Leaping Into The Unknown

The February Pub Poets' theme of "Leaping Into The Unknown" made me think of virtual reality, so that's the inspiration for this poem.

And why not throw in a few TV show references and a bit of science fiction for good measure?

Leaping Into The Unknown

It must have been five years ago
Or thereabouts, I guess
The time I took a diff’rent job
so had to change address.
Much nearer to my cousin Chris
whom I’d not seen for years
so it was great to reacquaint
ourselves and share some beers.

One night when we’d run out of cans
(around about half-nine),
I sneaked down to his cellar where
I thought he kept his wine.
But what I found beneath his house
led to the Twilight Zone.
Before too long I’d take a leap
Into the vast unknown.

Before me, racks of DVDs
with walls of hi-tech gear,
a padded suit suspended high
within a plastic sphere.
And as I looked around the room
my cousin joined my side.
“You’ve found my secret world,” he said,
“You wanna take a ride?”

“I built all this advanced A. I. –    
a brain that fabricates
a virtual environment
from DVD base states.
You choose the video you want
from those stacked hereabout.
You get inside the padded suit
and tune the real world out.”

Well Chris was quite persuasive
(and drinking played its part)
so I was soon inside the sphere,
the system set to start.
My expectations were not high;
imagine my surprise
when I was next to Captain Kirk
upon the “Enterprise”.

I found that I could move around
but still remain unseen,
and I could look around the set
where cam’ras hadn’t been.
Extrapolated images
accounted for all this,
and all from software programmed by
my clever cousin Chris.

The next few weeks I spent my time
in many diff’rent zones.
I visited each TARDIS and
each place in Game of Thrones.
I mooched round Downton Abbey just
to see the rooms they’d got.
I went to Pasadena and
I sat in Sheldon’s spot.

I sat upon the tram that knocked
one Alan Bradley down,
but when I saw who shot J.R.
a thought caused me to frown.
I realised that not a one
of Chris’s discs were fact;
Yes: dramas, plays and comedies.
Non-fiction discs he lacked.

He’d missed an opportunity,
but I’d not, so next day,
I brought some vintage footage of
that “Shot” at JFK.
A solo flight while Chris was out:
he’d given me a key
So I would do my own research
In Dallas, ’63.

When I walked up the grassy knoll
There was a gunman – true!
But he saw me – to my surprise –
His shot went off askew.
A sort of pop and I was back
although the room had changed.
No Chris, no discs, no padded suit.
The past – now rearranged.

The flesh wound now a killer shot
that took out JFK.
My former past is now unknown
because I leaped that day.

Going Underground

A new year. A new venue for the Pub Poets open mic events in Blackpool. A new poem from me.

The theme for the poem was "going underground", presumably because the new venue is below ground level. When trying to decide what to write for my poem, I thought of moles, rabbits, Wombles, the Tube in London (discarded, since I've never been there) and Paul Weller (because of the Jam's first UK number one single). Nope. My mind went another way.

Oh, and again for benefit of non-UK readers, some years ago many towns and cities boasted a Littlewoods department store.

Going Underground

This tale is set some years ago
when corner shops were not so rare,
when youngsters thought the Beatles ‘fab’
but parents worried ‘bout their hair.
A time of change, and in one town
they opened a department store –
the only one for miles around
with many wonders on each floor.
An architectural tour de force:
five floors of goods for him and her
from gift shop ‘neath the glass-domed roof
to basement, where staff toilets were.

So now we have the where and when.
The who’s a guy called Jimmy Woods,
a shop assistant in the store
who had a job in “fancy goods”.
He loved his job; he did it well,
enjoying how it went for him
until the bosses saw his skill
and forced promotion on young Jim.
The problem with this change of role,
walking more than he would choose
it filled his bladder quicker but
he couldn’t use the basement loos.

This problem going underground:
the reason why, he did not know.
With Subterranean redbrick loos
the urine simply would not flow.
That first time Jim thought he could use
a bucket in a changing room,
but explanations to the staff?
Beyond the pale – so I assume.
He thought he’d try the alleyway
to ease the pressure down below,
but buskers played there all the day
so that was not the place to go.

