Oftentimes
out of ****** dreams
when night glides into dawn,
I awake  hungry for your poetry:
I salivate on your  words
savouring  each syllable
melting  on my tongue .

Oftentimes
when I crave virginal lyrics
I read anew your tropes:
I revel in their creativity
letting all they reveal
inspire  me completely.

Oftentimes
I imagine your noble heart
I feel it pulsate upon each page:
in unison with each beat,
I am borne away in the flow
of poetry, beauty, time and love.

TOBIAS

“It’s someone you might know”
                        said the voice on the phone,
                        “Can you come round?
                        Ring back when convenient,
                        on this number - usual hours”.
                      
                        At the mortuary a long metal tray
                        is slid out from the fridge:
                        The Attendant says “Another NFA!
                        This winter’s a killer!
                        though no worse than usual!”

                        The face is revealed;
                        the eyelids are stitched.
                        “Nothing to go on -
                        Can you say who it is?
                        The rats got the eyes!”
                      
                        “Can I look at the clothes?
                        they might give a lead.”
                       “None found.” is the reply.
                         “In the muddy conditions
                        they had all rotted away.”
                        
                        A last long look…
                        Then I turn aside;
                        the Attendant slides
                        the remains from sight.
                        In cold silence we look at
                        each other, our eyes say:
                        “It could be anybody.”

                         TOBIAS

“It’s The End of an Era!” - said Albert to Dolly,
“People’s shares are gone and so’s their lolly!”
“How can that be?”  said Dolly to Bert -
“We’re flush and you’ve still got your shirt!”

“People borrowed beyond their means - My Dear -
all that is left  now is a climate of fear.”
But don’t turn a hair, Dolly - worry no more!
All our investments are safely off-shore!

It’s the end of an era Dolly! Make the lunch
while I  fill you in on the Credit Crunch.
Sub-Prime credit, that’s what caused The Crash
And now the Banks are strapped for cash.

No chance for a mortgage, or even a loan,
“The End of an Era” is the general moan.
Where’s all the profits?  Surely the onus
must rest on the greedy cult of the bonus.

Seemingly, not a single person’s to blame
as nobody knows the rules of the game.
Still, Praise the Lord! To thee much thanks!
The Government has bought the Banks.

The End of an Era! Still it marks a new start
for clever schemes that will help you part
with your hard earned money, unless instead
you take my advice: keep it under your bed.

Whatever happens - we can’t at last relax
as we all have to pay - my dearest Dolly -
for  the folly of those who lost the lolly
with a bigger burden of personal tax.”

TOBIAS

Advice for the Hello Poet "Midnight" on failing to achieve satisfaction in love making.  Take : 1 ripe man & 1 ripe woman; a glass or two of wine; a little oil; a generous handful of time; a flat surface for rolling out on; a few sweet words of decoration.

Proceed as follows:
Pour wine into two glasses.
Drink a little from time to time.
Remove outer garments from
the man and woman carefully.
Set them aside.
Check the skin for any
remaining garments,
remove slowly, assessing each
area uncovered for damage.
Any damage may be removed
at this stage by careful application
of lips to the area. Place
undergarments with outer
garments for use later. Feel
remaining flesh all over for
less obvious signs of damage.
If whole and unbruised, rub
all over generously with oil:
then lay out flat. Wait for the
man to rise fully. The man
and woman are now ready.
Let them prove themselves,
turning occasionally. Judge
when they are done by how
they feel. They should be very
hot, sticky and very damp.
Sprinkle with sweet words.
Leave to rest before returning
to original under and outer garments.

TOBIAS

I entered school at Blaisdon Hall,
when everybody seemed so tall:
but when I finished being taught,
all my chums in height were short.

The invention of a former cook,
fed the progress of my build and look,
along with spuds - best of Stud Farm crop,
and regular pudding known as "FLOP"

Wilfred Higginbotham was his name:
t'was from Manchester that he came.
Before him the chef was Mr. Higgins:
toupee-topped, nicknamed “Wiggins.”

Very wobbly on a pushbike:
Wilfred was (as they say today) "like"
sort of fat.  Yet, tha' knows
very light upon his toes.

If in the mood and no kerfuffle,
he'd do a lively soft shoe shuffle.
Opera trained - Wilfred was a singer:
for a famous Welsh tenor a dead ringer...

By the serving hatch, his apron gravy stained,
melodious, cheerful, unrestrained
he'd make the pots and kettles ring
as from the repertoire he'd gaily sing..

....selections de La Traviatta, La Boheme,
in his opinion "la crème de la crème"
and other classic arias with aplomb
in the style of Harry Secombe.

Now Wilfred’s "FLOP" a sort of madeira cake:
from the kitchen hatch the server would take
a warmish, deep presenting tray,
where puffed up inviting, there it lay.

Father "Bulldog" Wilson then would cut a slice,
take a bite - declare it “Nice!”
Alas! his knife released the air,
that wily Wilf had mixed in there.

Like a balloon pricked by a pin,
silently within the cooling tin
the cake collapsed. What a ****!
Wilf (t'was said) had used a stirrup pump.

Wilfred - as a baker- didn't cut the mustard,
but he was a dab hand when it came to custard!
A portion of his added magic yellow liquor
made the deflated "Flop!" taste thicker.

What was served up, had a fleeting taste
and was scoffed down in a fitful haste,
thus pleased I am to here relate,
not a trace of "FLOP!" was left upon the plate.

Whatever came of Wilf, I'll never know:
back up North, to ailing mum he had to go.
But still his pudding can invoke
such sensual sentiments all beyond a joke.

Early on in life Marcel Proust's nibbled madelaine,
a lifetime later, when dipped in tea,
and tasted once again, had power to regain
lost time and illuminate his memory.

So it is with me and as I thought
of cher Marcel, an evocative poem was wrought:
"FLOP"!" inspires the 1950s when I recall,
those schoolboy meals in Blaisdon Hall.

TOBIAS

Six letters spell out my secret self:
T-he
O-ther
B-eing
I-
A-m
S-ometimes  - TOBIAS

I am the baby caressed
at my mother’s breast.

A child learning sums,
playing with my chums
at football scoring
goals and soaring
to the heights of fame.

At times, a growing boy
entranced in nature’s joy.

Now and then I paint
for the family Medici
or become a Saint
like Francis of Assisi
chatting with the birds.

Some days I walk
in groves with Plato
and learn to talk
the simplicities of Cato
and for a while am wise.

Most days though
I hardly show
his side. So few can know
The Other Being I Am Sometimes.

TOBIAS

Both Maggie and May,
were fond of a drop,
and met one day
over an alco-pop.

“Maggie, your nose
is as red as
the last  rose
of summer!”

“As is yours, May,
so  it’s not
blooming alone!”

TOBIAS