When I was young and in my prime,
I knew I’d be famous one day.
Although I hadn’t worked out how,
I was quite sure I’d find a way.
I’d play cricket or football for England
And win the World Cup again.
Then win an Olympic gold medal
And become a household name
Or maybe I’d be an actor,
A star of stage and screen,
With a mantlepiece full of Oscars
And be knighted by the Queen.
But now I’m old and past my prime
And none of those things have occurred.
Outside of my own little circle,
My name has never been heard.
But, when the final curtain falls
And the mourners have drifted away,
I’ll leave the stage with no regrets
At the end of my own little play.
i'm talking world war three blues
and how the baubles resemble the planet neptune
one kid has trashed the grotto
flameless LED tea light candles on the mantlepiece
another exclaims, 'can we stop talking and just take
the photo?'
a girl says she wants a telescope
a boy says he wants a crane
another says a fraggle stick car
helicopter parent and coo coo bonko
my daughter doesn't recognise me
tears of a clown stuff
a kid claims the beard is fake and i say, 'look...',
i tell a family from germany
we can take a hundred photos, i don't mind,
i will get the son that red double-decker bus
you're wonderful people
they leave
the boss pokes his head round the door and says,
'brilliant, boy.'
I was born to sail.
I can hear whispers of the ocean calling me,
but there are no tides upon this mantlepiece.
I cannot set sail, trapped in this glass cocoon,
collecting dust.. I am no resting place for flies.
Eyes gaze at me in wonderment,
at the patience and precision of my imprisonment,
unaware my masts are raised.... Waiting,
for the seal to break and set me free upon open waters.
In the confinement of my stillness,
I remain poised for this fortress to shatter.
This shield may preserve my charm,
but its glass walls prevent a voyage of purpose,
where I can feel the breeze and
admire my reflection on waves.
Morning with snow
It had been a cold, clear night, moonlight on icy soil
towards dawn, it clouded over, snow fell soundlessly
shielded the glittering glass of broken windows
In the backyard made the ugly look eerily lovely
Worried about his wife, went into her bedroom, they
had long since shared a bed, she was asleep tired out
she had been hanging up family photos of the past.
She had asked him if she had changed much, referring
to a coloured picture, on the mantlepiece, of herself
as young, not much, darling, he gave her a hug; at eighty
she was looking back as the future has little to offer.
The residence building awoke, voices, a new day began.
crystal clear manger
Jesus on the mantlepiece
frost bite on the bench
She searched for faith in disbelief. The Buddha on the mantlepiece
had taken off his loincloth over night and stared her in the naked eye.
A candle from last night’s prayer still flickered and the fragrance of
sandalwood had survived nightmares and irreverent dreams. A mouse
had left some droppings at the base of the statue, must have sought
shelter from the rat race of life. ‘Never hurt a sentient being’. In her
mind Mary Magdalene had kissed the fat belly and in turn her cross had
abandoned its punitive lure.
found peace in disguise
blessing of awakening -
long road to freedom
07th July 2020
...for the Rev Eric Shirvell-Price
A blizzard of papers blanketed his desk.
His pipe rack stood like a chess piece,
mutely waiting to be shifted.
Sepia toned photographs lined the mantlepiece,
like soldiers standing at attention,
and there was a smell of stale tobacco.
Volumes and manuscripts burst
from a bookshelf, while origami figures
lined another. A coffee mug bore stains
of sherry aperitifs, and port to accompany
his after dinner cigar. Crosswords
and limericks were everywhere,
vestiges of his light and lively mind.
There were newspaper articles,
and empty fast food containers, evidence
of lonely, late night dietary indiscretions.
His vestments hung limply from a coat hook
like wraiths, belying his portly frame.
the frame which now lay in a mahogany box,
a whisper of his former self,
a shadow of the man that he once was.
...for the Rev Eric Shirvell-Price
A blizzard of papers blanketed his desk.
His pipe rack stood like a chess piece,
mutely waiting to be shifted.
Sepia toned photographs lined the mantlepiece,
like soldiers standing at attention,
and there was a smell of stale tobacco.
Volumes and manuscripts burst
from a bookshelf, while origami figures
lined another. A coffee mug bore stains
of sherry aperitifs, and port to accompany
his after dinner cigar. Crosswords
and limericks were everywhere,
vestiges of his light and lively mind.
There were newspaper articles,
and empty fast food containers, evidence
of lonely, late night dietary indiscretions.
