Avon Calling

Whilst I appreciate the heritage of William Shakespeare, it would take some time to actually read his books. It's a question of priorities, and I'll let you ascertain if deciphering the Bard's language is likely to be (or not to be) a worthwhile calling for me. This collection of limericks may help if you're still unsure of my decision despite this introduction....


Avon Calling

I find it incredibly hard –
enjoying the works of the Bard.
No matter the sonnet,
won’t waste my time on it;
his plays held in high disregard.

Perhaps it’s the archaic style
that makes reading Shakespeare a trial.
I don’t have the leaning
to work out the meaning.
I leave his books closed with a smile.

If you like him then bully for you.
(I understand some people do.)
You have my respect
for your deep intellect
with all of those books to go through.

Convince me to follow your lead?
Don’t bother as I won’t concede
‘cause I’d find it silly
to spend time on Billy
with so much else out there to read.

No Poet Reckons On It

I wrote this cake baking poem in November 2013 but forgot to put it on my blog. The reason for the poem? It was in response to a friends' comment about another of my poems:

I think we now need five Petrarchan sonnets about the five cakes with each cake being a step t’ward enlightenment and the filling representing man's quest for meaning in a Godless universe, not that rubbish you churned out the other day about a couple's first kiss.

I thought, "There's a challenge," and off I went. However, despite the rhyme scheme and fourteen lines, they didn't quite qualify as Petrarchan sonnets - hence the title of the poem. 

So there you go, Neil.

No Poet Reckons On It

  The kitchen cupboard’s sliding door
I reached toward with steady hand
And as I pushed with fingers spanned
I was surprised at what I saw.
I was not shaken to the core
But there they stood – the Home Pride brand:
Two packs self-raising to demand
That they are used, not left in store.
  No need for flowery words to know
I should not let them go to waste
(In austere times it’s in bad taste).
Regarding taste – what should I make?
Mince pies or scones? I don’t think so –
Perhaps it’s time to bake a cake.

  One cake’s good – but why not two?
Cool them on a baking tray,
Freeze one for another day.
But butter? Better check that, too.
Ah yes, the fridge confirms it’s true;
Six packets there in neat array.
Plenty there to take and weigh,
Plenty there to see me through.
  As it stands they are too cold.
The butter’s hard – it won’t behave.
I’ll have to use the microwave
To soften it for Kenwood’s sake.
The creaminess will then unfold
And I can start to make my cake.

  Two cakes? Good – but why not three?
Count the eggs, and check by rote
Discarding ones that stay afloat.
Break them, check them separately
(Bad ones spoil the rest, you see;
You don’t want eggshell in your throat).
Weigh them without shells and note
Flour, eggs and fat weigh equally.
  Get out the whisk and start to beat
We want it smooth, so whisk away
Remove the snotty bits, okay?
We’re nearly there: make no mistake
What we have – almost complete
Ingredients to bake my cake.

  Three cakes? Good – but why not four?
Sugar next, I’m out of Castor!
Blitz my own, it will be faster.
Blitz it so it’s fine to pour.
How much to process, less or more?
Equal weights. Avoid disaster.
Don’t forget that you’re the master
And that you’ve done this before.
  Vanilla extract’s what we’ll use:
Perking up the general mix.
Grease the tins preventing sticks –
Another measure I must take.
Oven on, so I can choose
A temperature to bake my cake.

  Four cakes? Good. But let’s make five.
Add the sugar to the fat
Add the whisked eggs after that
Time is short so that why I’ve
Mixed this up in overdrive.
Next, the flour; a caveat:
Added cocoa? Chocolate.
Slam tins so bubbles don’t survive.
  Baked, cooled on trays, but then: what filling?
Do not suffer undue strife.
Variety’s the spice of life
No need for you to bother gleaning
What the Universe is willing.
Cake itself gives life its meaning.

