Who am I
That by good nature
Trusts –
Who gives without condition
And,
In doing this
Gains but little reward –
Yet,
Who am I
Who blindly goes
Again,
Without fear or undue concern
Giving all
Expecting little,
Hoping
For so much more,
Wait.
While I put my hat on –
Its colours
Bright for all to see;
Who am I
But ever reliable, cheerful –
Me.
What a nice day is Sunday, just taking it easy, relaxed and really cool. You know what I think, Sunday should be three days of the week, not just one. Yeah, why not?
Sunday.
Monday, after Sunday,
what a start to the week.
Monday, wishing it was Sunday,
relaxing and feeling sleek.
Tuesday, feels like Monday,
it’s too late to go back
because Wednesday is inevitable,
the hump day – alack.
So Thursday, so near to Friday,
yet far away it always seems,
Thursday long and boring,
spent mostly in my dreams.
Then, Friday, lovely Friday,
the week is ending – gone away,
Friday full of planning
for a weekend full of play.
Saturday is for doing
and running about – everything is fine,
and Sunday, wonderful Sunday,
just to relax and recline.
Sadly, Sunday, imminent…
ends with some pain,
as Monday, horrible Monday
will return again.
***
Time changes folk, sometimes for the worse. So you’re walking down the street when you see an old but never forgotten face, you’re going to say gudday, yeah? Hmm, are you sure that’s wise?
Well… look at you.
Hello – look at you, eh,
I haven’t seen you in a while
And you must be doing okay mate,
Going by your clothes and dirty big smile.
Wow, not put on even a gram I see,
I bet you keep really fit,
Not like some others I know,
Who don’t look a bit of it.
Now here, look at your car.
What a real flash thing that thing is,
Got a really healthy bank account yeah,
I bet you’re a financial whiz.
How are the kids and the wife?
Are you still married to the same one?
She really was a right good looker –
Are the kids grown up and gone?
Well this has been a real treat – mate,
I’m proud of what you’ve done,
No one’ll believe that we’ve caught up –
Mate – you are number one.
Sorry, what’s that… who am I?
You can’t recall my name?
Ah gee, I should’ve known better
You rich bastards are all the same.
You swan into here like you own the place,
In your fancy clobber and flash car,
Got more airs and graces than a bloody pope,
Too far up your own arse you are.
Well get this, I’m a real worker – mate,
Don’t stand for jokers just like you,
And if you think I’m buying your bullshit,
Well, you know what you can do.
You always were a slimy sod
I bet you rip off grannies for a living,
Can’t see the likes of you being generous,
You’re all take and no bloody giving.
Look at ya, who do you think you are,
Pretending to be important and whizzy,
Nah don’t bother to try and explain,
Just pissoff because right now I’m busy.
***
A lot of folk thrive on the past, me, well I could mostly do without it… comes of having an excellent curse of a long memory.
You tell it – I’m not here
I’ve been around a bit you know, travelled here and there,
never stuck a place for long, moved on without a care.
I’ve spent a long time thinking, you know, the things you can’t forget,
but the memories never held me back, long as I’m moving, I‘ve no regret.
The world is never big enough, you know, if you want to keep on goin’,
if you want to escape the memories, no time to think, just for doin’.
I’ve travelled the world to here, and a kind of peace I’ve found,
but the past sticks hard at my shoulder, though I’ve tried to knock the bugger down.
So here I am, and here I’ve been, for quite a while, that’s true,
But if the memories catch up with me, I’m off to pastures new.
The years go by and quick, you know, some time I’ve spent on this long track,
but I’m looking at the future, because I’m never going back,
no way I’ll ever consider that, no matter how much people push,
and if it’s staying here or going back there, forget it, I’ll go bush.
I was a kid when I left that place, but I grew up very fast,
and journeyed into the future, so I could forget that past.
Now, while I’ve been successful, the future I don’t know,
Except to say for certain, if the past comes back, I go.
There are few places I won’t travel, and I’ve been on the road a long year,
but if the past comes calling, you tell it – I’m not here!
***
He’s adorable really and a frequent visitor to my… sorry, his garden. I dips me lid respectfully and bids him good health, he ignores me as he scours his domain for victims.
Bob the Bastard.
I call him Bob the Bastard, he’s a killer through and through
my back garden’s in his territory and he owns everything old and new.
I call him Bob the Bastard because he’s aloof and proud – a snob,
he looks down on the likes of me, why, Bob thinks he’s a Nob’ (aristo-cat).
He lords his way around my place, holds court where he sees fit,
and if I try to corral the bugger, he throws a hissy – scratchy spit.
I call him Bob the Bastard, it suits him and that’s that,
but if he deems I’m being polite, he’ll deliver me a rat (dead).
He’s Bob the Bastard, killer bold, my birds are all aware
and if I try to rebuke him, he’s so cool – he doesn’t care.
Yes, I call him Bob the Bastard… and although he’s mean in every way,
when he struts passed me in my garden, I always turn and call out- “G’day.”
