Having a warm soup

We all meet up in the middle sometimes 
When the seasons are right 
We all brush off the mud on our boots 
On the doormat, that spells out welcome home 


Walking out of the cold into the warmth 
An empty chair seats idle  
With our names imprinted on, reserved  for
Like a movie director's chair with comfort 


Here take your coat off 
Here have a seat, here a warm soup 
Or coco, have some bread to fill you up 
And do tell us stories of adventure 


And trepidations, dragons you have slayed 
 At some point, I feared I wouldn't make it 
Nightmare rings awakening, like alarm clocks 
To my sleep awake and I sweat the demons out  


Words do, belittle experience to talk of 
But hold on, it is a lie what was spelt out  
In the beginning so bold, like prophecy 
And infested with assurance that mild  


We do not all meet in the middle sometimes 
When the seasons are right 
Some never made it back and empty seats 
Remain around tables in advent 


An old friend passed away 
He will not be here this year 
An old friend changed alliance, false start   
He now stands at the front line with the enemy 


An old friend lost his map 
He sits in the cold in street corners begging 
Without direction on course to take  
The magnet in his compass is without life 


So I hold back my speech of travesty 
And look into the hamper bag I carry  
To bring out presents of merry, I carry more of those 
Don't be fooled by t' size of t' bag, it is like the Tardis   


The most valuable of all, is to have made it here 
In the middle sometimes, when seasons are right 
To brush off the dirty on our boots, on welcome mats 
Hang our coats and have a warm soup 


NB: If you saw the baby in the picture above 
you have good eyes and Merry Christmas 

The finance situation

So another cloud gathers, this time from the mainland 

And nobody is quite sure, in acts to follow, "what of the crops"  
Why we should hold, worrying hands around camp fire 

It is from the dialect of currency used, and ours is different 

We chose to maintain that of our forefathers, and their father's fathers 

While still holding communal hands, with the neighbours "we only shared seeds" 

So why have us worry, and throw more coal on heart burns  

It is their debt, not ours, with bailiffs knock on their doors, not ours 

It is their troubles, not ours, "it is their land that becomes infertile" 


It is their backyards, that empty graves are dug

With nameless tombstones and chisel held by the inscriber

He stands ready, he has just taken on, two more helping hands 

And one more is stood waiting, either that or the dole 
There are no jobs these days, every job is one to want
So he prays for his service to be required, administrating   

The sea is with high-current walls 
It separates us, our land,  from their misfortunes  

So why have me worry 

No one talks, of the bankers these day 

No one says word, about them no more 

It is as if  t' dog house was only built, to serve their purpose 


And they have all been locked in for the winter 
This to silence their extravagant taste 
And the barks they wallow of in, in riches, in flash 

But now this time and again, their names crop up 

It is all to do with eggs in baskets 

Prudence and feasibility became, foreign words 

And  for that, the bankers vault seats empty 

They gave all away on high return, with risk unaccounted for 
To the countries, of frozen fields, who had but not much to pay back with 


Thus now, another cloud gathers, and the draught nears our lands 

This time from t' main land, not across t' pond like before

And we are to be caught in this storm, the winds hints, the oracle tells  

What do you know, I see mass empty graves appearing 

Manifesting in our backyards, each day a new one is added 

With warning signs they give, about the storm that cometh   


I pray it passes soon, or escapes as bulk 
Before our harvest days, with sacks ready to carry a load  
This seasons harvest can not, be left to rot in fields 

Oh Dear Penny

Cork-Portrait-Scott-Gundersen

Dear penny dear, with natural tan, you beauty 

I heard you just got into town, you bronze beauty 

Penny dear, penny dear, my love

You know there is a saying
As always there is, "a saying"
Which says, as sayings go "there is a saying"

There is a saying
Which goes, look after the penny
For the pound will look after it self

A trickle of water from taps running
Could fill a bath tub, if left long enough
Long enough, it could become an ocean

And in the same light
A piggy bank could buy you a house
If you load up, a few, a few more with t' pennies

I know not what becomes of my change
After breaking down the bundle
And thus another bundle I take out 

