Awe & shock bowlers in the dock our warlock & glock “the judge”
Rapscallion and stallion wrangling with dangling golden medallion
Facing the pacing battalion on our latest sinking Caribbean galleon
Our burly oracle with each follicle so curly a rock that won't budge
In that 90’s dungeon Robin our classy curmudgeon brassy bludgeon
Truncheon fine dining on a hurly burly Courtenay & Curtly luncheon
Calms alarms and qualms delivers us from harm with stoic heroic psalms
Call to arms more like baobabs than palms those offside charms “the Judge”
Speedsters scary & lairy others wary prime time for our hairy chest fairy
Robin our pace Pontiff willow ace not a whiff or a riff or sniff of what if
Believers in his jobbing levers will go biff in any tiff that's the pith of Smith
Not just a county squire but quite possibly the ultimate Hampshire Sire
Calling card hit it so hard earned the fable label of both BATman & Robin
Hall of fame name can’t smudge hats doff to a complete one off “the Judge”
I recall an earlier city than this,
that smaller metropolis had to be
plugged into black handsets for distant listening.
Often, I think that his city is a concrete megaphone,
one we have made from fabricated conversations.
Denizens daily must recycle themselves,
with ever louder words.
A few artisan poets,
with their mortar and spades,
grout the cracked and leaking windpipes,
hoping to calm the roar of a casual chitchat.
They labor on, to shore-up crumbling words,
before they all unplug themselves
from silence forever.
Chritstoph Willibald Gluck
in the theatre tried his luck
As a jobbing composer 'operatique'
Orfeo was his classique
I have relinquished my stage;
content now to be a silent audience
watching myself.
I observe that garmented voice
as it feed words into digital fonts
watch it act-out in a dimly lit theater,
a small auditorium yet it reaches far.
Occasionally this jobbing actor
glances my way
suspecting he is being watched,
he may take a bow
in my general direction. or clear his throat,
as if apologizing for an under-rehearsed
performance. It’s just as well
he cannot see my face.
If I were not there to listen
who would be so understanding
or patient?
Metaphorically speaking,
who would sweep the stage, turn off the lights,
then write a play or plot for the next time
that voice needed to play its part?
I am cutting ties
that I knotted to a faraway soil.
Exiled no longer at the tiller
of a long beached fishing boat
that bobs only on the legends
of ancient waves.
Those fluent in soul-breathing,
the Celtic poets,
those wind-chiming lyricists,
are pulling me
to the bottom of Lake Erie
where drowned sea-captains still quote
what the Irish once wrote.
And here’s me, even today
caught by the mouth
from their linguistic fishhooks
yet cutting myself away.
I am a handmade citizen of a land
that is my own meat and gristle,
a subsoil am I
and my father and mother
the grubbing worm and the turtle dove.
Still Irish, but rootless
with no anchor in Galway Bay.
I have cut the trap lines
become a jobbing teller
of tall tales,
not a keeper of any traditions
planted by hands not of my own.
And if once in a while
I lapse into the sod and bog-speak
of my unlearned brethren
it is no literary affectation
of a better education,
for I remain this common creature
determined to be tied to a smaller rock
of my own choosing.
Announcement
"State the fact," he tells the board, "announce mid-
morning without warning, too late then to
retaliate. Say, 'Times change, so on your
way, redundancy accompanies age.'"
Walks easy through his fortress-grounds of trip-
alarms and snarling hounds. Youthful bride is
safely sealed from vengeful pawn and bitter
foe, and waits, consoled by views of vale and
river's-flow, gleaned through rail and safety-gates.
Mower idle on the lawn; barrow still
beside a wall; jobbing-boy holds toil in
scorn. ''We'll propel the youth to manhood with
a jolt. He'll learn the bitter-truth of how
to cope without a job or hope, collect
his due, then face his fate as men must do.''
