"spluttered" poems
A dash of spluttered kisses
come raining down on your neck.
Buried in your sandy hair,
shining lips in the candlelight.
I don't speak your language,
you barely speak mine,
Ik wil jij.
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 12:05 PM UTC
The missus bought a Paperback
...at Val Village, Saturday,
I had a look inside her bag;
....T'was "Fifty Shades of Grey".
Well I just left her to it,
And at ten I went to bed.
An hour later she appeared;
The sight filled me with dread…..
In her left she held a rope;
And in her right a whip!
She threw them down upon the floor,
And then began to strip.
Well fifty years or so ago;
I might have had a peek;
But Mabel hasn't weathered well;
She's eighty four next week!!
Watching Mabel bump and grind;
Could not have been much grimmer.
And things then went from bad to worse;
She toppled off her Zimmer!
She struggled back upon her feet;
A couple minutes later;
She put her teeth back in and said
.....I am the dominater !!
Now if you knew our Mabel,
You'd see just why I spluttered,
I'd spent two months in traction
For the last complaint I'd uttered.
She stood there **** and naked
Bent forward just a bit
I went to hold her, sensual like
and stood on her left ***
Mabel screamed, her teeth shot out;
My god what had I done!?
She moaned and groaned then shouted out:
"Step on the other one"!!
Well readers, I can't tell no more;
About what occurred that day.
Suffice to say my jet black hair,
Turned fifty shades of Grey.
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 8:30 PM UTC
There was once a small, dying flower
Her beauty was dim
Thoughts trapped her from deep below
The roots that held her down made it hard to grow
She lived a life of solitude
No other flowers blossomed beside her
Her sweet aroma nobody smelt
In the lonely landscape in which she dwelt
But then there came a day when something happened
The piercing blue sky changed into oyster silver
And as the flower proceeded to slowly die in pain
The miracle came. Rain.
The rain fell from the sky like liquid jewels
Each drop nourished the flower
Although the rain didn’t realize at first
It had helped the flower overcome the worst
Through the air the rain and flower shared silent whispers
The rain understood the flower’s dying condition
The flower was relieved that someone else knew
Of the deep trauma that everyday grew
For many weeks the rain showered on
To help the flower continue to be strong
But the rain didn’t know of the flower’s underground roots
The rain wanted to know but the flower kept them as emotional loots
One day another accompanied the rain
A being called sunshine, a beaming white light
Though slight droppings of rain spluttered down from the sky
The flower was inevitably starting to die
The flower didn’t want the rain to know
How dependent she was of her nurturing
The flower stood while its immunity could run
As the rain started to fade into the sun
The flower should be glad that the rain started to calm
For the rain carried pain and distress from far above
So the flower carried the trauma and rejection
Into the roots where she was bullied by her reflection
The sun was kindhearted, pure and bright
It shone optimism and grace to all in its range
It was actually a key to the flower’s survival
But neglect and jealously made her the rival
The flower started to push the rain away
She didn’t want to hold the rain back from serenity
So the rain dripped off the darkening petals
As the flower wishes, the rain cools and settles
The rain disappeared in the light of the sun
Creating a spectrum of colours bleeding across the sky
The flower sighed in relief of the petrichor
As the flower died, and became no more.
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 11:23 PM UTC
Like an explosion;
But in s l o w m o t i o n, a tidal wave crashes
This ironclad vessel beginning to thrash
Through the flashes of light though I see a brief passage
The corroded bolts past their toll
Give way exposing the hull
Capsizing the flood gates,
Negating promise of a safe harbor ashore
Amidst the panic and commotion
Together we sank, into the ocean;
*Sailing the high seas of impassion
I was impassive, &
Like an anchor*
Love plunged to unimaginable new fathoms
Dragging us down;
Perilously we claw hand over fist
The sorrows we drown
Adrift the turmoil and wreckage
Bubbles ascend toward the surface
(Spluttered echoes of our last choked hopes)
Water fills our lungs expunging the air
Fearing the end I daresay;
Babe take my breath away
Death is only the beginning
But I’m afraid of the forward path’s embrace
Dead ahead through the currents we tread
Shallow water blackout,
There's no turning back now,
Let's die as we lived
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 9:26 PM UTC
dissipated and disillusioned worms eating through the last splinters of the rotting universal wood.
the last transmission of regret sent electronically, spluttered,
into a tissue; in a moment of self indulgent **********
live showings of vicious execution, transmitted directly from the electromagnetic waves into the alpha waves of the young and naive. Desensitization, the last drops of humanity into complete disengagement.
endlessly recycled bohemian ideologies whispered into the ear of the eager idealist. spreading like fire, before burning out into the uncatchable reverie up with the stars, with all the other reveries, shining bright, intangible.
