‘PERCHANCE TO DREAM’

Her phone it has no credit.
She’s completely out of touch.
Her bank account’s in debit.
Her flat’s a rabbit hutch.
She might play the trumpet,
But lessons they are few.
She won’t play the strumpet,
But what else can she do?
Because she is a poet
And completely out of cash,
The rent it seems she’ll owe it,
But she will not barter hash.
She thought to use her poems
And happily recite
From the steps in Piccadilly
And be famous overnight!

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THE BOSS HOPPER

Mrs Wayne is eighty seven.
Bus hopping in London
Is her secret heaven.
Every morning as previously planned
She’s at the bus stop
And puts out her hand.
Often she boards bus 15
And sits at the front
Like an ancient Queen.
The bus roars through
Limehouse then on to Aldgate.
The Tower of London
In its melancholy state.
Then the huge dome of
refurbished St. Pauls
With the bus jerking
And warning of falls.
She never stands up
When it goes round a bend
For on good balance
She can’t depend.
To Oxford Street.
Trafalgar Square.
All part of the treat.
She pays no fare.
A tourist in London;
Her own city.
She has lived here
since she was young and pretty.
The whirl of traffic
Stirs her soul.
While language diversity
Links the whole.
‘When I go’ she writes
In writing small
‘Scatter my ashes amongst it all.
She studies the routes
But knows not where
She will end up and she
doesn’t care.
But when the sky darkens
She’s homeward bound
Even if it’s the long way round.
She feels that her day has been well spent
With the variety
That London has lent.
It takes her mind off owing the rent!

CURTAINS

Bruce was a nice man,
Good looking too.
Mother said “Marry him,
But he’s too good for you.”

Yes, he was a nice man,
His marriage was elsewhere.
He put up curtains in my flat
But wasn’t often there.

He had a rival.
I had other interests.
It’s strange, but Bruce
was angry when this news
Was confessed.

But he was a nice man.
That’s why I let him go.
His rival was wicked,
But I loved him so.
And the windows have
a certain glow.

AN APOLOGY WITH HUMOUR.

The fruits of time are gathered
In London town:
Artifacts from everywhere
In galleries of renown.

Tourists pay to see them.
Perhaps some objects came
From their own countries,
Which seems a ruddy shame!

The fruits of time in London
We jealously preserve.
Does the watching world say,
“You’ve got a bloody nerve!”

Does the watching world say,
“Give it all back”
And the Londoner’s reply,
“Can you help us to pack?”

BECAUSE WE CAN

She sat in the kitchen
Trying to think what to write.
The notebook looked at her blankly
Mocking her plight.

In a world of many features
Surely her brain could create
Something out of the wonders
Something absolutely great!

Then her soul admitted
No poem can compete
With the splendours of the universe
Yet why admit defeat?

Then this poem happened
Despite its dubious plan,
But surely poems are written
Because the poet can.

SELFISH CONSOLATION

When out shopping
I was assailed by fears,
Machines were doing the counting.
Where were cashiers?
The food aisles were empty.
A notice read:
‘Go shop with your computer.
Use the internet instead!
Suddenly I realised
That people had been banished.
Friendly smiles, “Good morning,”
These courtesies had vanished.
Back at the computer
I stared glumly at the screen
Thinking of the unemployed
And what this could mean.

No communication
On a daily level.
Perhaps the internet
Had been inspired by the Devil.
As a tool of separation?
Although the world connects
With written conversation
Which one gradually expects.
Now our food is brought
Right to the front door.
This must be from an angel
So I’ll complain no more!

FANTASY’S CHILD

Fantasy’s child.
Does she exist?
We see her in adverts
Or have we just missed
The exact images
Which change every day.
Will fantasy’s child ever go away?
One day she is blonde.
The next she is black.
Fantasy’s child always comes back.
Even when old
She sells us death plans.
Is Fantasy’s child
A creation of mans?

Here in blue jeans
With flowing hair.
Next in outfits we’d all
like to wear.
Her fantasy man is slim;
He has flair.
He is tall, dark
And so debonair.
It seems when we’re
shopping, minds are diminished.
Real people invisible
Till we are finished,
For only the ads.,
And the looking glass rule.
People just love it
It makes us feel cool,

For the moment
Till reality shows
How expensive and fragile
Are these new clothes.
For they wear out
Or spoil with a stain
So off we go shopping
Again and again!
We all need a lift
So the ads do attract
Though trees in the shopping mall
Are sadly lacked.
The bright photographs
Offer fantasy’s child.
As I just passed her
I’ll swear that she smiled!

Actually I hate shopping!