Sunday 29 April 2018

Rainy Days And Sundays

 

Today I wear my Sunday head
As though I had some kind of choice
I woke up early playing Lazy Bones
A song that suits my Lazy Sunday voice

It’s funny how on Days Like These
I speak in hushed tones never shout
Then find my head starts filling up
With Carless Whisper’s nagging doubt

If ever there was such a Perfect Day
To nominate impending doom
Most agree the Road to Portishead
Folds Sunday’s blanket In My Room

Saturday 28 April 2018

As We See It

It all adds up but only if you're counting

Two sides to every argument
If fluently both explained
Showing proofs with actual facts
Good conclusions ascertained

But then again one can’t ignore
No point is ever always plain
As truth is found continually
In smaller particles of rain

In this continued quest for answers
Each stage is logged and clarified
Outlined fairly for veracity
Casting previous doubts aside

Permanence passed here long ago
And overcame each last conclusion
Proving life is nature’s free-for-all
Restoring order from confusion


Wednesday 25 April 2018

Teas’ a Pleaser for the Geezer



Using tea bags for a cuppa
Needs a kettle cup and cover
A teabag placed in readiness
For the teatime sipping lover
Its tea you see the spice of life
A union suffused
Brewing richly in the lava
A cauldron scald imbued
In my pot of percolations
Bathed aromas in the brew
I biscuit dip lean back and sip
It’s my teatime point of view

Tuesday 24 April 2018

Future Proof

 STORY LINK CLICK HERE

UK DAILY MAIL

In need of personal maintenance
For her Barnet and her rind
She simply ordered goods online
To reinstate her look refined
Restoring style and coiffure shine
Returning corium to gleam
But! Delivery has her frothing
In lather puffs of boiling steam
Instead of promised luxuries
Embracing dream relaxing thoughts
She found herself like Jason Bourne
With twenty different passports
And so it is no foam nor fizz
No candlelight bathtime revive
Just a visit from the NSA
And scrutinised by MI5

Monday 23 April 2018

Down Town



Shop assistants sideways whisper
Conspiratorially they grin
As visitors peruse displays
Careful lest they might butt in

That was how the high street died
When shops became a suit-yourself
Arrays displays like catalogues
Bookend salons on the shelf

Clienteles became intruders
Bombarded by those worn out deals
Plastic flags enticing shopping bags
Continual sales like old newsreels

Encouragement was further sapped
By the high street in decay
Surrounded by the growing derelicts
Nowhere to park too much to pay

Shopping is a sensual mode
Complex games of interaction
Like asking strangers for a dance
Pursuing mutual satisfaction