Instant dismissal from the old man, as the big curtain draws. Cynicism and fragmented past, falling on apathetic eyes, a proud man treat with a padded hand. faux sympathetic tones, blushing cheeks on old bones.
Begging with your body crumbling to dust with the disinterested doc, looking at the clock counting the milliseconds to the paycheck. Decomposing until you can be swept under the perpetual rug with the rest, Vacuum.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 12:11 PM UTC
He heard a last echoed clink of liquor-laden ice-cubes,
Stuck between two stools that screamed for company,
I gazed across his vacant stare to the barman –the silent DJ,
Professionally ignorant as I gestured my hoarse thirst,
I waited a little minute, another minute an’ just one more,
Enter our businessman, full-schedule, long-hauled to drink,
With a rib-eye steak of a face an’ breath surely barbecued,
Two satisfied cheeks, pink-puffed with brows fit for burial,
Teeth ground with tension but brighter than the lighting
A fungal-lung nose perched upon a smile that I could smell,
He plumbed himself wet-shave close to my stiffened neck,
“..Hana Drink..?” (Silence) best to follow the DJ’s example,
(Bullish huffs) (Lips licked) “.. Ya’ll wantin’ a drink, Mister?..”
Flustered by the company, I replied “..Non, Je think eh Je chi..”
A retort of sorts, faux languages not my degree, “..Leaba..Bed!”
Spluttered just at the end – an insulting first impression,
He seemed nervously joyous, loosened from being himself,
Yet his trouser belt buckled, pulled tight to conversation level,
An’ Redwood-trunk hands, alive with the latest deal struck,
“..Bedtime for us..” he bare-bawled, splitting my weary eyes,
His numbed arm clumsily flung around me, “..bedtime for us!..”,
DJ unmuted, the music paused, I mouthed softly “..just the bill..”
(Silence)
“..Who’s Bill?.. a friend?…Is he cute?.. So this drink?” I panic still.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 11:15 AM UTC
Searching in the gutters
of Meadow Row
and up along by the back
of the coal wharf
Benedict picked out
and up
dog ends
or cigarette butts
as his old man
called them
and picking them up
he tore open the paper
and tipped the tobacco
into a white paper
sweet bag
how can you do that?
Ingrid said
all those people’s
spit and dribble
on them
she pulled a face
he smiled
she looked serious
germs on them
she said
she wiped her hands
on her stained
green dress
he bent down
and picked out
another cigarette ****
and opened it up
between fingers
and thumbs
and emptied it
into the bag
you’re too young
to smoke
she said
if my dad saw me smoking
he’d smack me silly
she said
he does anyway
he said
she bit her lip
and looked away
sorry
he said
didn’t mean
to be like that
he touched her hand
she stared at him
through wire
framed glasses
she liked it when
his hand touched hers
no one else
touched her tenderly
she looked
at his cowboy hat
placed to the back
of his head
the six shooter gun
stuffed in the belt
of his jeans
the borrowed blue waistcoat
(his grandfather’s given
a month or so back)
she put her other hand
on top of his
he took his hand out slowly
in case other boys
from school may see
and walked to the shelter
of a wall
of a bombed out house
and they both sat down
he took out a packet
of cigarette papers
( liberated from
his old man)
and pulled out
a paper and shoved
the packet of papers
back in the pocket
of his jeans
and taking a pinch
of tobacco from the bag
he fingered it
in a straight line
into the cigarette paper
then rolled it
as he’d seen
his old man do
then licked the end
to form a thin cigarette
Ingrid watched in silence
as his fingers moved
and his tongue licked
you’re not going to
smoke it are you?
