Our all new house
Is a 'House For Life':
It's a bit of a sty but has:
Toilets downstairs
Toilets upstairs
Wide access doorways
And low level light switches.
Trouble is,
It's made entirely of straw.
Worse still,
Our neighbour is a ****** wolf.

We are peak humans.
We get what we need,
We demand what we want,
We buy, we buy, we buy.
We dispose, dispose, dispose.

Where it all goes, no one really knows.

Sure, some of us stop and think,
Knowing we're close to the brink,
But most of us continue to
Buy, Buy, Buy
then
Dispose, dispose, dispose.

Still not knowing where it all goes.

So here is my early apology,
To you, my son and daughter,
For belated action,
For consuming and burning,
For breaking your world.

It was a dark and stormy night...
...or was it a light and sunny morning?
I cannot remember.
Anyway, it was November...
...or was it September?

'Tis a boring tale anyhow.

THE END

Your idealism burned your path
and led you there.
Your desire a burning scythe,
Scorching and hacking
anything you deemed pre-determined.

Only a few tried to stop you.
Only a few told you it was a foolish endeavour,
But you wouldn't hear of it.
Your ears filtered out contrary voices.
Your mind bias to your thoughts of absolute free-will
and its oxymoronic pursuit of a destiny.

And so you left.
Took off under your own power
Leaving a contrail in your wake
Stretching from an eternal West
to an eternal East.
A monochrome rainbow
Befittingly lacking in palette
as your tunnel vision
allowed for only one colour,
Not a mixture of hues and shades
That colour a normal youthful existence.

Although short and unfulfilled,
Your brief sojourn on this world
will be remembered.
Your life's contrail will hang in the sky:
A solitary mark on your life's canvas,
A testimony, not to your Quixotic mission,
But to the good that would have surely followed
the eventual demise of your romantic notions
of solving the world's problems.

Your tall feathery flowered plumes
Set on metre long stalks
Sashay in the soft breeze
Bringing to mind catwalk models
Of stature, poise and grace.
But you are just glorified grass,
Whose time has now passed.

Chester draws big crowds on raceday.

Employees dress up for away-days,

And punters hope for a big pay-day.

But, come the end of the day,

After bad bets that were the last straw,

All the fancy garb is taken off,

And put back in the chest of drawers.

Acknowledge the knowledge:
Accept it is there.
Dissonance is ignorance:
Neither here nor there.
There it is, as plain as day:
It is not going away.
Demon drink
Taken you to the brink
But still you fail to grasp
That others aren't always to blame,
That circumstances don't conspire,
That fate doesn't deem it too late,
For if you can move to contemplation,
Then you could still resist temptation,
So, before your will is trampled,
Let's discuss the undiscussable:
The Elephant in your head.

Why were you late to school?
Sir, I rescued a cat from a tree.

And why were you late to school?
Sir, I put a cat up a tree.

It was at this point the teacher suspected a conspiracy.

What Was The Point Of Life Before Children?
And other self-important working titles, like...
What If I Wasn't Developing Life Saving Medicine?

He has so much poetry within him,
But it's all based ON him;
Full of false modesty
And self-conscious irony,
He never deviates from the theme
Of HIM.
BORING!

I hate the twenty seventh
All back to normal
Tweets from President Crazy.

You rose gently this morning
As if wanting to ease me into the day.
I watched your slow-burn rise
Gifting me a kaleidoscope sky:
Reds, Greens, Yellows and Golds,
As befits a celestial Emperor
Whose power basks in its own brilliant light.

But you knew I was watching your daily coronation.
Was it your plan to make it so memorable?
Or was it a self-fulfilling prophecy?
Did I choose this day subconsciously
As the day of my life's blossoming...
Fruit overspilling,
Wine glass brimming.

Now, with our day underway
My joy is unabating.
Your radiance infectious warming my soul.
What will the rest of your tenure gift me?
I am where I want to be,
I am who I want to be,
Dearest Sun, please do not set on me.

The times they are a changin',
Algorithms are modern cupids
Generated and perfected by...
Matchmaking computer whizzkids.

Log-in details now the key to love,
Name, gender, age and location
Algorithmed and matched to...
A potential subject of affection.

But I met my wife on a drinking spree,
On the dancefloor and on a mission
Wine and music combining freely...
Generating the perfect alco-rhythm.

Poems on pain,
Poems about strain,

Versus

Verses with puns,
Verses for fun.

Don't get me wrong,
I like the highly charged,
The deeply confessional.

Expression through art
Plays a huge part
In improving Wellbeing.

But should we also strive,
To derive
A little humour via the poems
So kindly shared here?

