Going write off. The latest merry message in the old Email has suggested a writing sabbatical is in order. Funnily enough, I agree.

Well Run Dry.

I used to thrill
To raise the quill,
Words gambolled on and on;
I guess that thrill is gone.

Dyspraxic digits clubbed the keyboard,
Typos and good grammar ignored,
Ideas tumbled happily from the mind
As fingers fumbled, sentences behind.

I’d thought I had something to say,
An amusing pun, bandy some wordplay,
Double entendres, two-fingered typed fun,
Now it’s two thumbs down for this tragic one.

Joie de vivre weighs heavy in my head,
Even my black humour is all but dead,
Trying to dredge up some light flight of fancy
Would mean a lift of spirit worthy of necromancy.

To raise the odd smile was my glad intent,
Sad, all my good humour’s gone off and went,
Perhaps it’s for the best to to stay quietly depressed?
So I’ll do as weary old readers have and give it a rest.

(Just a touch of burn-out showing? Obviously. Overtly melodramatic? Yep. Self-pitying? Yessiree Bob. Maudlin? Yes indeedy.  So, time for a little time out? Fuck yes.)

©Obbverse

Peter Green, first Fleetwood Mac guitarist, dies in his sleep. Music-wise, a sad sad loss; But it was a tragic loss fifty years ago when first he lost himself. (Sometimes you don’t do acid. Acid does you.)

Not Of This World.

I’ll say a sadly late farewell to Peter Green,
He’s gone from the dark place he’s long been,
This man who put his soul into Fleetwood Mac
Then went off on his detour, never to come back.

Peter took a little trip on the Cosmic Cab,
A one-way trip that deals out a heavy tab.

He yearned to soar high to that mystical place
Where the bound to Earth might see Gods face,
So, with enquiring open mind Lysergicly expanded
Pete saw Heaven knows what before he crash-landed.

So if its blissful enlightenment you’re tempted to find
Please- think of how poor lost Peter changed his mind.

 

©Obbverse

Every writers nightmare; The answer, though, might be alighting right outside your window.

Grounded.

I’m really truly suffering through writers block,
I’ve reams of pure white virgin A4 stock,
Stacks of empty worded pages mock,
My inspiration soars, like a rock.

No matter how hard I try,
How I look up to the sky,
Lord on high knows why-
But my words won’t fly.

Thoughts scramble through my mind, tumble to the floor,
Once my brain and right hand had this great rapport,
This day all my high-falutin words serve but to bore-
And that bird wittering outside is the last straw! 

Guess I’ll lay down my quill and cease this fu- futile quest,
Broodily watch the machinations of a robin red breast,
Toss this page outside, inspirations gone West-
Hey, bird brain, take this shit to line your nest.

(inspired by a poem ‘Pretty Little Sparrow/Lauren M. Hancock
And the song ‘Look Over Your Shoulder’ by Alan Price.)

©Obbverse

The Prez sez ‘stay at home’ one day, the next he says stand outside and protest against staying at home- if you live in Democratic Minnesota, Michigan or Virginia. What is his rationale? Schizophrenia? Appeasing his gung-ho Right? Oh yeah, Right.

Free Dumb.

See them fired-up freedom fighters gathered together,
All Camo-jacketed, NRA patched, cuckoo birds of a feather,
Clutching their precious metal to heart with sweating palms,
All too ready to embrace any cockamamie rallying call to arms.

They all say they’re itchin’ to get right back on the job
But first order of business is mingling with the mob,
Patriotically waving an AR15 or Old Glory overhead,
Idiotically spreading covid 19 amongst the brain dead.

No quietly staying home, these clowns won’t be cowed-
Better off out enjoying the contagious baying of the crowd-
Where’s the fun in being parked up alone fighting off this cough
When you can run wild in the streets raisin’ hell with the safety off?

Every day, in its well-worn way the world turns and the seasons oh so slowly change. But this foul Fall day is going to be a blur.

Losing It.

Today I woke to a morning bright and crisp and clear
Then I felt my sunny autumnal smile freeze then disappear,
Daylight Savings Day in Fall’s a dark day I’ve come to hate,
A long brunch, dinner at four, tucked up in bed at eight!

In summertime every second saved- warmly enjoyed,
Beers, barbecues, every hour spent leisurely employed,
But when them leaves fall and long days grow short
I regret not saving for a rainy day, a last sunny resort.

All Sunday is a haze, spent wondering if I’ve woken,
Wondering if I’ve cat-napped, if that Fitbit’s broken?
What a waste of time, one lousy hour of morning light
Exchanged for a far longer hour of dark cold winters night.

©Obbverse

In these Coronavirus times of trouble, proof of good fellowship is just around the corner. If not, let’s shop around. (Somewhat sad and somewhat true.)

Stripped Clean.

I thought it was time to do a quick shop,
Down to my local grocer I’d quickly pop,
But when I stepped in, lo and behold
There was scarcely much left to be sold.

No, there was not a lot left of anything,
The shop held naught but a hollow ring,
Dick’s hadn’t been this empty in many a day,
Bare shelves made his an embarrassing display.

No soap spray, no eggs, no milk, no flour, no pasta,
This little shopping trip was looking a major disaster,
No tinned tuna, no baked beans, scarcely a grain of rice
And I wouldn’t buy Dick’s old chicken sushi at any price.