she asked
he put the cigarette
between his lips
sure am
he said John Wayne like
but you’re only 9
she said
you’re only 9
and you’re watching
he replied
he took out a box
of Swan Vesta
(borrowed from
the cupboard at home)
and lit the cigarette
and puffed slowly
she waved a hand
as smoke came near
her face
my dad will smell that
on me
she said
and think it was me
smoking and tell me off
she said
beat you black and blue
Benedict thought
not said
he coughed and spluttered
and took out
the cigarette
and blew smoke
from his mouth
and spat out phlegm
brownish yellow
if your old man hits you again
I’ll shoot him
full of cap smoke
he said
she laughed
and hit his arm
he flicked the cigarette
onto the bombsite
with a finger
and watched
as the smoke
he’d blown out
like a pale ghost
seemed to linger.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 3:50 PM UTC
In darkened dream, my walk was halted,
confronted by a tree,
It stood upright, a branch outstretched
and blocked the path on me.
In circumventing sideways dance
I edged in grass quite slow,
but a craggy root handcuffed me,
and would not let me go.
I stood in shocked drawn silent gaze,
unsure of where to turn,
This tree had pulled me tighter now,
it fought my urge to run.
But then it spoke in ancient voice,
in tones of guttural flow.
Dark words in wood translation,
spoke of a poisoned stream below.
The leaf on every branch now shivered,
in worried recounted tale,
as it described through words so clear
what caused its bark to fail.
A darkened tale of toxic waste,
a legacy untold.
of man's destructive story,
where greed and fear unfold.
Water table now unset
In (fractured gas) halation.
Land is sold and cracked
in tempted cash flirtation
War for oil in scarlet lands,
where majors lived at base.
The youth in pointless sacrifice,
to save the political face.
Where poverty prevailed amid
abundant arable nations.
and the silent cries of children
skewed charitable donations.
Air of grey, fermented
with pollen soft pollution.
Chokes of spluttered ash,
cast doubt on evolution
This tale of woe recounted
by nature's mother-tree
with roots now losing hold
while balanced grip on me.
Swaying branch quite dangerously
in forgotten leafy youth.
this once majestic elder falls,
unburdened by this truth.
It died in pain where it had grown
drowned slow in poisoned stream.
a fading track on reddened skin
where its handcuffed branch had been.
I straightened up and stumbled on
relieved it had let me go.
My eyes in shock, slowly adjusted
To wood in flat plateau.
I cast my eyes in horizoned view
not believing what I'd seen.
The wood in matchsticked pattern
where once proud kings had been.
The landscape now lay barren,
with wood strewn all around.
The stench of rot erupted
from muddy blackened ground.
I wandered off to tell the tale,
of being confronted by this tree,
unsure of what just happened
or why it had chosen me.
I walked for miles in desolate,
through air starved atmosphere.
but met no one along this road,
a winding pot-holed frontier.
I walked until I finally woke.
in spluttered inhalation.
Confused, I feared this reality,
of earth's final damnation.
In darkened dream, my walk was halted,
confronted by a tree,
Awoke, its tale will linger,
forever haunting me
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
a chimney once held between
two fingers lies on the pavement
head kicked in
ash spluttered
against the concrete
embers refusing to let go
of their blood orange glow
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 10:34 PM UTC
I wore my heart
on my sleeve last year
with a touch of agony
and the depth of despair
in hopes that you would
somehow love me.
But desperation,
I hear,
has a strong scent;
and when mixed
with fear--
and you could sense it
clinging onto my every
spluttered word,
every painted red lips
I hope you'd gaze upon;
the shadow of my eyelashes
imprinted in my cheeks
and the sweet delirium
of your voice;
a echo in the morning,
a whisper at night.
Today I remember
a year ago
how dearly I loved you
and loathed myself.
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 3:55 AM UTC
**Topsy and Turvy, hassled and harried
jostled among a jungle of jumble,
so busy they beavered, in search of a bauble
upon all the shelves, so deftly they delved,
... within the lair of the piffling frippary.
They ambled and rambled, so giddy they gambolled
and sought for that trivial trinket or trifle,
they rummaged and rifled, their eagerness stifled,
through struggle, they strived, from nine until five,
... within the lair of the piffling frippary.