A tragedy miles of time away,
The anguish almost forgotten:
But pain is a stubborn stain;
Counselling never washes it away,
New love never smothers it.

Like a stubborn ****
It is always there,
Rooted in composted memories,
Finding nourishment in the briefest recollections.
The slightest trigger allowing it to briefly blossom.

Wild Honey Badger:
The Punk Rocker of the wild.
Fight for your right to party.

Wild Honey Badger:
The Chuck Norris of the wild.
Fear itself fears you.

Wild Honey Badger:
Comedically psychopathic,
Like Frank in Blue Velvet.

Respect the Honey Badgers
and they will, most likely,
Still not respect you.

I've never owned a freezer.
Don't get me wrong,
I'm not a tight geezer,
I guess I'm just chilled
When it comes to use-by-dates.

A funny thing occurred to me the other day,
Then deoccurred,
Then reoccurred.
Then it occurred to me that it wasn't that funny.
Well, nothing to write about anyway.

Night's aria plays 'til morning's chorus.

Sunlight's stretching fingers
touches and illuminates all for us.

With such speed does morning arrive,
the calm of night seems but a distant playful dream.

Asleep in his cot.
Or so I thought.
I hear his restlessness
(No sleep for the rest of us)
I lie and wait for the inevitable,
His teething has been terrible.
He's about to start crying.
But the restlessness ends:

Silence is eerie when it is unexpected.

My tired brain seizes its chance,
Shutting my eyes on my behalf,
Forcing my body to relax,
Filing away my anxious thoughts,
But, no! Just as sleep takes hold,
My door creeps open.
There stands my son,
Or at least an approximation of him:

Doorway silhouettes are unnerving.

Then, a dragging realisation:
My son is just nine months old.
He cannot climb,
He cannot walk,
He cannot even stand.
The sleeping process reversing,
Adrenaline begins coursing,
The small figure approaching:

Staring and with spittle drooling.

I choose flight over fight,
Need to know my son is alright -
That he is not this thing of the night -
But the child-thing chooses fight,
Chases me, grabs me and bites.
It will not let go,
Its claws dig in,
Its breath stinking:

My son is my dying thought...

I've got the key, I've got the secret
I've got the key to the corned beef tin.

For a ****** Healer,
He sure had a dour demeanour:
More of an android
Than Sigmund Freud.

A truly lousy Physician;
Missionary is his favoured position!
I fired him after one consultation,
He knew nothing of fornication!

He said he was overly-qualified,
In *** he was apparently certified.
But he must have faked an ******,
During his oral examination.

Pigeon in my loft
Shelter turned into a cage
Hence this sad high coo.

Snow, unexpected
Causes excitement and fear.
How will I get home?

Little ugly pond
had its moment of beauty
in the glow of dusk.

Empty Church, free of worship.
Solemn words trapped in stone wall.
Echoes of song long since dissipated.
Redundant Reverends,
Disconnected Deans,
And Perished Priests.
Age has eroded the congregation.
Faith in a Power displaced by modern life.
No time nor inclination to pray:
Hymns have too many lyrics
They offer no repetitive melodies.
As belief in Him erodes,
Faith in the Establishment remains,
It's failing flock clinging to the rock,
Demonstrating their faith in His return
Through small hopelessly hopeful acts,
Such as a 'Clergy Parking Only' sign.

Santa's house has many rooms:
One for every Elf.
They have sprays for farty fumes
And dusters for every shelf,
There are bins by every door,
And brand new hoovers for each and every floor!

Now all the Elves know their chores,
They've got them in their heads.
But tidying up is such a bore,
They'd rather go to bed!
Still, every room is clean and neat,
Because everybody knows Santa's always on the beat!

You see, Elves know they're super lucky...
They work each day for Ol' Saint Nick!
But if their rooms are ever mucky,
They'll be in for lots of stick.
For all that Santa asks of an Elf,
Is that their room is good for their health!

So every December night,
Ask yourself a simple question...
Would my room give Santa a fright?
If the answer's "yes" then hear the lesson...

An Elf's room is never messy,
Because they want a great big prezzy!

The one that winks,
The one in hysterics,
The beer,
The wine,
The OK sign.

The shocked one,
The facepalm one,
The angel baby,
The thumbs up,
And the one throwing up.

Life can't be bad:
My frequent emojis aren't sad.

Toulouse or not Toulouse...
That was not the question:
We had already won.
We could not lose:
Not an attitude borne of arrogance,
But of having already succeeded,
Before a ball was kicked.
This was my peak as a football fan;
We had qualified.
Any further progress would surely bring about delerium.

