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Nick Strong Dec 2019
Timothy looks away
Slightly disgusted
By those around
Flashing images
streak by
Gardens, yards
Car park
His breathing
Frosts the window
Sarah carefully
Places one ear pod
Into her ear
To listen to Handel’s 5th
Cameron looks
Shiftily down the aisle
For signs of
The trolley cart
That’s never on its way
Signs of passing stations
Shuttle by
Side streets
High streets
Cobbled streets
Timothy sighs
Opens a book
Pretends to be
To fellow passengers
The train manager
Formally known as The Conductor
A delay due to points
Wishes she hadn’t
Left Geoffrey
Last Tuesday
By the gas works wall
Lamp posts,
Telegraph poles
Fence posts
Flash by
A trainee
Train hygiene
Rustles a bin bag
And asks for *******
Thomas smiles
At the lady across the aisle
Who quickly looks
To the floor
Green grass
A tractor lazily ploughing a furrow
A mother looks embarrassed
Shushes, tries to smother the cries
Of her screaming child
Paddling pools
Rush on by
An old lady *****
Vigorously on a mint humbug
Whilst knitting in rhythm
With the motion
Of the train
Smoking chimneys
Industrial waste
Barren landscapes
Fly by
Gets up and shakily
Makes his way to check
That his case is
Still in the luggage storage
For the fourth time
Since The last station
Garages with rickety wooden doors
allotment sheds
Lock ups
Pigeon lofts
Pass by
The tannoy crackles
The announcement
That the train will soon
Reach the next station
All passengers
Alighting Here
Be careful to take all belongings
And mind the gap
Over grown weeds
Wild rampant Budleahs
Self seeded trees
Glide past
The 3:58 from
Observational nonsense, on a train.
Nick Strong Dec 2019
Talk to me, talk to me of Old St. Nick
Talk to me of Sinterclaus
Of Mikulas, Pere Noel, or Babbo Natale

Talk to me of candles, christingle and a silent night
Talk to me of crackers, carols and calamities
Talk to me of snow, sleighs, and stars
Talk to me of Christmas cards, wrapping paper
Talk to me of gold, old spice and mice
Talk to me of icing, icicles
igloos, ivy
Oh sweet Hollie
Tots of Drambuie
Marmalade and toast

Talk to me of Philip Scholfield
Carols From Kings
Mary Poppins
Festive films
Radio Times
And things that are too pretty
Lights, nights
Hark, Dark
barking dogs
Tinsel Town
Wolves at the door
Salvation Army playing once more

Talk to me
Talk to me
Cream Crackers, cheese
Frosty mornings, old knees

Talk to me of snow covered alpine forests
walnuts and berries
Festive fun,
A seasonal run
Of All Gold telly
With a full belly
Farts, sprouts
Turkey that tastes just like chicken
Oh talk to me of
Terry Wogan
Rosh Jogan
Grogan Josh
Last minute deals
Black Friday
White Friday
And all the Cyber Mondays

Talk to me of
Happy Mondays
Dancing Bez
In a Festive Fez

Talk to me
Talk to me
Of Festive time
Late nights
Early mornings
All in entertainment

Oh talk, TALK to me
Of hangovers,
sleep overs
and cute kittens

Oh talk to me of
fake Chanel
Faux Fur and underwear
Celvin Klein

Talk to me , Talk to me of
Jonah Lewie
Bony M
The Pogues
and all those rogues
Fairy tale of New York
Stop the Cavalry
Mary's Boy Child
And the
Spaceman who came riding by

Oh talk, Talk , Talk to me
of places, and spaces We all know
Christmas markets
Tesco, Aldi and John Lewis Adverts showing
Christmas is coming
Christmas is coming
Christmas is coming
Oh talk to me
Oh talk to me of old St. Nick

