In my clear plastic travel pod,
I’m spun and commented on.
It appears I’m just so cool,
Teenage mouths gape and drool.
Maybe if I was a human child,
The press would go really wild.
But nobody thinks I’ll need help,
All alone on the top shelf.
A brief novelty now a chore,
Listening to my owners snore.
But this isn’t my worse worry,
As I was named in a hurry.
Despite the justifying speeches,
Why oh why call me Peaches ?
I was travelling home the other day and chanced to observe a group of young girls proudly displaying their latest acquisition. In a small plastic bag swam a goldfish. Fascinated I couldn’t help but hear their group of friends getting really excited about this “sick ” purchase and so inspired I put pen to paper. The fish’s fate is unknown but I hope it isn’t the one in the poem.
Across the road is
A lawn that’s the biz.
Day and night
It’s tended right.
So its sheen
Is verdant green.
The owner’s sweat
And don’t regret.
The time spent
Or where it went.
To make their lawn
Whereas my grass is lost
Among the moss.
Dandelions and weeds
Are king and queen.
Whisking the mower
Over and over.
Ignoring my machine’s rattle
I do battle.
The lawn will be there
When it’s as short as my hair.
Mowing the lawn and doing the gardening continues to inspire me which is bizarre as it is certainly my least favorite job next to my real day job ! However whilst out massacring mowing the front lawn I was struck by how some people really put a lot of effort into the simple art of lawn maintenance (except me! )
Children’s TV while much-loved
Can be very distracting
And not very convivial
When it comes to writing.
Olive the octopus
Whilst delighting my daughter
Make me put down my pen
And pick up a cross word.
All the while
Trying to get
That catchy theme tune
Out of my head.
When your off work enjoying a long sunny bank holiday and rescuing the garden from the ravages of winter the old creativity tends to take a bit of a back seat. Children’s TV doesn’t help either.
It’s a sign of the good weather that the world , well Birmingham anyway has decided it’s time to air their pale winter limbs !
Strolling down Broad Street
As the sun peeks out,
The pale flesh appears.
White arms blink,
As sleeves are discarded.
Around the cathedral.
Skirts are hitched up
While the Bishop averts his eyes.
My arms join the throng,
As bustling through the Bull Ring
I don sunglasses.
Trying in vain
To hide my beer belly
So as not to scare the sun away.
My medical results came the other day,
They were a sorry sight to behold.
The Doctor looked at me and sighed,
“Son you might not live to be old.
Your cholesterol is high,
Your blood pressure is low,
Your heartbeat erratic,
And your pulse quite slow.
You need to start taking exercise
Perhaps try a sport as a hobby?”
“Doctor,” I said ,”that’s not possible.
Sports really not my cup of tea.
Just look closely at those results doc
Tell me why I can’t follow your advice?”
The doctor rescanned the paperwork,
And his eyebrows began to rise.
“It can’t be, it’s impossible,” he spluttered.
“But your sport gene has withered and died.
I really must confirm these results,
Tell me what sports you have tried?”
“Well doc I didn’t get a kick out of football,
And why people play cricket I’m stumped.
Golf’s really just not for me,
I even get tired playing top trumps.
I’ve certainly never tried rugby,
And darts just seems pointless,
Swimming made my heart sink,
Why even walking gives me stress!”
“My dear boy you must try something,
You can’t just sit and mope.
There must be some sport you do like?
Something with even which you can cope?”
“Well I enjoy a short walk to the pub doc,
Where I might jump the queue at the bar.
Then I’ll give my pint arm a workout,
But I don’t like to take things to far!”
I think this upset the good doctor,
He said,” your future isn’t bright.”
So I left his surgery quite sharpish,
And popped into my local for a pint.
I think about the future.
As I wrestle you into your vest,
Will we be battling some more?
Will I be allowed a short rest?
Will your octopus like wriggles,
That throw off the bedclothes.
Become as you grow twists of logic,
Bringing us to mental blows.
How can I say no to a tattoo,
When I have three of my own.
Will it break my heart as well,
If that boy you like never phones ?
Can I be the cool father ?
The one all your mates say is great.
The one who buys you beer,
And lets you stop up late.
I think about the future,
As I wrestle you into your vest.
As long as I spend it with you,
I don’t care if I never rest.