Staunch but stressed, their zest so hard pressed
for until discovered, found and recovered,
they muttered and spluttered, and audibly uttered
within the lair of the piffling frippary,
... persuing that piece of paltry frivolity.
Now flagging, they floundered, not finding the foible
in shambles they rambled, revealing reluctance,
and ceding, conceding, they threw in the towel
on trembling, tottering knees they now tumbled,
... out of the lair, of the piffling frippary.
... ... ...**
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 10:42 AM UTC
Do not abort words from love's womb;
she will choke herself
because she could not be a mother.
Stitch lips together. Let silence,
nothing,
be purity.
Words end.
They
are hot and furious, oozing
sores relishing in their own
blood.
Organisms,
dull black embryos, eyeless
until
roiled on red tongues;
spluttered, screamed, snaked
out into being.
They heal themselves to death by the hemlock of Time.
Dying is a definite thing - words are not
immortal, not greater than us.
Not love.
Autopsies reveal varied, unwanted truths:
either
heart splintered too swiftly
or
poison turned flesh to gore,
cell by cell.
Do not abort words from love's womb;
you are wrapping the umbilical cord
around your own neck.
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 5:41 AM UTC
Yes! It's another Barry Hodges "Memories" poem!"
I shall never forget our first date together,
How we wandered through the streets of Soho,
Gazing into the **** shop windows,
Laughing at the giant vibrators on display...
And later, a romantic meal in a French bistro,
Where the rules of hygiene were not
As strictly observed as might have been hoped for,
Promising a regurgitatory treat in store...
You ignored the startled eyes of our fellow diners
And brutally shoved your tongue in my mouth;
O how fiercely I slurped on it enthusiastically
Caressing it with my own mouth sausage...
I ****** and ****** and ****** and ******
And (oh joy!) I could taste the garlicky bits
'Twixt your gorgeous unwashed choppers;
How my underwear damply stretched out of shape...
I withdrew my probing tongue and kissed your cheek
Affectionately, yet trembling with rampant desire;
And I boldly licked a firm yellow-topped spot
With its previously observed black centre...
My huge uncontrollable lust conquered
The demands of demodé bourgeois good manners
And I sunk my incisors into that zitty beauty
Relishing the hard core waiting just for me therein...
The waiting staff were deeply impressed as I chewed
In rapturous sensual joyous contemplation
And you spluttered bloodily in loving agony
Your own mighty ****** fast approaching...
Oh what a foretaste of what was to come
When we repaired to my convenient bedsit
For an immensely gratifying triple bonk
Prior to a staggering mutual diarrhoea session...
And now I lie back in sweet recollection
Of the many nights we spent in copulation
But how sad I am as, looking at the deserted bed,
I can still make out the stains of your dying turds.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 6:45 AM UTC
Here lies ahead our road to freedom
Cracked deep beneath our blistered toes
Seeped full with red and black ink
that had once painted the shades of propaganda.
Our boots, soulless and worn like hearts of lead
leaked blood-stained fear and red-raw dread.
The path ahead of stone and ice stretched on
for decades... or was it days?
Time was the beat of marching men.
Through the thick yellow fog, we spluttered, cursed blind,
and choked on the calls of fallen heroes whose
cries grew distant with every staggered step.
Beneath the ghostly glare of shattered street lights, we trudged
on and on.
Until our ankles, raw and bruised
buckled beneath our weights;
Down onto the ice to sooth sore limbs
and stifle the scorn
that droned on the wind.
We will not surrender. This day
we are men with visions of glory that glow beyond golden gates
and wait for us in old age. But not today.
Today we make history;
So that one day when I sit my granddaughter on my knee
I can tell her why she, her grandpa and her country are free.
