*
something strange to earth was sent
dropped some art then simply went
now lonely spiders left on mars
watch red shoes dance on dusty stars
and walls of televisions sing
sweet things about the rebel king
the lad insane, the skinny duke
androgynous inspired fluke
flight of peacock, coloured flash
funkin’ funky ash to ash
china diamond, cold as god
genuinely, truly odd
*
by gail
On the subject of the unwanted water feature down Wobbly Way…
*
Water, water, everywhere
In rushing rivers down the wall
As loud as grand Niagara’s Fall
In to the Wobbly Bog
Pouring, pouring, endlessly
Insistent flow of running streams
Unwanted runnels carved through dreams
Swelling the Wobbly Bog
Soaking, soaking, soggily
The puddle deep, the muddy ground
‘Tis said there was a postman found
Drowned in the Wobbly Bog
Dropping, dropping, gravity
Bleaching brick with scale of lime
On damp of wall the mark of time
Shadows the Wobbly Bog
Gushing, gushing, noisily
Unbalancing the Feng and Shui
No wind to dry the churning sea
Flooding the Wobbly Bog
Madness, madness, sanity
By white noise of incessant drip
Is sunken like a sodden ship
Wrecked in the Wobbly Bog
Misty, misty, spookily
By moonlight come the boggy sprites
With mischief and their tiny lights
Haunting the Wobbly Bog
Wishing, wishing, hopelessly
That some good knight with tool or sword
From Aster or the Water Board
Might conquer the Wobbly Bog
Watching, watching, grumpily
The paint that never dries; dismay
As Wiltshire waters pour away
In to the Wobbly Bog
*
by Gail
*
“Knock, knock” “Who’s there?” I haven’t a clue
What day is it? Who’s at my door?
“Here is some breakfast I made just for you”
Says some stranger who slept on my floor
The sight of the eggs and the bacon and tea
Turns my stomach inside upside down
Migraine’s the price that I’ve paid for the glee
Of a banging night out on the town
“‘Ere, it’s New Year, do you fancy a beer?”
“No thanks, mate, I’m feeling quite rough”
I may have blacked out after midnight I fear
But now I’m…remembering…Stuff
Slowly but surely it’s coming to mind
As glimpses emerge from the fog
Of a twist and a twerk and a bump and a grind
And my new Christmas phone down the bog
I thought I was hot but in retrospect not
In the morning light nowt could be plainer
And that I remember I like not a jot
My naked and drunk Macarena
Oh me and my mates, we do get in a state
And last year we gave it some welly
But if anyone had not enough on their plate
We’d do onesies and pizza and telly
My mates are my life, we’re a pretty tight bunch
They’re alright, mate, they’re really all right
But last night I must have been well out to lunch
For I reckon I started a fight…
It was something to do with a girl I once knew
And a joke that she did stuff for money
And a fine upper cut in the queue for the loo
Well, I thought the punch line was funny
Oh, what’s in my pockets, this isn’t my coat
As I’m clearly not Super or Dry
And what are the words that are writ on this note
‘Bell me, baby, you’re totally fly’
And I’m going commando; hilarious bants
Will be had in regards to my loss
Much mirth to be had from the sight of my pants
On the top of the Market Cross
It’s not looking good, and tucked in to my hood
Are two gherkins all wrapped in a bra
Half a kebab and a squashed Christmas pud
And a wing mirror nicked from a car
I think I’m experiencing chemical guilt
And at some point I’ll have to atone
But right now I’m going to hide under my quilt
Crying blubbery tears for my phone
*
by Gail
Brad is admin of the Writers’ Group on Facebook…
*
A kindly sword and savage pen
Are the marks of a writer and leader of men
Blessed be he who came to teach
The wildness of wisdom and freedom of speech
Where fainter hearts might fall and fail
He stands to serve the Writer’s Grail
This ancient sage; this humble youth
This herder of cats; this teller of truth
Is he we know and love as Brad
Our literary Galahad
*
by Gail
*
Outside my kitchen window stands a single hopeful tree
Such beauty in the ghetto is a saving grace for me
In the spring at night its silver buds shine like tiny stars
Twinkling by the bin store and the white vans and the cars
In summer green its vibrant leaves shade cat shit covered grass
And flicker subtle shadows on my kitchen window glass
In the autumn there are berries, for tiny birds to eat
Glowing brighter than the sunset, falling red on grimy street
So many contemplative pigeons seeking sanctuary I’ve seen