To vanish again in pennies, oh dear penny
Like an erosion on shores if unchecked 

I promise to keep an eye on you, my dear penny 

If you find a penny pick it up , like love at first sight
The pounds do look after themselves
It is the penny that needs watching 

Like tender love 
For a budding rose 
My dear penny, penny dear 

My Favourite Spot

photo: Christine Donnier-Valentin

A chair, a sofa, a place to rest  
A place to rest, from voyage path 
A place, I like, I call my spot, my comfy rest    


A place before the tv set  
A place I sit, to overlook my abode 
A place sat, in a place called home  


Home sat in, home to be, on a sofa 
A place to cuddle, to hold, to love 
A place to share, a story I know 


Now who went a' called out the removal van
She packed my sofa, without my knowledge  
A' placed it under a bridge, on voyage's path 


She called it art, contemporary and modern   
A place where I sit, my place I love 
A place where I sit, to rest my mind 


Put it back! my favourite spot 
Damn you, put it back, no not at the Tate  
Back I say, to my favourite spot 

Opposition (Free Verse)

I am the one they talked about 
Like prophecy see reasons
New seasons 


Find me in scriptures 
I  am whole made, holly  
Like the beam of moon light shine, full moon


Shown light, bright on  dark delinquency 
And they come running out 
Like bats hanged on ceiling, away from lectures 


Defecating in their habitats 
Negative energy of doubt 
Breathing deep breaths they take 


They just that, jesters you know 
But jesters are still welcome 
In the kings kingdom, open arms 


Know your place, amuse 
We all need a laugh 
Every now and then, so bemuse  


We consider such acts 
Amusing from opposition 
Tolerated for a reason 


They call our bluff 
To allow us reaction on mood  
So come out you jesters   

Pouring Libation

At the front line, where backs are   
Firmly stack against walls, that hot  
Transmitting the burning coals of larva 


From the bosom of dejected dissolution  
Deep beneath the heart's crust knocking 
With increased temperature, in temperament  


Of  the heat, in trepidation gushing up 
As time passes by, like street lights so fast 
Distancing, one from dreams with stretch  


With age count, adding burden of  guilt on lost hope
Like the gas filled cylinder left out cold 
Awaiting sparks, just a single spark, for its day 


To burn, combust, with might  in the light 
Showing its glory, showing its all
As given to proclaim as destiny to be 


Yet slowly, increasingly, widening  
This hatch, hole of opening enigma, 
Escapes hope, from an opening 


Sucks out, leaks and dilute with air 
The essence of once so defined 
Taking forms of deflated objects, wrinkled   


What do you do son, what do you do 
 To keep from drowning souls  
As once so care free, a spirit trapped in cages 


Today we will pour libations, it is needed 
Laugh and mock life and dreams had
Tomorrow we will saddle up, back chasing that dream 

Typos Like A Rush

The feel of face pimple, mountain of topography 
A rush of molehills sat firm on the face, picture perfect  
Looking back at me in mirrors, does my bump look big   


Holds in form the same gravity of annoyance 
As typos firmly sat in notes, pee ka boo
Poems and essays written, on thoughts  


Steven Fry thus quoting from Oscar Wilde
Thus wanting to make a point, on peek-ka-boo
Once included a note to his publishers


Saying "I will leave you to tidy up the woulds
wants, wouldn'ts and should, 
will and shall, should and whiches"
Etc etc etc etc.....on and on and on and on, pee ka boo 


I wrote a poem, an epic poem 
And got the title all tipsy wrong
A few typos, nicely stack like they belong 


Hidden from view, on first read
Second read, third read, blind 
Still hidden from view, pee ka boo 


Only to stand out like a post 
With flag on mountain 
On the critics first read 

So I ponder with frustration asking questions
Why does such glitches  always happen
Not always, sometimes, but too often, sometimes 


Sometimes it takes a whole day and more 
While typos play pee ka boo, hiding and poking out, bumps 
Like a fresh pimple, ready to be popped, squeezed out 

Would, for will, there and their
And all the other misfits, misfits 
My mind reads over, blank to blind 


At least I have 
Steven Fry and Oscar Wilde 
On my side, looking at the bigger picture 

Best have a second read before the critics' read 
Just in case, I overlooked another pee ka boo
Misfit, hiding from plain view