Long Mouldy Poems
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Freya was not quite sure whether she dreamt or floated in a bubble of hope
Her anchor cut loose the compass’ needle bent and stuck in past of beyond
A mouldy flare with no flair a life vest punctured and riddled with sea weed
She felt like a discarded cork from an old bottle but where was the message
Bobbing up and down more submerged than afloat Freya drifted away
Was she jetsam intentionally thrown overboard or flotsam lost by chance
Not that it mattered much she felt rather weightless in the swirl of the sea
The harbour drifted away and the lighthouse got smaller in the fog of her soul
Freya rode the crest of wild waters and had no charts for the journey ahead
No sails and no steam only the pure energy of the white wash of the waves
She flowed past buoys ship wrecks and cutters on the far-fetched horizon
Seemed to make no progress no island of respite no land for her shores
Seagulls got fewer and fewer but she came upon a dolphin leading the way
A single jellyfish with glowing tentacles brushes the bracelet on her ankle
While the sharks were not hungry she regained an appetite for her life
Salt parched her skin but the sun had dried all tears that had torn her apart
The festering boils that had boiled her inside healed from purulent ooze
‘I am naked my hair is entangled my mind and my bosom closer to home’
Anger and sorrow laved and cleansed her wounds of scarred scared sadness
When light dawned after another long night of waiting for imminent rescue
She opened her eyes and looked at webs on her hands and lush fins on her toes
‘I am a mermaid a maiden of the ocean and if this is a dream I’ll follow its call’
01st March 2019
Draughty rafters, creaks and groans
Is it wind or Timmy Jones
Not in school nor home in bed
Did he roam or lose his head
So much time since Timmy passed
Neither first nor the last
Such reputations can’t be shed
Hard to sever ones own head
Kiss the pistol-tip instead
One shot and the head was dead
Now the blackboard’s painted red
Why he did it, never said
Chief inspector Eddie Shaw
Tapped his foot: a hollow floor?
Damp and mouldy, rotted through
Boards collapsed: inspector too
Dusted down then stared in dread
A skeleton with severed head
Swirling dust a chilling itch
On the wall a double switch
One did nothing whatsoever
Flicked the second, wished he never
A concrete floor that’s widely scattered
Stains suggesting blood was spattered
Fleshless bones with single sever
No skulls to be found... ever
Black bin liner not the norm
A sleeve of this school’s uniform
Ed could not ignore its pull
The bag of uniforms is full
And on a dusty shelf above
His hand now sleeved in latex glove
No more use to fleshless bones
About a dozen mobile phones
Demolish, refurbish, which should it be
The question considered financially
Fix it and paint it and keep it all quiet
But people live long and many won’t buy it
Caretaker shuts the classroom doors
Along those draughty corridors
Speaks not much of what was found
Under God-forsaken ground
But like the school’s a haunted grotto
Teachers chant this eerie motto
In the basement human bones
School kid’s clothes and mobile phones
Be this not misunderstood
Better that you just be good
Or share a room with Timmy Jones
And human bones and mobile phones
naked and shining bright behind the curtain of a shrouded sky
a glow worm bears the lonely torch of my sorrowed fading soul
sometimes it slides down upon a comet to reach foundations in
the catacombs of a heart suppressed by anger fear and darkness
trips the fuse of new beginnings and arrests the thief of luminance
when it reflects on the sliding scale of downfall and reflections
there comes to light a firmament of hope and obscured aspirations
refuses to relinquish glimmers of a sparkling rollercoaster ride
and tells me that there is a stellar constellation with my name on it
conveys the message that one radiant flicker is more than enough
deep in the confines of a baseless basement of dusty mouldy gloom
it speaks a quiet tune of resilience in the face of stark obfuscation
purses its lips in a speech bubble that only I myself can penetrate
and radiates through suffocation blindness fatigue and lost resolve
until I comprehend that step by step I’ll reach the canopy once more
08th November 2020
Brandishing the lightning lance, the sun arrives,
The mighty, majestic monarch of the day.
Kissing the mouldy mountain rows, he comes,
Banishing mist and frost from night’s blotched brow.
With what rich ruby ring of radiance he appears,
Smearing liquid gold, he gracefully moves.
Sparkling splashes spread and the world becomes bright.
The punctual rooster raises his raucous revelry.
Birds and beasts wake up from their slumberous sleep.
The feathered folks begin to warble their symphony.
The verdant vales below send up a welcoming sign.
The leaves stay bright tipped with dainty droplets of dew.
Morn, the bashful maiden with modest grace,
Peeps through half drawn curtains in the East.
Removing all trace of a worn out yesterday,
Sun comes and mellow murmurs grow into melodies.
I followed milky and mouldy scents,
down cobbled and narrow paths,
only to see it riddled with rats,
feasting on Feta and Camembert,
whilst the wine sipping Uppers prepared to
clash against the cider swigging downers!
The Fromage Frenzy and Curd Craze deli.
across from the Dizzy Duck and the Boastful Bard taverns
had been ransacked with only cracker crumbs on the floor.
All the cheesemongers were hiding in their basements.
All the landlords locked away in their cellars!
Bar stools dripping with Chardonnay and Merlot,
carpets soaked in 'Scrumpy Jack' and 'Strongbow.'
It was utter chaos as the 'cheese shed' raged on...
The goats and the cows watched,
as the town folk gathered on either side.
Anger in their eyes, yelling insults like;
'Cheap cheddar gobblers' and 'stinky Stilton munchers.'
