Can’t find it

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You say there’s a place for everything
And everything has its place
But the trouble with that
For me you see
Is I don’t know where that place is.

I know it goes here or hereabouts
And this goes over there
But I still don’t know the exact right place
Though I really try to care.

You seem to care so very much
And are driven mad by me
Everything I ever touch
Goes where it shouldn’t be.

It could be a man and woman thing
Or perhaps a missing gene?
I’ve looked for that gene all over the place
But it’s nowhere to be seen.

The Stand Up

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With apologies to Simon and Garfunkel and to Twickenham’s favourite Irishman Noel Murphy whose parody the Folkster gave me the idea. Dedicated to my son Dave who is a promising comedian (unlike the one in the poem) and has been featured in Time Out magazine as ‘one to watch’.

The Stand Up
I am just a comic
Though my gags are getting old
I have squandered my material
For I just stand here and mumble, I lack much promise
Such ancient jests
Still I keep the gags they want to hear
And disregard the rest
When I left my home and my family
I was working just for free
In the company of strangers
And the silence of a laugh-less room
Really scared,
Sinking low, seeking out the lousy rotten gigs
Where no-one else would go
Searching all those places
That no-one else would know
Ha, ha, ha, ha ha ha ha he he
Ha, ha, ha, ha ha ha ha he hey ho
Asking only for expenses
I went looking for a gig
But I got no offers
Just a come-on from the shows
That never pay their acts
I do declare
There were times when I was desperate
So I took some comfort there, he, he, he, he, he, he, he.

Now I’m pulling on my winter draws
And wishing I was warm
Earning money
Where comedy promoters
Aren’t bleeding me
Grieving me
Going home

On the stage there stands a jester
And a comic by his trade
And he carries the reminders
Of the heckles that they made
And they cut him till he cried out
In his anger and his shame
“I am leaving, I am leaving”
But the comic still remains, mmm mmm

He ha ha, ha ha ha ha hi he
Ha ha, he ha ha ha ha he he
Etc, etc……

 

Queen Elizabeth my neighbour

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Liz from up the hill

Have you met my neighbour
Liz from up the hill?
She likes to walk her corgis
Husband’s name is Phil.

Curtsy when you meet her;
Seems that is the drill.
She may not have her crown with her
But ask her and she will.

The Castle’s really handy
For all the Windsor shops.
If ever she runs out of stuff
Across the road she pops.

She likes to wear a headscarf
It acts as a disguise
In case the folk of Windsor
Disturb her while she buys.

Her favourite shop, just near her
Is Windsor’s new T. Max
You’ll often find her in there
Going through the racks.

She never carries money
Or so I’ve heard them say
I guess they have to send a bill
For someone else to pay.

If ever you bump into her
She’ll ask you what you do
They’re short her conversations
And very quickly through.

It’s not that she’s unfriendly
She’ll always give a wave
She’s up for doing walkabouts
But privacy she craves.

You’re always very welcome
If ever you’re in town
You’ll have to pay and join a queue
But then she’ll show you round.

You’re free to poke around the place
Gawp at what they own
The only thing you won’t see is
The Queen upon her throne.

Phillip can get grumpy
And doesn’t find it funny;
Visitors bursting in on him
But he knows they need the money.

The castle’s nice and roomy
But that means lots of bills
The other royals pitch in to help
And take turns on the tills.

Sometimes it can get too much
And out the back Liz slips
The Long Walk down to Ascot
Is Liz’s favourite trip.

She really loves her horses
And used to love to ride
The family’s somewhat horsey
That can not be denied.

She’s got too old for riding
She’s ninety so I’m told
Would love to saddle up again
But ninety is too old.

She won’t think of retiring
Though Charles thinks that she should.
They badly need her salary
Or else perhaps she would.

They’re quiet considerate neighbours
You seldom hear them row
There’s lots more I could say of them
But that’s your lot for now.

Windsor’s Royal Wedding

B3573B28-BCCF-4A08-99CC-6E0010151A15Still no word from the Castle about my offer to be the new Poet Laureate. I didn’t mind too much about being left off the guest list but I think they should take me up on my offer of a poem. As I said to Her Majesty, in an earlier letter, the proper poets have all turned it down but I could turn something out at the drop of a hat and it wouldn’t be half as stuffy. I’m local too. They should give me a try.

A Wedding

There’s going to be a wedding
Just up the road from us
I could have written poems
They only had to ask.

They should know
I’m up for Laureating.
I offer often enough.
I’m their local poet
But seem to get forgot!

You can fuss around
With diamonds
Worry about the dress
But there ought to be a poem
I’m really quite distressed.