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 1:00 PM UTC
The sun shone bright
on the Saturday afternoon
as Helen put her doll
Battered Betty
on the bombsite rubble
off Arch Street
near the coal wharf
and sat down beside you
(crossed legged)
peering
at the bombed out ruin
of a nearby house
wonder what it felt like
being bombed?
she said
I mean
one minute
you’re trying to get
the kids to sleep
next minute
a ruddy great bomb
blasts you all
to Kingdom Come
you offered her
a sweet candy cigarette
from a blue and yellow packet
don’t know
you said
but my mum said
that when she was home
with my gran
during one bombing raid
they hid under
the kitchen table
with her baby niece Carol
Helen sat opened mouthed
her hand holding
the hand
of her battered doll
anyway
you went on
my mum’s stepfather
( her dad having died
from TB in 1936)
was under there too
but my mum said
he had his backside
sticking out
from under the table
as if
that was unbombable
Helen laughed
and so did you
bet it was horrible
to be bombed
she said
but I would have hated
being evacuated
from my mum
even for a day
she ******
on the sweet cigarette
held between two fingers
and stared
at the ruin
with half a roof
and two walls standing
revealing wallpaper
on the inside
of one wall
my gran said
you continued
an old couple
next to them
on hearing
the air raid siren
began to run
toward the bomb shelter
in the garden
when the old lady stopped
and the old man said
what you looking for?
my teeth she said
and he said
they’re dropping
ruddy bombs
not mince pies
Helen spluttered
into laughter
almost on choking
on the sweet cigarette
don’t
she said
I near wet myself then
and she clutched her doll
to her chest
patting its back
there there Betty
she said
it’s only a story
and you looked
at her small hand
tapping the doll’s back
the fingers tight together
love in each tap
a good mother
she’d make
you thought
with schoolboy love
looking at her profile
the thick lens
spectacles
the plaited hair
and her small hand
going tap tap
on the back
of the battered doll
in her flower skirted lap.
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 2:28 AM UTC
A "Memories" Poem from the great Barry Hodges' pen
I shall never forget our first date together,
How we wandered through the streets of Soho,
Gazing into the **** shop windows,
Laughing at the giant vibrators on display...
And later, a romantic meal in a French bistro,
Where the rules of hygiene were not
As strictly observed as might have been hoped for,
Promising a regurgitatory treat in store...
You ignored the startled eyes of our fellow diners
And brutally shoved your tongue in my mouth;
O how fiercely I slurped on it enthusiastically
Caressing it with my own mouth sausage...
I ****** and ****** and ****** and ******
And (oh joy!) I could taste the garlicky bits
'Twixt your gorgeous unwashed choppers;
How my underwear damply stretched out of shape...
I withdrew my probing tongue and kissed your cheek
Affectionately, yet trembling with rampant desire;
And I boldly licked a firm yellow-topped spot
With its previously observed black centre...
My huge uncontrollable lust conquered
The demands of demodé bourgeois good manners
And I sunk my incisors into that zitty beauty
Relishing the hard core waiting just for me therein...
The waiting staff were deeply impressed as I chewed
In rapturous sensual joyous contemplation
And you spluttered bloodily in loving agony
Your own mighty ****** fast approaching...
Oh what a foretaste of what was to come
When we repaired to my convenient bedsit
For an immensely gratifying triple bonk
Prior to a staggering mutual diarrhoea session.
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 10:15 AM UTC
“You can turn away”, he says
as he sets the bowl and scalpel
on the tray next to my bed.
I wince, obligingly
lower my head,
but as the blade digs in
I watch him work,
painstaking.
Extracting one shard
at a time from my arm:
pincering it out, spluttered with blood
catching a glimpse of the glint, like a flash,
before glass hits tin.
No tears then, only after,
when he stares and says:
“You won't do that in a hurry again.”
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 2:36 PM UTC
Humpty-Dumpty sat on the wall
And that was his first mistake
For eggs can be overly delicate things
Quite likely to fall and break
Humpty-Dumpty tottered and fell
Kersplat! He was runny and raw
Desperately scooping his gooey insides
As they spluttered out onto the floor
Humpty-Dumpty twitched for a while
‘Til his innards were down to the dregs
And all the kings horses and all the kings men
Are not paramedics for eggs
**
Mar 5, 2018
Mar 5, 2018 at 7:54 PM UTC
There was a smell of Devon violets in the air
And the Pig noticed that there was a gentle breeze.
The Duck seemed to have combed his one lock of hair
And he was preparing to drop to his knees.
He fiddled with his apron trying to ****** it off
He was a funny shade of pale pink and blue.
He started his sentence with a little cough
“My friend, you know how I have feelings for you”.
“Yes, get on with it, what do you want to say”.
