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Charles Clive Jan 2011
I’ve had enough. I’ll eat no more;
my bloated waist is very sore
and second helpings, not so wise
when all my jeans have shrunk a size.

I will not take another ****
and lardy cakes, I’ll never start.
No cocktail snacks will pass my lips,
nor will I nibble cheesy dips.

No more the joys of Sunday roast,
instead it’s herbal tea and toast.
I have this strong, profound belief
I can live off a lettuce leaf.

Resistance takes an iron will
and abstinence a real skill.
But sticky donuts do look fun,
I think I’ll have another one.

                     ~
Charles Clive Jan 2011
I’ve had enough, I’ll drink no more,
my poor old head is very sore.
I have this ghastly aching pain;
I’ll never touch the ***** again.

That alcohol?  It must be banned,
since drink has got so out of hand.
I firmly know it’s wicked stuff;
I’m stopping now.  I’ve had enough.

I’m not foul mouthed, my temper’s cool,
I’m not hang dog, I’m not a ghoul.
If  you consider what I’ve had,
I like to think I’m not too bad.

What’s that you say?  What do I think
and would I like another drink?
How very kind and entre nous,
a little one.  No, make that two.

                             ~
Charles Clive Dec 2010
I sit in my garret, I twiddle a thumb;
I drain the last dregs of my tea.
I gaze through a window, over the hill
as far as the eye can see;
but no inspiration will come from the Muse
to help with a poem – from me.

I browse through a bookcase, shelf after shelf,
I thumb though a volume or three;
I reach for my Chambers, Thesaurus too,
I even search down on a knee;
but no one will guide me, no one at all,
to help with a poem – from me.

My failure’s emphatic, my failure’s complete,
as plain as a failure can be.
With trawls through the papers, internet too,
I’ve even considered a fee;
if only some person will lend me a hand
and help with a poem – from me.

And you write so well, so naturally too,
a style both flowing and free;
Oh how I envy your neat turn of phrase,
which highlights your true pedigree.
But me?  I just sit here, yearning to write
a little love poem – from me.



~
Charles Clive Dec 2010
I cannot hear.
Sound has lost its crispness.
Articulated consonants
have merged into blurred murmurings.

The loss was not sudden.
No cataclysmic happening
but rather a gentle deterioration
of a faculty, once taken for granted.

Normal conversation, once a joy,
has become a struggle.
Repartee, chit chat, a little banter
is no more.

The quality of sound
once reverberated and filled spaces;
now I have no spaces – just tinnitus,
constantly grinding away.

To be sightless is to be aware,
with other senses sharpened;
but deafness leads to
introspection, loneliness and deep despair.

The half blind wear their glasses
and look so very wise.
The deaf man, with his hearing aid,
dithers.
                                          

I should know.


                    ~
Charles Clive Aug 2010
Now, when I mention Poetry,
your eyes will glaze, I guarantee,
and then you’ll smile and say to me;
“This modern stuff's is *******!”

You’ll claim it’s clouds with beige and blues,
bedecked in caerulean hues,
all fancy words and curlicues.
“That's right.  A load of *******!”

You’ll say it’s nonsense, sometimes crude,
pretentious, sloppy, often pseud;
no more than prose, with attitude.
“A bucket full of *******!”
    

Not me.  I write a different way,
in words which mean just what they say;
more like the Giants of yesterday.
My writing isn’t *******.

I take a theme and, where I can,
I fit it in a structured plan;
what’s more, I make it rhyme and scan,
as verse - and not as *******.

Then, should you like my classic style;
perhaps it’s when I make you smile
or ponder for a little while?
That’s proof.  It isn’t *******!

                             ~
Charles Clive Jan 2011
I do not like your mobile phone
I do not like its ringing tone
I do not like it here nor there
I do not like it any where

I do not like it on a plane
nor when I’m on a crowded train
not in a bus not in a car
not even in a crowded bar

I do not want to hear it ping
or even worse Madonna sing
I do not like the sound of pop
enough no more it has to stop

so let me make this very clear
your phone I do not want to hear
and should it ever start to ring
I’ll come and smash the wretched thing


                    ~
Charles Clive Jan 2011
Oh help me, please.  I beg you and,
when on my knees to pray,
I need a little helping hand
to guide me through the day.
I have to face a motley band
who try to model clay.  

I give them all my careful gen,
to help them understand.
The work is very simple when
they’re organised and planned.
And yet their fumbling specimen
look strictly second hand.

I demonstrate the handy way
of  ‘pipes’ and ‘slips’ and scrim.’
To no avail, I have to say,
their efforts still look grim.
So give me patience, please, this day;
they’re all so very dim.

                                     ~
Charles Clive Dec 2010
A good time is coming, I wish it were here;
my favourite time, the best of the year.
I’ve counted the dates, on fingers and thumbs,
for hours and hours, till Christmas Day comes.


The leaves have all fallen and branches are bare;
the wind whistles sharply, there’s snow in the air.
I’ve put on my coat, it’s getting quite cold;
but Christmas is coming – or so I’ve been told.

I’m getting excited, my stocking is hung;
the mince pies are finished, the Carols are sung.
I’m told I must wait.  I hear what they say,
but oh how I wish it was now - Christmas Day!


~

— The End —