This was not cultural tensions,
nor issues with tariffs, quotas or labelling practises-
this was a war of the social classes!
They were not fighting with fists or weapons,
oh no, no no..
The Downers started squirting stinky cheese sauce,
drenching the Uppers with its reeking stench.
However, when the Uppers started hurling
Storico and Caciocavallo Podolico,
back at the Downers, they simply,
started consuming it with their cider!
Both fractions kept pelting and sprinkling,
until little Joey from the farm,
reminded them the football had started,
so off they plodded to watch the game,
singing and laughing together,
arm in arm, munching on cheese
they had salvaged from their skirmish.
This years most prized
Hottest ticket above all
Red carpet
Socialite Charity Event
The Guest list comprised of the
Who's , who amongst the elite
Those who are actually in the know
And the conversation in between
3* Star Michelin dinning courses
Drifted into the aristocracy saying
Rather than let the poor and needy
Starving and going hungry
Eat cake instead
Of stale old mouldy bread
Whilst congratulating one another
Sipping and raising a toast
On Vintage Champagne
Costing over $2k a pop
Which cost no where near as much
As their designer bespoke suit
Hand crafted jewellery
Or Watch
And you don't even want to know
Just how much the actual price of the
Ticket cost
Because that will surely
Take the Cake
And prove exactly just how entirely
Fake this all in fact is
And who truly benefits
From Charity most above all
Brandishing the lightning lance, the sun arrives,
The mighty, majestic monarch of the day.
Kissing the mouldy mountain rows, he comes
Banishing mist and frost from night’s blotched brow.
In what rich ruby ring of radiance, he appears
Smearing and splotching liquid gold, he gracefully moves
With sparkling splashes, the world becomes bright
The prompt and punctual rooster raises his raucous revelry.
Birds and beasts wake up from their slumberous sleep.
The feathered folks tweet and twitter in harmonious notes.
The verdant vales below send up a welcoming sign.
The leaves stay bright tipped with dainty droplets of dew.
Morn, the bashful, mousy maiden with modest grace,
Peeps and peeks through half drawn curtains in the East.
Removing all trace of a tarnished yesterday,
The day arrives making me smile in burgeoning bliss.
Renegade realtor dealt only with sellers sincere
Harried under hammer results which rich revere
Assured Lofty turned over listings like sausages
Heat applied seared buyers, hankering hostages
Canvassing coast, reframed aim purely at the top
Invisible neighbour circular driveways, Dolce Drop
Elm dotted uniform fairyland founded by botanist
Supple carpet resilient reservoir, moist moss on it
Initially entry point sat at a mil, a year later, two
Sales proliferated, profitable Lofty huge revenue
Elated agent, staple baked bread is prone to rise!
Dashing diagonal sold signs proclaim him prized!
Rolls Royce realtor of scorched auctions arriving!
Mainstay, every lavish gathering, client conniving
Head mushroomed, awash in exotic cigar cloud
Homeowner informs of fresh competitor for clout
Choke, champagne sour, audacious Dolce Auctions
For bone fide buyers, property upstart seeps toxins
Outlays myriad of listings, perusing homes pleasure
Customers snub historic prescription high pressure
Left for buttered bread, lofty loaf crumbles, stale
Misaddressed letters droop, month old mouldy mail
Locked recollections, passed in auction residential
Final elusive step strove for indented a firm temple
Funny fail, fall from grace
Claimed victory too soon
First day of June
To be or not to be that is here the question of ambivalence
Or is it the answer posed as a dire request
Socrates might have a shot and I don’t mean the soccer player
Although goal line technology comes to my mind
A red line a yellow card but the great man never wavers
I know nothing but that I know for sure
While writers split hairs Schrödinger’s cat purrs on the track
A lightening Bolt rushes to the podium of gold
Archimedes shouts Eureka but floats on Delphi’s rubber duck
Can’t even wash the grime without fake news
Nietzsche declares God a diver dead in ephemeral water
A sending off offence but does the referee live
While atoms leap in great quantum faith despite human transgression
The Little Meermaid rests on a philosopher’s stone
Rapunzel’s hair is in truth a mouldy Shakespearean merkin
An impotent scorpion stings Romeo’s tail into action
Mirror mirror on the wall please mend the crack before I fall
Plato’s cave is really a snake pit on the rise
And yet all is well in necessary and sufficient argument’s fashion
Because when I’m not sure I cannot be wrong
To be or not to be: that is here the question (William Shakespeare, Hamlet)
29th January 2020
So many pennies,
lost in the system,
rejected, neglected,
dejected -
cursed by '99' price tags,
a charity box favourite,
nobody wants nor waits for.
So many forgotten pennies,
lost on the streets or behind our sofas,
yet pounds are never thrown away.
Both are round, so why do they only care for the pound?
Maybe its a matter of currency and colour,
or social structure, value and power.
No pound without pennies,
only empty piggy banks and jars,
but pound lovers take pennies for granted,
abuse us, belittle us, try to control us.
They get jealous of our shine,
try to manipulate us into a mouldy depression -
no wonder there are so many homeless pennies.
When did we stop being a priority,
descend to the bottom of society.
Just because we are misunderstood, do not fit in,
we are still round, but ignored by the system
a conflict of civilisation.
Imagine if all the pennies got together,
instead of being slaves to the pound?
Then surely we'd be stronger,
or would we just become pounds?
Has the penny dropped yet?
Sunday thoughts
Silent One
9 February 2020