioners to play?
I dunno, but I think I will peacefully play
with these jokers, and cut ups, and cards,
and these goofballs till my dying day.
It's our day - time to play cards - goodbye!
Don't need clues
Who lit the fuse
Of Soho's Blues
No old codgers
No bother bodgers
No dodgy lodgers
Just Oisin Rogers
And tax dodgers
Want it to be bland
Class not brass band
Just like the Strand
But any proper city
Needs a bit of shi*ty
Can't be too pretty
Needs a bit of gritty
So would be a pity
Don't throw in the towel
The midnight howl
Needs cheek by jowl
Seeds a bit of foul
Feeds owl on the prowl
So don't let it be panned
Our cult adult wonderland
That is the Soho brand
A mackerel sky fillets a fish scaled village,
an ear clapping, full sailed, fog
moors itself to the rooftops,
then hides all in a breezeless blear.
Rheumy eyes peep out from nets,
damp noses sniff abaft trawling drapes.
Cloth in hand, potbellied proprietors
battle the splatter and spray,
dabbing at mildewed shelves,
warding away slopping waders
and salty puddles.
On the sightless sea
far beyond the shore and shingle,
fog horns are lowing like lost cattle.
Later, misty reeks will be scoured
from groggy docks,
hauling hands will rope together
the tide-tossed salvage
by and by, squeaky boots
may trudge to taprooms
where codgers and callow alike
can be well oiled
and duly quenched.
Cranky crusty Codgers
Skeptical scornfully scowls
Youthful yearning Yonkers
Heartful happily howls
Spurned spiteful Spinsters
Graying gracelessly grumbles
Marvelous merry Maidens
Ravenous richly rumbles
Some numpty bad mouthed my soup style
I’ve taken a break for a while
But I won't be deterred
From writing about turd
And subjects some others deem vile
I’m producing book number two
It contains some poems on poo
Foul flatus departing
Old codgers rank farting
And my pet hate vile doggy doo!
Young geeks, txt with lightning speed,
Old dudes, lol, trying hard to find the next key to text,
w/e our asl may be, we are trying to convey,
our feelings, imho, in a cryptic language.
Codgers love the high from aged malt,
Whipper-snappers are already addicted to texting before they know,
You may go to jail for dui,
But you may be dead texting and driving,
Texting has its own dictionary and personalities trait,
Btw idk if still ily? u wre my og,
Nvm ‘m smh, hmu asap,
No cap, tbh Ily.
Kit w/ ur hak, ur pain and sorrow, ur social events,
I will reply you with im chat,
a chat waiting to be responded,
Is like missing ur xoxoxo.
I recognize your vivacious gaze
A saffron blaze as speckled as the sun
And how you framed your lips
I despise having to say goodbye
Thus, our ethereal realm is descrying.
caused by the sham of wholeness
A nebula sparked a throb in my heart
Innocence is lost at an early age
until the moon swallows it all, I wage.
I was jolted awake when we spoke
Until her love-worn heart broke
At first light, a human spirit awoke.
Now I will tell the terrible truth
Nor exert effort, as this is really smooth
Our hapless path had been specified
It was the source of a haphazard journey.
I frequently sit and ponder
Yet I love to rhyme, – particularly to wander
On what oceans do you set sail?
However, the sun never dries the dew
on a dreary shore where no air blew
Breeze sighed amber codgers too
Whatever was lost is now null and void.
Written: February 08, 2023
Brian Strand Contest No 1183 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
A mackerel sky fillets the village
then hides it in a breezeless blear.
Heads poke out of net drapes
sniff and fish behind trawling curtains.
Shopkeepers brace for
wet dog splatter and spray
from slopping boots and salty puddles.
On the sight-seeing sea
far beyond the shore and shingle,
lost fog horns are lowing deep
like colicky cattle.
Later, misty reeks will be scoured
from groggy docks.
Hauling hands will rope together
tide-tossed tubs,
then tired feet will trudge to taprooms
where the brackish parts
of codgers and young alike
can be oiled and quenched.
The fans of the Brooklyn Dodgers
Once rivaled those of Roy Rogers
But when Trump came on
Those standards were gone
Trigger got stuffed with old codgers
Coffin dodgers and nursing home lodgers,
wrinklies, pensioners and plain old codgers.
A drain on society, archaic models of piety,
bed blockers, youth knockers, paragons of sobriety.
But is all that we see, all that it seems,
the elderly, like you, still have hopes and dreams.
Still carry the baton for tomorrow's youth,
the keepers of history, the sentinels of truth.
Though the fire is out, there still burns a flame,
which, if fanned by interest, could burgeon again.
Igniting a beacon, a fantastic life force,
a living library, a priceless resource.
So, honour your old folk, cut them some slack,
for a lot of them have been to hell and back.
They've built the society we now take for granted,
so enjoy the fruits of the seeds that they planted.
A mackerel sky fillets the village
then hides it in a breezeless blear.
Heads poke out of net drapes
sniff and fish behind trawling curtains.
Shopkeepers brace for
wet dog splatter and spray
for slopping boots and salty puddles.
On the sightless sea
far beyond the shore and shingle,
lost fog horns are lowing deep
like colicky cattle.
Later, misty reeks will be scoured
from groggy docks.
Hauling hands will rope together
tide-tossed tubs,
then tired feet trudge to taprooms
where the brackish parts
of codgers and young alike
can be oiled and quenched.
World Series, back in '56,
Against the Brooklyn Dodgers,
Will always be remembered
And not just by some old codgers.
For the Yankee pitcher did what none
Had ever done before
Or since - a perfect game,
With 2 to zip the final score.
Don Larsen was that pitcher
And, at 90, he just died.
His feat's not been repeated
Though some aces surely tried.
The ending, made immortal
In an image that still charms,
Shows the catcher, Yogi Berra,
Leaping into Larsen's arms.
I hope that record always stands,
Indelible in baseball lore -
Perfection in a Series game;
What fan could wish for any more?
I used to love People Magazine
Which may be why I am still getting it
Delivered to my house thirty years later
I stare at the strangers on the cover
Flip through pages about people I do not know
I want a specialized magazine
We will call it Old People Magazine
It will feature people I know
Cher, Tina Turner, Eddie Murphy
But if we named it Old People Magazine
Would I be the only subscriber?
Probably.
Better name it
Sassy Seasoned Stars
or Crones and Codgers
Why do some of us
Live longer than others
Why do we outlive
Our younger sisters and brothers
Did they die younger
As they had wiser brains
And us old codgers
Needed to remain
This puzzles me
And causes me concern
Maybe we live longer
As we still have much to learn
PERPETUUM MOBILE
I must go down to the pigging shops again
To Morrison, Tesco, Aldi or maybe Lidl
For I Just went there for the sodding milk in vain
How could I forget! it really is a riddle
To me, though to my wife it’s clear as day
It’s because my age is already well past middle
And the senior moments frequently make play
When I get there, wonder why, and so head back
Starting endless cycle - perpetuum mobile
Could it be I’ve found an answer to energy lack?
Send old geezers to the shops - instructions to buy
Tie to National Grid their unending there-and-back
We could call it ‘renewable’, answering Greeny cry
With old codgers in perennial supply.
22 April 2019
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