No Longer a Lark

The theme for the March 29th open-mic night for the "Pub Poets" was Early Bird. I wasn't sure what to write for this theme, neither being an ornithologist nor suffering from worms(!)

Consequently, I had to think back. When was I an early bird?

Getting up early for work was always a needed rather than a wanted. The fact that my timetable is my own gave me the inspiration for the poem.

No Longer a Lark 

I’ve never been what one would call an early bird.

The attraction isn’t something that appeals.

I really have to query

why one gets up whilst still weary

when one thinks how warm and soft a duvet feels.

I under-stand if you’ve not got the option.

I’ve had my share of rising in the gloom.

Not the clock’s fault and you know it

but it’s tempting just to throw it

so it ends up at the far side of the room.

When using public transport you leave sooner.

with time to see the beauty of the dawn.

But I don’t know what the fuss is;

You don’t care when you’re on buses

‘cause the train you meant to catch has been withdrawn.

The jolly morning people try to tell you

how the clouds at dawn are beauti-fully lit –

but they’re similar at sunset

if not better, knowing you’ll get

one or two hours long-er snuggled in your pit.

“But the air is fresher; there’s no roar of traffic!

The sense of sol-i-tude’s beyond compare!”

So the early birds will tell you

And you think that they’d do well to

breathe the nectar that the night-time has to share.

I’m an afternoon and eve’ning sort of person.

Let the birds enjoy their mornings full of song.

Those that think that I’ll U-turn’ll

waste their time – ‘cause I’m nocturnal

and to change my ways feels well and truly wrong.

They can stuff their anti-social breakfast meetings.

There are better things to do when you retire.

There’s no need to hurry when you

read the early-bird lunch menu,
It’s your schedule – plan your time as you desire.

All Through The Night (A Parody)

The latest open mic meeting of the Pub Poets was on St David's Day. Accordingly, the theme chosen was "Wales Tales", or "Whale's Tails" for those of a more nautical nature.

I'd already written something of that ilk last June (or thereabouts) so I wanted something of a different nature. I still had not had any inspiration two days before the event. And then...

"I know. I'll write some different words to that lovely Welsh tune - All through the Night." So here we are.

All Through the Night (A Parody)
Last month I had trouble sleeping – All through the Night.

Smoke alarm had started beeping – All through the Night.

Had to get up, climb a ladder

Change the batt’ry, then I had a––

––nother break to void my bladder – All through the Night.

Did a spot of babysitting – All through the Night.

Wasn’t fun, don’t mind admitting – All through the Night.

Asked to do things, he’s declining,

Fussy eater when he’s dining

Woke me up with all his whining – All through the Night.

Used to work ungodly hours – All through the Night.

for a boss like Austin Powers – All through the Night.

Bloke thought he was oh-so-dashing,

Set the ladies’ teeth a-gnashing,

But then he was done for flashing – All through the Night.

Ev’ry weekend we go boozing – All through the Night.

Finding silly things amusing – All through the Night.

Once I had a dodgy curry;

Was so drunk I could not hurry.

How could there be so much slurry? – All through the Night.

Lately I’ve been sitting, writing – All through the Night.

Though my bed looks quite inviting – All through the Night.

Not just stories; you know when you

Get the in-spir-a-tion then you

Write a po-em for this venue – All through the Night.

Moghul Meeting

I've just been to the Moghul
and had Podina Lamb.
I have the same each time I go:
It's just the way I am.
I had it with the special rice,
Peshwari Naan to share
with chums with whom I used to work;
we thought we'd meet up there.

We didn't have a pudding,
(does anyone partake?)
because we all had starters
(don't want our belts to break).
We chatted from the poppadoms
until we got the bill
and even then we carried on;
surprised we're not there still.

Our lives have gone their diff'rent ways
but still there is that link.
Not regular, these curry meets;
that's not the point, I think.
We worked together many years,
and though that life has gone,
it's like we've never been apart.
That's why we curry on.

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.

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.