You can leave me
Off the guest list
I know it’ll be a squeeze
But don’t forget the poem
Call me quite soon please!

A riposte to Betjeman’s Slough poem

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I live in a village sandwiched equidistantly between royal Windsor and Slough; famously slighted in Sir John Betjeman’s poem of that name that began, “Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough, it isn’t fit for humans now”. The two towns are geographically close but miles apart in every other respect.

Slough folk hate Betjeman’s poem and there are endless competitions, one of which I won, to write a response. ‘Living Breathing Slough’ won a competition to mark Slough Borough Council becoming a ‘unitary authority’ responsible for it’s own education and social services. My poem mimics the style of the original and is a direct response. It was broadcast on Radio Berkshire and Radio Four’s You and Yours programme.

Living, Breathing Slough

Fie on you Betjeman for sneering at Slough
As unfit for humans or grazing of cow
A town for its people it stands alone now
Inured to your snub.

Not picture book pretty or claiming to be
But living and breathing and if you could see
A town that is working, not pretty or twee
Industrial hub.

See all the commuters in smart office suits
Come in from the motorways various routes
Who queue for a sandwich in Marks or in Boots
And hurry it down.

An industrial estate, the largest around
Grew from a dump on a piece of waste ground
Now names that are famous and factories abound
Enterprise town.n

See where the people from shopping arcade
Spill through the streets that bristle with trade
Sauntering, seeking till purchase is made.
Then off they roam.

Diverse the town’s people
each race and hue
From mosque and gurdwara, temple and pew.
From each end of the earth its people it drew.
All call it home.

Send me your best Mother’s Day poem.

1EFE2111-9F9A-44B9-8452-08203822DEA7Sunday March 11th is Mother’s Day or Mothering Sunday in the U.K. Post your best mother’s day poems in the comments below by Friday evening and I’ll republish the best three Mother’s Day poems submitted in my blog on Sunday.

The writers submitting the best three Mother’s Day poems will also receive a free paperback copy of my book Margaret’s Story: a Biography in Verse my mother’s life story in rhyme.

 

Mirror

 

2FE4270A-59E9-4A55-9D72-F9C960DD12F8I look in the mirror
It isn’t me.
Where is the person
I’m meant to be?

I stare back at accusing eyes;
I swear the face in the mirror cries.
How did I earn the face I see?
Is this the person I meant to be?

It feels I’m leading another’s life
Who is that person, who is me?

Your Majesty

 

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Your Majesty I’m wondering
If you got my note?
I volunteered for Laureate
But haven’t heard back yet.

I know you’re really busy
With weddings and such stuff
But spare a thought for Poets
Our life can be quite rough.

I’m practicing my poems
And some are really good
I’d like to write a few for you
So get back if you could.

Perhaps you didn’t see my note
It’s very hard to know
So just in case, I thought it best
To have another go.

Spare a penny

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A poet bleeds and breaks his heart
Spills it out on paper
The reader spares a passing glance
And treats it like a favour.

All the anxt and heartbreak there
The intellectual labour
Keep your troubles to yourself
Or share them with a neighbour.

Spare a penny if you’re kind
Spare it for a busker.
Nothing for the poet though
Empty words and bluster.

Skip around the mulberry bush,
Dance and skip and caper.
Another poem in the book
Isn’t worth the paper.

The ‘message’ behind Margaret’s Story

96A385BE-957D-4A44-B581-9D9355A6C123.jpegThere have been some great reviews of Margaret’s Story that clearly picked up on some of the themes: mum’s childhood troubles and later ill health, the constant upheavals of army life but, for me, there was one underlying theme that pulled them all together. The deprivations Margaret suffered were emotional rather than physical. The adults in her life seemingly blamed her for the circumstances of her birth and destroyed her sense of self worth.

‘Family’ was vitally important to Margaret because she grew up without one. She was a loving mother who always put her family first but the one person she couldn’t find it in herself to love was herself. She took to comfort eating and, from being a waif like creature in her youth, became increasingly over-weight. In later life she neglected her health with a cavalier disregard for what was good for her.

While she was a loving mother and would do anything for her children the lack of self-belief was to an extent passed on. Hence, the surprise when I passed my eleven plus, Janette ‘dropping out’ of grammar school because she found the other, pony owning, girls too posh. Mum’s genuine surprise when I talked about people who thought they were better than us. “Aren’t they?!”, she said and she meant it.

 

She loved everyone except herself

Blame her fate on the cards life dealt.

Stories don’t end they carry on,

She’d left her mark on everyone.

Lack of belief can get passed on,

Cast it aside for love of mum.

I’ve finally done what I wanted to do

Presented Margaret’s tale to you.

They made her feel of little worth

But such as her will rule the earth.