His vestments hung limply from a coat hook
like wraiths, belying his portly frame.
the frame which now lay in a mahogany box,
a whisper of his former self,
a shadow of the man that he once was.
The Ship In The Bottle
Who can't admire the ship in the bottle
that sits on the mantlepiece of a stately home
with it's windblown sails, its row of cannons
and it's loyal crew.
A ship that will never encounter storms
or risk danger of running aground on jagged reefs
never seeing action or battling the high seas
and never discover new lands.
A ship of dignity, imprisoned in a glass dome
it will always remain the ship in the bottle.
Pictures on the mantlepiece
Of those in your heart,
Black and white or with a crease
Where they have come so far;
Taken only yesterday,
Yet forty years ago;
Remember when you used to play
Out in the sun, the snow?
But the faces slowly fade,
Growing weaker in the light;
You feel you have outstayed
Your time here ends tonight.
Now a beautiful tear
Catches in your ruffled skin;
You will leave it here,
And wait for it to begin.
...for the Rev Eric Shirvell-Price
A blizzard of papers blanketed his desk.
His pipe rack stood like a chess piece,
mutely waiting to be shifted.
Sepia toned photographs lined the mantlepiece,
like soldiers standing at attention,
and there was a smell of stale tobacco.
Volumes and manuscripts burst
from a bookshelf, while origami figures
lined another. A coffee mug bore stains
of sherry aperitifs, and port to accompany
his after dinner cigar. Crosswords
and limericks were everywhere,
vestiges of his light and lively mind.
There were newspaper articles,
and empty fast food containers, evidence
of lonely, late night dietary indiscretions.
His vestments hung limply from a coat hook
like wraiths, belying his portly frame,
the frame which now lay in a mahogany box,
a whisper of his former self,
a shadow of the man that he once was.
...for the Rev Eric Shirvell-Price
A blizzard of papers blanketed his desk.
His pipe rack stood like a chess piece,
mutely waiting to be shifted.
Sepia-toned photographs lined the mantlepiece
like soldiers standing at attention,
and there was a smell of stale tobacco.
Volumes and manuscripts burst from a bookshelf,
while origami figures lined another.
A coffee mug bore stains of sherry aperitifs
and port to accompany his after dinner cigar.
Crosswords and limericks were everywhere,
vestiges of his light and lively mind.
There were newspaper articles,
and empty fast food containers,
evidence of lonely, late night dietary indiscretions.
His vestments hung limply from a coat hook like wraiths,
belying his portly and prodigious frame.
the frame which now lay in a mahogany box,
a whisper of his former self,
scant measure of the man that he once was.
The cat sat on the mat
The mat sat on the floor
The budgie's on the mantlepiece
The dog is by the door
I'm sitting in the armchair
Feeling ill at ease
The dog has started scratching
I think that He's got fleas
I take him in the bathroom
I put him in the tub
Run some lukewarm water
And give him a good scrub
I've got some doggy shampoo
It's really got some clout
It gets a real good lather
And the buggers all fall out
Rinse him off and dry him
And sit him by the heat
Go into the kitchen
And get him food to eat
Nearly time for sleep now
There's one thing that I dread
If the dog has still got fleas
Do I want him on the bed ?
...for the Rev Eric Shirvell-Price
A blizzard of papers blanketed his desk.
His pipe rack stood like a chess piece,
mutely waiting to be shifted.
Sepia toned photographs lined the mantlepiece,
like soldiers standing at attention,
and there was a smell of stale tobacco.
Volumes and manuscripts burst
from a bookshelf, while origami figures
lined another. A coffee mug bore stains
of sherry aperitifs, and port to accompany
his after dinner cigar. Crosswords
and limericks were everywhere,
vestiges of his light and lively mind.
There were newspaper articles,
and empty fast food containers, evidence
of lonely, late night dietary indiscretions.
His vestments hung limply from a coat hook
like wraiths, belying his portly frame.
the frame which now lay in a mahogany box,
a whisper of his former self,
a shadow of the man that he once was.
Old country house rich colored rugs hot wind
Gallopping hair whipped wildly at his cheeks
Solid double doors top of stairway top coat
Mantlepiece photographs in ornate frames
Small white dog head between its paws
China tea perfect lawn afternoon ceremony
Bowler hat spirited distinguished manner
Smile of welcome, something in his eyes
She trusted his good manners + hospitality
Embraced the shadowy play of candlelight
Scent of peppermint musk vanilla surprise!
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