He couldn’t find a single place
instead of going underground,
so going here and going there
he thought he’d spread himself around.
First, finding an umbrella stand,
he briefly stopped to wee in that.
And pausing at the milliners
he widdled in a bowler hat.
He widdled in a Grecian Urn,
he widdled in a non-stick pan,
but just a few drops in each place
until he found a better plan.

The pressure off, with time to think
he set himself a simple task:
a method to contain himself.
Solution - buy a Thermos flask.
His claustrophobic bladder then
would have no reason to refuse,
as later he could take his flask
to empty in the basement loos.
And now you know the reason for
this mystery at Littlewoods
They never found the culprit there.
The one who left the widdle: Woods.

'Tis The Season

It's been a while since I updated the blog. No excuses - I've been dividing my time between doing other things and... doing absolutely nothing. That's not to say I haven't been writing some poetry - primarily for the Pub Poets events - so I'll add the Christmas poem I wrote for the December event. I know that the seasonal hiatus has now passed, but now you have the chance to reminisce without the alcoholic haze.

[Note for non-UK readers - DFS are a company who advertise on TV selling furniture, and it is a running joke that they are forever having new sales]

'tis The Season

‘Tis the season – ivy, holly, Carols playing – very jolly,
Digging out the Christmas tree, Festive adverts on TV,
Watch the new John Lewis ad, Argue if it’s good or bad,
Stores competing for success, Winter sales from DFS.

‘Tis the season to go shopping, Carols playing – never stopping,
Weather starting to go colder, Greetings yelled by Noddy Holder,
Christmas lights appear in trees, Toys invoking children’s pleas,
Will the parents acquiesce? Further sales from DFS.

‘Tis the season to go spending, Carols playing – never ending
Trying hard to disregard – The urge to use the credit card,
Chestnuts, cheeseboards all about, The enigmatic Brussel sprout –
Eaten under some duress. Another sale from DFS.

‘Tis the season to go buying, Carols playing – very trying,
on all those T.V. promos too – Strictly, Sherlock, Doctor Who
Tinsel and Baubles put up then – We’ll shortly take them down again.
The price of stamps: the cards cost less. Yet more sales from DFS. 

‘Tis the season to overspend; Will those carols ever end?
The time of year is certain when, The famous grouse appears again,
But the three drinks inebriant are*: Sherry, Baileys and advocaat.
Alcohol to great excess. Miss a sale from DFS.

‘Tis the season to booze and scoff. I’ve scared the carol singers off.
I’ve locked the door and dimmed the light. I’ll settle for a silent night.
Some box-sets if I change my mind; In case I feel that way inclined.
I call it Dodging Festive Stress – abbreviated – D F S.

* To be read in a manner reminiscent of "We Three Kings of Orient Are"

Number

The November Pub Poet's poetry theme was "I want to be in that number", intended to be a "When the Saints come marching in" reference, it being around All Saints Day. I decided to interpret the word "number" differently. As in numb. So inspired, I wrote the following.


Number

I want to be in that number state
that stops me getting so irate
at news reports I read on-line,
events that seek to undermine
the way of life we now expect,
injustices and disrespect
that make me mutter, shake my head
and read beneath what others said
and find the comments that concur
with what I feel, make my heart stir,
but then I see a few replies
by people blinded by the lies,
and I despair how this can be,
and then I wonder, is it me?

I want to be in that number state
where one ignores the sorry fate
of all those people who have lost
their homes because the extra cost
of payments banks so sorely need
outweigh compassion, didn’t concede
that when they lent the money out
(smiling sweetly without doubt)
they didn’t care that markets change
and now refuse to rearrange
repayments to traverse this blip.
Instead they say “abandon ship”.
Is this the Big Society?
I doubt it though – perhaps that’s me.

I want to be in that number  state
where stomachs do not ulcerate
from worry prompted by the news
and over-dramatic interviews
with talking heads who talk too much
exacerbating such and such
to vilify minorities
and bring them firmly to their knees,
discrimination to ignore
until there’s change within the law
to move us to another phase
as done with women, race and gays.
But for now we cannot tolerate.
So tell me, is it right to hate?

