FROM THE WORD MUSEUM
Shivelat’s-hen
Shammocking dog
Shanks’- pony
Shuttle-gathering
Ramfeezled
Raw-gabbit
Redder’s lick
Rattle-bladder
Puke-stocking
Pulpitarian
Postillion
Pseudologer
Pizzle-grease
Pismire
Posts
EVEN IF I HAD NO HANDS
LOOK, NO HANDS
Even if I had no hands
I would be ambidextrous
Ac-dc in a strange sort of way
Though women would still be kings
Or should that be queens?
Even if I had no legs
I would still walk tall
Play legless football
If the fancy took me,
Roller-skate differently, that’s all
Even if I had no mouth
I would still speak out
Words would continue to pour forth
I would not be silenced
I would speak from the heart
Even if I had no eyes
I would still see plenty
Believing would be seeing
And if only in my mind’s eye
My vision would still be twenty-twenty
JESUS FREAKS
JESUS FREAKS
Jesus on the streets
Satan under the sheets
Why do the heathens rage
When we don’t keep sinners in a cage?
He that sits in the heavens shall laugh
When he speaks to them in his wrath
Hear me when I call, ye sons of men
How long before ye turn glory into shame again?
Stand ye in awe and sin not one time more
For your pillow will be a hard rock
And your bed a fiery brimstone floor.
THE END OF THE WORLD IS NEIGH
THE END OF THE WORLD IS NEIGH
The end of the world is neigh
Said the sandwich-board vendor
The word is ‘nigh’ my friend, I replied
And anyway it’s not due until next November.
We’re all cowboys on this burnt out lump in space
Searching for a spark in the dying embers
The world has already ended many times
The latest one was in the dog days of last December.
JOHNJO – an extract
MY NEW PLAY – JOHNJO – IS NOW AVAILABLE IN PAPERBACK ON AMAZON
JOHNJO EXTRACT
scene one
A darkened stage. We hear the sounds of a busy building site. Then a voice…
VOICE: Jaysus, Blondie…that’s a…a…
Then another sound – an explosion.
Silence.
The light’s come up, to reveal JOHNJO sitting on a rock on a hill. The hill looks down on some windswept, craggy fields, and, in the distance, faint outlines of farm buildings (unseen). Johnjo is in his fifties, weather-beaten, but well-dressed…(suit, polished shoes etc) He is singing softly at lights-up.
JOHNJO: (THE ROCKS OF BAWN)
Come all ye loyal heroes and listen on to me.
Don’t hire with any farmer till you know
what your work will be
You will rise up in the morning
from the clear daylight till dawn
And you never will be able
For to plough the rocks of bawn
My father was always singing bits of that song.
I don’t know, maybe he didn’t know any more of it,
but those are the only words that stick in my mind…
(pause)
I suppose, though, they had a certain ring…
Plough…Rocks…Bawn….
(he gets up and looks around)
I mean, look at it…
More rocks than bawn…
By God, if I had a penny for every stone we picked…
For every furze bush we cut down…
(imitates his father)
Fifty acres, boy…and five of them is a hill.
What good is a lump of limestone to a farmer?
You can’t feed beasts on rocks. By God, if I
had my way, I’d blast the whole lot to kingdom
come…
(laughs, sings I AM A LITTLE BEGGARMAN)
I am a little beggerman
and begging I have been
For three score and more
In this little isle of green
With me sikidder-e-idle- di
And me skidder-e-idle-do
Everybody knows me
By the name of Johnny Dhu.
That was his favourite song
He would sometimes sit me on his knee…
Johnjo ‘hears’ a woman’s voice calling.
‘VOICE’: Johhny, Johnny where are you?
Out there in the cold with the child!
Come on in now and milk the cows… Continue reading
DOWN SCRUBS LANE
WORMWOOD
Wormwood isn’t here
The sign said, rather waspishly.
It wasn’t the Wormwood I remembered;
Scrubs Lane on a wet Sunday
The outback in West London
No buses, no cars, no people
Just limp grass, acres of the stuff
And, oh yes, the finest redbrick edifice
Victoria’s henchmen could construct.
No rotting bodies in here, my friend.
Not Newgate, not by a long shot
Though debts must still be paid
And some may still get laid
Lord Alfred Douglas lay here,
As did Charles Bronson,
Keith Richards, Leslie Grantham.
And George Blake
Scurrying along in his traitor’s gait
Till the day he pole-vaulted to freedom
More or less
Before waving goodbye
To his English life,
His liberty and his wife
And all those Wormwood scrubbers
NEUROPLASTICITY
NEUROPLASTICITY
You can teach an old brain new tricks
Neuroplasticity is its name
The mind is what the brains does – they say
But the reverse may be true, just the same
There are no lights, sounds, colours
Or smells inside the brain
Only patterns of electrical information
And our sense receptors
That help the brain to sculpt itself
To rewire itself, as it were, and keep you sane,
By conscious habits of thought and action.
They say machines can’t fix themselves
But what of the power of mind over matter?
I think, therefore I am isn’t just idle chatter.
THERE WAS A TIME… my unfinished symphony is now finished
A couple of days ago I invited contributions to complete this poem. I guess is was an experiment really to see if several different poets could find the same emotions to make sense in a joint effort. I am delighted to say that Michaelnjohns did just that, and he finished my poem better than I could have done myself. Thanks michael
THERE WAS A TIME…
There was a time which was Much better lived than told There was a time we were much younger then And growing up held more sway than growing old Then one day all that growing was done And the long slide down that Imaginary hill had begun…
I’ve slid, lost my hat, what’s worse, I’ve gotten fat, But if, at the end of it all, I could choose,
I’d say it’s been a good slide; I’d go again-
Through every bump and cut and bruise.
And I still reminisce now, of life back then
unfinished symphony. THERE WAS A TIME…
THERE WAS A TIME…
There was a time which was
Much better lived than told
There was a time we were much younger
And growing up held more sway than growing old
And then one day all that growing was done
And the long slide down that
Imaginary hill had begun…
I have,as you can see, not yet finished this poem. Anybody who feels like contributing some lines to finish it please feel free!
PUT ANOTHER LOG ON THE TV
PUT ANOTHER LOG ON THE TV
Talking gets harder each day:
Smokeless zones and telephones
Have killed the conversation
Now our lies, laughs, truth and tears
Have all been swallowed whole
By another monster
In another shiny console
Rocking-horse to rocking-chair
And somewhere in between
The fireplace has become a flickering screen
Glowering at the world
Insisting on silence as it reward
Granddad spat in the fire;
I spit in your face;
Old lies die hard.
My Writing Life 