**
Far worse.
I’m broke, I’m brassic and skint.
What more is there to say?
I don’t have any money,
So I just can’t pay my way.
I’m bare, and stony and empty.
I’ve not got a penny to spend,
There’s nothing left to sell –
When is this all going to end?
No investments, no property and few assets,
I’m as poor as poor can be.
Shit, I must have done something really bad…
Because all this feels like Karma to me.
I’m helpless, friendless and future-less,
There appears no hope, no chance to spare,
Where will I get another meal, or a coat?
It’s just so bloody cold out there.
I’m bereft, I’m done, screwed to the ground,
It seems there’s no place to go,
Can it get more awkward than this?
Shit, how should I bloody know.
Still, the sun is shining over me,
And yes I feel someone has hit me with a curse…
But think about it all in a positive way,
You know what they say… things could be far worse.
***
We all have our off days, yes?
Not prepared.
I wasn’t prepared for the sudden stop,
as you do when you having fun.
So I wasn’t prepared, no not at all,
when suddenly it was all done.
I wasn’t prepared when I went for a walk,
as you do when you’re near to the beach,
it’s not as though you’re ready for that,
it’s not a thing education would teach.
I wasn’t prepared to be alert and aware,
as you do when you’re taking in the view.
My mother never mentioned that to me
when she taught me all else to do.
No, I wasn’t prepared for the sudden stop,
mind you the flight – was really great
but nevertheless here I am –
flat out like a dirty big plate.
So you see, I wasn’t prepared for the sudden stop,
as I strolled while humming a new riff,
as the ground gave way under my feet,
and I fell of that seriously big cliff.
I wasn’t prepared for a sudden end
as for a moment in time I fell,
and discovered the meaning of life and whatever;
Is do it once – but do – do it well.
**
Peace and quiet.
Don’t talk to me about tomorrow,
Don’t even mention it’s today,
Please avoid any details right now,
Not just before I go away.
Oh please, save me from the gossip,
Its validity one cannot be sure,
Keep the junk mail out of my letter box…
Give it to the neighbours next door.
If you notice religious callers – lurking,
Divert them further up the street,
I simply haven’t the energy to argue,
I’m bushed and off my feet.
The phone’s switched off, thankfully,
The damn mobile is in the fridge,
No, if you can’t cope with the silence,
Well off you go, build a bridge.
You know I’m not one for reminiscing,
Not sentimental or keen on the past,
All I crave is some peace and quiet
But I know that idea won’t last.
Alright so I’m off to my bed for a snooze,
I’m taking time to lay down my head,
What’s that? The in-laws are calling?
Ah for crying out loud, tell’em I’m dead.
What one has to do for a little time free,
Of everyone’s expectations – demands,
Oy – you lot out there you can shut up,
You make more noise than a dozen brass bands.
Oh look, a broken pipe in the garden
And the water’s ripping up the lawn loam,
Right that’s it you can pack me a bag,
I’ve had it, I’m leaving home.
***
Right, we’re half way through this year, so I am getting in my xmas crap early…well if it’s good enough for the retailers, it’s fine by me. Remember a few years back when the piously prattish pirates of sensibility claimed the world would end on December the 21st with the conclusion of the Mayan calendar, but it didn’t? Well I wrote a poem for that occasion just in case…well the law of averages say they might get it right one day. So, with the POME Brexit this week, and Europe spitting the biggest dummy possible, with all the nutbag nationalists and head bangers predicting catastrophe…well, I figure I would put my little ditty online. Mind you, if Trump (I can screw the Scottish countryside whenever I like) gets into the Whitehouse and Boris… what a Pratt, I’ve got the brains of a mouse but less sense than the Monster Raving Loony Party… rumoured to become the next Brit prime minister, who knows, the world might enders crew may get their wish this year.
Happy Doomsday.
Whahey and fiddle dee dee, it’s Doomsday – yes Doomsday – yet again
and some shall reap the benefit as they join with the cheerfully inane.
Whoopie do and tickety boo, calm down there’s nothing to fear,
for in this month, December, the world will end, unlike last year.
Twenty first, oh take a breath, for all and sundry will surely yell
as along comes a bloke called simply, Death, and we’ll all got to heaven – or hell.
Happy doomsday and saints alive, don’t bother preparing, you won’t survive.
Whether by fire or aliens, it matters not, don’t bother packing we’ve had it, our lot.
Glorious Doomsday with everything drear, if we’ve got it wrong there’s always next year.
Wonderful Doomsday, it takes the biscuit, a happy day for the pessimistic.
But I’ll hedge my bet, in case I’m wrong, and trust death will be quick and not take too long.
But, in case I’m wrong about being wrong – still, I’ll have plenty of time I’ll have to fill.
So, if Doomsday fails and if Death hasn’t beckoned, I’m not Christmas shopping until the twenty second!
***
Vive la revolution and Eccles for king!
load of old cobblers 