Who’d be a sailor, with all those evil winds, sandy bottoms and ships bent out of shape? No thanks.

See Ya Later Navigator. 

If you're cruising down the Suez
Take this old sea dog's seasoned tip,
The last thing a good Captain should do is
Beach your bloody big barge of a container ship.
                       _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _                     

The Cap'n stood on the burning deck
A'peering but not seeing ten feet ahead,
Sweat ran in rivulets down his outstretched neck,
This desert storm filled his a'salted eyes with dread.

From up front came a graunching sound
And a judder ran through from bow to rudder,
The bold Cap'n knew in a trice he'd run aground,
From deep amidships the Captain felt that shudder.

'O Captain! My Captain! What have you done?'
Chorused the crew from First Mate to low deckhand,
But the Captain had fled the bridge, Cap was on the run
Because when Mother Nature bursts forth you sit, not stand.

Oh, ship.




(Sorry, all you fans of Walt Whitman or Felicia Hemans. Someone’s already weighed in and called me an anchor about this. At least I think thats what she said.)

©Obbverse

A Writers Tale- or, a downward spiral leading to a crash pad.

The Buck Stops Here.

In our family tree
Few entertain writing poetry,
But my Great Aunt
Handed me a grant.

To College I went,
Her talents I misspent,
One thing was clear-
I'm a poor Shakespeare.

So, like 'Paradise  Lost'
Out I was tossed-
No safe havenly dorm
Thanks to D-grade form.

Such is the curse
Of purveyors of verse,
Down to last buck
Till a stroke struck.

++++++++++++++++

With Great Aunt dead
Good will was read,
My unexpected little dividend
Cheered me no end.

Time wasted at home
I'd lavish on poem,
I strutted up town,
Laid my deposit down.

No stairs to climb,
I'd take my time,
My musings, tediously glacial
Echoing round rooms palatial.

I liked to compose
My rich redolent prose,
Pure black 'pon white-
Like, Old School, write?

Fine paper, finer pen...
Increasingly, now and then,
As poor circumstances demand,
Whatever comes to hand.

My talent, beyond doubt?
Amazingly quickly run out,
Who'd ever have thought
I'd be caught short?

Tragically under financial collapse
I'm reduced to scraps,
My outlook's growing darker-
Newsprint and Magic Marker.

My so rosy outlook
Decimated my cheque book,
Past goodwill rarely counts-
Good cheques don't bounce.

From my bottom floor
Was shown the door,
What problems it poses
When one's door closes?

For half the rent
Upstairs I went, bent-
My heavy rent cheapened
As the stairs steepened.

From canopied four-poster bed
To attic inches overhead,
Like Lizzie Barrett Browning
Fiscally and literature-lly drowning.

Rent a month overdue-
Girlfriends says she's two-
All the money's gone-
A moonlight flit's on.

I'm up at midnight
'Neath moon and skylight,
Sadly I'm not above
Running out on love.

Press the dormer window,
Peer waaaaay down below,
Put aside my vertigo-
Hey, way to go!

I'd knot some sheets
And hit the  streets,
But I've some pride-
And a humungous backside.

The rent cheque submitten 
I've  left woefully underwritten,
Whoever's rattling my door
I'm writing no more!

Giving Writers credit- fiction!
I'm facing cold eviction,
Pen mightier than sword?
Tell my pernicious Landlord.


Image = Banksy.

©Obbverse

The climate of late in the States is hitting a new low. No, we’re not talking politics, we’re talking polar.

Today's Weather Wrap Up.

All over the Continental United States
An ill wind brings in snow drifts and dire straits,
Louisiana has plunged towards an all-time low,
Even Surfside Beach is dusted with snow.

Be you from down South or ways up North,
Intrepid driver, don't set forth,
From the East coast to the West
Staying safe at home will serve us all best.

Yet some brave Souls put their trust in the Lord,
Venture out with sat-nav and faith on board,
Jeez, don't go out and rubberneck, please?
Must snow down South bring on a brain freeze?

Typically, dumb some people can't let it slide,
They just wanna go out on a fun joyride,
To make snow angels out by the seashore,
With God as your co-pilot, who needs a 4 X 4?

Stay wrapped up at home, crank up the heat,
What's the point of a quick spin down the street? 
Don't wrap those threadbare tyres in snow chains,
Leave the Kia in the carport, use your brains.

   'That staycation is lookin' good'

©Obbverse

When asked to rave, to rant about these dark days, who needs a second invitation?

Firing Up.

As far as finances go
I'm in a proper pickle,
My once flush cash flow
Has dribbled to a trickle.

The bills endlessly wash in,
Only my heart goes out,
My means are paper thin,
My prayers never more devout.

No assets left to seize,
All my boom's gone bust,
I'm down, on my knees,
Not one 'In God We Trust.'

Pacing the floor, by the door,
Going postal for that relief cheque
To pay off Bill's Convenience Store
Before he wrings my scrawny neck.

No last post for me today,
No welcome postman's knock,
The room's turning Arctic Grey,
I'm freezing and in hock.

I gather together every letter
In shivering mittened hands,
One time I'm a real go-getter,
Now holding only final demands.

Grab the largest pot
In the stone cold kitchen,
Dump in the miserable lot;
Got troubles? I'll pitch in.

All those weighty dispatches,
Gone up in a stroke,
Thanks to Safety matches-
Hello hellfire sulphur and smoke.

The letters dutifully brought
By the conscientious postman
Though warming, were too short,
More a flash in the pan.
........................................................

I fear Bill knows my place,
I fear an after-hours surprise,
Afraid he won't leave this cold case,
Bill's got fire in his eyes.

