Poems

 

Tattoo

 

I saw a man on holiday

With spikey hair

And a tan like clay

Stud in his nose

And a leather bangle     

Ice cool shades

At a jaunty angle

On his arm a blue design

That caught the eye

And he thought real fine

Perhaps I should get a tattoo

But it might look odd when I’m 72

 

 

 

 

Two Mice

 

I think that we’ll risk it

It’s a fantastic biscuit

Dropped by the boy

His parent’s pride and joy

Who has tea at the table

Let’s see if we’re able

To dodge the family cat

All ginger and fat

What do you reckon

The morsel does beckon

Help! The cat is much quicker

Did you see his eyes flicker

Let’s get back to our house

I’m not a brave mouse

Look here you poor fellow

I think you are yellow

If together we’re quick

With the use of a trick

We’ll out smart that feline

And the treat will be mine

I mean ours of course

Because what could be worse

Than a partnership hatched

And an agreement not matched

We’ll share what we find

Before long we’ll have dined

But the mice took too long

That’s the gist of my song

As the boy he leant down

With a bit off a frown

He dusted it off

And the biscuit did scoff!

 

 

My dad needed glasses

 

He screwed up his eyes

And said with a murmur

‘When I was younger

I could see further’

 

So he decided it was time

For a man with mission

To make an appointment

With the local optician

 

He hopped on the tube

And went down to that place

Where the lady would probe

And look into his face

 

She did her consulting

In that sombre location

With a rigour you’d expect

From that lofty vocation

 

The results proved for sure

That his eyes matched his size

The diagnosis was short

For the sight in those eyes

 

So the lenses were sorted

And some frames were sought

But these are all square

Was his plaintive retort

 

‘Mine is a face

That was made for the round’

So they looked in a cupboard

Where a brown pair was found

 

So dad has his glasses

And he hasn't a care

They may be quite round

But I think he looks square

 

 

The Shoe Shop

 

Half term blues

New pair of shoes.

Listless assistant

Tired of so many

Bunched, holed, bedraggled,

Cornflake caked socks.

‘Step this way,

Place your foot in the iron

Cool, hard, instrument of torture.

My shoes worn, tired

Worse even than Oliver Twist’s

And now two sizes too small 

Although still comfortable

Oh so comfortable.

My size?

I’m a 10 ½ F but an 11 will do.

They have just the shoe I want.

In a 12 or a 10.

11 is the size of the geek shoe.

Two pairs are produced

Nasty, hard.

They say to me,

People will make fun of you in these.

Mum says to me

‘They’re nice dear.’

I wedge my feet into them.

‘Feet to brain.’

‘Comfort factor, do you read.’

‘Comfort fine.’

‘Eyes to brain, come in please.’

‘Eyes here! Style factor zero.’

Brain says okay, I’ll take it from here.

A brilliant ruse

Imagined foot deformity

Rules both pairs out.

A shop full of boxes,

Hiding taut,

Shining, crisp.

The creamy smelling leather

That is the new shoe

But there are none for me.

I slip into my old friends

We say our thank-yous.

The assistant is already with the next victim.

 

 

Playground with a view

 

Living in London has its perks

As it’s a city with many quirks

My Dad has taken me to quite a few

From Bloody Tower to Minster’s Pew        

But there’s one thing that I recommend

Something you can do if you’ve time to spend

Take the tube to Green Park Station

Cross the road to this location

From the road called Piccadilly

Wrap up warm if it’s feeling chilly

Near the old court of St James

Through the park where kids play games

Past a house fit for a queen

Not the grandest there’s ever been

Remember the rhyme about young Alice

Everyone recognises Buckingham Palace

Bear to the left into Birdcage Walk

Where the Guardsman rest and talk

Then nip down a path where brown geese prowl

And other assorted water fowl

There is a stand that serves hot tea

But remember this is London – nothing’s free

There’s also a building that really vital

If you’re a pauper or have a title

A little washroom built so small

That it caters for children who aren’t too tall

But the real draw to this place I’ve pinpointed

Won’t leave the youngsters disappointed

Since here there’s a playground once brand new

That has quite a strange and unique view

Ride on the swing and flex your feet

Watch the Guardsmen beat retreat

Mind your manners, don't make a scene 

You may being watched by HM the Queen

 

Woof

 

Our dog he's called Bonzo

But he's broke and incomplete,

He's shaggy, cute and cuddly

And likes to lick your feet.

