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.
POETIC LICENCE
Dead poets come in all shapes and sizes
Poetic licence reigns in my head
I have my TV, but no TV licence
Could I use my poetic licence instead?
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.
from my new collection of poetry ’67’. http://www.tinhuttalespublishers.co.uk/67/
WIMBLEDON
I could write a poem about you
It might even say
‘I love you’
There would be hate;
A modicum of debate
About whether you were you
Or was it your dead-ringer I saw
Slurping in the arms of granite-jaw
When the forty-love shot was hailed
And you and lover-boy got nailed
TV doesn’t lie my dear;
Only one thing now is missing;
Who was that bastard you were kissing?
taken from; http://www.tinhuttalespublishers.co.uk/67/
My Writing Life 