The manager sidled up, whispered in my ear
That because I was a regular customer here
He could offer me an under-the-counter deal,
But his little bargain soon sounded like a steal.

If I wanted a dab of hand sanitiser I was in luck,
For me, a mere twenty bucks, fresh off the truck,
And a one-off offer of a singularly prized toilet roll-
For another twenty, and the promise of a mortal soul.

After two minutes of character assessment, (time well spent,)
I looked him in the shifty eye and out his dark door I went,
It’s wonderful to be reminded that when in times of need
One common thing humanity never runs short of is greed.

 

©Obbverse

What did you do on Valentine’s Day? Or on Valentine’s night? Flowers just might not cut it or quite do the trick on this occasion.

Be My Valentine.

I have my love and she has mine,
She tells me of her love, deep and true,
How rare ’tis for two hearts to intertwine,
Oh, my sweet love, I give my heart to you.

I brought her red roses on Valentine’s Day,
I thought to lay them on her sweet bed,
Oh, but why is she not at work but at play?
I crushed those roses till my hands ran red.

So, my love, give me back my broken heart,
You took my trust, my love, you lay and lied,
Outside the door I hear the hopeless pleading start,
When you break it down you find we’re all dead inside.

 

PS: The car radio was crassly playing ‘Dear Doctor’- on Valentine’s Day!- and the lines ‘Help me Dear Doctor, I’m damaged, there’s a pain where there once was a heart,’ sounded ghastlily inspirational.

 

©Obbverse

Brexit is no longer a piddling little speck on the horizon. And yet a feeling of holiday atmosphere lingers over the brave little islanders as they dip a toe into the chill waters of the English channel. Way out there on the beach.

Going Swimmingly.

Not overly long ago life was so grand
‘Ere in England’s green and pleasant land,
From ships sterns the standard proudly flew-
By George, by Jingo, we ruled the seas so blue.

Welcomed in at any unspoilt port of call
Cook’s motley crew set in for the long haul.

Great Britain could justly claim
That they truly earned the name,
And so a mighty empire was built-
Worth every bit of patriotic blood spilt.

Cast a look at any old maritime map,
Rubber, oil, maple syrup- there to tap.

How swift Great Britain’s influence spread,
Half the world was washed in Rich Empire Red,
In far flung lands did the good folk feel enriched
Seeing their flag, ‘neath a Union Jack, newly stitched?

Eventually, if you keep on taking from a friend
All things- goods, oil, sweet deals- come to an end.

Her Majesty’s once Great Navy now looks half rate,
Time and tide have taken toll on the old boilerplate,
Old empty vessels, ready for scrapping if not seafaring,
Now the centuries old Union is ragged and wearing.

But brave little Britain, with a fair wind at her back
Push off from Europe, raising finger and Union Jack.

For the jolly old Empire is empirically sinking,
Great minds and high hopes are ever shrinking,
Is Britain’s role as a world power now historical?
Lets not ask the Great Question when it’s rhetorical.

 

 

©Obbverse

The Premier League Football Show! Drama, farce, heart-rending finales! Or a cheap slipshod Horror Show. Direct from Manchester, we present-

Dribbling On.

I’ve been reduced to tears with what I’ve just sadly seen,
A bad Shakespearean tragedy, played out on the big screen,
I saw a dull first act, then a direr second half, ay, but the rub
Was seeing City outperform United, down at our neutral pub.

How those happy blue-clad lads scoffed and laughed
As I sobbed in the shadows, hand clenched to my Draught,
To drown my sorrows it’s swig, swallow, belch- then repeat;
But not even Boddingtons can dull the pain of this bitter defeat.

I rewound the game in my mind, I compared the teams,
My United looked all clapped-out at the Theatre of Dreams,
Especially statuesque Pogba, devoid of emotion- or motion;
The only thing to get him goin’ would be some Sennapod potion.

Our offence seemed content to quietly sit back
Hoping indolence would be the best form of attack,
The City midfield were all fleet of foot and quick of mind,
Ours gave chase, ran all over the place, always two feet behind.

But our backline stood tall and strong, stout and true,
They and the keeper conspired to keep out all- but two;
So all I can do is put on a smile and say ‘the best team won,’
I love Old Trafford, but Gunnar, there’s rebuildin’ to be done.

Walking woozily to the bar I recall when we were Best,
Now the froth has gone, up at the top are teams I detest,
It’s with tears in my beer I cry ‘Christ, how can life be so cruel?’
God above, my choice for Champion is down to City or Liverpool.

 

©Obbverse

Seasons come and go, but winter is the only one that, depressingly, doesn’t go fast enough.

Things Are Picking Up At Walgreens.

We were out for a last Fall sunny Sunday drive-
The forecast says a Winter blast is due to arrive,
As around the picturesque river road we wended
It was plain to see our long Indian Summer had ended.

In the breeze the golden leaves were autumnally falling,
An ill wind was coming, a most unwelcome cold calling,
Soon it would be months of dark depressing grey days,
Soon my summery smile would be impossible to raise.

The chill of Winter, when good humour hibernates,
When goodwill towards ones good fellows dissipates,
Winter, the time of running noses and lingering coughs,
When there’s more downs than ups, less peaks than troughs.

But

On gloomy winter days when you cannot face yourself
Help is at hand, up in the medicine cabinet, top shelf,
Push aside the Vicks, the Sudafed, the razor, so keen,
And all is happiness and light, thanks to… Fluoxetine!

 

©Obbverse