The Face Behind the Scooby-Doo Mask

My trembling hand removes your disguise
And you stand revealed before my eyes.
The face behind the Scooby- Doo mask
The villan revealed at long last…


That of my former high school teacher
The verbal bruiser and beater.
Your sentence will be I do decree
To be told ” could do better, ” constantly.

Or will I find….

The face of my old church minister
Who thought all I liked evil and sinister.
This will be your sentence I insist
You have to prove to me god exists.

But I could find….

My own face staring back at me
Who is basically just plain lazy.
My sentence for being an idle lout
Is to finally sort yourself out !


I’ve been debating with myself about putting this poem up on the blog because of its content and what it says about me. I mean I don’t normally write what I call “angst ” or ” a cry for help ” poetry but recently with my mercurial mood I find my pen turning to topics like this so here it is for better or worse.

One and a half years of poetry

I like odd anniversaries and I note that give or take a day that today is the one and a half-year anniversary of this poetry blog.

The blog was started as a place where my poetry segments for DDO cast could easily be found and mutated from there into a place for all my poetry. So if you are a first time visitor or an old friend have a look around, there are three pages where you can download my spoken poetry segments or in some cases even listen to them and as a start here are some links to other posts.

My first written poem on the site can be found here

The most popular poem on the site can be found here

A poem that won third place in a regional poetry contest can be found here

Normally my favourite poem is the last poem I wrote however I do have a soft spot for the poems found here and here

Enjoy !

A Town without Pity

In a town without pity
There’s a barman always bitter.
As its said there’s a hole
Where his soul used to be.

And it’s quietly spoken
That his bar will never open.
As no one can afford the price
The barman has set.

And there on the door its pinned
The bars prices for a drink.
And they all cost
An hour of true love.

And all the angels on the pins
Have bought an end to dancing.
As a protest that the bar
Has shut it’s doors.

And at them the barman laughs
Cos he has done the math.
And he knows someone
Somewhere has some love.

But this way they never pass
So the barman just wipes a glass.
As a silent tear fills
The corner of his eye.

But here’s the curious fact
True love has been and passed
They at the time just
Never felt thirsty.






Friday melancholia

To be read quickly, preferably by muttering under your breath at work.


Melancholy is brewing in the corners of my mind
Stirring up stormy thoughts of being unkind.
For today I am afraid there will be hell to pay
To any fool who thinks of getting in my way.

My angry tongue lashes out spitting acid rain
You’re caught in its shower, I feel no shame.
My torrent of outpouring hits you in the face
You search for cover seeking a safer place.

The lightning of my wrath always strikes twice
You ventured into my storm against the advice.
My vitriol, a hurricane from which none can defend

May brighten into sunshine by the coming weekend?

The coffee pledge.

I hope this spell of tiredness I am suffering with isn’t indicative of how the year is going to progress. Either that or I could stop staying up late to play Star Wars the Old Republic every night 🙂


Take the coffee pledge below before you drink your first cup of the day.


In coffee I trust
To cure my fatigue.
In coffee I trust
To fulfill my needs.
For an instant energy hit
For wakefulness for a bit.
To dispel my muscle ache
To dispel my vegetative state.

In coffee I trust
Above all else.
In coffee I trust
To restore my health.



On the thirteenth day of Christmas my ex true-love sent to me…

13 days of Christmas

On the thirteenth day of Christmas my ex true-love sent to me

Yes nothing was going to arrive today
As I mined the drive to make the postman go away
My ex true-love can’t present one more single gift
Not unless they want to be off my Christmas list.
However I did send out one gift of my own
A special letter to my ex true-loves home.
It came from my solicitor and said please desist
From sending impractical Christmas gifts.
And I finally got rid of all the birds squawking
By flogging them all via an Ebay auction.



I wish I could take the credit for the title of todays poem but it came to me via my wife from a friend of hers.

A well skilled user of the silent anti-daddy protest,
Performs Oscar-winning tantrums at a moments notice.
Mistress of any kind of tactic that causes delay,
Every morning in bed you just want to stay.
Daughter we’re learning about each other you and me,
And I feel you’re nearly a teenager, despite just turning three.

Helping my nephew with his home work.


The chair in my house has only got two wobbly legs
So I’ve propped it up with a brick and book instead.
Now as I wobble in my chair I fancy a cup of tea
Luckily the kettle’s boiling turning water to steam.
The steam starts mixing with the oxygen in the room
Sending spinning my sister’s helium filled balloon.
My mom and sister laughing at this joke
Spurt out their noses orange juice and coke.

Being an uncle I am sometimes called upon to help my nephew with his home work or various school projects, last week it was his cardboard model of the Colosseum (don’t ask ) but this time the home work was more up my street.

This week I was presented with some science home work about gases, solids and liquids, not too bad I thought, I should be able to cope. Then my sister said that the home work was not of a scientific nature but that a poem had to be written about the following items. Representing solids , a brick, a chair and a book, representing  liquids, water, coke and orange juice and representing gas, helium, steam and oxygen.

Putting to one side the fact that the science home work is to write a poem I rose to the challenge and here is the finished article written by myself and my ten-year old nephew.


I’m very sorry about the state of the loft.

I’m cautiously venturing into my loft
Wandering what it might be full of.
I point my torch which shines bright
Curious as to on what it will alight.
And it reveals boxes here and boxes there
So many boxes scattered everywhere.
Almost seeming as if in fright
To be shrinking from my torches light.
More boxes huddle under roof beams
Bulging at their cardboard seams.
Threatening to reveal what they hide
When they burst and spill their insides.
I cautiously ventured out of the loft
Unsure what to do with what it was full of !



Based on my unfortunate foray into my loft at the weekend when I was under the delusion  it would be easy to tidy it !

The moving finger writes….

“The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.”
Edward FitzGerald.


And my version 🙂


The moving finger writes,
Everything must be put down.
All must be recorded.


The finger doesn’t just write though,
The solitary digit has a second use.
Harsh critics often spy it,
Saluting them with pride.