You see there are no instructions

That accompany a dog.

No manual or owner's diary

or super pet vet's log.

We asked his best friend Cyril

But he's stuffed and made of fluff.

We took him to the elocutionist

But she certified him as duff.

From riot torn streets to meadow,

From stateley home to park.

He likes to leap around and lark,

But strangely he'll not bark.

 

 

 

Bad Sport

 

I played a man at tennis

And he was a rotten sort

All he did was rant and rage

And stomp about the court

 

 

Bad Sport Re-Match

 

I had no friend to play today

So I had to play that menace

If this is the modern way

Then I better give up tennis

 

I suffered his tantrum for a while

I tried to play the game

But it's hard to force a smile

If ‘all-cost’ winning is the aim

 

It seemed he’d try most anything

He appeared to have no qualms

I decided with each infernal ping

I’d have to shoulder arms

 

But sport can be a fickle thing

The less I played with style

My opponent failed and here's the sting

I started winning by a mile

 

At last I called and end to it

The other guy was puffing

If in the end the manner doesn’t fit

I’d rather I win at nothing.

 

 

In London people don’t always

make time for their neighbours

 

Some said he was a pirate

Some said he was a spy

Some said he was a stuntman

But I knew it was a lie

 

Some said he was a Wizard

Some said he’d been a toad

How he’d been kissed by a beautiful princess

Now he lives upon our road

 

He had a weathered face

And a mouth set in a leer

And if you said ‘Good Morning’

He seemed to greet you with a sneer.

 

So I set to find him out

And I asked around the corner

The man who owns the sweet shop

Said he knew his name was Warner

 

It all seemed rather strange

So I knocked upon his door

I waited on the doorstep

Till I heard footsteps on the floor.

 

The front door it creaked open

And I felt a little queasy

An interview with an outcast

Wasn’t going to be too easy.

 

He appeared in the doorway

And his shadow it was cast

He seemed to tower over me

And I made to run away fast.

 

Then in a kindly tone he spoke

 And it took me by surprise

Then I realised I’d been taken in

By all the neighbourhood lies.

 

Mr Warner was a shy man

Not some sinister little elf

Since he taken his retirement

He’d kept himself unto himself

 

‘I’m glad you came to see me.’

He said, and his story he began

About a life fraught with danger

As the Clapham South postman.

 

 

Paris for the under nines

 

After a short delay

We pulled out of the station

We rushed overseas

To an alien nation

 

Past tall white cliffs

Then under the sea

Thousands of gallons

Above you and me

 

Man wasn't designed

For this sort of travel

To be shot through a tube

Down a line set in gravel

 

Then back into the light

With a whoosh and a rattle

The woman behind

With the wearisome prattle

 

Then through the fields

Of Normandy. France

With a monotonous throb

That puts one in a trance

 

We break from the country

And into the sprawl

The outskirts of Paris

And through them we crawl

 

So much for the city

Of joy and romance

So much graffiti

And the occasional break dance

 

But up on a hill

All shining and white

The Monmarte Cathedal

The end is in sight

 

In a moment we'll be

At the Gare du Nord

Not a moment to soon

I'm incredibly bored

 

But such a lot has this city

For us to explore

The Eiffel,The Arc

And oh so much more

 

But for me all this stuff

Is not the main attraction

I need to get out of the city

For my kinda action

 

A place grown ups fear

And where children can prance

I think that you've guessed it

It's Disneyland France

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© Richard Trenowden