So many blue tits, sparrows, robins, adding colours to the green
Squirrels, blackbirds, starlings; quarrels, lovemaking and chat
The cuckoo of a carrier bag, the stranded curious cat
One day they will chop it down and all that will be left
Will be the tarmac and the garages, and I shall be bereft
In the meantime, it is winter; naked branches cold and bare
And a single lonely magpie, every morning, sitting there
Usually with magpies, if you wait a little time
Another bird will come, to bring you joy, as in the rhyme
I watch the skies with hopeful eyes from early dawn till late
Can he be the only magpie in the world without a mate
The magpie sits alone and waits, he’ll be alone tomorrow
Billy No Mates Magpie
And his sorrow
*
by Gail
*
Church on Christmas Eve
Experience of spirit
Secular delight
…
Candles flickering
Stirred by one communal breath
Casting bright shadows
…
The choir whispering
Mournful cadenced melodies
That bless the silence
…
Drunken folk giggling
Respectfully hiccupping
Noisy chundering
…
Strange and precious faith
The uninitiated
Wary, questioning
…
Through agnostic eyes
Such peculiar mystery
Custom, novelty
…
The truth hides in love
Ancient priests and children know
Its simplicity
…
The door is opened
Out in to the night The Word
Flies on sacred wings
…
Midnight Mass; the light
In darkness comprehending
Emptiness with joy
*
by Gail
The light is coming… and I wish you well
*
*
Behind the running, running man the land
Lies silent, fallow, haunted by the cry
Of one lone mourning rook who flies alone
Inscribing solemn circles in the sky
There is no time to take a backward look
Just running, running, running, running blind
He leaves the flowered garlands that she wove
With ribbons bright, with summer’s love, behind
He runs with only hope in empty hands
All faint of heart, with life blood running cold
The chill of winter earth beneath his feet
All water turned to ice in frozen fold
All out of breath with minutes yet to live
He runs, through elder grove and stand of yew
Runs, seeking for the ancient Solstice door
Described in tales the bards and ancients knew
‘Till suddenly he stumbles on a glade
All silent where no wild bird wheels or calls
And in the glade there stands a single stone
And on the ground a moon dark shadow falls
And there, within the shadow’s light he sees
That which before him other men have found
A stairway leading down in to the earth
A dark descending path in to the ground
No way but down now, this the only way
He gathers one last breath, and full of fear
Goes down the old and foot worn ancient steps
That lead towards the portal of the year
How dark the endless steps of winter’s stair
That shadow down, down to the Solstice door
To where, beneath the door a chink of light
Hints soft and bright across the cold stone floor
He sits upon the bottom step to rest
Reflect, and contemplate the year behind
And lo, she comes, bedecked in leaves and fruit
And dancing, dancing, through his weary mind
Forget me not, she sings; I am still here
I wait for you, for life to shift and stir
And through the keyhole and the chink there blows
A fragrant waft of birch and silver fir
Reviving, blessing, soft upon his face
The promise of new life upon her breath
Touched by her grace he weeps upon the step
For she has saved him with her love from death
Another year dies, another lives
He sits and waits; she watches from afar
And as he waits the light in darkness shifts
And creaks the ancient Solstice Door ajar…
*
by Gail
In which there is much bad language in The Vaults (the best little micro pub in town), and Mortimer Cheese makes an unfounded allegation about Santa…
*
*
Mortimer Cheese wasn’t easily pleased
And he didn’t like Christmas at all
At the pub where he went for his grub and a vent
He would sometimes just rant at the wall
Particularly riled by people who smiled
He would give them a piece of his mind
He just didn’t get to where he was today
By being in any way kind
“Happy Christmas” they said, to the back of his head
“I think not” he would say as he turned
“Are you taking the piss?” he would splutter and hiss
Spraying mist from the beer he had earned
“Don’t give me that, about Christmas, you twat
All that tinsel and plastic and light
Santa” he said, “is a paedo in red
And I’m wishing for cloud on the night
As for the star and the kings from afar
I’m for Dawkins and none of that tosh
Jesus!” he said, “You are well off your head
Bring on the shagging and nosh!”