Talk to me
Talk to me
Talk to me
Talk to me
Bah humbug
Talk to me
Talk to me
Happy Christmas
Read aloud at speed. Enjoy!
Nick Strong Oct 2018
One by one,
We trudge
In the opposite direction
To the place we want to go
Work, Work, Work,
Press the button,
Again, Again, Again
Spaced intervals
Nine minutes
Fifty nine seconds
Not a nano less,
Not a second more

Big Red button
Press, Press, Press
Until the End
Daylight dies
One by One
We trudge
Back the Path we came
another sunset
Precedes another dawn

One by One
We trudge again
treadmill of drudgery
Work, Work, Work
Nine fifty seven
Nine fifty eight
Press the Big red button
At the Stress Mine

One by one
Trudging onwards
Souless, goaless
Encased in vulcanised rubber
Protected against
melt down
Chemical disintegration
Sneezes on this hive of workers
Press, Press Press
The button

Two by Two
Thoughts flow
Under the dim wattage
State controlled home lighting
Press, Press Stop
Don’t press the button
Would it make any difference to the
One by one daily trudge

Three by Three
The terror rises
Stop Pressing
The spinning top world
Would stop.
Nick Strong Mar 2016
The grey pallor of death came calling
Not a gentle knock on the door
Or friendly tap on the window
It did not leave flowers on the sill
Or chocolates on the side table
But breezed through the hallway
Collecting a debt on a life long lived
Leaving shadows of memories
For the living to remember
Nick Strong Dec 2015
Shop lights sparkle, dance
Making pretty patterns
in the winter twilight
Small change in a plastic cup,
Never shaken, just held,
By cracked nail adorned fingers
***** and blue from cold
Unnoticed a body perched
Silently upon a ***** blue
Carefully folded sleeping bag
Old worn grey coat
Wrapped tightly round
Thin drooped shoulders
Dull spark less eyes
Look out at a world
That rushes on by
Carrying boxes, paper bags
Of material purchases
To make the warm giggle
With delight come Christmas morn
Too busy, too fast to see
The plastic cup held steady
Enough for a cup of tea is all
That’s ever needed,
To reach Christmas morn
Nick Strong Dec 2015
Hanging by the post box red front door
Since 71
A long trench coat, shade of green
With flat cap on top, peak smudged
From fingers that had gripped
Pulled it from a head,
Both, an umbra of post war world gloom
To the boy, now the man who looks at it
Memories contained within its pockets and creases
Of boiled sweets handed to his bairns
Of neatly folded plastic bags,
For the necessary emergencies
He was so convinced he’d meet
Of hands that belonged to the coat,
Strong, firm that tousled this man’s hair,
Yet gentle and playful, full of fun
Of the head that wore the cap, the grin,
The mischievous glint, when his Peg wasn’t looking
As he slipped some coins into this boy’s tiny hand
Stories told, of times before the war,
Of stopping trams, driving pigs through N’castle
As a butcher’s Boy, on slaughter day
Of the day he met his Meg, down by the coast
Of showing off, and coming a cropper
And oh, how his Meg laughed
A coat holding so much of the past,
Of shipbuilding by the dark, ***** Tyne,
Boats that loomed over the houses
Taking this boy to see them launch
Dreaming of exotic, oriental places
He would never visit
Of betting slips, crumpled in pockets
From long gone nags, who caught his eye
Torn envelopes with Megs writing,
Bread - brown, tin of carnation milk (small)
Rich tea, sultanas, flour – plain
A use for his plastic bags,
My Granda's love was called both Meg and Peg.
Nick Strong Nov 2015
Bubbling, frothing,
Fluffy blooming mass
Grey white
Scattered across the air of blue
A million, billion raindrops
Forever changing
Living monsters
Shapes to beings
Oblivious of gravity,
Or people’s wishes
have reposted this poem, written 8 months ago, and for some reason it has mysteriosly disappeared from my Hello Poetry collection..... which is a shame as I had some lovely comments , and many views.  Please enjoy again.
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