Will Bill come by torchlight,
Say 'pay 200 bucks or go to jail?' 
Cold comfort on a cold night?
Bill, bring a molotov cocktail.


Written for Chel Owens A Mused poetry contest, subject; 'a rant.' (Join in, jump in, its fun!) 

©Obbverse

Things in the Northern hemisphere might not be so hot, but here Down Under its beyond balmy.

Clear As Mud.

We've had it, blue Summery skies a'plenty,
We're looking up at bone-dry Day Twenty,
No cool palm oases, none for miles around,
No shelter for sweaty man or panting hound.

Our once lush Spring verges, greenly grassed?
A ground down sepia brown, fading into the past,
Daily the Weather Guy repeats himself once more,
Hoary dry old promises, we've heard 'em all before.

So, it is no wonder noonday darkness startles us,
Our empty sky is deeply banked in Cumulonimbus,
Ain't no empty promise in this passing thunderstorm,
A rumble, then down she tumbles, wet, welcome, warm.

(In these highly charged tempestuous times about all we can safely talk about is the weather. So...)

”No, you misheard me, what I said was ‘Look, Sky Water’.”

©Obbverse.

After the Christmas spend-up it’s now no time be a spendthrift, it’s time to cut back. Hard.

Turn Of The Card.

Hammering the Master Card?
Spending with reckless disregard?
Maxed out the American Express?
Left cents and penniless?

Dangerously low on cash?
Facing your financial crash?
Monetarily strapped and depressed
By sky-high monthly interest?

Remember the good old days
Before receiving your Barclays?
Wanna be freed of debt,
Unburdened by deep regret?

Don't have cash in hand?
Indebted by over a grand
but still enticed by what's in store?
It's all too tempting to ignore.

Deep in the shi in hock?
Fearful of the postman's knock?
Gentle reminders stacking up?
Red lettered demands backing up?

Striving for a happy ending,
To cease this senseless spending?
Over that credit card you've just signed
Instantly returned, discredited, declined?

Here's what I've hard learned;
Don't spend what ain't earned,
Before those bankers block it
Take that card out of pocket.

Time to lift the curse
From wallet or purse,
No more living on the edge,
Time to stop the haemorrhage.

Withdraw that piece of plastic,
We're gonna do something drastic,
No more will you nonchalantly swipe it,
You owe a debt to yourself to wipe it.

Here's my last card tip-
This card must get the snip,
Grab scissors or pinking shears...
This is gonna end in tears...

Time to grab a pair,
It's time to end this affair,
When you're behind the eight ball
It's the unkindest cut of all.

Cut your bastard Master Card in two,
It's the only creditable thing to do,
Ain't no financial gain without pain;
Now, never play them cards again.

(Started off as a few throw-away lines of comment. But I just can’t leave bad enough alone. As my credit card statement shows.)

©Obbverse

Time to review my New Years resolutions?

(Posted after a prompt from Chel Owens A Mused Poetry competition, prompt being ‘New Year Resolutions’ limerick style.)

Re-resolved.

It's time to repeat the same damned vow I swore
This time last year, as I've done many years before,
My now traditional annual end-of-year vow-
'Next year I'll be a better man than I am now,'
So many broken promises, still plenty more in store.

‘Hey babe, trust me, this year’s the charm.’

©Obbverse

My unexpected unreciprocated and totally unwanted little Christmas gift; Awww, you shouldn’t have!

Claustrophobic Christmas.

We two stood together apart for five minutes or more,
Waiting on an (American) elevator or (British) lift,
No way was I considering walking up to the top floor;
That exercise in futility received lightning short shrift.

Finally Otis arrived, and I stepped towards the door
Only to be, first, left standing, secondly, left miffed
As she swept past me, and with raised red painted claw
Jabbed her button first, cementing our yawning social rift.

She looked down upon the funky grungy garb I wore,
This high-end consumer looked to be no fan of my thrift,
Lifting a perfectly plucked eyebrow at this walking eyesore,
Pointedly tilted up her snooty aristocratic nose as if I whiffed.

Soon an unpleasant presence appeared neither could ignore,
Stuck in the close confines I retchedly gagged while she sniffed
Before showily reaching into her Gucci and spritzing more Dior,
But she wouldn't catch my watering eye, if  you catch my drift.

©Obbverse

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 fro 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 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

Leading the conservative political party in New Zealand can be a short term proposition. (Awww, a sad Tory story.)

Devils And The Deep Blue Sea.

What’s happening to the National Party’s leadership?
Each new leader they select sees the Party’s popularity slip,
Since Commodore Key left leaving First Mate Billy the wheel
Helming the Titanic rather than the Blue Boat holds more appeal.

Old Bill, wise but dull as dishwater- his fortunes sank,
So Simon stepped up from the poop deck to higher rank,
Sadly Simon was simply out of his depth, young and green,
Under Simon the the boat- and votes- slid down like a submarine.

All too soon ’twas a grim story poor Simons opinion polls told,
Up from the mutinous crew stepped Todd, and Simon was rolled,
So a new Cap’n took the helm,  they say the cream rises to the top,
But after a mere 67 days Captain Presumptuous found he was a flop.

Now Todd’s dream boat has sailed,
Another Leader’s bottled it and bailed,
The True Blue Crew ran about, looking around
But good fresh new Blue blood’s thin on the ground.

Now hard embittered Old School Jude-vcious runs the barge,
Tryin’ to clean up her shit ship even as Deputy Gerry looms large,
In her steely claw the National scow’s bound to take a hard Right turn,
Losing middle ground rowing in ever decreasing circles- that’s her concern.

 

©Obbverse