Seven pints supped, he was just warming up
He had a few choice things to say
Some thought he joked with the words that he spoke
But most folk just melted away
One girl held a candle, despite all his scandal
They had once had a ‘thing’ in his car
In a zebra striped dress which she wore to impress
She watched him with lust from the bar
“Leave me off your list” he said, getting more pissed
“Not you love, I’ll come in your stocking
A quick in and out, that’s what Santa’s about”
And other things frankly more shocking
His blood pressure rose as the atmosphere froze
And his words chilled the air of The Vaults
It seemed a good crack to stay on the attack
So he started on everyone’s faults
The sad and the chubby, the hapless, the grubby
All punters were grist to his mill
“What’s wrong with you folk, can you not take a joke
You’re all bloody ugly or ill”
By quarter to nine he had well crossed a line
Malc the landlord said “Cheese Boy, you’re barred”
“More feckin’ drink” said the drunk man, “I think
That I’m better than you and well hard”
“No, you’ve had enough” said the landlord, “so tough
It’s time you went home to your bed
You’ve been nasty and loud, you’ve done Britain First proud
And you’ve told us we’re better off dead”
Mortimer grumbled, and stood up and stumbled
And pointed himself at the door
Knocking the bar so the big humbug jar
Fell off and smashed on the floor
“Humbugs for me” he said, grinning with glee
As he picked out a few from the glass
“I’m already sweet but these humbugs are neat”
So he necked three, and fell on his arse
“He looks a bit red” one kind punter said
“Take no notice” said someone, “he’s joking”
“Stop larking about and get the fuck out!
Oh bollocks, he’s actually choking”
“Call for the Doc!” “But he called me a cock”
“Well call for the nurse then!” “She’s pissed”
There was nobody there who had much of a care
There were only the folk he had dissed
A bloke at the bar, who’d been quiet so far
Who had hoped to escape any drama
Had listened to Cheese, with his bile and sleaze
And had pondered the workings of karma
Understated but cool, the bloke jumped off his stool
Someone whispered “A nice little mover”
He grabbed hold of Cheese and with confident ease
Did a swift nifty Heimlich’s Manoeuvre
A grunt and a shout and the humbug shot out
Made a ring like a bell on the bar
“I’m guessing that’s time then” our Mortimer said
“I’d best get me coat then, ta-ra”
…
As he swayed up the street he heard following feet
And a voice that was eager to please
The girl from the pub, who was stripey and sweet
“Bar Humbug” sneered Mortimer Cheese
*
by Gail
In which I am no better than the sweary kid on the number 33…
*
Effing this, and jeffing that
Another bus, another tw*t
Impressing peers with his wit
Sort of. Slightly. Just a bit.
Drop the ‘c’ bomb, hey why not
Girls will think you’re really hot
Louder, lad, we want to hear
About the weed and drugs and beer
You smoke and deal and snort and sup
How you get high and then throw up
That college bores you to a yawn
That bigger breasts make better porn
Ooh, a word that rhymes with tank
Have we got Tourette’s to thank
For the verbal diarrhoea
You pour in to our captive ear
Or are you, sunshine, simply rude
Insecure, pathetic, lewd
Wow, a word that rhymes with sock
Shouted loud to cause a shock
Tits and fanny, bell end, bum
Words you wouldn’t say to Mum
What makes you think we want to know
That so and so is just a ho
That your best mate’s a massive tool
It’s just like being back at school
There’s no escape, we’re on the bus
We’ve got to listen to you cuss
All the way to flippin’ town
Please lad, turn the volume down
Before I stand and loud recite
This rhyme I felt compelled to write
Inspired by the irritation
Caused by your inane oration
The bus is crawling up Dunkirk
My poem will keep, you’re just a jerk
Ah, the joys of middle age
Intolerance, indignant rage
Imagine if I’d read the verse
I’d have been like you but worse
So not the time or place for it
Back seat joker, talking sh*t
*
by Gail
Window display; Spirit Clothing, High Street, Devizes
*
*
by Gail
gailfromdevizes 