Holding high the diamond-ring, gift for the
girl with everything – to rent her love and
smile awhile – into the room where hi-fi
croons her favourite tune then, "Christ!" Mind won't
focus with the eyes; wife on table, lips
apart, hair a-splay, radiant as her
wedding day. Boy... a man between her thighs.
Friendship and wars
The generation of today thing they live in a perilous time
I was born before the World War 2 when millions of
civilians were killed and often we went hungry to bed.
Time is always bad there are interludes we remember with
fondness but often they are imagined
All we can do is to keep the peace as long as possible.
I remember the face of the dead child when American troops
invaded Bagdad, for the record it has been invaded and
ransacked before it is only history repeating itself and it is
a laugh when the guilty say they are sorry for what they did
the boy will not be older only his mother remembers him and
the war had the best western intention.
But the white face of the dead boy haunts me like my own death
as the evening draws near I pretend of being the exception.
My best friend Tom was gay and how we laughed and in his company
I was safe, mind he told me to shut up when I got too morbid,
he had the sunshine in his soul while I bore grudges
He was a jobbing actor cancer stole him from me it was a sad day
this Algarvian soil so dry and grey before the rain.
The *****
My best friend was gay when we first met
he said: I`m gay better tell you before
the lunatics around here tell you.” We became
the best of friends in a way quite unlikely
he spoke English and made the language sounds
like verses of Shakespeare.
My English was rather more basic, English picked
up in late night bars and by whores I met on my
hellish dive into the futility of debauched love.
We could speak to early morning about literature
and acting- my friend was a jobbing actor and
as a young man had dreamed of becoming one.
Then cancer came and killed him
I wrote a necrology about him and sent it to
the local paper that didn`t publish it because
the word “love” was inappropriately used.
Tom was my best friend and there will be no one
like him again
And the road, the road, is blue and grey,
with sounds and sounds and a new deal
every day, and every way you can think of ,
which shudders the big blue, the big grey
buildings of plaster and bare, bare brick and
nonsense, no sense electrical, theatrical buzzing
flashing market, stalls;
And you weave you weave, you have to in the
mesmeric, rhetoric of the heavy, levy, worse on
sunday, black, red and plastic blue, gassed up,
metered, skipping, gripping, ripping motor biking
traffic from hell; from now; from anywhere:
and the harsh, kitsch sounds and painted boards
send you up the hill, and into the thousand-shop
main street ; the biggest shopping street in the ,
”where you from, what you looking for?”
hairy, scary, repairing, crazy, bucolic, alcoholic,
in your face, in your place, no disgrace, screwy, all day ,
crazy, throbbing, bobbing, jobbing, whirling, curling
Hoi An crazy world.
Oh I cry for Nigeria!
Revealed sadness from
Book of enlightenment
Opened the dam of tears
That floods away joy
Oh I cry for Nigerians!
Tears crying for freedom
To escape d eyes
And mobbed by a peppered cloth
Patriot of poverty!
Suffering elites!
Wearing d smile of sadness
Enthralled their greatness
Crude oil refined to crude suffering
Oh I cry for Nigeria!
Jobbing unemployment
Receiving salary of calamities
With the roar of great quotes
Taken to knowledge not wisdom
Theories of revolution
Recited like poetic lines
Like a body with no bones
Noising fake development
Publicising engraved unity
With immeasurable hospitality
We accommodate the great Boko!
Ye Hitlers of Nigeria
Your ploys shall be televised
Your spells shall be broken
Exposing d lies under your garments
Like I always say
" There will come a time
When the blurry would be seen
The dumb would be heard
And joy would coup tears
To let smile reign"
*Larry Beryl*
getting girls is easy
so is barking dogs down
they just gotta be found
our friends
this ends when the chicken sends
part of me,a mess
i must confess
i do address quite a bit of issues
the thick you crave went under waves of star beams
love larimy
hollywood no good
they understood the hood
trouble could be,usually
the fee is free
so are we
internet poet,jobbing
not really,only getting robbed,and
stolen from
locomotion told 'em some
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