Nothing could have prepared the pig for the next bit
“My friend, you are my world, my Doris Day
More precious to me than the chair in which you sit.
“Do you want to go out for a drive?
You should have said earlier on.
Now it is late, it is nearly half past five
Very soon the day will be gone.
The Duck spluttered for him to be quiet
He had now a serious wrinkled beak
He regretted now going on a diet
But alas, he started to speak.
“My friend I have something to ask you, would you
Be so bold as to marry me.”
“What! Screamed the Pig. The subject is taboo”
And suggested that he was barking up the wrong tree.
The Duck went violet and embarrassingly stiff
“I didn’t mean to offend, forget it” and ran top speed.
He wanted to jump off a cliff
But knew he might just bleed.
So he hid for three weeks until his face went pink
He went a bit thin, but survived the humiliation
Hiding gave him time to think
Which only led to frustration?
He had to think of a plan
A rapid plan at that or he was in trouble
I will tell the pig I have become a different man
And that I look like the Duck, a duck double.
Then I will reappear as if nothing is out of place
He will be confused, I will be in the clear
He will say I remember that face
And I will have nothing to fear.
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 11:09 PM UTC
she awoke one morning to find wings upon her back
spread out across the length of her room
she had trouble getting out of the door
and every room she left and house she exited
she knocked things askew
destroyed more and more
she met a boy down-town of a similar strange sort
he was covered, every single last inch of him
in crawling, hugging spiders
his face was obscured and his tongue black
as he spoke, more came from his throat
fatter, hairier, wider
they fled together to a beach where a big bonfire sat
and around, for hundreds, in the fog, were others
others like them; outsides varied, insides same
there were some with wings too, the girl saw
but all stopped what they were doing as a sound was heard
and eyes turned toward the colossal flame
the people sat and gathered at the fire's base, close-knit
she linked arms with an old man with tears pouring from each wrinkle
and a little girl made of air
this crowd watched, enraptured for hours like moths
until the bonfire spluttered, stuttered, went to sleep
and wrote in the charcoal left: 'despair'
the boy with the spiders took her aside; his hands tickled
he bade the girl to wade out with him, into the swash
which giggled beseechingly at her toes, flecked with frost
the crowd of the beach overheard, and together they all joined
to slink into the fog and ocean depths united
to become, like the people of the night before them:
eternally lost.
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 5:18 PM UTC
Well as the title suggests it is not a chase
Quite possibly because running’s out of the question
And also they are not even involved in a race
No, not even the hint of an exercise session.
The story is as follows: if I can put it clear
The day started slowly, they were in hiding
He did not want to, as usual, interfere
And generally the atmosphere was
subsiding.
That was until she burst in through the door.
With a worried frown on her floury face.
noticed the Duck had his nose to the floor
And heard the chicks were not in the nesting place.
“Maybe they’ve hatched and walked off
”The Pig thought it obvious and straightforward.
The Hen spluttered a nervous type of cough
And out from his hiding place shot a worried bird.
“Oh dear, oh dear,said the Hen we will help you”
The Duck sprang into action straghtaway.
The Pig was saying no and had gone blue
Which was turning to an angry twitchy grey.
The Duck was pelting down the lane searching
Calling, enticing but no chicks were found.
Under his breath he was grunting
And heard the Pig suggesting they had drowned.
He slapped Mr Pig on his wig and frowned
He put his wing around Mrs Hen and dried her tears.
Assured her that the chicks would be safe and sound
And said Mr Pig had only added to her fears.
He shot off again at a greater speed than before
His instinct came into play good and proper
Found the chicks and what is more
The Hen has adopted her star, her show stopper
The Duck a hero, was splashed on the news
The Pig hid behind the paper for a week
Where he had more than a little snooze
And the Duck’s goose chase was a winning streak.
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 2:03 AM UTC
Well as the title suggests it is not a chase
Quite possibly because running’s out of the question
And also they are not even involved in a race
No, not even the hint of an exercise session.
The story is as follows: if I can put it clear
The day started slowly, they were in hiding
He did not want to, as usual, interfere
And generally the atmosphere was
subsiding.
That was until she burst in through the door.
With a worried frown on her floury face.
noticed the Duck had his nose to the floor
And heard the chicks were not in the nesting place.