I want to be in that number  group
That will accept the bovine poop
as spoken by that Minister
and not see all the sinister
decisions and precise incisions
cutting us in fine divisions,
whilst reducing key resources
“competition” – this of course is
divide and conquer, tried and true,
diverting us from what they do;
manipulation of the press:
a new pariah to address.
Surely other folk must see?
I wonder then, perhaps just me?

But apathy is wearing thin;
More people discarded in the bin,
It’s tempting to avoid the strife –
I don’t like conflict in my life –
but maybe we’ve not long to wait
to break free from the maiden aunt
I want to be in that number state –
but conscience says, “Me? No I can’t.”

If You Were A Pirate

Some friends and I have just started rehearsals to learn some Sea Shanties that we're intending to perform for charity at one or more local festivals next year. 

This poem comprises the lyrics for a shanty I wrote today, given a modern day slant. 

The parts in italics are sung by the entire group, the rest being for the soloist. Please forgive the inexact rhyme in verse four

If You Were A Pirate

I spend my life behind a desk and do the work of three
    (That’s not the life for you, me boy – There’s things that you can do)
The management ignore us yet they will not let us be
    (Just leave that life behind, me boy – Come join us in our crew.)

CHORUS 1:    For if you were a pirate
    We’d make ‘em walk the plank
    You’d watch ‘em sink beneath the waves
    And we would watch your flank.

REFRAIN:    Yes, if you were a pirate
     You'd do just what you please
    We'd raise the Jolly Roger
    And we'd sail the seven seas.

They change their minds incessantly and then they change ‘em back
    (That’s not the life for you, me boy – There’s things that you can do)
And we are left to clear their mess and cope with all the flack.
    (Just leave that life behind, me boy – Come join us in our crew.)

CHORUS 2:    For if you were a pirate
    We’d hang ‘em from the mast
    You’d watch ‘em swing and leave behind
    That old life in your past.
REFRAIN

The figures that they say they want increase from week to week
    (That’s not the life for you, me boy – There’s things that you can do)
And yet they never use the stats but say the future’s bleak.
    (Just leave that life behind, me boy – Come join us in our crew.)
   
CHORUS 3:    For if you were a pirate
    A cutlass in your hand
    You’d lay ‘em waste before your blade
    And leave this stinkin’ land.
REFRAIN

They hint at new redundancies to keep us all in line
    (That’s not the life for you, me boy – There’s things that you can do)
And want us to work extra hours but won’t pay overtime
    (Just leave that life behind, me boy – Come join us in our crew.)

CHORUS 4:    For if you were a pirate
    We’d haul ‘em ‘neath the keel
    And as they scraped the barnacles
    Just think of how you’d feel.
REFRAIN

They want our corp’rate loyalty and yet it’s all one-way
    (That’s not the life for you, me boy – There’s things that you can do)
Regrade our jobs so we do more but want to cut our pay
    (Just leave that life behind, me boy – Come join us in our crew.)

CHORUS 5:    For if you were a pirate
    You’d gut ‘em with your knife
    You’d spill their innards on the deck
    And make the sea your wife.
REFRAIN

They don’t think they’re responsible for any of this mess
    (That’s not the life for you, me boy – There’s things that you can do)
If only we could find a way so they’d pay for such stress
    (Just leave that life behind, me boy – Come join us in our crew.)

FINAL CHORUS:    Well, if you were a pirate
    We’d make ‘em walk the plank,
    We’d hang ‘em from the mast,
    A cutlass in your hand,
    We’d haul ‘em ‘neath the keel,
    You’d gut ‘em with your knife…
    …Just leave that life behind, me boy
    And make the sea your wife.

The Case Against Elmer Fudd

Another Pub Poets event, and this time the theme is "Legless". From this I used the phrase "Haven't a leg to stand on" to inspire the following. I'm not exactly sure when the Looney Tunes characters came into the mix, but Warner Bros cartoons were always on TV in my childhood. Perhaps it was the Family Guy skit with Elmer offing Bugs Bunny. Anyway. No copyright infringement is intended - and I thought I'd include an allusion to #Piggate for good measure.