My own journey to a win in Toulouse
Was a fantasy I'd never dared to dream.
It transcended celebration of sublime football,
It was about chest-bursting pride.
Our small, oft-forgotten nation,
Whose language was the oldest of all the competing nations,
Was centre stage, ready for it's ninety minutes of fame.

It is a rare thing in football;
That fans do not ask much,
That their team want to provide a bigger answer to the question posed,
Rarer still for fans and players to bond in such a way,
So that winning is secondary to pride,
So that the national anthem is always a sweeter sound than a victorious final whistle,
So that the players sing with the fans after a game:
Gorau Chwarae Cyd-Chwarae.

Failure had ritually followed failure.
"It's the hope that kills you":
An adage fully understood and seemingly apt...
Until football was shocked into reality,
By the sudden death of a double hero,
A death that left an ember of hope,
An ember nurtured with reverential patience,
Until it sparked and became Dragon's breath,
Fuelling a campaign that allowed long-harboured hopes to set sail,
Charting a course:
Cymru to Lyon via Bordeaux, Lens, Toulouse and Lille.

Today you experienced, for the first time...
Pins and needles.
In just one leg.
You didn't know what to explain -
Numbness is a hell of a concept to grasp for a young mind -
You could only stand lopsidedly,
Wanting to laugh out of panic,
Shooing away invisible electric bees.

But you're only three,
And it's a weird sensation,
That you'll never get used to.
Still, it was pretty funny,
Knowing you were fine
Watching you try to process a strange sensation
That always disappears eventually,
Leaving you to wonder, "what just happened?"

Double beds are a bad idea.
Everyone knows familiarity breeds contempt,
But not everyone realises that double beds breed contempt AND children.
Yes, I do believe in a single bed policy.
Double beds for married folk is a total fallacy.

Do we really need double beds?
They're all elbows and knees and farts.
Why can't we sleep apart?
Meet up in the morning and smugly tell each other how well you slept.
Maybe arrange to have a twenty minute cuddle in a neutral bed.

See, no double bed no sleepless nights.
No simmering hostility because of a careless knee,
No cold war because of cold feet,
No lifelong bitterness because of blanket stealing.
And no ill-feeling because "you're taking more space than me!"

Don't get me wrong, the trip was a blast.
I loved the chatter and drinking,
The joking and the mishaps were hilarious.
Did I mention the drinking?

The heel snapping off your "good expensive" new shoe was a hoot,
As was the train letting everyone off but you!
Did I mention the drinking?

But when I get home something odd occurs,
A completely baseless melancholy descends,
Joined by a stubborn belly ache.
Was it all the drinking?

I am very lucky, I do not suffer with depression,
But I've noticed a pattern,
And diagnose the post-session blues.
It must be the drinking.

Such happy childhood memories,
Of the sweats you made and sold,
All those wholesome confectionaries,
Reminding us of times of old.

Your staff members, young and old,
So happy to work overtime,
Never revolted or ever became bold;
To do so would have been a crime.

But, like my wasteline, you have expanded,
You have factories in many nations.
My childhood you may have branded,
But I love you without hesitation.

I do so miss the sweat smell,
That poured from the old factory,
That dominated the town in which I dwell.
When will you come back to me?

Those lucky people on shores afar,
Who work all day and night,
Making those millions of sweat chocolate bars;
Their grateful sweat and tears ALL go into your delights.

Now I hear that you are diversifying;
The clothing industry in those developing nations,
Will add to your sweat bottom line,
Perpetuating your sweat *******.

Crap! Have I been spelling 'sweet' as 'sweat' throughout this **** poem?

"Let us rock" said the man in a frock.

"Let us pray" said another man in a frock.

The congregation replied "**** YEAH!" and gesticulated like they did not care.

The other congregation bowed their heads to show their reverence and care.

"MOTHER *******!" was the first man in a frock's opening line.

"Our Father" was the other man in a frock's first whispered words.

The congregation went wild and they pogoed out of sheer joy.

The other congregation remained fixed in their seats, staring at feet.

Four hours passed until the man in the frock finished his slot.

The other man in the frock was done within the hour.

The man in the frock went backstage and partied with his flock.

The other man in the frock went home to **** his socks.

The man in the frock woke up the next afternoon no longer wearing his frock.

The other man in the frock had been up since six o'clock but had nowhere to go.

The man no longer wearing the frock picked up his phone and made a call.

The other man in the frock rushed to his phone for it rarely rang.

"Hello dad" said the man who had worn the frock.

"Hello son" said the man still wearing the frock.