Wednesday, 25 February 2015

Hey Raisin Face

This poetic form is an example of a "hymnal measure". If you feel particularly musical, try singing it to the tune of "Amazing Grace."

Hey Raisin Face

Hey Raisin Face, don’t come around
to make a date with me:
You should get lost, as I have found
that you are out your tree.

Please face the facts and listen here.
You wonder why I’m peeved?
A sense of dread approaching fear;
this is what you’ve achieved.

The teenage changes, boils to spare
and even more to come;
Your face pokes out from greasy hair:
No way that I’ll succumb.

You’ve had no promises from me
to prompt your overtures.
I’ve not concealed my thoughts; I’ll see
no spotty paramours.

I’m not impressed, you’re bound to fail,
your chances won’t increase
and no duress will make me quail:
I simply don’t like grease.

I’m worth it, all my friends say so,
not shallow by design.
They spotted you some weeks ago;
they warned me you would whine.

Should we be here ten thousand years,
my hackneyed, acned one,
God may like one who perseveres
but I don’t, so be gone.

Tuesday, 3 February 2015

Love and Hate

I wrote this little opus for the second "Pub Poets" open mic meeting that took place on 1 February in the wine bar above the "The Old Town Hall" public house (Poulton). 

Prior to the event I read it to some friends and relatives, and they wondered if it was about them. It wasn't, honest.

Love and Hate (I Feel It In My Fingers)
There is a couple that I know:
a pair of O A Ps
and at first glance you’d say there’s no
two friends as close as these.
They walk along, their arms entwined
but that’s just here outside.
Indoors that isn’t what you’d find;
your eyes would open wide.

He loves her, he hates her,
He complements and he berates her
It’s been that way for decades now –
so many ups and downs.
He thinks back, the claptrap
that he has heard and said back,
sometimes he cannot figure how
they came to be such clowns.

He feels it in his fingers –
a knife of tempered steel.
His smile – it surely lingers
as she tucks in to her meal.
Rememb’ring when they first were wed
he’d cut her sirloin steak,
but now it’s words that cut instead
with each exchange they make.

She loves him, she hates him,
she knows she irritates him,
she knows the insults that she throws
can cut him to the quick.
But sometimes, at bedtimes,
those “think of what you said” times,
she looks at him and then she knows
he’s loved – despite the stick.

She feels it in her fingers,
Her hands around his neck,
They may be both mudslingers
But their marriage is no wreck.
The stiffness in his shoulder there,
the corns upon her toes;
though both are growing older, care
is given, highs or lows.

She loves him, she hates him,
She elevates and she deflates him,
The arguments on which they dwell
They seem to make them thrive.
He hates her, he loves her,
wonders where his boxing gloves are.
The aggravation serves them well –
it keeps their minds alive.