The Case Against Elmer Fudd

That day Elmer Fudd was brought up from the cells
he’d lost hope that he’d ever go free.
But the man that he met in that small dingy room
made him think “that’s the lawyer for me.”
The lawyer oozed confidence out of each pore
saying “This is a case they’ll abandon.
It’s all circumstantial and built upon sand.
There isn’t a leg it can stand on.”

When faced with such confidence, Elmer relaxed
but then he remembered his gun.
“The wabbit was shot,” he said, “what about that?”
but the lawyer smiled, saying “Point One.
Ballistics had nothing to give the police.
They were calling the wound through-and-through.
If the bullet is lost in the lake as they say,
they can’t tie the shooting to you.”

“Point Two is your gun was illegally seized.
The warrant was just for your shack.
It did not extend to the trunk of your car
The cops will be facing some flak.
So don’t give a thought to the gun the cops took
It’s lost to the District Attorney.
They’re not very pleased but they’ve now come to terms 
Adopting a different journey.

They’ve given up looking for Porky the Pig,
a character witness they wanted to use
They thought he would highlight obsessions you had
Regarding the victim, and trigger new clues.
He went overseas in the Eighties, I hear,
much to the DA’s anxiety
They found out he disappeared round about then
In an Oxford based secret society.

On balance, that’s good news, although I had hoped
We could use him as reas’nable doubt.
He hunted the bunny as well, you recall,
but that option we have to rule out.
Don’t worry, there’s plenty of others out there
The rabbit had enemies – many.
I have checked where they were when the victim was shot
And alibis? No. There aren’t any.

The rabbit’s main rival was Daffy the Duck.
As crazed as a loon, and with greed he can’t quench.
The xenophobe’s choice is one Pepe le Pew:
His love was rejected. A stalker. And French.
The psychopath known as the Tasman’ian Devil
Just wanted to eat him. That’s known far and wide.
Yosemite Sam - that gun-totin’ bandit
wants Bugs full of slugs. He just loves homicide.”

A thought came to Elmer. His shoulders slumped down.
He said, “I appweciate all that you’ve done,
but Warners were filming the hunting that day.
They have it on wecord just who fired the gun.”
The lawyer sighed, “Mister Fudd – pay that no heed.
I know you are worried and feeling quite tense,
but there is no reason for worrying, man.
Who d’ya think's paying me for your defence?

The film is destroyed and the cam’raman paid
So there’s only you they don’t want to neglect
They didn’t want snuff films – it was a mistake
Having Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall there to direct.
So - as long as you don’t say that ‘you hate that wabbit’
where folk for the state’s prosecution may hear,
I repeat that they haven’t a leg they can stand on
and you’ll leave this jailhouse; your name in the clear.”

I Don't Need An Education (In This)

Wow. I didn't realise it was so long since I last posted anything here. To remedy this omission, here is a poem that I wrote for the September open mic event for the Pub Poets group. On the theme of "We Don't Need No Education", presumably because a new school term was due, I forced myself not to write something with lots of Pink Floyd puns. Instead I thought about subjects in which I definitely DO NOT want an education.

I Don't Need An Education (In This)

Now ev’ryone knows David Beckham
with his perfumes, his wife and tattoos;
Gary Linneker’s seen
with his crisps on the screen,
and Cantona’s marketing booze.

But after those three are discounted
there’s not many others, although
Vinnie’s one of the lads
in his films, and in ads
there’s that French bloke whose name I don’t know.

It isn’t just football I’m vague on:
all sports are the same in my view.
There are some folk whose fame
lifts them clear of their game,
but their history? Haven’t a clue.

So.    I don’t need an education
in who plays what for who and where
at home, away, from other lands:
it makes no diff’rence – I don’t care.

We’ve had several years of X-Factor;
the wisdom of Cowell and co,
but for all of those years
and the crocodile tears:
who has won? Well I don’t really know.

When it comes to those numpties in jungles,
the ones mocked by Ant and by Dec,
I don’t know who’s playing,
who’s going, who’s staying,
who’s shoving some bugs down their neck.

And what can I say of Big Brother?
Contestants? When all’s said and done
I cannot identify
any. Makes sense if I
put them in Room 1 0 1.

So.    I don’t need an education
in those with transitory fame.
The mayfly’s dead within one day:
I don’t need to know their name.