“Maybe they’ve hatched and walked off
”The Pig thought it obvious and straightforward.
The Hen spluttered a nervous type of cough
And out from his hiding place shot a worried bird.
“Oh dear, oh dear,said the Hen we will help you”
The Duck sprang into action straightaway.
The Pig was saying no and had gone blue
Which was turning to an angry twitchy grey.
The Duck was pelting down the lane searching
Calling, enticing but no chicks were found.
Under his breath he was grunting
And heard the Pig suggesting they had drowned.
He slapped the Pig on his wig and frowned
He put his wing around the Hen and dried her tears.
Assured her that the chicks would be safe and sound
And said the Pig had only added to her fears.
He shot off again at a greater speed than before
His instinct came into play good and proper
Found the chicks and what is more
The Hen has adopted her star, her show stopper
The Duck a hero, was splashed on the news
The Pig hid behind the paper for a week
Where he had more than a little snooze
And the Duck’s goose chase was a winning streak.
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 11:13 PM UTC
To the sound of brutal raindrops,
Insistent in the cloud-covered evening,
Tired engines spluttered home,
And slept,
While the raindrops’ cries,
Went on undeterred,
By fatigue or unrest,
Pounding against the frantic wings,
Of a single bird dismissed,
By most as unclean,
Uncivilised,
Untouchable,
But still it flew,
Despite the raindrops,
Angry even now,
But never strong enough,
To drive a determined reject to the Earth.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 5:00 PM UTC
*When the snow comes
I remember the first year
I came to Canada.
It was late fall and
the winter came early.
I think it was trying to
change my mind
and get me to go
back to England.
The fresh white snow flew.
Soon it drifted over the pathways.
Silken windsocks of snow
filled the porch.
We all bought scarves
That wrapped about our faces
******* icy air through
woolen fibres.
I remember the houses turned grey
and the pristine white on the sidewalk
quickly turned to wet slush.
My boots felt heavy
and tight with long thick socks.
Gripping them to my feet.
Cars spluttered and coughed
A peephole of windscreen
with a driver peering into the gloom.
I decided to quit Canada
and go back.
But twenty five years later
I am still here.
And the snowfalls
do not bother me at all.*
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 6:31 PM UTC
I decided to throw a sickie,
I thought; What the hell?!
But I knew it would be tricky
convincing work I was not well.
I’m not the type to take the Mickey,
I’m normally as good as gold
And I was feeling a little bit dicky,
if the truth be told.
I just needed a day off or two
but had used all my holidays,
And I knew I would not be up to
doing very much anyways.
When I rang, I coughed and spluttered,
convincing as could be!
I won’t be in today I muttered,
ever so hoarsely.
I think I have an infection
but I’m not really sure,
My stomach keeps retching
and I have a temperature.
I have not slept since yesterday
with a pounding headache,
I think coming in to work today
would be a huge mistake!
“That is totally unacceptable”!
was the unexpected response,
“You will be in so much trouble
unless you come to work at once”!
“You had better come in this morning!”
“This is just not good enough!”
“Or I will give you a final warning,
and you can pack up your stuff”!
“If you do not come in today,
don’t ever bother coming back”!
“if you are not in work straightaway,
I will give you the sack”!
I was somewhat taken aback,
I could not believe my ears
To be threatened with the sack
after working hard for years!
I think I went into shock,
I was suddenly left reeling!
I was in an awful ****
Twice as bad I was feeling!
I could not help but stress,
I could not believe it was true.
So I went to work under duress,
what else could I do?
I was not long at my work station
when spark out cold I went!
Causing great consternation,
It was a major incident!
And when it was discovered
what had actually gone on,
before I had even recovered
the manager responsible was gone!
Thank God I recovered fully
after some rest and recuperation
and was able to retire comfortably
on my substantial compensation!
For all managers, a lesson
When people ring in sick,
You should never go off on one!
There’s no point getting thick!
You may be the one they fire
Where would be the gain?
And the target of your ire
may never have to work again!
You need to tread more carefully
In this litigious age,
You need to have the ability
To control your rage!
You may have a job to do
Lots of boxes you must tick
But if this is why they fire you,
Would you not be Sick?!
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 9:23 AM UTC