My Guide to Packing for a Holiday

Hesitantly I Google next week’s weather.
Placing my trust in the digital forecast,
I hold its images sacred
As I begin my holiday packing.

I hunt down old wellies,
Finding them hiding under the stairs.
Next to optimistic sandals,
Which still have the price tag on.

I wonder that if I pack sun tan lotion
Then the weather gods will smite me with rain.
But can I run the risk of having none
And my body slowly turning a patchy lobster-red.

Don’t forget the charger I think,
Finding it in the usual plug.
An electrical umbilicals
Restoring life to my phone.

Phone, I can’t go on holiday without that,
It would be like leaving an arm behind.
It’s a Sat Nav, my weather forecaster
plus connection to the world.

With all the packing gathered,
Like a tired magician who knows only one trick.
I force my holiday gear,
Into a suitcase that looks too small.

I place the bulging case in the car boot,
Ignoring the precarious roof rack.
Hoping the case doesn’t bursts open and
My underpants cause a tailback.

My holiday awaits, hope I packed enough.

 

So with those wise words I’m off on my hols, normal service will be resumed the 1st August, take care folks.

Typical Weather

Just as I sit down with my pen
Prepared to moan about the heat.
The wind quickly whips up
Clouds gather over our street.

If there’s one thing you can rely on
With the UK’s sun and rain.
Is that as soon as I prepare to write
It will go and change again.

Poets Don’t Carry Cash

Poets don’t carry cash,
Instead they carry words.

Words stuffed into pockets, mixed with fluff.
Words forced into wallets, alongside old receipts.
Words withdrawn from dusty old accounts.
Words gathered from faded ashtrays on windowsills.

Poets should be rich,
But they can be careless.

Because as they fumble for the right word,
They spill out like so much loose change.
Which rolls around the floor, unwilling to be caught,
Lost,  until found and read by puzzled strangers.

Ask a poet and they will swear they have words on them,
But when they check they find nothing.
The words have tumbled into sofa like cracks of their minds,
There to gather dust along with other lost ideas.

A poet’s words start promisingly sharp and crisp,
Until they are nibbled by literary moths.
So they become tatty and unrecognisable,
Unaccepted and unusable.

Anyway as I said,
Poets don’t carry cash.
Instead they carry words.
Which inspite of all the trouble they have with them,
They love to spend freely.

Here’s the covers for my next poetry book “Poems on the Bus.”

I’m very excited to share with you today the finished covers for my next collection of poetry “Poems on the Bus. ”

Poems on the Bus front cover

Click to enjoy both.

Poems on the Bus back cover

Shot by talented photographer Andy Simon of Darkslide Photography and featuring local model Emma Dunn I’m sure you’ll agree they are excellent and will make my new book look fantastic.

The book will be launched at Southcart Books on Saturday 13th August at 1:30pm.

I Fell in Love with the Girl at the Record Store

I fell in love with the girl,
Who works at the record store.
Every time I saw her,
My heart spun more and more.

She makes the shoppers dance,
She makes me feel alive.
She’s a mint condition 33,
While I’m just an old scratchy 45.

But her heart’s been made fickle,
By the industry she’s in.
Who she loves one week,
Is next week in the bargain bin.

So I’ll never make her top ten,
Or make a hit on her heart.
I’m no hot new entry,
Just the bottom of her chart.

 

A VERY BRITISH SUMMER

A great poem from The Black Country Wench which sums up nicely the weather we’re currently having.

Marianne Burgess Poetry Blog

We’re almost at the end of June

The Gerberas should all be in bloom –

Not drowning in a wet monsoon;

It’s a very British summer!

The sky above should be bright blue,

The sun should soon be breaking through –

I shouldn’t need a small canoe;

It’s a very British summer!

Put away your bathing suits!

Cover up those attributes!

Instead dig out your scarf and boots –

It’s a very British summer!

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The Fairy with the Worst Job in the World

When the fairy jobs were given out,
I was at the back of the queue.
So by the time I got my fairy role,
There was only one job left to do.

I really, really wanted to do teeth,
But I wasn’t quick enough.
So now the other fairies laugh,
As I’m the fairy of bum fluff.

Yes I’m the fairy of your crevice,
The fairy of your derriere.
Responsible for all the bottoms,
And removing the fluff there.

To do my job I have a special bag,
Plus a magic fairy pick.
That I use to pry out all the fluff,
If it gets sweaty and sticks.

There’s a question I often hear,
As I flutter delicately about.
Which is what do I do with the fluff,
That my magic pick digs out.

Well it’s all really very useful,
I often use it to stuff duvets.
Or if I see you laugh at me,
Bake you a funny tasting souffle.

If I’ve had enough of bums I remember,
My Mom’s words if I want to quit.
“Child, you have a dirty job,
But who else will clean up the sh*t.”

A Wimbledon Concern

At the start of Wimbledon fortnight,
Every court is a pristine green.
The grass it seems has been combed,
Then groomed until it’s squeaky clean.

But as soon as the tennis starts,
Once the players enter the courts.
All that groundskeeper’s love,
Is quickly reduced to naught.

Because the serving of a tennis ball,
The tread of trainerd feet.
The slamming of rackets,
The tantrums of defeat.

Mean the once immaculate courts,
Now make the groundskeeper frown.
As their once verdant pastures,
Slowly turn a dusty brown.

IDENTITY: URBAN CHILD

My poem Urban Child is up on Poet’s Corner,a big thanks to them for featuring it.

Urban Child

In an unremarkable street
There was a complicated birth.
Which left an urban child

Lying tense and twisted,
Unfit for this straight world.
He sleeps fitfully,
Fists clenched as he squirms.

The child becomes a boy.
One who always takes
The long route to school.
Where geometry teaches him
How some shapes don’t fit in.
No matter how much you bend
Or try to force them.The boy becomes a teen.
One who knows the shortcuts
To all the pubs.
Where he sits wedged in their corners
Knuckles clenched
Round his pint.

While emotions froth and spill.

The teen becomes a man.
An unwilling father at first
Of another ill-fitting specimen.

Still he holds them gently each night,
Whispering as they squirm,
“It doesn’t matter if you find you don’t fit,
I didn’t and I did just fine.”

By

Richard Archer

This is a semi autobiographical poem based…

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Red is the Colour of Remembrance

As today is the 100th anniversary of the Battle of the Somme, here is a poem I wrote about remembrance which seems applicable for today

Poems from Walsall Poet Richard Archer

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